The Cabin Is Always Hungry

LAST RESORT

Part 9

Henry Duncan walked into Remley’s with one thing in mind: To hunt.

I watched the vampire wake up an hour before sunset while the blinds were still shut around the mansion, and he started preparing for his nightly excursion. Henry still maintained his mortal hygiene routines. Apparently, vampires still took showers and used body wash and shampoo, even though they didn’t exude any smell. Henry still did his skincare routines even though vampirism made his skin silky smooth and devoid of imperfections, which all influencers and celebrities would kill to have. I reckoned it was out of habit, something to comfort himself.

Henry wore a simple outfit for tonight: a dark suede jacket, a plain white collared shirt, dark-fitted jeans, and a pair of off-white sneakers. Never mind that the entire getup cost close to five thousand dollars. The shoes alone were a quarter of that price tag. That didn’t include the Rolex and the gold Cartier necklace as accessories, which went up to twenty thousand dollars combined. Once he finished, he drove his black 1971 XKE Jaguar to Point Hope from an underground car garage, which housed plenty of vintage and luxury cars of Henry’s choosing. I wasn’t a car guy, but Henry wanted to buy them, and I had a boatload of cash.

In a way, I am all the archetypes’ sugar daddy, I laughed.

His clothes were not overtly flashy. There were barely any logos on them, and he looked normal. It was the type of quiet wealth that an ancient vampire like The Duke should exude, which Henry was more than happy to play and elaborate further. Yes, also the spending sprees. For the past six weeks, Henry had been practicing how he should walk, talk, and even stand. The type of things he should know about his “fake” past. But with these traits already built into his archetype sheet, it came easy to him. Like peeling an orange...

Puzzle pieces began to click into place, and soon, Henry could recite to me what happened during the War of the Roses in vivid detail as if he lived in that era himself. He also made up a lost play that Shakespeare had written, reciting each line as if he were reading the pages right in his hand. Every instance he dropped an obscure name of some nobleman or a soldier in his retellings, Oracle searched online for if such a person existed (and they did, sometimes so obscure that they were merely mentioned in the footnotes of history), with Henry improvising as if he knew them personally. And perhaps he did. It was another impressive display of the System’s time-manipulating powers, which I should test out in the future. I had seen it before, but not to this extent. Henry’s signature even appeared on some tax documents when Boston was still a British colony.

“The earliest memory I could remember was being in the same room as Socrates, debating the nature of grapes,” Henry said on the fourth week. “He told me they are good for sleeping.” He paused. “It was torture.”

If he could remember that far, that meant the System made Henry almost twenty-five hundred years old. A good age for an ancient vampire he is trying to emulate. Although he didn’t like to admit it, Henry looked nervous. After all, this was his first interaction with humans since he turned into a vampire.

Remley’s smelled like spilled beer and fried meat, a dive that clung to the edge of town like a busted tooth. The neon sign outside buzzed, stuttering between M and E on its electrified dying legs. Inside, the air smelled of fried grease, cheap beer, and the sweat of those who worked too hard for too little. A jukebox in the corner wheezed out Johnny Cash, half-swallowed by the low murmur of multiple conversations, the occasional burst of drunken laughter, and the clack of pool balls knocking together. The regulars were here, same as always: men with hands rough as asphalt, their faces carved out of hard labors. You know? True, blue-collared folks. The real red-blooded American, they were proud to say. Not like the pussy shit from the coastal elites.

Like the one entering the door.

Everyone in Remley’s (all twenty patrons) paused for half a second.

Henry Louis Duncan stepped inside, towering between the door frame. The regulars gave him the once-over, then turned back to their drinks. There was a slight drop in the air, but the regulars knew trouble when they saw it. More importantly, they knew when to leave it the hell alone. They didn’t understand why they suddenly all got this weird feeling, but no one dared to mention it. Henry Duncan stood out like a sore thumb. A handsome, charismatic man, very well-dressed even when he’s supposed to wear something casual, and most especially, a stranger? Yeah, everyone was bound to notice. Henry basked in the attention and held it for a moment longer.

He walked toward the bar.

