Page 42 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
I nod, probably too aggressively, and wave my hands in the air. “And that’s easy to explain away, right? When people do come back from their time fucking around in Faerie, or whatever, of course Sector’s gonna get to them first and make up some story about aliens. When they don’t come back, well…no body, no crime.”
Wyatt narrows his eyes, which I can’t help but notice glimmer like rain-damp river stones in the morning sunshine. “Where you going with this, Blythe?”
It’s so stupid, but my heart clenches that we’re back to Blythe and not Alice. Maybe it’s just because we’re brainstorming right now, and he likes a clean separation between hedgerider business and Wyatt business. I don’t know. I’d like to know, though, if he’d let me.
“What makes the Hunt choose someone?” I ask.
He studies me like the answer is hidden in my messy, unbrushed waves or the depths of my eyes or, fuck, the inner workings of my soul. “I wish I knew,” he replies, his voice hoarse, worn rough with sorrow.
A shriek cuts through the peaceful morning, and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I turn, following the sound, and find Fallon just outside the big bay windows that wrap around the turret.
“Fuck you, lesser celandine,” she shouts, oblivious to us. Despite the cool morning, she’s dressed in biker shorts, a giant t-shirt with holes, and that gorgeous sweater she clearly treasures. She stoops and begins to aggressively tear something small and green from the front beds.
I look back toward Wyatt, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.
“She uses gardening to get her rage out,” he says with a sigh, but the twinkle’s back in his eyes. “Sometimes it gets a little loud.”
I let out a laugh, glancing through the window. Now armed with a spade, Fallon is down on her knees, stabbing the offending weed—they just look like buttercups to me, but I’m no gardener. The moment she digs up the roots, she flings the clump of soil and plant behind her with an impressive amount of fury. Fern trots around the yard, occasionally jumping into the air to snatch the weeds like a frisbee.
When I turn back, Wyatt’s taken a seat at the table that reminds me of the alcoves in my favorite part of the university library. My heart pangs as I slide into the chair across from him, reaching to close the hedgerider journal I’d pulled.
“Okay,” I say, steepling my fingers. “What else do you have on observed, repeated behaviors?”
He meets my gaze with a nod and then climbs back to his feet, moving toward the shelves. “Hey, you don’t have to fetch it for me,” I say, shooting up and following him.
“Just how I was raised,” he mumbles, digging his knuckles into one eye as he scans the shelves.
“Wyatt,” I say in a soft voice, reaching out to brush his forearm. “Are you okay?”
He glances over at me, finally meeting my gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “Yeah,” he replies with a forced smile. “Just tired.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but the words are tumbling out before I can stop myself. “You don’t have to answer this,” I say, my fingers still curled around his soft, wash-worn flannel shirt sleeve, “but I need you to know that telling me about what happened in New Big Sur is a hard fucking thing. I have a feeling you think that trauma’s all Fallon’s. She was the one who found them. She’s the one who heard your mom’s last words.”
Something breaks in Wyatt’s expression, and I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him forever. Or just as long as he needs. As long as he wants me to. That’d be alright, too. I’m used to having an expiration date.
“But you’re the witness, Wyatt,” I continue, fighting back a lump of emotion in my throat. “You have to carry that memory for her. With her. You were both too young for any of that, and you don’t have any less of a right to be fucked up by it just because Fallon was the one who went after them.”
He tilts his head, examining me, giving me the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. Then his hand cups the side of my face, and he leans forward with a sigh, settling his forehead against mine. “Thank you, Alice,” he breathes, his other arm wrapping around my waist.
“For what?” I whisper, those two syllables all I can manage to get out, my throat choked with tears.
“For being you,” he replies. “And for being here.” He pulls away slightly, his fingertips tracing my jaw with a whisper-light touch. I shiver, and I think maybe he would’ve kissed me if we weren’t both distracted by a loud squeaking sound coming from outside.
I twist to look out the window and find Fallon pulling an ancient-looking wagon piled way too high with pumpkins. The wheels make a horrible noise against the stone-paved walkway that winds around the house. We both watch wordlessly as the front wheels hit a small bump, spilling at least ten little pumpkins onto the lawn.
Fallon, of course, screeches and then curses vividly. I laugh, because I can’t not—it feels like a big, warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “You’re so lucky you get to watchThe Fallon Showwhenever you want,” I joke, looking back to find Wyatt pulling a few books from the shelves.
“Lucky is one word for it,” he snorts, shooting me a sideways glance, one brow arched. He’s already ridiculously handsome, but when he gives me that silly little smile, I feel like I’m going to melt right into the gorgeous old hardwood floor.
“I think I told you I’m an only child,” I muse, taking the books he hands over to me.
“You did,” he says. I’m sure he hears the words I’m not saying. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. He knows how heavy personal histories can get in this world, how uneasily those gory stories lie beneath their headstones.
But with Wyatt, I feel like I can safely dig mine up. I know he’ll catch me before I tumble into an open grave.
He pulls one or two more books from the shelf and then turns to face me. I should go back to the table. I should dive into research. But I feel safe, just like I said last night, and if he was willing to tell me about his parents—about Fallon, about New Big Sur—then I want him to know this, too.
“I grew up southeast of here,” I say, clutching the books tightly against my chest, their soft leather-and-paper smell like a security blanket. “My grandparents’ farm. Not too far from the coast, but safely inland enough to not worry about flooding.”
