The Herd(71)

The router. The knapsack, rugged-looking yet expensive, was obviously Ted’s. Why on earth had he been stalking her? And where had he gotten all this? Had he broken into her home, or—the thought like a flashbulb—Eleanor’s office at the Herd?

I glanced back down the hallway, where Ted and Katie were still closed up in the den. She was safe with him, right? Where the hell was Mikki—where was everybody? I slipped the folder back into the bag, zipped up my coat, and hurried out into the tundra.





CHAPTER 19





Katie


MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 5:35 P.M.

Hana rattled the doorknob for three excruciating seconds, four, pulling at the door and twisting hard as I squeezed my eyes closed and silently begged her to stop. Finally, she did, and we listened as she moved farther down the hall.

“Sooo…that was awkward,” Ted announced, correctly.

I cupped my hands around the lower half of my face, then glanced at him. “Really? Because that was part of an elaborate ploy to indulge my exhibitionism.” He looked at me with enough alarm that I flopped back on the bed. “I’m kidding. Haven’t you noticed by now that I make stupid jokes when I’m uncomfortable? Because holy hell, am I uncomfortable.”

“You and me and her both.” He zipped his jeans and sat back on the bed, springs creaking. “What do you think that was all about? I thought you two weren’t talking.”

“We weren’t. I have no idea.” Already, her intrusion felt removed, like a scene that should’ve been cut from a movie. Everything about today had had a sad, cinematic, dreamy quality to it, come to think of it. The huge mustard-yellow house that looked exactly like I’d pictured it. The thin hallways and rattling windows and multiple fireplaces, all the architectural details I’d walked past on a self-guided tour, running the pads of my fingers over every surface. There wasn’t a speck of dust here, not anywhere.

Earlier today I’d spotted a lineup of photo albums in a seating area near the front door. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I’d pulled one out and opened it, gluey pages sticking as I dragged them across the binder rings. Eleanor in first grade—too far back. I tried another where Eleanor was a little older, skinny and shiny-haired with a mouthful of braces. I found the right era, bell-bottomed jeans and neon tube tops, but I never did find the exact shot I’d seen in the Facebook group, the one on the page with the zigzagging blue glue behind it.

Surreal, that was the word for today. An entire lifetime had passed since we’d left Penn Station, and it wasn’t even dinnertime. It was instantly clear our visit was a bad idea; Gary could hardly speak and Karen kept babbling, high-pitched and taut. After poking around in their photo albums, I’d come upon the grieving couple drinking wine in the kitchen and felt an instant urge to apologize—here I was, a stranger wandering their home as they tried to mourn their freshly killed daughter. Gary looked up and his expression told me he was thinking the same thing—what the hell was I doing there?—but Karen had waved me over and fetched a glass for me.

They’d asked me questions, politely pushing over follow-up after follow-up like a long line of dominoes. I told them about my freelance work, living in Michigan for a year, attempting to join the Herd. They asked about my book project, about the fake-news factory in Iron River, and my chest seized up as I mumbled something about still nailing down a new angle since the research hadn’t gone as planned. I was cagey but they barely seemed to notice, each wrapped in their own cocoon of grief.

And then Ted had walked in, cherry-nosed, and explained that the snowblower’s shear pins had needed replacing mid-job, but luckily his dad had a set back in their garage, which was all to say that their drive was snow-free and the snowblower was in better condition than when he’d taken it out of the Walshes’ garage. They’d listened blankly and then murmured their thanks, and Ted had noticed my save-me glance.

“Ted, I was actually hoping you could show me how to do something on my laptop,” I said, “for an interactive story I’m writing? I could use your help.”

I’d started to rise and Gary picked up the cue, announcing he was going to head to the basement to watch the Patriots game. Exchanging looks, we’d all left Karen with her back to us, staring out at the darkening patio. One sconce was like a spotlight on the snow-covered pool.

It was a bit of a blur after that—in the den, Ted had remarked, Oh, I love this room, and I’d pushed the door closed without really thinking, and then I’d sat on the foldout bed and asked how he was doing, and he said he’d been unable to sleep last night, thinking about Eleanor, and I agreed and started to cry and said we never should have come, never should have imposed on Gary and Karen, and he’d gently wiped a tear from my cheek and said that he, for one, was glad I was there, and then he let his hand rest against my jaw and then my palm went to his chest and then, and then, and then.

And then Hana burst in, and now she was gone, and the room had that dizzying, whiplash quality, gears switched so suddenly and so entirely. Right when things were about to get good, to be honest. When Ted and I had probably both been wondering who was going to float the idea of obtaining a condom first.

Now I just felt confused. Something had happened, something had nudged Hana out of her fury storm and back into speaking-with-me territory.

“I’m gonna try calling Hana. We were fighting, like, two seconds ago, so she must’ve come in here for a reason.” I patted at the bedding around me in search of my phone. “Siblings are the worst.”