Behind the counter, the owner’s wife, Carol Wheaton, poured drinks with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’d been at this long enough. Remley’s served two kinds of food: deep-fried or burnt. Though the drinks were pretty standard. Henry ordered a whiskey--neat--and gave her a big tip, which Carol was more than happy to accept. Tips like these meant not to bother him with empty chit-chat. Carol couldn’t help but also give him a once-over, and she thought he looked like a decent man. She noticed the British accent and wished more tourists paid like him. It would help with the bills.

Henry thanked her, and he slipped into an alcove booth in the far corner, away from most prying eyes. He had a great vantage point of the entire bar.

There, he waited.

And waited.

Waited for Kevin Yates and his friends to arrive.

[Fractal Omniscience] commencing…

Searching…

Searching…

Found.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Vivian said to Kevin as they drove away from the cemetery.

“Huh? Do what?” Kevin asked.

Kevin knew what his niece was talking about, but he was still shaking off the adrenaline still tingling across his body. The man looked happier than a junkie; the fight was like a dopamine hit, and he couldn’t wait for more. All he got from that fight was a bruised ego and his tail tucked between his legs. He wished he got a good hook in there, but fucking Chief Dilworth had to intervene. He didn’t even know that the police were there. I should have known. Brandon and David are friends, Kevin thought.

“You know what,” Vivian insisted and gestured to the back window. “That. What happened back there.”

Kevin massaged his jaw where the Castle patriarch had hit him. It still pissed him off that he didn’t see it coming. He was too focused on Abby’s dumb kid. “I’m just defending my brother, Vivian,” he said. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Do you see something wrong with that, Shiela?”

“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Sheila repeated as she adjusted her laced push-up bra and reapplied her lipstick through the sun visor’s vanity mirror. Vivian didn’t want to say anything when Sheila showed up wearing like she was about to go clubbing on a Friday night—not to a funeral. “We’re family, and family stick together.”

“That’s right!” Kevin said. “Like Game of Thrones or Family Guy.”

Has he seen those shows? Vivian wanted to bite back, but she decided to ignore them.

“Let’s be real, hon. You went there to pick a fight.”

Kevin was quiet for a moment. “Fuck all that do.”

“I told you it’s a waste of time. Let’s go to McDonald’s. I’m hungry.”

Sheila had only been Uncle Kevin’s girlfriend for less than four months and had already thought she was part of the family. If only Uncle Kevin didn’t own a business, Shiela would be back in her “old” line of work

. Vivian didn’t know what Uncle Kevin saw in her, but his dating pool just shrunk into a shallow puddle now that the scandal about the Hodges had spread like wildfire across Point Hope. Maybe Sheila would leave him once Uncle Kevin’s landscaping business shuttered for good. She knew a good chunk of his clients had dropped him, and he had about a couple of months before his work dried up around town. His competitors were already circling, smelling blood in the water. Kevin had been ignoring the inevitable: He might also have to move out of town just like the Battens and the Torres did.

In Point Hope, he was persona non grata.

And that enraged him. K.Y. Patriot Landscaping, the business he built from the ground up for fifteen years, was now crumbling under the weight of this massacre. Ashley and Dave were never a part of it. They were never members of Justin Hodge’s cult. I need that to be true, Kevin thought. If he had to dig the Coach out of the grave to tell the world himself, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Vivian turned to her brother. “I told you not to bring him.” She didn’t mean it to sound like “I told you so,” but she couldn’t help it. She sniffed the air and leaned closer to Xavier. “And I think he’s drunk.”

“Sorry. He insisted,” Xavier hissed.

“What are you two talking about back there?” Kevin glared at them through the rearview mirror. “Hey, I didn’t make a scene, okay? It was the Castles who started that shit. We might have to press charges for assaulting us.”

“You know, if your uncle wasn’t there, both of you would have been on the ground, kicked and punched by those bullies,” Sheila said. “The Castles fuck like rabbits in this town. They out there popping out kids left and right. You don’t mess with them unless you want the entire village involved, okay? Thank God your uncle and the other guys were there to protect you and watch your backs. But come now, Xavier? Vivian? Do you really think it was a good idea to go there in the first place?”

“But he’s our classmate. We just want to pay our respects,” Vivian began to explain. “I don’t know why that’s so hard to understand.”

“Listen, you barely knew the boy. Let’s be real here for once, girl. At the nail salon, we hear lots of gossip. You’ve gone to two other funerals, and you were not welcomed on either one. This might be tough to hear, but no one wants to hear your explanation when people are grieving.”

