The House in the Pines(10)

She began to relax the moment Carl handed her a drink. She knew from her doomscrolling that alcohol and Klonopin acted on many of the same brain receptors, which explained why they felt so alike. She exhaled. Tried not to drink too fast. The house was warm and smelled like rosemary, garlic, and roasted meat. The furniture was eclectic. The art on the walls was from around the world: framed photographs likely taken by Greta in what looked like Morocco, a mosaic of tiles, several masks.

Greta came downstairs in a silk tunic and linen pants. Tall and elegant, she held herself like someone who did a lot of yoga. She was older than Maya’s mom by at least a decade, her loose curls more silver than black, but she seemed less tired. “Danny,” Greta said, kissing her son’s cheek, then hugging him tight. Maya rose to greet her, and Greta kissed her cheek too. She smelled like rose water. “Thank you for coming.”

“Happy birthday,” Maya said.

Dinner was roasted leg of lamb with rosemary, salad, and fingerling potatoes. Maya sat beside Dan at the table and cringed when Greta sat across from her. Greta was sharp and absorbed the world with her eyes. Maya shrank from her gaze.

She was grateful when Carl opened a bottle of pinot noir. All she had eaten was a small plate of leftover spaghetti and a taste of frosting, so Maya really felt the wine, especially after the daiquiri. The alcohol loosened the vise around her head. It softened the edges of her thoughts, and she almost felt normal as the conversation settled into an easy dynamic with Greta at the helm. They talked about an upcoming eclipse she planned to photograph, and eclipses in general, and Maya couldn’t think of anything to say, so she listened, and was actually relieved when Greta turned to her to ask, out of the blue, if she’d read Isabel Allende.

Here was something Maya could talk about, which she hoped Dan’s parents would take as evidence that she was well-read, rather than as a given. Tonight was going better than expected. This was, in fact, the best she’d felt in days, so the moment Maya saw someone else refill their wineglass, she did the same. And her laughter grew genuine instead of nervous as Carl told a funny story about Dan’s fourth Halloween.

Dan had wanted to be a pumpkin that year, a costume that his parents couldn’t find in any store, so Carl had made him one.

“And to be fair,” Greta said, “it was a good costume! Very creative.”

“She’s being nice,” Carl said. “The wire frame collapsed halfway through trick-or-treating and everyone thought he was a carrot!”

Maya and Greta laughed. Dan had heard this one before. He seemed tense, she thought, like he was thinking about finals. Or maybe something else was bothering him.

Maybe she was tipsier than she thought.

Outside the wind picked up. The windows rattled in their frames.

“It’s a good thing you’re spending the night,” Greta said. “Sounds like a storm is coming.”

A hush fell and Maya looked down at her plate. Most of the food was still there. She speared a piece of lamb with her fork.

“The birdhouse,” Carl said suddenly.

Maya looked up, confused, to see them all staring out the window at her back, apprehensive. Her scalp tingled as she turned to look, and as she did (her head too heavy, moving way too fast), she understood her mistake.

That last drink had been a terrible idea. Maya hadn’t realized how drunk she was until she was in motion, and now the full force of two glasses of pinot noir, the rum daiquiri, and a teacup and two shots of gin hit her like a tsunami. Her eyes struggled to focus on what everyone was looking at. The birdhouse. The wind had blown it off its branch, and now the tiny house rested in a tangle of twigs that had broken its fall. But the wind was going strong, the twigs shaking, and any second the birdhouse, with its carefully crafted windows and gabled roof, would fall and smash open on the frozen ground.

Maya felt like she was inside of it. The room tilted. The floor swayed and she curled her fingers around the edges of her seat to keep from falling.

“I’ll go see if I can save it,” Carl said.

He left, and then it was just her, Dan, and Greta with her excavating eyes. Two very smart people who could probably tell by her weaving that she had the spins.

“Hey,” Dan said softly. “You doing all right?”

Maya nodded, looking down at her plate. She could feel him beside her and Greta across from her, watching. (Judging.) Maya couldn’t look up. Nausea surged from her stomach through her chest to her throat.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” Greta asked without warmth.

Maya shook her head. She needed to get to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she got up. The thought of vomiting in front of Greta at her birthday dinner was so horrible that Maya broke into a clumsy run and was almost out of the room when her gag reflex kicked in and her mouth flooded.

She covered her mouth, but some of it seeped from between her fingers and splatted on the floor. No one said anything as she hurried away down the hall. The bathroom was at the bottom of the stairs. Closing the door behind her, Maya sank to her knees and heaved. It was all coming up. The wine, the lamb, the frosting, everything she wanted to keep down. Aubrey’s body falling on the steps. Cristina pitching forward on her face. Frank looking up into the camera. Their motions synced in Maya’s mind as she threw up. She had hidden Aubrey’s murder in a box inside her head, but Frank was still out there killing. Even as the wine burned its way back up her throat, Maya had never felt so sober.