Last Girl Ghosted(43)

Are we all just layers of secrets and lies?
Or is it just me?
I feel like a fraud, a ghost in the haunted house of my life.
What I should I do, Dear Birdie?
What would Dear Birdie tell that lost soul? She’d say: Sounds like the universe is telling you that it’s time to peel back all the layers and expose the truth, speak it loud from the rooftops. You’ll never find yourself unless you’re willing to be yourself.

I’ve always been better at giving advice than taking it.

Now I’m on the Henry Hudson, heading north. As the city recedes from my rearview mirror, I am awash in memories of a place and time I have sought to forget.

My father.

In my early life, he was just a uniformed picture on the wall, a talking head on a computer screen. Then, he was suddenly back in our lives, in our home—a tired man at the kitchen table, a sleeping form in my mother’s bed. Shh, Daddy’s resting.

The house.

A rambling, ramshackle mess set on twenty acres in a town that sounded like something out of a horror movie: The Hollows.

My mother growing thinner by the day, weaker.

She snuck into my bed some nights and held me close, the way I used to do with her when I was little and afraid.

One night, when things had been especially bad, she whispered, He was someone else when I first loved him. He’ll heal. This place will heal him. He’ll be that man again. You’ll see.

Now I know. He needed help. But he didn’t get it and we all paid the price.

Why didn’t you know how sick he was, Mom? It’s a question I can’t ask her.

I am deep in the ugly twist of my memories when the phone rings. I press the button on my dash to answer. He doesn’t wait for me to say hello.

“I wanted to check in on you.” It’s Bailey Kirk. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I say briskly.

Who is this guy? I thought perhaps I’d seen the last of him. I remember I gave him my number, and really wish I hadn’t.

“Sounds like you’re driving,” he says. “Where are you headed?”

“Out of town for a few days,” I say. “I need to get away.”

There’s music playing in the background of the call. Jazz. A mournful saxophone, tinny and distant.

“Not doing anything stupid, right?” he says. “Like looking for your friend.”

Am I looking for you? Or am I running away from you? Maybe both.

I opt not to answer Bailey, am about to hang up. Then, “So is Wren Greenwood your real name?”

It’s not. It’s not my real name, the one my parents gave me. It’s my legal name, the one I gave myself.

“Of course it is,” I lie.

There’s a silence. I am gripping the wheel so hard that my knuckles turn white. I force myself to relax.

“Because it’s funny—that’s the name on your driver’s license.”

A dump of dread in my belly.

“But it’s not the original name attached to your Social Security number.”

An ache begins behind my eyes. Silence. That’s best. But he continues.

“Your profession on ConnectIn is listed as a freelance writer. But I can’t find a recent byline anywhere.”

Wow. He’s really going deep.

“And that town house of yours? I know you bought it in a foreclosure auction. But how many freelance writers can afford a town house in Brooklyn Heights?”

I think about how to respond. I don’t want to tell him about Dear Birdie. How because of the volume of followers, big advertising money started to flow in, more than I thought possible. When I moved it to the Chronicle, they paid me very well and continue to do so, because it’s one of their most popular columns and podcasts. That I’ve saved and invested, made more money from the money I’ve earned. That the house is worth far more than I paid for it. I am not wealthy, but I have done very well.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say easily. “Family money. I’ve been lucky.”

Partially, that’s true, too. There was a sum, a small inheritance from my mother’s side of the family that paid for school, expenses, gave me a solid financial head start. Like everything in my life, what I tell Bailey is partially true. Layers of truth and lies, mingling like colored sand, creating shades and hues. All of it true. None of it true.

“It’s none of my business, of course,” he says. “Curiosity is an occupational hazard, I guess.”

“You’re right,” I say. “It’s none of your business who I am or where my money comes from. It has nothing to do with Mia Thorpe, your client’s daughter. The girl you’re trying to find.”

He makes an annoying clicking noise. “But the answer to that lies with a man you both dated.”

“Maybe,” I concede. “But I did a little digging into Mia Thorpe.”

He sighs. “Goddamn Google. Everyone’s a PI these days.”

“It seems to me like she’s disappeared before.”

Now, it’s his turn to go quiet.

“I scrolled through her Facebook page, the comments from her friends begging her to get in touch, to come home, saying how worried they all are.”

“Yeah?”

“So there was a comment from a woman who said something like, ‘Please don’t put us through this again. This time, let someone know where you are.’ So, did she? Disappear before?”