Page 149 of Dying to Meet You

“I’m not a believer. But I keep hearing a weird sound here...”

“You’re at the mansion?” I ask.

“Yeah. And I swear to God, I keep hearing a baby crying. It’s so creepy. Would you, uh, come and listen? I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

What the hell?“Okay. And you’ll share your theory with me? I’ve been doing some digging of my own.”

“Of course I’ll share.”

“All right. Give me thirty minutes to get there.”

“Thanks. You’ll appreciate what I’ve found.”

55

Natalie

Annual reports, sadly, make for some very dull reading. Although the Wincott Foundation does a great job of making itself sound indispensable. By the third report, Natalie is well versed in their efforts to improve lives all over Maine as well as in Haiti and Africa.

Interspersed with numbers and accolades, there are lots of photographs. Sometimes the names of employees and volunteers show up in captions. Natalie reads each one diligently, because it would be fun to be a hero and spot one of the women her mom is searching for.

But Natalie really only cares about one name.Jones. She’s never seen a photo of her grandmother and she’d like to know more about her father.

Her father was born in 1982, so she started her search with the 1981 report and has moved slowly forward in time. Her mom is still out on an epic run, and her father has gone upstairs for a shower.

When he returns, he sits beside her on the sofa. “I’ve got to get to work. Cal wants me to help him inventory the bar before we play. But what are you going to do about dinner if you’re on your own?”

She looks up. He’s dressed for the gig in dark jeans and a black button-down shirt. He’s trimmed his beard carefully, and he looks like a hipster. “I dunno. I’ll eat something. Or order something. It’s not like I’ll starve.” His question triggers a traitorous thought.But where were you when I was too young to take care of myself?

“All right,” he says lightly, his gaze sliding away. Her mother had called out his part-time concern. Natalie doesn’t want to agree. But a tendril of doubt has curled itself around her consciousness. He clears his throat. “Hey, your mom was right. We should have left the bike at work.”

“Yeah, I know. But she’ll get over it.”Maybe.

He sighs. Then he taps the report on her lap. “What are you looking for?”

She tosses the shiny brochure onto the coffee table. “I got sucked into a rabbit hole trying to find Betsy Jones.”

“Ah,” he says wearily. “The elusive Betsy Jones. She wasn’t an easy person to know, even when she was alive.”

“Why?”

“She was usually depressed.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t realize that when I was a kid. And then, when I was in middle school, she started doing drugs. And in high school, it got really bad. There was a lot of crack around back then. I’d come home from school, and...” He glances at her and then shakes his head. “It wasn’t a great scene. I’m old enough now to realize how much it affected me. So many decisions I made were because of the things she did.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, I told myself I’d never do hard drugs. And that’s why I chose pot.” He lets out a sharp laugh. “We all know how that turned out.”

Natalie knows, because her mother explained it to her the other night. “But that was just unlucky.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t really see it that way.” He leans back against the couch and crosses his arms. “I grew up in chaos. Then I met your mom, and for a minute there, my life made more sense.”

Natalie holds her breath, because she knows this will be difficult to hear.

“But then I caused the same amount of chaos in your mother’s life that my family caused in mine. That’s why I stayed away, Natty. Because I knew your mom would raise you like this.” He spreads his hands wide in a gesture that manages to indicate Natalie’s whole existence. The little renovated house, with its refinished wainscoting and shiny wood floors. Books on the shelves, organic milk. Private school. “And I thought I couldn’t be what you needed.”

“Okay,” she says softly.

“The problem is that when you’re told your whole life that you’re trash, you end up believing it. I was dyslexic, but none of my teacherstried to figure out why I couldn’t read. They just told me I was stupid. I didn’t have a mom like yours to help me navigate the world. She probably grew up in chaos, too.”