Chapter Thirteen
When I was in elementary school, the summers dragged on like decades. Time stretched out forever until I thought it was standing still. Until my aunts would take me shopping for notebooks and pencils and binders and new clothes and I’d be going to the first day of class. Only then would time resume its normal pace.
With Roy gone, all the things I used to fill my time with now seem empty, minutes are like hours, and like when I was little, it seems my time of waiting will never end.
Every morning and evening I check the news sites to make sure nothing horrible has happened. I suspect he’s in the Middle East, specifically in the regions where every day’s a page out of Dante’s Inferno. Gavin keeps reassuring me he’ll come home in one piece, but I’m not fooled; he’s concerned and probably wishes he was with Roy instead of babysitting me.
So I’m stuck in this horrible limbo-land waiting for Roy to return while I go over the receipts from yesterday and line up the straggler pickups remaining for today. I wave as Mae and Stella, with their pocketbooks in hand, stroll out the door.
In two hours, I can lock up and hop in the Buick and head to Safeway for movie snacks and Coke. I’m down to my last six-pack, and that always makes me nervous. It’s like gas in the tank; I’m never comfortable when the needle is on the left side of the half mark. Vincent’s meeting me at the house with the first two Thin Man movies. Nick and Nora Charles never get old. And when we’re stuffed with junk food and can’t stay awake a minute longer it’s off to bed. Not a bad way to spend an evening.
Thirty minutes till closing, when I’m in the back getting organized for tomorrow morning, the bell rings. “Be right there,” I call out. Who would show up this late in the day? Mary, my last customer, had left twenty minutes ago.
Yanking my ponytail free—it’s giving me a headache—I pop out of the back room. A man stands at the counter looking around. It’s not uncommon for a tourist to wander into the shop.
“May I help you?”
He turns to face me. His languid smile is followed by a flash of his blue eyes. “I hope so.”
I’ve seen him before. If only I could place where.
“I’m looking for the Lost Hound.”
“Oh,” I smile, relieved. “The art studio.” He nods. “I’ll show you.” And go out the door and onto the sidewalk. “After you pass the church”—its bell tower makes it a natural starting point for directions—“it will be the second street, Jay Street. Take a right and go down the hill; you’ll see it at the corner.”
“Ah.” He steps in close, and I’m forced to look up. The afternoon sun shines through his hair, causing reddish highlights to gleam.
I’m good with faces. Why can’t I place him? “Good luck.” I step quickly toward the door.
“Maybe I’ll stop by again.” He dips his head. “For directions.”
“Sure.” I’m tempted to lock the door, but we’re still open so, instead, I get on with straightening up the back room. A few minutes later, the bell rings again, and that’s when it hits me where I’ve seen him before. At the Hay Adams, the night of Roy’s party, when I was trying to fix the strap on my shoe. He was the Robert Redford lookalike who stopped to help. Is he here working on the film? Or was it random chance?
“You didn’t find…”
When I turn the corner, it’s not him. Instead, it’s Bobby standing in the middle of the floor like a farmer who’s lost his plot of land. In his oversized overalls and work boots and John Deere hat—it’s his favorite—I know he’s slipped away from Mr. Stanwyck, or Travis, his caregiver, and gone on walkabout. It’s what we call it when he takes to the road and ambles into Middleburg. I don’t think he sneaks away; I believe they realize he needs the freedom.
“What’s doing?” I ask, guilty I don’t want to deal with him right now.
Head lowered, shoulders slumped, he doesn’t respond. It’s hard to imagine him other than he is now. Mae and Stella said he was one of the most attractive men either of them had ever seen, in real life, the movies, or TV. As they put it, he was a cross between Paul Newman and William Holden. Without the charisma and animation, it’s hard to picture him thus. Bobby is tall and broad-shouldered, but gone soft around the middle. His mannerisms are childlike, as is his mind. I’m almost sorry for Mr. Stanwyck, Bobby’s brother, given everything he’s been through. Wife dead. Son dead. Brother, once a partner in the family business, mentally disabled. It’s only Mr. Stanwyck now.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I lightly touch his shoulder to get his attention.
He’s like this sometimes, sad and nonverbal. When he lifts his head, it’s uncanny how healthy he looks right now. Like he’s truly seeing me. “Bobby,” I whisper.
