Chapter Nine
“I don't even know how to describe them. They're incredible. I don't know exactly what each one of them is, but there are things in there that I recognize. The corn fields. Some of the men. But there are other things, too. If I have more time to really look at them, I think they could tell me a lot.”
“Did you ask Lilith to see the other ones?” Sam asks.
“I did," I say, walking into the hotel bathroom with the small toiletry kit I tossed in the back seat before leaving home this morning. “She gave me permission to look at the rest of them. The administrator of the facility has them and showed them all to me. I took pictures of them with my phone. She asked me what I was looking for, but I didn't really know what to tell her. I think I'll know what I'm looking for when I find it.”
Fishing out the toothbrush and toothpaste, I turn on the faucet. I lean one hip against the counter as I brush my teeth.
“At least it's something,” he notes. “You've known all along Lilith was going to have more information for you.”
“She has to. She knows the Order like nobody else. She was a victim of it while also being used as a tool of it. And thinking she was in love with one of its highest-ranking members. There are details trapped inside her I want to know.”
I finish brushing my teeth and walk back across the room to climb into bed. I've always had a thing for hotels. I love the way they smell and the cold, clean feeling of the room when I first check-in. I also love how tightly the staff makes the bed. I always do my best to loosen it as little as possible when sticking my feet under the fold of the blanket and sheet, then slide the rest of the way in as if I'm putting myself in an envelope.
The only thing missing is Sam. I figure this is about as close to the kind of comfort and reassurance Xavier gets from his weighted blanket I can get. He let me use one of his weighted blankets once and I felt like someone was holding me down, and I was being strangled. Needless to say, that had the opposite effect on me as intended.
“I miss you,” he says. “I know you're safer there than out in the storm, but I hate that you're not home.”
“I miss you, too,” I say. “But I'm going to leave here as soon as I can tomorrow and be home for when you get back from work.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “What are you doing now?”
The words come out in a long, deep yawn, and I laugh.
“If you need to go to sleep, go ahead,” I say.
“I don't,” he insists. “I'm wide awake.”
“You sound exhausted. Was it a long day at work?”
“You have no idea,” he sighs.
“Well, why don't you get some sleep and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
We say our goodnights and get off the phone. I'm tucked in bed warm and cozy after taking a hot shower, but I'm not tired. My brain is rushing too quickly, and I don't have my files with me to occupy me. I scroll through the pictures of Lilith’s art therapy paintings a few times, trying to draw out any more details.
As I study them, I find my mind wandering back to the story Sam told me about the murders and disappearances at the campground. It's unsettling, to say the least. So many people dead or missing. So many families struggling with not knowing what happened. And yet, I had no idea about that. Which means there are countless others who have no idea what happened on that mountain.
I don't have my computer with me, but I've gradually become better friends with my cell phone. I still refuse to attach myself to it as if it's another appendage, the way so many do, but I'm learning to appreciate its benefits. Including letting me scroll around on the internet in a compact form.
Snuggling down deeper and turning over onto my side, I prop myself up on my elbow and start my search. I want to know as much as I can about the case. It fascinates me. And horrifies me at the same time.
The first thing that stands out to me when I open an article about the disappearance of the first little girl sixteen years ago is the picture. Violet Montgomery was so tiny. Hearing that a child was only four years old when she died is a very different thing from actually seeing her face. Just hearing that she was so young is sad, but it's seeing the picture of her that truly makes it tragic.
When I look at her, I see everything she could have been. It isn't just about the whimsy and abstract idea of lost potential. The idea that maybe she would have been the first woman to serve as president, or a doctor who cured diseases, or an artist who revolutionized the way the world saw life was dramatic and underscored the loss more vividly.
But I see the concrete reality. It isn't just the sadness of wondering what she might have accomplished or who she might have been. It's seeing her and knowing that her being no longer exists. Suddenly what Xavier said to me about being the only one of me that will ever be on this earth holds a greater weight.
Now when I look at the little girl in that picture, I see everything she is. I see the tumble of her curls along the sides of her face. I see the bright, laughing eyes that should have been
