Page 32 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

I spent the rest of the night downstairs in the parlor, knowing I’d never fall back asleep, and watched the sun rise in a partly cloudy sky.

I’d already finished most of a pot of coffee, and my thoughts raced in ceaseless loops, switching direction without warning as I sat on the sofa.

Snippets of my last conversations with Sylvia bled into memories of the hours I’d spent with Daytime Wren and flashes of my terrifying encounters with Nighttime Wren.

And I now knew that someone had murdered her.

My emotions whiplashed from grief to absolute fury that whoever had killed her had gotten away with it, and finally to uncertainty about what I could do to make things right.

Unable to sit still, I stalked from room to room.

I tried summoning her; when that didn’t work, I called out for her, my voice echoing in the otherwise empty house, until I accepted that she wasn’t going to appear.

What I didn’t know was whether it was because she didn’t want to—had I scared her off with my attempted kiss?

—or she couldn’t, because she was no longer able to.

The idea that I was out of time—that Daytime Wren had vanished for good—flooded me with panic.

Though I reminded myself not to catastrophize—something I’d learned about at the hospital—I felt as anxious and lost as I had in the weeks following Sylvia’s death.

Oscar’s text, asking to meet for a late breakfast at the diner, was a welcome interruption. I hurried upstairs to shower, and on the way out, I slid the drawing of the house I’d finished into a manila envelope and tucked it under my arm.

I spotted Oscar in a booth near the front window. As soon as I sat down, a single glance told him everything he needed to know about my mental state.

“Tate—what’s going on?” he asked, leaning across the table to touch my arm.

“I’m not in a good place,” I said.

The waitress arrived before he could press for more details. He ordered the lobster Benedict as if on autopilot, and when she turned to me, I waved her off, asking only for water. She nodded and strode away.

Uncertain how to begin, I slid the envelope across the table. Curious, Oscar opened it and pulled out the drawing, studying it carefully before looking up at me.

“You drew this?” His expression was one of wonder.

“It’s what I do, remember?” I said with a weak smile.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re a genius,” he mumbled, whipping out his phone. He snapped a series of photos, then sent them off with a whoosh. “I’m texting Lorena. She’ll probably want to get it framed.”

Outside the window a group of twentysomethings passed by wearing Halloween-style masks. Oscar set his phone aside and folded his hands in front of him. “Now, are you ready to tell me what happened?”

I nodded but wasn’t sure where to begin. I could feel the weight of his scrutiny as the silence stretched out.

“I’m guessing you and Gigi had a fight?” he prompted.

“Gigi?”

“G.G.? Ghost Girlfriend?”

I cracked a smile despite myself. “Cute.”

“And you’re avoiding my question. Talk to me.”

I took a sip of water, but it did nothing to soothe my stomach, and I pushed the glass away.

“Last night, I found out Wren didn’t die in an accident,” I said. “She was murdered.”

Oscar’s silence was notable for its measured quality, and it struck me that he was digesting this information with less skepticism than I’d anticipated.

“Catch me up,” he said. “And don’t leave anything out.”

For the most part, I didn’t. I walked him through the events of the past two days, telling him everything I knew and what I suspected.

I left out only the part where I’d tried to kiss Wren, because I somehow wanted to keep that private.

Even to me, my account sounded disjointed and somewhat incoherent, and separating the events as I recalled them from my theories and speculation left me exhausted.

Oscar waited to see if I would add anything more.

When I didn’t, he finally raised an eyebrow.

“That game you played sounds mighty sexy,” he commented. “Crackling fire, wine, thunderstorm…”

“It was,” I admitted, squirming a bit under his probing gaze.

“I might have to try it with Lorena, although for sure I’m gonna lose. I can’t keep my hands off her.”

“As evidenced by the fact that you have five kids.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “And you cooked a meal?”

“I did.”

“Cooking, laundry…what’s next? Making your own bed? I’m getting the feeling that this woman is helping you finally grow up.”

Noting my wan expression, he turned serious once more.

“Let me make sure I have this straight,” he said, before repeating all I’d told him. When I nodded, he went on. “You also believe the fact that she was murdered is the trauma that’s keeping her from moving on? And you think you can help her by finding out who did it?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

He drummed his fingers on the table. “This is kind of like that dog Bingo’s story we heard the other day, don’t you think?