His eyes are captivated by the ring on my finger. Please, please, please don’t have a fit like last time. “You were here when we found it. Do you know something about it?” I expect him to speak, not in his one-syllable way but in a sentence. It’s clear he wants to communicate something, and I’m leaning in, waiting when the oddest thing happens.
He takes my hand and brings it up to his lips, kissing my ring finger.
I’m stunned. We stand there, frozen in place. I’m afraid to take a breath lest whatever this is will evaporate. Could his brain have healed? You hear about people waking up from comas after years of languishing. And right when I’m wondering if some sort of miracle is occurring, his mouth slackens and his shoulders slump.
A little unnerved, I smile like nothing unusual happened. “I’m getting ready to close up. Why don’t I call Travis to come get you?”
He lets go of my hand like he’s accidentally grabbed a snake. “No, no, nooo.”
“Okay, okay.” I hold my hands up. “No Travis.” I don’t want him to spiral into a fit. It’s entirely possible he could hurt himself, or me.
“You.” He points to my chest. “Home.”
I loathe going to the dentist. I put it off for months. In fact, I’m a year overdue. Right now, I’d rather be in the chair with the dentist’s fingers in my mouth as he scrapes my teeth with the sharp, pointy thing than drive Bobby home. Where I’m sure Mr. Stanwyck will be standing at the door with a shotgun. “Alright, buddy. Let’s get the shop locked up, and I’ll take you home.”
I keep my eye on him as he shadows me to the front door and waits placidly as I lock it. I wasn’t keen on Roy replacing our old locks, but these are much better and easier to manage than the deadbolt. Once I’ve turned off the lights, I go to the back and get my purse from the cabinet. Make sure the coffee cups are clean and ready to go in the morning.
“Wait by the back door. I have to set the alarm.”
He ambles to the door and shifts his weight like he’s riding in a dinghy.
“Alright, let’s get out of here.”
Two steps and I’d be out the door with him in tow, but, out of nowhere, he gets that knowing expression again.
“Beth.” His voice is deeper than normal, his eyes bright.
Who’s Beth? “Come on.” I grab his arm and all but pull him with me as I shut the door behind us.
We’re standing on the stoop, and he’s looking at me, but I think he’s seeing someone else, someone in the past. I’ve known Bobby, well, forever. We played together, supervised of course, and went fishing, and hiking. Every step of the way, he was there. So why now? I look myself over. Fuck. I’m the biggest idiot ever. “The ring.” I hold my hand up again. “Was this Beth’s?” Did he nod? I think so, though it could have been nothing. “Where is Beth? I’ll take you to her.” It’s worth a try, right?
Nothing. Crickets. Dead crickets. Those dark-blue eyes have gone back to their slightly hazy appearance. “Alright. Let’s get you home.”
Placidly, he trudges over to the Buick and waits while I open the door for him. When I get behind the wheel he’s struggling with his seatbelt; I reach over and snap it into place. He’s quiet, lost in his private place that none of us can access.
“Home, James.” I crank up the air conditioning and ease out of Middleburg.
On the bright side, Mr. Stanwyck’s estate isn’t far from town, and it borders the back and side sections of Roy’s estate, so if I’m lucky I can drop him off before anyone notices. I debate swinging by Roy’s home. Gavin’s overseeing the security systems and renovations and whatever else is going on over there. It’s all our customers are talking about. Who is Roy and what’s he doing to the lovely old estate house? If I hadn’t made such a stink about it, Gavin would be with me now. Or even Proctor, strange as he is.
I glance at Bobby, slumped over and leaning against the car door. It makes me sad to see him like this, and I hope with all my heart his episode at Mangler was a one-off and will never happen again. Though, from what Mae and Stella found out from Travis, it’s occurring more often. The doctors think it’s his age, maybe early-onset dementia. I hope not; the family’s been through enough. They don’t need this too.
I’m cruising along like a ninety-year-old, driving twenty miles an hour in a forty-five speed zone, delaying the turn onto Willoughby Estate. Like a coward, I ask, “Do you want me to drop you off at the mailboxes so you can walk the rest of the way?” I remember Reggie doing this when we’d all been on an outing and were taking him home.
Bobby shakes his head and continues staring out the window.