“Shut up, Sheila. No one asked you to be here,” Xavier said. “Everyone’s gonna be there, and we just want to explain that mom and dad didn’t do it, okay? That what they said about them isn’t true! They were murdered by Mrs. Fairlie! If they belonged to Coach Hodge’s cult, why would they kill them?”

“Hey! You don’t talk to Sheila that way, boy!” Kevin roared. He slammed on the brakes and parked the truck on the side of the road in front of Burger King. “Get the fuck out.”

“What?”

“I said get the fuck out of my truck!” Kevin repeated. “I won’t ask again.”

Xavier clenched his jaw. He wanted to lunge at his uncle, but he restrained himself. He grabbed his suit jacket, climbed out of the car, and slammed the door behind him. Kevin almost unbuckled his seatbelt to go after him, angry that the kid dared to slam the door on his way out.

Vivian rolled her eyes and stepped out as well.

“Hey, where are you going, Vivian?” Kevin asked.

“I’m not going to leave him here, Uncle Kev,” Vivian said. Xavier was already walking away.

Ray, who was driving from the other truck, stopped beside Kevin’s vehicle and lowered the passenger-side window where Lope was sitting.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Everything okay, boss?” Lope asked.

“Yeah, just letting my nephew cool off,” he said. “Let’s go to Remley’s and grab a beer.”

“But what about my fries, Kev?” Sheila whined.

“We can get that after I get a damn beer,” Kevin said and drove off, leaving Xavier and Vivian on the sidewalk.

“Jerk,” Xavier said. “Come on, Viv. Let’s get a bite to eat.”

They walked toward Burger King. At first, they hesitated to go inside the building because someone might recognize them, but not many people saw their faces on TV (just their parents). Point Hope had close to fifty thousand people. Not everyone was bound to know everyone by their faces or their names. Looking through the glass windows, there were only four customers eating inside, all of them men in their late forties or early fifties, looking like they just got out of work and catching a fast dinner. Confident, they entered the establishment and ordered their meal.

Xavier ordered a double Whopper and some cheesy tots, while Vivian got a spicy chicken sandwich and some fries. Both of them ordered a Coke. Xavier insisted he was paying since he was the one who dragged them out of Uncle Kevin’s truck. From the store, it would take them forty minutes to walk all the way to Grandma’s house, so they might as well eat now and forget about what happened at the funeral. That was when Vivian found the woman behind the counter oddly familiar. The cashier looked to be in her early 30s, average height and had a shock of white against her frumpy black hair. She distinctly remembered the cashier’s witchy, high-pitched laugh and, for some reason, burning incense.

“Hey, do I know you from somewhere? I think we’ve met before,” Vivian said. She glanced at the cashier’s name tag on her left chest: LAUREN. “I can’t really put a place to it. Summer, maybe?”

“I think so!” Lauren beamed a wide smile. She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure her manager wasn’t looking and leaned closer, “You may know me as Madame Dallaire: psychic, medium, and tarot expert. You probably saw me during Prom last year? I had a booth and everything. Kids loved it. Or maybe it was a quinceañera?”

“I knew it. You did a reading on my friend,” Vivian returned the smile. “Prom last year. That’s where I know you. Small world.”

“It is, it is. Did I do a reading on you?”

Vivian shook her head. “No. Um, you charged like ten bucks, and I didn’t bring any cash.”

“Sorry, hon. The bitch gotta make some money someway, am I right?”

“Er, what are you doing here?”

Lauren—Madame Dallaire—shrugged. “Eh, what can you do? Side job, honey. This pays the bills when nothing’s going on in this town,” Lauren said, gesturing around the store. “Except for those horrible murders that happened last month. Wheewww. That one’s a doozy. I didn’t even see it coming!”

Xavier and Vivian went quiet.

“Oh! That’ll be twenty-two dollars and thirty-six cents.”

“Hold on. I got it,” Xavier said, pulling out his wallet. He handed the cash to Lauren.

“Ooh, what a gentleman. Boyfriend?”

Vivian froze. “Um, he’s my brother.”

Lauren tried to hide the flush on her cheeks. “Whoah, shit. Me and my damn mouth. I’ll get you the change, girl.” She grabbed the twenty and ten dollar bill from Xavier’s hands, who was trying not to laugh.

