This Might Hurt(83)

I remember the bloodcurdling scream when I first arrived at Wisewood. How many people has she punished this way? “I want to see my sister.”

She plays with the box cutter, expelling and retracting the blade.

“What about my phone?”

She shakes her head.

“There has to be another way. Please.”

The woman brandishes the cutter in my face. I shrink from her. We stare at each other, breathing heavily in the snow.

“Don’t follow me.” She steps backward, still holding out the knife. “No one’s a tough guy when they’re bleeding out.”

Her feral eyes never leave mine. One gingerly step at a time, she moves away from me, blade at the ready. I want to cry out. Instead I watch her go until I can no longer see her shadow, until she disappears into the darkness.





35





THE GIRL STEPPED into my office and froze.

“Something the matter?” I asked from my desk, closing the notebook in which I’d been scribbling.

She stared at my neck, eyes protuberant.

I fingered the scarf. “I thought it was time to test your fear of grief again. Not to mention it gets chilly this time of year.” I rose from the desk, carried my mug of green tea to the sofa, and gestured for her to join me. “How does it make you feel to see me wearing it?”

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Finally she shrugged. “It doesn’t make me feel anything.”

If she forced that nonchalance any harder, she’d choke on it.

She cleared her throat. “I’m thinking about calling my sister.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“In the same way that scarf has been holding me back,” she said, squirming, “so is the lack of closure with Nat. I feel guilty about the way I treated her after Mom died. Well, before she died too.”

I had heard from my own sister recently via e-mail. Apparently Sir had had a stroke while doing laps in Lake Minnich, nearly drowning. Beer gut aside, he’d always been a healthy man, but now, at eighty-two, the left side of his body was paralyzed and he was battling a blood clot in one of his lungs.

He may not pull through, Jack had warned. You need to come home as soon as possible.

As if she’d known our father’s imminent death wasn’t enough to move me, considering the way he’d treated me throughout his life, she had added, He calls me Abigail these days. He’s been asking to see you, even before the stroke. He is a softer man than the one you knew, a better father.

I admit the idea of him beckoning to me, needing me, gave me pause. But how could I lecture my flock if I myself succumbed to a fear of loss? Besides, my father didn’t deserve a final absolution. When I was a child, he’d demanded strength. Now, as an adult, I would show it to him. I wanted his dying thought to be one of regret for the way he had treated me.

I ground my teeth, waiting for my pulse to slow. (?1)

“Might this be the fear of disapproval having its way with you? You can’t stand to know your sister is out there, judging the decisions you’ve made.”

The girl considered the question. “I don’t think so. Once I clear the air, she and I can go our separate ways.”

One had to tread carefully. “I hardly think you’re the one who owes her an apology.”

“I know you’re worried she’ll try to convince me to leave Wisewood, but I’m strong enough to ignore her opinion. I don’t care about her disapproval anymore.”

“If you knew what I know about her, I doubt you’d be so eager for a reunion.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

I let the silence hang between us.

She scooted forward on the couch, hands clutched. “What do you know?”

“From everything you’ve told me about your sister, she’s a classic skeptic. There’s nothing wrong with that—I have more than a healthy dose of skepticism myself—but it risks annihilating every shred of optimism. People like Natalie and I are resilient. We are doers; we take care of the weak among us. But we also have a tendency to behave like bulls in china shops. In our eagerness to defend, we steamroll. We have a hard time letting others resolve their own dilemmas.”

The girl deflated, leaning back against the sofa.

“You will not get the closure you want,” I said softly. “You think she’ll accept and protect you, but ultimately she’ll watch out for herself. Sisters are fallible that way.”

“You’re right. It was a stupid idea.”

I patted her knee, the epitome of magnanimity. “Ideas are only stupid if you make hasty actions of them. I’m glad you brought this one to my attention. Now, what updates do you have for me as regard your peers?”

She shifted uneasily. Since her q1, I had tasked the girl with reporting any gossip or disobedience among her fellow IC members.

“Sanderson is less engaged than usual. But then, we’re all working so hard that it’s tough to say. He might’ve taken on too much.”

I sipped my tea. “I didn’t realize there was such a thing as taking on too much when you’re working on a mission as important as ours.” I sniffed. “Do you no longer find what we do compelling?”

“Me? You know how much I believe in the work. I’m down to four hours of sleep a night. But maybe Sanderson isn’t up to the—”