Dead Letters(83)

Dear Tangled, Trusting, Trepidatious Twin,

Ta-da! Is the Truth tentatively trying to tell itself? Are there tantalizing tip-offs and traces of what truly transpired? Tell me, tricksy twin, tell. I’m pretty sure I’ve surprised you, either way. Tell the truth. You weren’t expecting: teeth!

I know, I know. A little tawdry, right? A bit gruesome, gauche, gory even. But the evidence doesn’t lie. Our good friend the coroner might, but dental records are dental records. Tough titty!

I’m sure you’re scrambling around, looking for elegant solutions and a taut explanation for all this. I’m sure your mind is running at full tilt, tracking down any missing pieces and filling in the blanks where you’re just not sure. Much as I have been doing these last few months. When there’s a hole, the brain races to plug it, to stop the hemorrhage, stem the tide, close the gap, make up the difference. When you wake up and can’t remember where you’ve been for the last twelve hours, your brain helps you out. Oh, generous synapses! Oh, mysterious neural connections! The brain abhors a vacuum, and it will cram just any old thing in there, to make sure no one notices. But, of course, everyone does. Except you.

So. You have some questions for which you need answers. And you will. Answer them. If only because I don’t believe in leaving strings loose, untied, untethered. Test those theories! Ask yourself the hard questions. Does Zelda think she can get away with this? What can her long-term plan possibly be? Where is she right now? Who is she? Hilariously enough, these are questions we’ve been asking all along, our entire lives, right? Can we pull this off? Who are we? What are we doing?

Or here’s another option: Quit now. Don’t keep reading these letters, don’t finish the story, don’t find out what happens. Settle down with Wyatt. Why not jettison practicality, chuck your qualms aside, and externalize your vast anxiety, go forage in the garden for the biggest zucchini?

But here’s a tantalizing piece of encouragement. You have all the information you need, right now. You know where I am already, and how I’m doing this. If you use your brain and just THINK, you’ll be able to figure it out. Unless, of course, you’re concerned. About your brain, I mean. Does your brain work the way it should, Ava dear? Have you noticed any Symptoms of your own? (Did you seriously think I skipped S? S has been there all along, skittering along the surface, sucking up space, scaring us shitless. As I suspect you have suspected before.) How’s your clarity these days? Let’s find out.

You’re holding the next letter in your hand. Unearth it, uncover it. Underneath these carefully constructed surfaces we conceal our missing pieces.

Your Taunting, Terrifying, Treacherous Twin,

Z is for Zelda



I read the letter aloud to Wyatt in his truck as he drives toward Watkins Glen. He is quiet, staring out the windshield with a blank expression. At one point, I lean over and try to squeeze his thigh, but he shrinks from my hand, and I withdraw, hurt.

“Do you think…” he begins after I’ve read the note. “Do you think she could be dead?”

“I mean…” I’m about to say “maybe,” but I don’t. “No, not really. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“But then the teeth?”

I shrug. “I’m sure she thought of something. Bribed someone. I don’t know.”

“But—” he tries again.

“I just don’t think so. She’s jerking us around, Wy.”

“Ava, you need to seriously consider that you’re not being entirely logical about this whole thing. I mean, I know you think you know her inside and out—”

“I do, though. That’s what she’s counting on. And she knows me—that’s how she’s orchestrating this whole elaborate thing.”

“Don’t you think it’s possible that you’re maybe projecting?” he suggests quietly.

“Not really,” I snap. I drum my fingers against the panel of the door. I got off the phone with my father a couple of minutes ago; apparently they managed to track him down somewhere in town, and he’s going to meet me at the station. He took Opal home to look after Nadine. She said she didn’t want to come. I don’t blame her.

We pull up outside and I hop out, not waiting for Wyatt to park the truck properly. I run through the glass doors, which seem strangely illuminated on the otherwise darkened street. Marlon is sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by “If You See Something, Say Something” posters and pamphlets on domestic abuse. He looks rough around the edges, his stubble thickening and his eyes raw. I’m glad he didn’t get on a plane back to California. I’m more than glad. I’m deeply relieved.

Wyatt walks through the door a moment later, and I expect there to be some sort of bristling, on both of their parts, but instead Marlon looks up at Wyatt with a haggard plea, naked pain etched upon his face, and Wyatt just walks over and sits down next to him. When he gives Marlon a very masculine pat on the shoulder, my heart breaks a tiny bit. The lighting is surreal, and I suddenly feel insanely, absurdly irritable.

“Jesus,” I spit out. “Do they need so much fucking fluorescence for the waiting room?”

I pace the floor a bit twitchily. Wyatt eyes me with concern. I feel unhinged and am tempted to get up on a chair and take out the offending bulbs. I’m considering this obviously inadvisable course of action when two cops walk into the room. It’s Healy and someone I don’t recognize. The new guy has a traditional buzz cut and a slightly puffy look. From the way they’re standing, I can tell that Healy is the top and this new fellow is the bottom. I’m relieved that Roberts isn’t here. Maybe he had the good sense to get himself excused from this lovely moment of sharing. I have no patience right now for one of Zelda’s useful fuck-buddy friends, not when my nerves are so frayed.