With a large SUV bearing down on me, I pick up speed, put on my turn signal, and grit my teeth as I drive onto Stanwyck property. Willoughby Estate has been owned by the Stanwyck family since 1830. I know this because of the historical marker prominently placed along the drive. According to my aunts, the estate is passed in its entirety to the first male heir. I guess it makes sense to keep it together, but it doesn’t quite seem fair if there are other siblings. Though what is fair in life? I’m sure Bobby would have a lot to say on that subject if he could.
The creosote fence lines both sides of the road and leads to a fork. The left takes you to the barns and stables while the right winds you around to the main house. I veer right and mull over Charlie. Being the first and only son, he would have inherited the estate. Didn’t Shakespeare write something about protesting too much? Charlie, always chasing women, always making sure everyone knew of his exploits like he was shoving it in people’s faces so they wouldn’t see what he was hiding. Sad to think Charle thought being gay was shameful. But with a father like Mr. Stanwyck, well, I understand why he tried to conceal it. Mr. Stanwyck must have been born in a suit and tie. He’s always formal and his demeanor brittle, as if a compromise might cause a fault line to open within him. Even his peers go out of their way to avoid confrontations with him. For Mr. Stanwyck, having a gay son would be intolerable. A sign that he’d failed.
It’s hard to imagine Mr. Stanwyck young and in love. Mae’s told me stories of his wife, how beautiful she was, and the parties hosted at Willoughby. My aunts and Reggie weren’t invited, of course, but they handled all the linens, and there was a lot of staff in those days, so tons of gossip found its way to Mangler. They were the golden couple, and the world was their oyster until Mrs. Stanwyck became ill while carrying Charlie. She died shortly after he was born. Less than a year later, Bobby, or Bob as he was called, suffered his injury.
As if my thoughts have conjured him up, I see Mr. Stanwyck riding his gray gelding, Strauss, across the field at a canter, coming right for us. Well, isn’t that peachy?
With ease, his horse takes the three-foot jump, and I slow to a stop when he trots the horse over to the car and dismounts.
The gray’s ears are pointed straight ahead and his large eyes are soft and kind. I can say a lot of bad things about Mr. Stanwyck, but he’s an excellent horseman who treats his animals with the utmost kindness. Too bad he doesn’t have any left over for humans.
I roll down the window, expecting the worst.
“Connie called and said he was heading out your way.”
In a large city or town, it would be unthinkable for someone like Bobby to roam around, but here where the pace is slow and the residents few we look out for each other. Bobby is a part of the fabric of Middleburg. If he’s seen walking along the road, people will pick him up and take him into town or ask if he wants to go home or call his brother or Travis—whatever he needs.
I ease up on my steely grip of the steering wheel. I’d expected a stern remark and Bobby ordered out of the car while I manhandled the old Buick into a three-point turn. Instead, Mr. Stanwyck is almost cordial.
I look over at Bobby, still sitting in the passenger seat and staring out the window in the opposite direction.
“He’s been upset lately,” he explains. I turn back to Mr. Stanwyck and catch the flick of his eyes away from my ring. “If you would, take him up to the house. Travis’s waiting there.”
He’s talking to me. Not barking at me or scowling at me or avoiding me. “I think he thought I was someone named Beth. Or he was looking for her.” My voice trails off.
His hand strokes the horse’s graceful neck. “He’s confused.”
I’m on the verge of asking who Beth is when an SUV pulls up behind me. The horse lifts its lovely head. Mr. Stanwyck’s shoulders instantly straighten, and I whirl around to see Gavin and Proctor exit the vehicle.
In an instant, the tenuous rapport is crushed. Strauss, generally docile, tosses his head like a piston. Bobby rocks in his seat.
“Wait,” Mr. Stanwyck orders.
Does he mean me? No, he’s glaring at Proctor and Gavin.
“Walk Strauss and Bobby up to the house.” He’s talking to me. “One of them”—he nods his head in the men’s direction—“will drive the car up.”
I don’t want to leave. I want to ask about Beth. It’s like the cosmos is against me as Strauss rears and Bobby claws at the seatbelt latch and begins to wail like a wounded animal close to death. And out of nowhere, as I free him from the belt, I think of the movie Young Frankenstein and how the horses reacted violently every time Frau Blucher’s name is mentioned. And because I’m nervous, I giggle like a loon. Get a grip on yourself!
Now freed, Bobby bolts from the car and stomps off toward the main house.
I vault out of the Buick to chase after him and realize where we are. Bobby will be perfectly fine walking up to the house.
“Go on.” Mr. Stanwyck hands me the reins. “He’ll be alright.”
