Page 70 of Wildwood

“My pleasure. And Elinor, please accept my condolences, I knew your uncle rather well and he is certainly missed.”

I mumble a thank-you, my face burning, and when I realize that Detective Anderson looks familiar, I have the unsettling feeling that that is problematic.

Topher walks silently back into the kitchen. I’m already planning the fight in my head, what I’ll say to rebuff the criticisms and accusations that will surely come my way. The barks were Hugo’s, I’d recognize them anywhere. They were on a loop. I didn’t hallucinate them, Joan heard them too. Or at least, she heard me calling for him.

But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he picks up a manila envelope from the table.

“Here,” he says, handing it to me.

My stomach drops.

“What is it? Divorce papers?”

“Jesus Christ, Elinor.” He says it softly and quietly, which is worse than yelling.

I open the envelope and my heart stops. It’s a copy of the same article I’d found in Ezra’s desk. The article about the lost little girl from New Jersey. The little girl who claimed a fairy queen led her out of her bedroom at night. I stand in silence, my mind reeling, doing gymnastics, trying to right itself on terrain that’s falling away.

“Where’d you get this?” I finally ask.

“Detective Anderson brought it. He was involved in the investigation. He remembers you.”

I don’t say anything. My mind is reconstructing his face, the opposite of the police sketches that age a suspect that they are looking for years later. I imagine Detective Anderson, taking decades off his wrinkled, tired face. I recognize him.

“How did you not tell me?” he asks.

“I didn’t even remember it happened,” I start. “Why would I have kept it from you all these years if I’d remembered?”

“But you remembered it happened at some point, right?”

“No.”

“You are lying,” says my husband.

He turns and walks out of the room. I stand, in silence, my breath becoming shallow, my head feeling light.

Topher returns with something in each hand.

“I found this in your underwear drawer.” He gently places the copy of the article I’d found in Ezra’s desk on the kitchen table.

Oh fuck. No.

“And this.” He tosses the plastic baggie with the shriveled Chaga mushroom on the table as well, a fraction of the size it once was.

I stare at the table, unable to lift my eyes from the article and the mushroom. I know how it looks.

“Madeline called me, as well,” Topher says. “She told me you went to her house, accusing her of nonsense. She’s worried about you. We all are.”

“She’s not worried about me,” I spit. “She’s a fucking liar.”

“And she took Hugo, right?”

“I can’t prove it, but she did it, I know she did!”

“Why would she do that??” His voice edges louder.

“Why are you defending her?” I challenge, blood pounding in my ears. “Oh, is it because she is beautiful and rich? Is it because you are sleeping with her??” It comes out before I can stop it. The sick insecurity that’s been quietly poisoning my brain.

Topher looks like I’ve slapped him across the face.