Girl One(97)

In that film in the Bishops’ basement, Fiona had been petite, if anything, small-boned as a bird. My heart caught in my throat. “It doesn’t make sense, no,” I said. “Anything else?”

“There was a note about how the adult skull had a, let’s see, I wrote it down—a rounder ‘supraorbital ridge’ than expected, more often seen in female cadavers. It can vary a lot between individuals. But it’s weird. All these assistant’s notes, vetoed by Henley as meaningless.”

This tiny difference in the bone that had cradled Bellanger’s brain. A woman’s skull, lost among the flame-eaten wreckage. But the two adult women on the Homestead at the time had escaped—unless—

Something was building at the back of my mind. I couldn’t put it into words just yet. It was hovering on my tongue, hot and dangerous and precious, ready to change everything. “What else?” I asked, urgent.

“Nothing else in the autopsy reports. I know I might be grasping at straws here. Cate was right: I’ve focused too much on you Girls and not enough on the Bellangers.” A bitter laugh. “I want to find out whatever I can about my dad. I don’t want to look away this time.”

Cate was still sleeping behind me, but she turned, her side profile tipped toward me, her lips parted.

“I went through all our financial records,” Junior said. “There’s some property and assets my mom has had to sell off over the years. I noticed one particular piece of land was sold off before my dad died. About four months before the fire, actually, in February ’77. And then I noticed who it was sold to—”

“Henley,” I said.

“Exactly. My father sold this land to Henley not long before the fire for one dollar. Why would he do that? They were just colleagues, as far as I know. Barely acquaintances, except for knowing each other in med school. Maybe if I’d seen this a year ago I wouldn’t have thought much of it—my father selling off some land, nothing important. But it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Patricia mentioned something about your family’s land,” I said. “Where was that?”

“Do you want to guess?”

“Vermont? No—Arizona, wasn’t it?”

He took a moment before he answered. “Utah.”

I understood at once. “Fuck,” I said. The maroon sedan that had been following us all along.

“I wanted you to know,” Junior said. “Nobody else could understand the—” He stopped, unable to put it into words, but I got it. The betrayal, the shock.

The motel room was still here around me. It still existed. I had to reach down one hand and grip the edge of the mattress, the scratchy sheets and quilted comforter. I had to look at each item in turn, the burnt orange of the drapes, the uninspired pink-and-teal abstract blocks framed on the wall. It was all here. I was here. And if I was here, in this motel, then the world beyond it existed, everything was the same, everything was continuing as normal.

“Junior,” I said. “Can you describe to me exactly where that land is? Do you have any kinds of maps? Anything like that? Coordinates.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wrote it down somewhere. Hold on.”

Beside me, Cate stirred, eyes half-open. I just looked at her. Her frizz-wreathed curls disarranged, her naked body soft and strong beneath the sheets—and turned away so that she couldn’t see my face. But she’d already detected something in my eyes. She was scrambling into a sitting position, sleepiness falling away, face pinched with anxiety. Cate clutched the edge of the comforter, mouthed, What’s wrong? at me. I shook my head.

“But another thing is—Josie. Listen. Henley wasn’t surprised when I called. He mentioned that somebody else had been in touch with him recently, asking about whether Fiona could’ve possibly survived the fire. It was your mother,” he said. “Maybe three weeks ago.”

I almost smiled, a strange and painful reflex. My whole life, I’d thought I was following Bellanger’s footsteps, that there was no other possible path for a Girl like me, a scientific breakthrough. Now my mother had forced me to retrace every step she’d taken. I’d unwittingly echoed every question she’d asked. Here I was, finally following her footsteps.



* * *



“Hello there.” The man working the front desk at Fresh Spaces Property Management, just a small office in an apartment complex, was pushing eighty. A faceful of deep lines, a worn-in suntan that contrasted with his white hair. But there was an energy to him that read younger, eyes bright and curious. “How can I help you lovely young ladies today?”

I’d dragged Cate here right away. If Junior could look up records, then so could we. I was only frustrated that I hadn’t considered this step the moment we’d talked to the surly man in 1C. There had to be some kind of paper trail, however sparse, that would give us a clearer idea of what had happened to the Grassis after they’d left Freshwater. I wanted to find out they were safe in Boise, or that they’d fled for a remote corner of Australia. I needed to believe they were somewhere. Because if I couldn’t prove that, then I’d have to put into words the ugly idea that was already stuck in my throat. I hadn’t even been able to share it with Cate yet.

“We’re looking for anything you can tell us about Angela Grassi,” I said, sunny and calm. “She might’ve lived here anytime in the past seventeen years. She was in unit 1C at—”