Traumatic death? You and Bingo sensing the ghost?

And according to the old coot, Bingo keeps coming back because he knows that his owner is in pain and the dog wants to help him but doesn’t know how. ”

I nodded.

“Why now?” Oscar asked with a frown. “It’s been almost two years, so why is she showing up now? Why not last year? Or next year? Or five years from now?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m the first person to stay there since she died.”

“Or maybe it’s something about you.”

“Because of my sister? Because she gave me her gift?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she sensed something in you that she needed.”

All I could do was shrug. I’d asked myself the same questions the night before, without resolution. Oscar idly moved the salt and pepper shakers to the middle of the table, shifting them around like chess pieces as he spoke.

“I guess those questions don’t really matter for now, compared to the big one.

Even if you do suspect Griffin, Dax, or Nash in her murder since she was having trouble with all of them, how are you supposed to figure out which one it is?

You’re not a cop, you’re not a private investigator, and I doubt the murderer will simply confess if you ask him point-blank. ”

“Maybe Wren will tell me something useful, something that will help me deduce the truth.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“The only thing I can think to do is to confront them. Maybe one of them will admit to something if I scare them into thinking that I’m going to take my suspicions to the police, or that I’ll wreck their reputation somehow. Rattle their cages, in other words.”

“You want to tell a murderer that you’re onto him?”

“They might reveal something or make a mistake.”

“Or they could decide to take it personally and do something about it.”

I rubbed my gritty eyes before fixing my friend with a determined look. “I have to do this, Oscar.”

He seemed to study me, and though a flicker of worry crossed his face, he nodded. “Okay, buddy. Then I’m going to help you.”

“You don’t have to…”

He raised his hands to stop me. “You’re my best friend. Besides, it’s not every day that I get the chance to solve a supernatural mystery. I also know people in this town, people who might be able to help with the answers we need.”

“Like who?”

“Aldrich, for starters, and Ray Dugan the chief of police.” He pointed. “I also know that guy.”

Across the room, a fit man with neatly trimmed blond hair and a goatee was pulling out a chair at a table already occupied by a couple in their fifties.

He wore a sports jacket and collared shirt, paired with what appeared to be an expensive pair of jeans.

His shoes looked pricey, maybe even handmade.

He smiled easily and extended a firm handshake to each of them over the table.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“That,” Oscar said, “is Griffin.”

“How do you know him?”

“I met him last year. He wanted me to become a sponsor of the festival.”

“Why didn’t you mention that you knew him?”

“Until now, it wasn’t important, was it?”

Studying the man, I found it easy to see why Wren might have considered him attractive; he radiated confidence, and a certain slick charm. But I couldn’t forget everything else she’d told me about him.

Griffin seemed to realize that Oscar and I were staring at him, and it took him only an instant to recognize Oscar.

His face brightened, and after excusing himself from his companions, he rose from his seat.

As he approached our table, he extended his hand toward Oscar, who, after a brief hesitation, shook it.

“Oscar my man,” Griffin called out. “Great to see you again. How long have you been in town?”

“Just a week or so,” Oscar replied with a faint smile.

“How’s the family? Will they be here for the summer?”

“They’re good. We’re renting a place in Chatham near the beach,” he said, adopting an easy bonhomie I knew well from his sales days.

While the small talk continued, I studied Griffin, a little surprised.

I’d pictured someone less personable, more of a slacker with a party-boy vibe, but upon reflection I realized that Wren would never have married someone like that.

Hearing my name, I snapped to attention and focused on the conversation again.

“This is Tate. He’s the architect who’s designing my house,” Oscar said.

“Nice to meet you,” Griffin said. “How are you enjoying our fair town? Are you finding any inspiration?”

“He doesn’t need it,” Oscar answered for me. “Check this out.”

Oscar pulled the drawing from the envelope. “Wow,” Griffin commented, though judging by his tone, his interest was feigned. He turned to Oscar again. “Are you coming to the festival this weekend? It kicks off Friday night.”

“Thinking about it,” Oscar hedged. “I’m not sure it’s my kind of music.”