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“Then look at this.” Pop throws me today’s paper. TheKing’s Crossing Chronicleis turned to the obits and Pop circled an entry in light blue ink.
Marci Grayson, 25, passed away Wednesday in her home. Her service will be held at the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church on Saturday, November 20that 2 PM. Donations to the Minnesota Mental Health Awareness Association are encouraged in lieu of gifts.
“So what?” I ask, throwing the paper back at him.
“So Miss Grayson was a patient at Quiet Meadows.”
“So were hundreds of other people.”
“You don’t think it’s a weird coincidence?” Pop tosses the paper over his shoulder. It misses the table and lands on the floor. He doesn’t pick it up.
“No. Do you?”
Pop has a nose for this kind of thing, and I hike an ankle to my knee and consider the implications, or lack thereof. Two young girls who used to be patients at Quiet Meadows pass away. Seems like a stretch to connect them.
“I guess not.”
“Talking to her family wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.”
“We have an appointment in forty-five minutes.”
This irritates me. Not that I care how Pop thinks we should spend our time, but there’s no proof anything strange is going on. “Zane said the doctors at the facility all checked out. There wasn’t anything happening except for what they were doing to Zarah.”
“That they found.”
“Fair enough.”
I’m not going to argue. Pop has a feeling, but I think he’s turning the sanatorium into a bigger deal than it needs to be. I’m more interested in Ash Black. A man in prison isn’t completely powerless, and behind his bars, I’m sure he’s still pulling plenty of strings. I’ll be talking to him sooner than later.
I still have to clean out Max’s apartment, and Mom called pressing me for a real RSVP.
Since when am I so busy? What happened to my quiet, peaceful life?
A brown-eyed little girl barreled into it, that’s what.
I let Baby outside to pee, and resentfully, she settles on her cushion to nap. I don’t know how long we’re going to be, and she’s staying here rather than waiting in the truck. Some people spill all their dirt, relieved someone’s listening, and others clam up, preferring to keep their skeletons hidden in their walk-in closets. We could be at the Grayson’s for hours or we could be there five minutes.
The Graysons live on the other side of King’s Crossing, opposite the Donnellys. They have new money. The Graysons have old money and live in an enormous house, a huge man-made pond dug into their backyard. The house is even bigger and fancier than Zarah’s, more befitting of a drama on the BBC, and I half expect a maid to come out and curtsy at my truck.
“Nice place,” Pop says.
In the circular driveway, I park off to the side and kill the engine. “Would you really want to live here?” I ask, my eyebrows raised. Zarah’s house is nice, too, but it’s too big for me. I agree people need their own space, but I wouldn’t want to feel like I’m living in a museum. Impersonal. Lonely.
“If you and Zarah hook up, you will,” Pop says.
Scowling, I say, “I don’t think she’s like that.”
He laughs. “She was born rich. They’realllike that.”
“Come on.” There’s no point in arguing about Zarah’s and my living arrangements. I’m barely dating her.
We slam out of the truck.
“I thought you wanted me to start seeing her,” I say, irritated, unable to let it go.
“I didn’t want you to think you weren’t good enough.” Pop pushes the doorbell.
“That wasn’t all of it.”