Unless things changed dramatically between now and next weekend, I planned to be there in Chicago to confront him.
You should have killed us, you arrogant bastard. Just you wait. Your cover is about to be blown to bits like nobody’s fucking business. I will tornado through you like nothing you’ve ever known.
But rage could only sustain me so long; despair pierced the hot wall of anger with its inevitable blades, each sharper than the next.
Case doesn’t know who you are.
He didn’t recognize you.
He’s married to someone else.
Oh God, I can’t bear it…
“We’re here,” Camille murmured, refocusing my attention; lost in thought, I’d almost driven past the cafe. It was late afternoon, the lake already shrouded in the gloom of early twilight, the air static and silent, as if we’d entered a chapel. We stared at the white, L-shaped structure housing our family’s business, the cozy space where so very many of our memories were centered, where so much of our lives had taken place; it was currently as dark and silent as a tomb, the lot empty but for a Landon Fire Department work truck and a small Honda.
I leaned forward, flooded anew with dread. “Where are all the beer signs? All the lights are off. Why aren’t we open? It’s not winter hours anymore.” I peered more closely. “Everything looks so rundown.”
“This is so fucking scary. What if we can’t pretend?” Camille reached for my hand and I gripped it between both of mine. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
“We can do this,” I whispered, with false confidence. “There’s no one but us, Milla, we have to do this. Come on.”
We approached as cautiously as if about to stage a robbery, cataloguing the familiar – the white siding, the wide windows that had never been adorned by curtains, the wraparound porch which maximized the lake view and was always packed with crowds in the summer months; and the unfamiliar – no cafe lights blazing with welcome, no dogs running to greet us; no hope of reuniting with our little sister after all this time. The only sign of life was the outside light at the top of the steps leading to Aunt Jilly’s apartment above the garage, glowing through the gloom in anticipation of our arrival.
“It’s because Grandma and Aunt Ellen aren’t here. They died, Milla, even before Gran did.” I couldn’t speak above a whisper, sick at the thought; when had I last hugged my grandma or great aunt? When had I told them how much I loved them and what their influence had meant in my life? Everything around us seemed dead, or in danger of dying; I clung to Camille’s hand, squeezing hard as we hurried past the cafe, whose windows gaped like blank, staring eyes. The mucky sludge of late-winter snow clung to most surfaces while intermittent icicles along the rafters resembled a broken mouth missing teeth.
We both jumped when the door to Aunt Jilly’s apartment opened.
“Girls! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Come on up!” Our mother beckoned from the top of the stairs, the door propped against her hip, and I felt like a coward as I let Camille take the lead.
The three of us crowded the narrow entryway as Mom hugged us, one after the other. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, her soft golden hair falling to her collarbones, but she felt shockingly slim in my arms, as though she might snap in two with only minimal pressure. Was she ill? I scrutinized her face as if vital information could be divulged there; her cheekbones created severe angles on her face and her eyes held mine as she offered a smile. But it was a ghost’s smile, a thin reproduction of the genuine one to which I was accustomed.
Aunt Jilly and Clint emerged from the kitchen, gathering around for greetings and hugs. The little apartment was no different, at least on the surface, except it appeared that Aunt Jilly still lived here; in our real lives, she hadn’t resided in this space for years. We had interrupted an early dinner, hamburgers and fries from the smell. It seemed that Camille and I were about to enter a carnival funhouse, surreal and vaguely threatening, the unknown lurking around every corner; and in one corner a predator crouched, waiting, waiting. Biding his time for the opportune moment to leap forth and strike.
“You look tired, sweeties, you must have partied too hard,” Aunt Jilly said, her voice momentarily muffled by my coat as she squeezed me close.
Despite her petite build, Aunt Jilly had always exuded abundant energy and vivacity. She drew away and my gaze was too intense, I could tell, because her eyebrows drew inward, creating a worried crease above her nose. She wore wool socks, jeans, and a thick sweater, her basic winter uniform, but I was not imagining the subtle difference – as if the invisible aura surrounding her had been dimmed or muddied. Rather than sparking with vitality, she appeared subdued. Her golden hair was cut short and spiky, the way she’d kept it ever since her first husband, Christopher Henriksen, had been killed in a snowmobiling accident.
A shiver cut at my spine – what if Chris was alive in this timeline? What if he hadn’t died that winter night when Clint was a baby? Though we hadn’t confirmed it, mounting evidence suggested that in this life Aunt Jilly was not married to Justin Miller. And that meant no Rae, Riley, or Zoe, their three children. Further, Blythe’s absence meant no Matthew and Nathaniel, my younger half-brothers. Clint wrapped me in a bear
