The Scent Keeper(37)

A hand ripped the paper away midsentence. I looked up, stunned, to see Dylan’s face close to mine. His breath smelled like boiled ham and cold French fries.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked. He lifted the page, ready to read.

No. I thought. No. No. No. I didn’t know what else the article would say—all I knew was that Dylan couldn’t have it. I looked around. The teacher still wasn’t there.

“Give it back,” I said, standing up.

Dylan stood up, too. The class turned as one to watch. Dylan moved in closer, his breath all over me.

“Or what?” he asked, and grinned. He lifted the paper into the air, managing to brush my breast on his way.

The feel of his hand cracked something inside me. I hated those hands. I hated his stupid notes, his horrible smells, his certainty that whatever was mine was his. I had dealt with it all for four years. Now I stepped forward and slammed my knee, hard, right into that precious package he always said was waiting for me.

“Shit!” he said, buckling over.

“Fuck you, Dylan,” I said.

“Emmeline?” The teacher had finally entered the room.

Dylan crumpled onto his seat. I yanked the paper from his hand, flew past him and the teacher and all the rest of the gape-mouthed kids. I got to the classroom door and turned left. I could hear the angry clatter of the teacher’s shoes. If she caught me, she’d send me to the principal’s office, or back to the classroom. They’d read the article. They’d make me apologize to Dylan. Just the thought of it filled me with fury. I reached the exit, pushed open the door, and ran.



* * *



It was eight miles back to Secret Cove, but I kept running until my lungs burned. I had to get out of there.

Finally, I realized that people in passing cars were looking at me and I slowed my pace. When I got to the dirt road, I heard the distinctive sound of Colette’s truck. They must have called her, I thought. I stepped off the road and hid in the trees. I would tell her everything later, I promised in my head. But first I had to understand it myself.

Once Colette had gone past, I jogged toward the resort, keeping my steps light and muffled. The cove was empty, the fishermen’s boats still out. Henry’s, too. Dodge was lying on the porch, and he lifted his head when he smelled me. I looked around one more time, then went over and put my arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body. It was the first moment of calm I’d felt since I saw the image of my father’s machine on the screen of the computer.

“What am I doing, Dodge?” I asked. I pulled the paper from the pocket where I’d shoved it, and this time I read the whole article.

The mastermind of last year’s phenomenon, Nightingale, has been reported missing. John Hartfell had been at the center of a firestorm of controversy since the news broke early last month that Nightingale did not preserve scents as had been claimed.

Nightingale has been called the Polaroid camera for smells. It is based on a revolutionary development called Headspace Technology, which made it possible to capture a scent in the wild and re-create its chemical equation in a laboratory.

With HST, Hartfell saw a possibility to build a technology that could capture and re-create a scent in the same machine, preserving it for posterity, just as Polaroid cameras take and develop a photo at the same time. Unfortunately for Nightingale’s thousands of users, the challenge was not met. While a Polaroid picture fades over years, Nightingale’s scent-photos have proved to fade within one.

The outrage has been overwhelming.

Tamara Lewis filed a lawsuit against the parent company, Scentography. “I lost my whole wedding,” she told reporters. “They promised I would have those memories forever. Now I have nothing.”

Reports are also circulating of a class action lawsuit.

Hartfell went missing three days ago, along with his infant daughter. Hartfell’s wife and business partner, Victoria Wingate, went on television on Tuesday, begging for him to return.

“I don’t care what you did, John. I forgive you. Just bring our little girl home.”

Chief of Police Marlin Stern says they are tracking down all leads, but so far have turned up nothing.





* * *



I put the paper down. The magical machine of my childhood was a flawed piece of science. My father was a failure. I had a mother.

It was the mermaids, all over again. Nothing I had known was true. Nothing was real.

Dodge just looked at me with his endless brown eyes. He would forgive me anything, I thought. Dogs are better than people that way.

We both glanced up at the smell of diesel, the sound of a motor. Henry’s boat, we both knew it. I couldn’t talk to Henry, not yet. He would listen; he might not even ask any questions. But in that moment there was only one person I wanted to be with. Fisher. I didn’t know where his house was, but I knew he always took the trail that led up the hill from Secret Cove. If I followed it, maybe I would get lucky.

I looked down at Dodge. He was getting so old. The fur of his face was almost entirely white. I wanted to take him with me up the trail, but I knew he couldn’t make it. I kissed him on the top of his head.

“Don’t tell,” I said, and headed for the path.



* * *



The path was uphill, and my legs were already tired when I began. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but going back to the house for food meant I’d probably run into Henry. Something told me he wouldn’t like where I was going. I breathed hard instead, letting the oxygen power my muscles.