Page 37 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

Like a battery nearing the end of its charge, Wren’s image stuttered, then blinked out long before sundown.

It was earlier than ever, and quelling my omnipresent fears, I worked on the drawing until the moon rose above the tree line.

For dinner, I drove downtown and sat at the bar of an Italian restaurant, brooding on Wren over a bowl of spaghetti carbonara.

When I exited the restaurant, teenagers and young adults in masks were thronging the streets. A flashing electric sign warned against public drinking to little effect; the few older people in town hurried to their cars, as though afraid that anarchy could break out at any moment.

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you.

Despite the absence of comments in the margin, I imagined those lines were Wren’s way of telling me good night. Paulie followed me up to the bedroom, where I fell into an exhausted sleep. I willed myself to awaken in case Wren should appear, but the night passed uneventfully.

· · ·

In the morning, I texted Oscar without receiving a response.

While downing my first cup of coffee, I put final touches on the drawing, tapering Wren’s eyebrows and adding the faintest of lines to the corners of her eyes.

I was biding time, waiting for Wren, but when she didn’t appear I went for a long run, hoping to settle my thoughts.

On my return, I slowed to a walk with the house in sight and put my hands on my hips.

I was still catching my breath when I noticed a distinct flutter of light by the cottage.

Shading my eyes, I realized I’d been mistaken; the flickering hovered beyond the cottage, above the smaller of the two sheds.

Watching for Louise and Reece, I jogged to the shed and pulled open the door.

Inside, sunlight streamed through a single, dirty window.

When my eyes adjusted, I spotted a pile of broken gardening implements and a wheelbarrow with a missing wheel.

Along the back wall, shelves overflowed with used cans of stain and paint, bundles of wire, dirty paintbrushes, and what looked like a partially disassembled radio.

A plastic garbage bag half-filled with debris sat in the middle of the floor; a ratty recliner and a drawer with missing knobs occupied a corner.

A woman’s bicycle leaned against one wall, both tires low but not quite flat, with canvas baskets draped over the rear tire.

Above it more shelves sagged under the weight of assorted knickknacks and dusty cardboard boxes.

Judging by the dirt and decaying leaves on the floor, no one had visited the shed in a long time.

Certain that I’d been led here for a reason, I browsed the shelves, peeked into the garbage bag on the floor, and shined my phone’s flashlight into corners.

Most of the paint and stain cans were less than a third full and largely dried out.

There was nothing tucked into the cushions of the recliner, and the baskets of the bicycle were empty.

Unwilling to give up, I reached for the first cardboard box.

It was lighter than I expected; as I pulled the flaps open, I discovered a mothballed assortment of women’s clothing, some of which I recognized.

There were yoga pants and halters, a few sundresses, jeans, a green sweater, and a few tops; near the bottom I found a jean jacket stenciled with Monkey Tears, and the Patriots sweatshirt Wren had been wearing while hunting for the puzzle piece.

At the bottom were a pair of black pumps, some sneakers, and two pairs of sandals.

The second box was heavier. When I opened the flaps, the first things I saw were framed photographs: Wren as a little girl wearing a fancy yellow dress; Wren laughing in delight on a swing; a school portrait from her gawky middle school years; and another photo taken at her high school graduation, standing with her arm around a gruff-looking older woman, whom I assumed was Joyce.

Additional photographs showed a high-school-aged Wren with two girlfriends lying on towels at the beach, and another with different friends at a bar, all wearing party hats and holding martinis.

There was a lovely formal portrait, not unlike the drawing I’d made, and another snapshot of Wren and Joyce, heads together and beaming.

Beneath the photos, I found a battered doll most likely dating back to Wren’s early childhood, and an old-fashioned recipe box filled with handwritten recipe cards.

At the very bottom I found two thick expandable folders.

The first contained personal and financial information, including her birth certificate.

The second was of particular interest: the comprehensive record of Nash’s wrongdoing that Wren had mentioned, complete with copies of invoices, bank statements, and printouts of emails.

