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“Then you can protect me right back,” St. Ivany said. “What are you looking at?”
Raisa pulled out Essi’s book.
“Who is Essi Halla?” St. Ivany asked after squinting toward the cover.
“Self-help guru. I’m trying to further improve my sunny disposition.”
“Think it’s gonna take more than a book.”
“Don’t swing too hard at softballs, it’s not a good look,” Raisa said. “Her father was killed by Isabel—or she thinks he was. Or she just says he was. I don’t know ... Something about her has my back up.”
“You have good instincts,” St. Ivany said, staring at the book harder now, as if she could intimidate it into spilling its secrets. “You think she could be our guy?”
“Let me read this and maybe I’ll be able to tell you.”
St. Ivany waved at her to proceed and Raisa settled in, not letting herself worry about what St. Ivany was going to do to occupy herself.
It turned out Essi had a nice writing voice, which was both conversational and compelling.
Then came a knock, just like so many others in the days before it. I couldn’t stomach one more casserole.
But I answered the door, because if I didn’t one of the ladies who brought the casseroles would probably call the cops.
Everyone knew I was hanging on by a thread.
It wasn’t one of my neighbors at my door, though.
Instead it was a girl. She asked, “Do you know who killed your father?”
And that’s when I found something besides the casseroles to make each day worth waking up for.
Raisa wondered how much of the book was real, and then wondered if it mattered.
Oftentimes it wasn’t the truth that was important.
It was understanding what story the author wanted to tell about themselves.
Raisa woke with a gasp, every part of her achy.
Probably because she’d slept in a hospital chair.
She wiped at her mouth, and blinked the world into focus.
St. Ivany was slumped in her own chair, her head lolling as she softly snored.
Raisa straightened, kicking the book at her feet as she did.
She had barely made it through the first chapter before nodding off.
Next, Raisa’s eyes slid to Kilkenny.
No change. She hadn’t expected it, but still the knowledge stung. It had been almost forty-eight hours since the accident.
She was no doctor, but she knew that couldn’t be a good sign.
St. Ivany mumbled herself awake. “Christ, I haven’t slept in a chair since I was in college.”
“Yeah, we’re not going to feel great,” Raisa acknowledged, standing so she could stretch, a hopeless fight against stiff muscles. “But now we can head straight to Seattle.”