What am I? The truth is that I don’t know. I know that I have truly loved and cared for people-my mother, my father, my aunt, Beck. I have regretted things that I have done, hurting people that I hurt when I was a child. So I do have feelings. It’s just that they’re muted and strange. Dr. Cooper thinks it’s a kind of arrested development, partly hormonal, partly psychological, partly related to the traumas of my life. Some of it has to do with the cocktail of medications I take, a antipsychotic, antidepressant cocktail. She thinks I will grow into myself someday. She doesn’t think I’m evil, or a monster, or a bad seed. She doesn’t believe in those things. And neither do I. I am buried beneath layers and layers of genetic and pharmaceutical debris. But I can feel myself, ever since my night with Beck. I can feel myself breaking through.
The miles were hard and the cold winter sun was high in the sky by the time I finally found the trail. It must have been going on noon. But the light was dimming. A thick gray cloud cover was blanketing the sky and I could smell snow. I glanced at my phone; the compass app showed that I was headed in the right direction, due north. Another mile and I’d be at the site marked in Luke’s book. But I started to slow my pace, wondering if I was making a mistake. Maybe it would be better for Beck if I went to the police and told them what I knew. Maybe this was just wasting time. What if I got to the site and there was nothing there?
My phone was constantly buzzing. I’d turned the ringer off, but I could feel it vibrating in my pocket. My aunt, Sky, Dr. Cooper, another number I didn’t recognize.
I decided I should listen to the messages:
“This is a bad move,” Sky warned. “Just come back and we’ll figure all of this out. That lawyer, whom you obviously are going to need, is on her way. Come back, meet with her, and we’ll go talk to the police. They don’t know you’re gone yet, but it won’t be long before they figure it out. I can’t hold them off forever.”
“Please, sweetie,” begged my aunt. I could hear the tears in her voice. “I promised your mom that I would take care of you if she couldn’t. You need to let me do that. I know you. I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Running away might seem like a good choice,” said Dr. Cooper. “It might seem like the only choice. But we have lots of options that we can explore together. Call me. Or just come to my office. I’m here for you.”
Why couldn’t I ever let anyone help me?
There was one more message.
“You don’t know me,” he said. “But I know you. My name is Peter Jacobs, and you might be familiar with me as the man who has been leading the initiative for your father’s release. Some new information has come to light and I want to discuss it with you. Give me five minutes of your time.”
All famous killers have their followers, and my father was no exception. And this guy was his number one fan boy, the journalist who always believed that there was another man at the scene of the crime, my mother’s lover. It was my initial testimony that encouraged this idea. I said that I had seen a strange pair of shoes at the door. But I wasn’t sure of that anymore. I couldn’t swear to it now. In my memory, there is a pair of simple black walking shoes. But was it that afternoon, or another afternoon-I couldn’t be sure. Even so, it had been enough on which to hang years of defense, appeals, and investigations. Who is S? This initial that was scrawled into my mother’s calendar with a little heart beside it that everyone seemed to think was evidence of an affair. Personally, I had no idea who it was. My mother, as far as I saw, only worked and cared for me.
As I came into the clearing, I saw it: a mine-shaft entrance, built into the swell of a small hill. The splintered wood frame was bent and sagging, and the hole was boarded shut. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, the hole in which a troll or hobbit might live, and I stood looking at it for a second. Was she in there? The sky had grown darker, and the air ever colder. I was so far from everything now, a three-mile trek in either direction to safety. It was then that I realized how stupid I was. I needed to call the police, or someone, and I was going to do that right away. I took the phone from my pocket and was about to dial when I heard something that I was sure came from inside the mine.
I dropped my bag, moved in close, and listened. I laid my head against the wood for a moment. The boards were nailed in tight, no amount of prying with my bare fingers was going to pull them out. And the nails were rusty, as if they’d been there for a hundred years. A big red sign warned people away-DANGER: CAVERS, SPELUNKERS, HIKERS AND ALL, DO NOT ENTER THIS MINE SHAFT. IT IS TREACHEROUS AND UNSTABLE AND NOT FIT FOR ENTRY!
I tried to pull at the boards anyway, and then started yelling: “Beck, Beck, it’s me. Are you in there? Answer me! I’m sorry!”
My voice rang out, strident and panicked. A flock of blackbirds fluttered away, squawking into the sky.
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
The voice rocketed through me, a blast of adrenaline nearly shot me into the air. I turned around to see Langdon standing there. He was red-faced and sweating from exertion, in spite of the cold. I leaned against the wood and slid down to the ground, wrapping up and burying my head in my arms.
“How many times am I going to have to ask you this question?” he said. “What are you doing?”
“I thought she was out here,” I said.
I fished the book from my bag and tossed it over to him. He was bent over, leaning on his knees. He was still trying to catch his breath. But he picked it up and looked at the page I had marked.
“Was that you calling me?” I asked. “All those miles ago.”
“Who else?” he asked.
He walked over and inspected the shaft. He ran his fingers over the rough surface, touched the nail heads. “No one’s been in this mine for a hundred years,” he said. “These nails are so rusted they’re practically fused to the wood.”
“I heard something,” I said. I was still listening, but there was nothing. It could have been that all I’d heard was Langdon’s approach. I was so confused and so tired now, I couldn’t trust any of my perceptions. She’s dead, a voice whispered in my head. She’s dead because you left her alone in the woods. It’s your fault.
Langdon put his head to the wood. “No,” he said. “I don’t hear anything.”
I was spent, completely and utterly done. I felt myself shutting down, going blank, all feeling draining down that hole in my center.
Langdon reached down a hand and lifted me to my feet.
“We have to get you back, Lana,” he said. “This doesn’t look good. Everyone’s going crazy. Your aunt… she’s a wreck.”
“That’s not my name.”
The gray daylight seemed to deepen, and the whispering of the leaves all around us swelled to a chorus of voices.
“I know,” he said. All the color had left his face, and his features had fallen slack. He was a black tower against the gray behind him. And something in my body was responding-a hollow in my gut, a tightness in my throat.
“I know that,” he said again.
A universe of understanding passed between us. I ticked back through the last few months, remembered him pulling Rachel’s ad from the board, turning up places he had no reason being, climbing down into that grave after the last scavenger hunt clue. Impossibly, he was part of this. But how? Why? I couldn’t even think of the right things to ask.