A yellow legal pad in the box also yielded two handwritten pages listing dates and brief descriptions of Griffin’s transgressions during the short period of their marriage as well as their separation, some of which she’d already told me about.

I assumed it was something that her divorce lawyer had asked her to compile.

Setting aside what I needed, I was about to put the box back when I glimpsed a wadded-up ball of paper on the shelf. I replaced the box and reached for the paper ball, moving to flatten it beneath the window’s dim light.

It was a letter written on thick, high-quality stationery, in tight cursive script.

Dear Wren,

I want to apologize for the other night.

The police warned me not to approach you again, but you must know I wasn’t the one who told Tessa about us.

I would never betray you or the confidences you’ve shared with me.

And while I wouldn’t wish Tessa’s abusive behavior on anyone, now you know firsthand what her tirades are really like.

I’m sure you’re already regretting what you said to the police.

I know you didn’t mean any of it, and I forgive you.

Emotions can occasionally get the better of anyone, but truth prevails.

I’ve seen the way you look at me, and I can still feel your body’s imprint as you clung to me on the porch.

You’d been crying, but when we came together that night it was the first time that I truly understood how two people can complete each other.

I realized then that we are meant to be together forever.

I understand why you’ve been avoiding me.

We’re both married and it’s a small town.

It would be embarrassing for you to admit that we’ve fallen in love.

But can’t you see that we’re in the same boat, and that it’s easier for two people to row than just one?

We can’t let anyone or anything interfere with our destiny.

These last weeks have been a kind of torture. I’ve watched you at the grocery store, pulled in next to you at the gas station, even followed you as you rode your bike around town. I’ve seen the loneliness in your expression. I recognize that despair; we are both empty vessels without each other.

Wren, I’ll do anything to protect the sanctity of our love, go anywhere with you. I’d follow you into the afterlife if need be. But I’m certain we can find our own private paradise right here in this world—just tell me where and when. I promise I’ll be there.

Love you eternally,

Dax

I read the letter again, recoiling at its sickening implications, but wondering why it had been discarded this way.

Had it been found among Wren’s possessions and crumpled up and tossed aside when Louise and Reece stored her things? Or had that been Wren’s doing?

I wasn’t sure.

I gathered the letter and files and left the shed, feeling like the hunt for Wren’s killer was gaining momentum, even if I still had no idea where it would lead.

· · ·

After I showered and ate, I peeked through the kitchen window.

Reece was refueling the riding mower when Louise approached, saying something to him.

Her familiar anxious gaze drifted to the house, and I ducked back.

When I looked again, she was gone, and Reece was motoring off on the mower to another part of the property.

I’d just washed my dishes when Oscar’s car pulled up in front of the house.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he carefully scanned the parlor before walking over to the kitchen.

“She’s not here,” I said. “And by the way, Louise does the same thing whenever she comes by.”

“I can’t say I blame her,” he said with a shrug. “What’s happening here falls into the category of weirdest things ever.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

“Your phone is off,” he said. “It’s been going straight to voicemail.”

“Really? I texted you this morning.”

I went to check, and sure enough, the screen was dead. I could have sworn I’d charged it the night before, but then again, it might just have been another inexplicable coincidence, like the power blowing out when I’d tried to kiss Wren. These days, who knew? I plugged it in.

“I got us an appointment with Dax at noon,” Oscar announced.

“How did you do that?”

“I reached out to the Mercy Center director and told him that a donation would be forthcoming. When he suggested we get together, I said I wanted to meet with someone who saw patients, and that I’d heard good things about Dax.”

“He’s not going to be happy when he finds out why we’re really there,” I remarked. “Nor is Dax.”

“I still intend to make the donation,” Oscar said with a breezy wave. “Did you get lucky and dig up anything more?”

“Actually, I did,” I said. I fetched the files and the letter. He took a seat on the sofa and studied them.