Their fingers touched.

Lauren froze for a moment, forced a smile, and accepted the cash. She opened the register and put them inside, but the woman could no longer look at them in the eye.

“Is something wrong?” Vivian asked, noticing it.

Lauren forced a bigger, reassuring smile. “No, no. It’s nothing

. Um, here’s your change. Seven dollars and sixty-four cents. Here’s your receipt. We’ll call your number at the top once it’s ready.” Lauren quickly excused herself to the back.

Vivian didn’t want to say anything but thought Lauren might have recognized them from the news. For the past few weeks, that’s what always happened. Total avoidance. Ignored like Vivian and Xavier didn’t exist. It was as if the people were annoyed that they breathed the same air as they did.

“Let’s go sit,” Vivian said, and they chose the furthest booth from the door and the register counter.

Five minutes later, their food was ready. Xavier walked up to the counter and grabbed the tray, though it was no longer Lauren behind the register but some guy with a unibrow. They ate their food quietly. There was little to say about what happened today; they needed the fuel to go home. Just eat and move on, Vivian thought. Her phone chimed. Grandma Margie texted them to see if they’d eaten anything yet, and Vivian replied that they had grabbed some fast food. She then reassured her that they were going straight home after. Grandma texted back that those foods were unhealthy, to which Vivian sent a laughing and crying emoji. Grandma sent an eggplant back.

Vivian laughed.

“What?” Xavier asked.

“Grandma sent me an eggplant emoji.” She turned the phone over to face him.

“What? Ew.”

“No, no! I think she meant to say we need to eat more vegetables.” Vivian looked at her screen again. “Annnddd….Grandma found all the vegetable emojis because she’s sending them to me now.”

“Fuck,” Xavier hissed under his breath. “Don’t look, but Brett is here.”

The double doors swung open, and the rowdy and laughing voices of three men filled the restaurant. Two of them wore Point Hope High School’s gold-and-black letterman jacket with a grinning bumblebee (the school’s mascot) embossed on the shoulders. One wore a football jersey. A woman wearing a pink puff jacket trailed after them, long red hair tied into a bun, trying to hide her annoyance as one of the men wearing the letterman jacket stumbled forward and almost face-planted on the tiled floor. They marched toward the register, where the guy with the unibrow took their orders.

Xavier and Vivian made themselves as small as possible.

Too late.

Brett Driscoll, the guy in the football jersey, spotted them. His eyes gleamed bright and mean. “What the fuck?” he said, not offended, not angry—just surprised, like he’d stumbled on a hundred-dollar bill in the parking lot. Then came the grin. Brett nudged his two cronies, jerking his chin toward Xavier and Vivian.

But Carly Moore’s gaze made Xavier’s stomach turn inside out. Carly, the girl he’d had a crush on forever. Carly, who he used to imagine kissing and dating, who he’d once written a silly poem in freshman year and then shredded into a thousand pieces because—Jesus, what the fuck was he thinking? Now, under her gaze, he felt breakable.

She put a hand on Brett’s arm, like she already knew where this was going. She just wanted her fries and a Sprite and then to get the hell out of there to Amber’s house party. But Brett wasn’t the kind of guy who let reason get in the way of a good time.

He paid for their food, and the guy with the unibrow muttered, “Seven minutes.” That was all the time Xavier had left before things got worse.

Then Brett turned.

The three of them moved as one, their sneakers squeaking against the tile as they made their way toward the Yates kids. Carly trailed behind, casting Xavier and Vivian a look that said, I tried. But trying wasn’t enough. Not with Brett.

“Well, well,” Brett said, grinning. “Look what we have here. The devil spawns themselves.”

“Brett, don’t be an ass,” Carly said, sighing.

“What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. You know how many people your parents murdered before Green Hill?”

Xavier and Vivian stared at their half-eaten food, their fries limp and unappetizing. They didn’t answer. They didn’t have to.

“Twelve,” Brett answered his own question.

Vivian’s pulse thudded. That wasn’t right. The cops never mentioned murders before Green Hill—only what they’d found in Hodges’ journals. Four unidentified victims. Four, not twelve. Before Mark’s sacrificial murder, Vivian thought.

Xavier’s head snapped up. “Where’d you hear that bullshit?”