Is he talking about Strauss or Bobby? And why isn’t he worried about me? Strauss is almost seventeen hands and acting like a stallion that’s caught the scent of a mare. Oh, right, cause I’m Daisy and the least and last of his worries. Trapped between wanting to stay and find out more about Beth, but now tethered to a frightened horse, I give up and walk toward the main house. On impulse, I yell back to Gavin and Proctor, “Ask about Beth.” I’m ready to say more, but Mr. Stanwyck’s about-to-go-nuclear stare halts my tongue. Well, so much for détente.
The further we get from the trio of men, the calmer Strauss becomes. Is it Proctor? Does he sense the same not-rightness about him? Taking one last look back, I see them facing each other like a three-cornered stool. Mr. Stanwyck jabs his finger into Proctor’s chest.
The breeze carries his voice, and I hear Mr. Stanwyck say, “You think I’d hurt her?”
Does he mean Beth? I stop and strain to hear more. Nothing. Resigned, I jog along with Strauss and catch up with Bobby. Head hanging, shoulders hunched, he’s shuffling along like a sulking child.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble not sure if I’m talking to myself or Bobby. “I wish things were different.”
“Daddy Dearest has that effect on people.” Charlie’s smug voice chimes in.
“He sure does.” My words make Bobby’s head pop up. Even Strauss does a lovely shoulder-in to get a better look at me.
Travis is walking toward us, and a groomsman comes up the path to take Strauss. “Hi, ah, thank you.” I hand him the reins, and the two of them walk to the stables.
“He’s been agitated lately.” Travis, a little out of breath, meets us. “Roger picked him up on Route Fifty. Connie called after he left the café. He always seems to end up at Mangler.”
“He had perfect timing.” I lie and smile. “I was closing up for the day.” And going for provisions and home instead of into this melee. “It was no trouble to drop him off.”
Bobby’s shifting from foot to foot, kicking the crushed stone with his boots.
“He seemed, well, kind of normal for a moment with me.”
Travis reminds me of a basset hound with his sagging face, his eyes sad and his curly hair always in need of a trim. He’s a small man, only a few inches taller than me, and walks like he’s pulling a burden. Each step careful and placed slowly. “Yeah, it occasionally happens. Eerie, isn’t it?”
Yes, I think, definitely the right word for it. “Has Bobby ever mentioned someone named Beth to you?”
“Huh.” He shakes his head. “No, can’t say he has.”
Not ready to give up, I continue, “It was the ring.” I hold up my hand with my palm facing toward me. “Ever seen it before?”
“Not subtle, is it?” He laughs, giving me a quizzical look.
“A birthday gift without a card. Trying to figure out who gave it to me.”
“Some gift.”
“Yeah.” I mean, what else can I say?
Travis’s attention drifts as Bobby shuffles towards the front door. “He’ll be tired and hungry.” He follows along behind, stops, and looks back over his shoulder. “You know that ring is kind of familiar. I can’t place it, though.”
My old Buick, driven by Gavin, comes up the crushed stone of the driveway.
“You’ll call if you remember?”
“Sure, of course.” He waves and disappears inside.
Bobby, Mr. Stanwyck, and now Travis—all of them reacted to the ring. Why is it the one person I don’t want to deal with might be the one holding the answers?
Gavin rolls down the window. “It’s time we leave.”
“Did you ask about Beth?” I do a three-sixty, looking for Mr. Stanwyck. He must have gone to the stables.
“We’ll talk about it in the car.”
I walk around and open the Buick’s heavy door. It takes two hands and a great tug to get it to close and latch. I make a mental note to drop it off at Buzzy’s for an adjustment. “What did he say?”
“He said we were trespassing and to get off his property.”
I narrow my eyes into slits. “Not what I meant.”
“Ever heard of Elizabetta?”
Bobby only communicates one syllable words. He would shorten Elizabetta to Beth. “No.” I twist the ring around my finger. “Is this her ring?”
He turns onto Roy’s property, taking the back road in, and drives along the now-empty stables.
“I’ll drop you off,” I tell him. “I need to get to the house. Vincent’s due any minute.”
“No need, girl.” Gavin snorts. “He’s here with your diabetic feast.”
“How’d you know?” Oh, right, he’s been watching me. “So, the ring, it’s this Elizabetta’s?”
“Maybe.”
