“Are you okay with giving Rae a tour?” Wilson’s voice lowered, conscious of the sour mood that plagued every part of my body.
I nodded. “Sure.”
When I didn’t move from the window, he came closer.
“What?” he asked, all sense of humor faded.
“Nothing.”
“Via.” His voice was insistent under the weight of annoyance.
“I’m tired.” I tried to offer him a hint of a smile. “It was a long drive, and motel beds aren’t exactly the most refreshing.”
Wilson’s eyes softened. He couldn’t do a close read between my words. He didn’t catch the slight dip of my voice, and the way I barely moved my lips because he’d never had to look for those changes. My brother and I didn’t share many things growing up. With different mothers, we spent most of our childhood apart. He joined us on the road in the summer, each one of our interactions a snapshot. So, buying Elmwood and being here with him for the past six months was the most consecutive interaction we’d ever gotten.
“Should I get Esther to do it?” he asked.
“No, she should get back to town. The storm’s cleared and it’ll be dark soon.”
He nodded. We’d made an executive decision after the multiple accidents that our workers wouldn’t live on the property until we sorted things out. Esther left every night right before sunset, and we locked all the doors and shut theblinds as if those things could protect us from something that was already inside.
“When this is over, I’m going to get a mold specialist out here,” I said.
“You know, I looked into your mold theory.”
My brow shot up. “Really?”
This could be good. He could get back on the right track, joining me in reality.
“And it doesn’t fit.”
My heart sank into my stomach, floating in the acid, garlic, and rosemary.
I sucked the back of my teeth. “Wil…”
“It doesn’t,” he promised.
“Did you actually investigate? Or did you call it quits after one article because musings on garlic and wooden stakes were far more exciting?”
“I’m not excited?—”
“You just spent half an hour fawning over every movement that woman made.” I lowered my voice and gestured toward the kitchen, where our company still lingered, chatting with Esther.
“I asked questions, gathered data, and did what I was trained to do,” he said gently. “I promise, I’m taking everything you say seriously.”
I imagined he saw the seven-year gap between us in vivid detail because Wilson often spoke to me as if I still barely knew how to tie my own shoes.
I scratched my cheek. “It’s just…I thought you’d have your feet on the ground at least a little.”
“And I thought you had more of an imagination,” he said with a small smile. “You used to tell us bedtime stories about witches and werewolves.”
“I was a kid.”
In Wilson’s framework, I remained a little girl willing to believe in any and everything. Unmarred and unchanged by the ever-changing road I’d grown up on. He believed he could coax out the remnants of a dream.
I wasn’t much better. The story I kept of him was that of a teenage boy who carried around thick textbooks on cosmology. The boy who could answer all my questions—even the ones my parents couldn’t solve.
“We have literal evidence on tape,” Wilson said. “Why are you still fighting this?”
