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“What is it?”
Maeve sits in the rocking chair across from me eating gummy bears. “Coffee. No additives.”
A sniff confirms it’s coffee. I bring it to my lips and hesitate.
Maeve breathes a laugh. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“Of course I do.” Exhaustion drills through my bones and my lies. The bluebird pecks at my free hand. I take a small sip. It tastes buttery and spicy and, most importantly, strong.
“I have an ear for lies. I suspect you do too.” Maeve leans forward, fixes her pale eyes on me. “Only one of us has lied to the other, and I still trust you.”
“I haven’t—”
“A mutual friend of ours would argue that a lie by omission is still a lie.”
A breeze ruffles Icarus’s feathers. Early-morning sunlight stabs into the space separating Maeve and me. The angle of the light makes her skin appear translucent, as if she’s been carved from glass.
“When did you figure it out?”
“From the moment you crested the hill that first night. Your mother is truly an excellent photographer and artist. She captured your likeness expertly.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I assumed you had your reasons, and I wanted to respect that.”
I sit back heavily. The porch creaks under the added weight of new awareness. “I thought you stole money from my mother. Maybe even brainwashed her to leave for some nefarious reason I haven’t figured out yet.”
It’s a relief to give voice to the accusation. For the first time since that conversation with Bailey, the maelstrom in my head quiets.
“Aah, so you were investigating me.” Maeve crooks a finger, and the bluebird lifts and glides toward her. “What’s your conclusion? Do you think I did it?”
“You have my mother’s ring.”
“I didn’t take her money.” Maeve holds my gaze, and against my better judgment, I believe her. As if eyes that colorless couldn’t hide lies. “Your mother sent me something a few days ago. Now that we’re being honest with each other, would you like to see it?”
Maeve rises. The bluebird soars into the thinning mist.
“I guess he’s healed,” I say, following Maeve into the cottage on legs that feel weak with exhaustion.
“Mm,” Maeve says.
“You don’t think so?”
She raises an eyebrow at the challenge in my voice, which surprises me too. “I think appearances can be deceiving.”
Maeve leads me into the kitchen and opens a drawer. Inside, there’s a purchase agreement for a building near the edge of town and a blueprint for something that looks like a café.
Maeve ignores my questioning look and pulls out a thin stack of postcards. Each comes from a different city. Each is signed only with the initials H.G.Except the last postcard, which is postmarked two weeks ago.
This made me think of you. H.G.
“My mother sent you this?”
Maeve nods. “She’s staying at an energy-healing resort in Arizona run by a friend of mine. Very off the grid. Even the best PIs in LA couldn’t find them.”
An apology sticks in my throat, but Maeve waves it away. “Look at the card, Will. I think she was hoping this one would make its way to you.”
“She could have called me. Or returned my calls.” Or turned on her phone.