I debate pummeling Gavin.
“On January 4, 1996, a report was filed with the Middleburg police. An Elizabetta Fitzgerald was arrested for stealing. She’d worked for the Stanwyck family for one year as a housemaid.”
So I am wearing stolen property?
“Whitcomb Stanwyck dragged her to the police himself when he caught her wearing the ring,” Gavin adds.
“Wait, Mr. Stanwyck’s first name is Whitcomb?”
Gavin nods and veers the car toward the right to the main house. “Yes. He said she stole the ring. It was his mother’s. A day later, the charges were dropped.”
The house is ringed with vans and trucks and workers going in and out the massive front doors. “And this is her ring.” I pull it off my finger and roll down the window.
“Don’t you dare,” he warns.
“I’m not going to throw it out. I need air.” None of this makes any sense. “So why was it given to me?” And that explains how Bobby knew the ring, but wouldn’t he have said “mother” instead of “Beth”? And why were the charges dropped? Perhaps the family wanted to keep it private, but why take her to the police? I shove the ring into my pocket and rub my temples. I have a looming headache the size of Manhattan materializing behind my eyes. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Stanwyck wasn’t forthcoming with information.”
“So he told you about her?”
“Don’t be daft. Since Roy left, we’ve been researching the family. Proctor knows all their secrets.” He taps his temple. “It’s all locked up in his vault. When you gave us a clue, he broached the subject with the old man. Good job, by the way.” Gavin parks the Buick in the five-car garage hidden from the main house behind a row of pine trees.
“Is that why they were fighting?”
“Aye.”
“Here.” I pull out the ring and hand it to him. “I don’t want this anymore. Give it back to Mr. Stanwyck. It’s not right for me to have it.”
I expect reluctance, but there’s none. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“So.” I get out of the car and walk with him around to the back. “You watching the Thin Man movies with us?”
I stop in my tracks when Gavin smiles. He’s always so stern.
“Evelyn’s made Dundee cake.” He must have registered my surprise. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“No, no, please.” I truly mean it. And it will let me think about everything without having to keep up a conversation with Vincent. “And Proctor.” My aunts would tan my hide if I excluded him, not cause they’re partial to him, but out of Christian charity.
His jaw tightens. “Might not see Proctor for a wee bit.”
“Is he alright?”
“Aye, fine, working off some steam.”
“Is Mr. Stanwyck okay?”
Gavin chuckles and opens the door for me to walk through.
Vincent is wearing an apron and helping Evelyn pour butter over large bowls of popcorn. “Love”—he coos and flutters his eyelashes—“I see you’ve brought the main course.”
I give Gavin a sideways glance, unsure at how he’ll react to Vincent’s playfulness.
The kitchen hasn’t been touched yet. You can hear the sound of power tools, and there is plastic sheeting hanging in the hallway, probably to keep the dust from spreading.
I wish Roy were here. He’d love all of us hanging out. It’s crazy how much I miss him. We’ve known each other a short time, but it feels like he’s always been here and I can’t imagine life without him now.
“He’s good, lass.” Gavin places his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about Roy.”
How do they do it? Seem to know what I’m thinking? “Thanks,” I say as Vincent hands me a Coke, Evelyn pulls chocolate chip cookies out of the oven, and Gavin starts eating his cake straight from the pan. Right now, at this moment, everything feels right with the world.
But it never ends there, does it, when everything is alright? At least not with me, not lately. During intermission, I go upstairs to get another bowl of Evelyn’s homemade vanilla ice cream with shaved chocolate bits and swirls of caramel. The woman is a genius.
I’m spooning softball-sized scoops of ice cream into a mixing bowl when I see two figures pass the French doors. One is bent over, moving slowly as if injured.
“Roy.” I sprint through the kitchen and open the door. He’s home early. Afraid, happy, crazed with worry, I run right in front of them. Only when I’ve stopped and impeded their path do I realize it's Proctor bent over like he’s in pain. “What happened?” Immediately I go to his side and lift his arm over my shoulder.
“Ma’am,” the other man urges, “I wouldn’t do that.”
Why not, I think, he needs help. Why isn’t he helping? “Come on, let’s get him inside.”
