Page 71 of Some Kind of Haunted

“I went to the airport,” I tell him, pretending I don’t notice the glaring. “Jack and I went to see Cleo.”

Now that frown turns on me. “Jack?”

“The tall, surly diner owner?” I reply flippantly. “Maybe you’ve met.”

He’s not amused. “Why are you going anywhere with that guy?”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” But Logan Darling, Esquire, comes up with nothing.

I can’t help but smile.

“Didn’t Dad have a creepy wedding porcelain figurine like these?” he asks, changing the subject as he points at a row of figurines.

It feels like they’re encroaching, though the ones he’s pointing at on a nearby shelf packed with skeins of merino-based yarn are all portrayed as doing some kind of craft—knitting, sewing, quilting, and so on. They are all vaguely childlike, but with big, black eyes.

They make me deeply uneasy.

But as I study them, I realize Logan is right. Dad did have a figurine of an entwined couple when we were kids. I loved playing with it, in fact, though I find that memory disturbing now. I’d give the two painted people backstories. Or I’d pretend my mother wasn’t dead and the two figures were my parents, happily in love and raising their children together.

It was never hard to believe I was a little out there. I can’t believe I forgot.

“Do you think they came from here?” I ask him.

Logan shrugs. “Kind of hard to believe Dad went out and bought himself some creepy figurine all on his own.”

We both take a few moments to work through that. Were they gifts from Amelia? Did he know about her and Midas back then? Did losing his memory about this place take time?

“I know we’ve been pretty vague when we’ve talked to him,” I say, now frowning hard enough to match him, “but maybe it’s time to start asking some more probing questions when we do.”

“Yeah, about that.” I raise my eyebrows at Logan. He looks faintly defiant. “Dad called this morning to check up on things, and I started digging. He claims he and Amelia had a falling out after Mom died and he didn’t want to discuss it. I asked him about the pictures on the mantel and he told me that the price for remaining no contact with his mother was that he sent her a couple of pictures a year. And he still didn’t want to talk about it.” He shakes his head. “Whatever keeps him from here keeps him from remembering. It runs deep.”

I didn’t expect it to run that deep. I guess I was thinking this whole time, despite all the commentary on lost memories, that surely they couldn’t be that lost. After all, Harrison said that Amelia told him that Dad remembered everything, at some point.

I’ve been assuming his memories were just a little misplaced and if we asked directly, Dad would give us the answers we want about this place he came from.

It’s kind of depressing to think that there’s no get-out-of-jail-free card. Especially because if there’s not, that means that we’re really just . . . in jail.

I don’t say any of that. I think my brother is grim enough today.

Meanwhile, Nora is cheerfully and diplomatically ushering customers in and out of the store. I can tell she’s a little frazzled at the edges, so I jump in to help. I handle a few questions about yarn that I can answer from my own experience, I talk a woman hemming and hawing about spending so much when her stash is already criminal into doing just that, and by the time the clock strikes six some hours later, we’ve somehow managed to empty the store at last.

“You need to train me on the cash register so I can help out more,” I tell Nora as she locks the door behind the last customer, fiddling a little with the dead bolt.

“Sure, if you want.” But I can tell she’s excited at the prospect. She smiles at me as she crosses back to the checkout desk. She does not smile at Logan. “Cleo helps on occasion, but she’s got her own work and, you know, a lack of customer service diplomacy.”

“Speaking of Cleo.” I go through what happened at the airport, down to Virginia on the house roof, what she said, and what Jack wants to do. When they both react with varying degrees of dismay—fuck no, Logan barks—I also tell them why I think it makes sense.

When I’m done, even my brother looks resigned.

“Poor Cleo,” Nora says. She shakes her head as she carefully counts cash into a safe. “I knew she was stressed lately. I don’t know why she won’t share. I’d be happy to help with Virginia in whatever ways I can.”

“Sometimes sharing is just as stressful as handling it yourself,” comes the real voice of doom from over by the mohair. I turn to look at my brother. Nora does the same. He gazes right back at us like we’re both the surprising ones. “What? It’s like Psychology 101.”

I don’t think that’s necessarily true. It sounds more personal than that. But now isn’t quite the time to go poking into what my brother might not be sharing because it’s less stressful.

“Jack said we should stay put until he gets here. Then we’ll all head over to the store together. He said there are beds?” I look at Nora hopefully. I figure Jack is the type of guy who’d consider a blanket thrown on the floor good enough to be considered a bed.