Ryan Lenahan snickered. “Dude, your parents are, like, famous now. I mean, infamous.”

“What?”

“You seriously haven’t seen it?” Alex Wechsler’s face lit up. He fished his phone out from his jacket, thumbs flying as he scrolled. “Hold up. You gotta watch this.” He hit play and turned his phone around.

A video, already halfway through. A bunch of pictures and news footage from the past several weeks were on the screen, aided by a familiar voice in the background.

Vivian leaned forward, stomach lurching. “Isn’t that Dylan Griffin? The guy who found that body in the woods? The one who got canceled?” She emphasized the last part.

“He has a new show called Dead Pacifica with Retto Kearns, you know? That dude who dated Addison Rae? They’re talking about the murders in McLaren Forest. Your parents are in Episode One! Isn’t that crazy?!” Alex said. “It’s got millions of views. Point Hope is famous now, y’all!”

Brett elbowed Alex. “Dude, that’s not something to be proud about.”

Xavier and Vivian both shared a concerned, dreaded look. This was getting worse; the stories they had been spinning quickly got out of control. And now a freaking YouTuber hack made a video about their parents? It made them angry. Made them upset. One thing going through Xavier’s mind was to sue Dylan Griffin for making up stories about their parents. They’re victims. THEY’RE VICTIMS!!! Xavier wanted to shout across the rooftops.

“That’s enough,” Vivian said sternly.

Alex reeled his phone back and put it inside his pocket. The boy knew when he hit a nerve, but instead of gloating about it, he felt sorry. Though he didn’t say it. Brett, however, reveled in it.

“Can we eat our food in peace, Brett?” Vivian said. “My brother and I just want to be left alone.”

Brett bit his bottom lip and shrugged. “Oh, I wish I could. But then I wish you could do the same for the other families you’ve been harassing in the past couple of weeks. Wasn’t Mark Castle’s funeral today, Ryan? Alex? Yeah, it was. And oh, guess what? You two and your deadbeat unclecrashed it. What the fuck?” Now, Brett sounded offended at the latter part.

“My parents had nothing to do with the massacre,” Xavier said. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, dumb fucks.”

“Don’t,” Vivian said, shaking her head.

“Hey, did you just call me dumb?” Ryan asked.

“They are not part of it!”

Brett’s eyes softened. Was that pity? “Hey, I get it. Your parents are fucked up, and I don’t blame you for the murders. That’s not your doing. But what I don’t appreciate is the two of you harassing the others. Cody Riddell, Tessa’s boyfriend, do you know him? Yeah, he’s been one of my best friends since first grade. And your mom and dad’s cult butchered him. Last week, you two crashed his funeral. It was a nice service, and you made it fucking worse by peddling all that bullshit about your parents. So, if I were you, I’d shut up. OR leave town. Easy solutions.”

Ryan chimed in, “Better yet, don’t fucking interrupt more funerals, man. That’s just way uncool and rude. Have some manners.”

“Yeah, that’s just plain disrespectful, dude,” Alex said.

“I mean, with parents like that? Maybe they didn’t teach them manners,” Brett snickered.

“Alex, Brett. Enough!” Carly insisted. “Jesus, let’s just grab our food and go, okay?”

Brett shrugged. He picked up the tray of cheesy tots from Xavier’s plate and turned it upside down. “Oops. The cult did it,” he said, laughing, and walked back to the counter with the others.

Eventually, Brett and his friends grabbed their to-go bags and walked out of the restaurant. Carly lingered for half a second, long enough to cast Xavier and Vivian a look—half-apology, half-pity—before turning and following the others. Xavier watched as they piled into Brett’s car, their laughter muffled behind closed doors. The engine roared to life, headlights sweeping across the restaurant’s window like a searchlight. Then they were gone, tires spitting as they peeled out of the parking lot. Xavier didn’t have the stomach to eat more of his food.

The other four people in the restaurant gave them odd looks. Clearly, they heard everything, even the guy behind the cash register. Xavier and Vivian knew the look all too well these past few weeks: the look when they were no longer welcomed.

One man in his late sixties got up from his booth and walked past their table before dropping, “Damn freaks,” under his breath, looking down at them like they were vermin. Xavier glared back at him. Brett, he could handle it because he knew that man was an asshole even before this, but a stranger judging him? A stranger who knew a lick about them? About what they’ve been through? How dare they? Something broke inside. It made him want to find a dark corner and cry, maybe punch a wall or one of those gimmicky places where you get to throw an axe at a wall or break some old stuff.