“You’re touching me.” Proctor’s flat tone is barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, I am.” Finally, the other man moves instead of gawking at us and opens the French doors. “What happened? Was it Mr. Stanwyck?” No that can’t be right, he’s too old to cause this much damage. “He had one of his henchmen go after you, didn’t he? I have half a mind to go over there and tell him where he can go.” In my defense, I have been watching The Thin Man, and Nora Charles is one of my heroes. I guess, in retrospect, I was a bit too forceful.
“Nae, girl.” Gavin is suddenly beside me, taking the weight, and I shift to the side while Proctor sits at the kitchen table. “Tell her you’re all right or she’ll be yammering about it the rest of the evening.”
I don’t yammer. “What the hell is yammering?”
Proctor lifts his head. One eye is swollen shut, his lip is split, and from how he’s bent over I think his ribs are hurt. “I asked for this.” He closes his eye for a moment like he’s concentrating on how to breathe. “Needed this.”
I look at the man who was helping him. “You beat him?”
“No ma’am.” He cuts his eyes to Gavin, looking for help. “Just helping him to his cottage.”
“Let them be on their way.” Gavin’s got his tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. “Scott’s waiting on them.”
Scott? Oh, right, the medic who stitched up Roy’s back. “Why do you need this?”
“Leave us,” Proctor wheezes out and gives Gavin a bone-chilling glare. “Touched me…”
He let me touch him? Why wouldn’t he when he needs help? Because he’s Proctor, remember, super soldier experiment number did-not-come-out-right.
“You alright, girl?” Gavin asks. I nod, and he grabs a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “We’ll be waiting.” He communicates something to Proctor with his eyes and leaves.
While my back is turned, the other man also leaves. My excitement/sugar rush has ebbed a bit, and I sit to hear what Proctor has to say.
“Closer.” His monotone voice is barely above a whisper. “Broken rib.”
I’m less than a foot away from him. His open eye is too bright and intense and focused. It’s like dark amber, gold and brown with flakes of black and other colors I have no names for.
“Wrong.” He struggles to breathe. “My assessment…wrong.”
I thought he was going to tell me why he wanted to be beaten to a pulp. “Let me get you some water.”
He shakes his head. “You were right.” He holds up two fingers.
I’m not following until, suddenly, I understand. Oh, the giver of the ring is not who gave the previous gifts.
“Blackmail.”
“Why would anyone want to blackmail me?”
In frustration, he grabs my wrist and pulls me inches away from his face. “Stanwyck’s afraid. Think he’s being blackmailed. The ring was a…warning.”
“He told you this?”
Proctor tries to take a deep breath and ends hunched over in pain. “No.” He lifts up to meet my gaze and taps his nose. “Smell it.” He wheezes and lets my hand go.
“Intuition.” He nods. “Wow.” I haven’t moved, still inches from him. “Does he think I’m blackmailing him?”
“No.”
I grab a napkin off the table and press it against his lip. His talking has caused it to bleed. He sits there almost like a lost child. “You don’t need to be hurt like this.”
Proctor leans back, holding the napkin in place, and tilts his head to the side. “Have to get the rage out.”
Because Mr. Stanwyck jabbed him in the chest? Cause he hates to be touched? “Who were you fighting and where is he?” No response. Did he kill them? No, no not possible. Or maybe it is. “Tell me, and I’ll go see to them.” They must have been in Roy’s gym. I’m halfway to standing when his hand wraps around my wrist in an iron grip and pulls me back to sit in a chair.
“Already,” he wheezes out, “already gone.”
The door slams and we both turn to see Scott. His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open at the two of us huddled together. “I can come back.”
“No.” I stand. “No, he needs help.” I point toward Proctor, who’s looking up at me. “Cracked ribs and his lips are bleeding, and his eye.”
Scott hustles over. “I was waiting at the cottage.”
Proctor holds out his arm, keeping Scott at arm’s length, and slowly rises like he’s a hundred years old, shuffling toward the door. He turns back, looking at me with the one eye.
“Let me know if you need anything.” I follow and stand in the doorway, watching the two of them creep along the path until there’s nothing left for me to do but go back inside to the kitchen and get my ice cream.
Halfway to the basement stairs, I’m caught between the sounds of laughter floating from below and the thought of Proctor fighting someone to get rid of his rage and Roy, maybe fighting too, and Mr. Stanwyck and Bobby rambling around in their big house, hiding their secrets. No matter what I find out about the gifts, I won’t let it harm me, or let me harm myself because of it. Whatever I need to do, I won’t cut myself anymore.