Xavier grabbed his suit jacket and slid out of the booth, marching toward the door. Vivian followed after him. He didn’t wait for her and turned left on the sidewalk, heading north.

“Wait! Xav! Grandma’s this way!”

“Just leave me alone, Viv. I just want to be alone right now,” Xavier said.

“Wait! I’m coming with you!”

“No, don’t!” Xavier whirled around. “Go. Home. I want to be alone. Please.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now. Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to what they say. You know it isn’t true.”

“Just stop it, okay? Just stop it. I’m older than you, so when I tell you to go home, GO. HOME. I don’t want to be around you right now, okay? I don’t need you breathing down my neck.”

Vivian reeled back. “You know what? Fuck you, Xav! Yeah. Fuck you! Go on your little walk. Whatever. I don’t care about you anyway.”

“Well, good! Even better!” Xavier pivoted his heels and continued walking.

“Hey, if you get murdered, don’t expect me to cry about it, okay?”

“Oh, hallelujah, some peace and quiet!”

“You’re being an asshole.” Vivian hoped that would make her brother turn around, but he just kept on walking. “Xav, come on...” Still, he didn’t turn around, which only pissed her off. “Fine. Be that way.”

Vivian walked back to the parking lot and sat on the sidewalk. She watched as her brother disappeared at the corner and waited for at least a couple of minutes, but Xavier didn’t return. She was wasting her time hoping. He was out on his Thinking Walk again, she thought. He had done this before. She didn’t expect Xavier to return to the house until way late at night, and she never really asked where he had gone in his walks. But it always brought his mood up.

A car pulled over next to her. “Hey. Is everything okay?” It was Madame Dallaire asking.

“Oh, um, hi. No, just resting my feet.” It was a flimsy excuse, but to be honest, she was trying not to cry. And also to prepare herself for a long walk to grandma’s house. From how Madame Dallaire looked at her, she probably overheard that shouting match in the parking lot.

“Where’s the other one?”

“We, uh, he’s busy. He left.”

“He left you? With the car?”

“Oh, no. He was…” Vivian trailed off. “Er, yeah. He left in the car without me.”

“Jeez, your brother’s a dick,” Madame Dallaire said. “Hey, where do you live?”

“Um, down at Milton Way?”

Madame Dallaire’s eyebrows arched. “No kidding! I lived in the last house in the cul-de-sac. The yellow house with the gnome on the porch? Yeah, that’s mine. Who do you live with? I’ve never seen you around there before.”

“My grandma Margaret? Do you know her?”

“Margie? Yeah, I freaking know her. I freaking love her! She’s very talented with the piano and the ukulele at the barbecue last summer. For an old folk. No offense.”

“Grandma does like to play music. She still plays with an orchestra up in Portland.”

“You moved in?”

“Yeah. Recently.”

“Hey, hop in.”

“What?”

“I’m driving you home. It’s like a forty-minute walk, and I’m not letting a young girl like you walk in the dark, especially with what’s going on. I heard a rumor that another cultist wasn’t killed during the massacre and is still roaming around. So, get inside. Um, sorry about the cigarette smell. I just had one.”

Vivian glanced at the corner again; Xavier was not returning. “Um, are you sure?”

Madame Dallaire’s smile softened. “I know who you are, kid. Margie told me about what happened to her son. I’m not going to judge you like those other intolerant fucks. I’ll drive you home, sweetie. It’s only a few houses down from mine, so it’s not a bother.”

Vivian tried not to cry. It was the first time she heard someone actually be kind to her in the past few weeks. “Okay, thank you,” was all she muttered before she climbed into the passenger seat and ignored the lingering cigarette smell in the car.

“Hey, have you and your brother been to the McLaren Forest by—I don’t know—the past week?” Madame Dallaire suddenly asked as Vivian was putting on her seatbelt.

“Oh. Um, no. I can’t really go back up there, especially with what happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I mean, I was pretty much housebound at Grandma’s house the entire week. I don’t know about my brother, though. He takes long walks a lot.” She paused. He might have been. “Why?”

Madame Dallaire shook her head. “Oh. It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”