Page 5 of You Can Make Me (Carnival of Mysteries #28)

Two

C ooper

Five months since Buttonwillow…

My stomach woke me from my afternoon nap. It was hunger. I wasn’t nauseous for the first time since I could remember. Quitting the opioids had been the smart move. I was eating more, I could think a bit more clearly, and I had enough energy to contemplate my situation.

From the moment I’d woken up in the ICU, Denny had been by my side.

He’d remembered every detail of my life I’d shared with him, including my rare blood type.

He’d barely let the hospital staff attend to me without being in the room, and I’d latched on to the security his presence provided me during this terrifying ordeal.

He’d asked multiple times if I wanted space.

In answer, I always reached for his hand and squeezed.

I was terrified, and he was safety personified, despite our past.

He ran interference with the detectives, and he kept the reporters at bay, telling them I wasn’t ready to give a statement.

I spent five weeks in the hospital. When the doctors sent me to the rehab unit, Denny came with.

He tried to advocate for me as best he could, but they limited his visits, and the level of care was subpar.

I’d been so miserable, and my health began to decline.

On the sixth day in the unit, I’d had a particularly painful physical therapy session…and the PT guy started asking me questions about my attack. Oddly specific questions.

I’d felt so vulnerable. We were alone in the PT room, and I couldn’t fully walk on my own yet to get the hell out of there. There was something terribly off about the guy, so much so that I’d gone into a full-on panic attack.

Thankfully, my nurse arrived to take me back to my room, but I’d been terrified. When Denny came to see me that night, I lost it. I begged him to get me out of there. He looked into the physical therapist, and no one could verify whether he was actually a hospital employee.

That was enough for Denny. He agreed to take me away, and I signed myself out the next morning, against medical advice.

He brought me to this place, where even I wasn’t sure of the location.

He’d had enough basic medical training over the years that he was able to care for my still-healing wounds, and he knew enough to help me with physical therapy when I was ready. He wanted to help me heal.

When my parents and Sam found out I’d left, they went ballistic.

I’d thrown my phone in the trash after fighting with Mom and nearly put my fist through a window in my rage.

I knew what was best for me, and a rehab facility was not it.

I needed peace and quiet, needed to come to terms with my new normal on my own.

I became a horrific asshole to the people who cared for me the most—including Denny.

Not because of what happened at Buttonwillow.

What happened after I woke up, bandaged from head to toe, was far more frightening.

Doctor after doctor had come through, one to discuss my loss of mobility, one to discuss my neurological complications, one to discuss the limited options for plastic surgery or scar removal on my face.

My disfigured face.

All of my issues required a wait-and-see process My parents had wanted to whisk me away to their home in Las Vegas and take me to their specialists. Sam wanted to nurse me back to health at my place in Hollywood, and Gene would do anything to make her happy.

None of those scenarios made me feel safe. No one would listen to what I wanted.

Except Denny.

Denny would keep me safe, and he was willing to do whatever I wanted, so I latched onto him like a wounded barnacle and begged him to take me away from everyone and their opinions.

He was able to shut out all the noise for me so I could think.

It was all so much, and he shielded me from the worst of it.

Denny never questioned my desire to flee everyone I loved, to hide and keep my new hideous visage from getting out into public consumption.

After everything I did, after I walked away from him, he’d still done as I’d asked. I was a horrible person for asking anything of him.

Because of me, he’d retired from the sheriff’s department at fifty-two years old. He’d pissed off his friends and become my 24-7 caretaker. What a miserable job.

I was a selfish piece of shit. But I needed him, no matter how much I was fucking up his life.

I loathed myself too much to care that I was taking advantage of the one man I’d desperately wanted and then stupidly drove away.

I barely spoke to him, barely responded to his questions, because I just couldn’t…

human . I was broken and constantly on edge, terrified to sleep but unable to stay awake.

Every sound, every shadow haunted me. I was thoroughly spooked.

I needed a little more time to get stronger, and then I’d release him. Once I could drive—or sleep through the night without nightmares—I’d let him go and I’d manage on my own.

Somehow.

I also needed answers to the mysteries of my life that crashed into each other the day I was attacked.

Laurel Canyon and the carnival.

You’d think that as an investigative reporter, I’d deal in facts, things that could be proven, but I had a bit of a whimsical nature that I’d inherited from my grandfather.

For better or worse, I believed there was more to our existence than we thought possible.

But there was no way I could have a successful career in media if I went that route before I’d established impeccable credentials.

Granddad had the credentials, and that had been enough for him.

I’d been on my way before running across a sadistic individual with terrible teeth.

Ever since I was a kid, Granddad had shared wild stories with me, much to Dad’s chagrin.

Many were urban myths or conspiracy theories that had since been debunked, but he swore there was indeed a traveling carnival that had magical powers.

It drove me mad because, despite my ruthless determination and superior research skills, I hadn’t been able to find it, no corroboration or denial, which made me even more curious.

Truth was my business, and this truth became paramount.

According to myth and lore, this mystical carnival traveled through time and space, seeking the essence of certain individuals to expand that magic. The carnival also bestowed that magic upon the chosen few who were in dire need.

I’d never found a single person willing to discuss it, not even the strange group of circus performers I met one summer, long ago. They’d shown me things, evoked an awareness in me, but then they vanished just as abruptly as they arrived, and no one knew where they’d gone.

For years, the carnival had always been on my backburner to investigate further, when I had time. Now, I had nothing but time. Time and a shitty internet connection that hindered my efforts. My faulty brain kept me from being productive, but I had a strong motivation to find the carnival.

If anyone was in dire need, it was me.

I’d nearly given up on the mystery until Gene called in a favor and gave me what should have been the story of my career.

Once I heard the enigmatic Dee Dee Miller—son of legendary folk singers Dane Donovan and Tess Miller—mention working at a carnival, my obsession was piqued once more.

It was too coincidental that this kid, who no one even knew existed, had spent twenty years working for a traveling carnival.

The interview with Dee Dee had also brought Dennis Hamilton back into my orbit.

I shouldn’t have been shocked to see him—wherever detectives Gene Ochoa and Walter Muse, Jr., were, Denny was rarely far away—but he’d once again taken my breath away, and from the moment I’d learned he was at the house I’d struggled to maintain my composure.

I’d ultimately done the leaving, but I always thought he’d come back. Stupid fucking ego.

After interviewing Dee Dee and walking in on a bizarre scene involving a Ouija board, something in me clicked. I knew I’d stumbled across something big.

I helped the detectives find a Caltrans facility, then I’d spent the entire drive from Laurel Canyon to Buttonwillow dictating notes into my phone.

Tragically, my phone went missing during the attack, and when Denny set up my new one, the voice files hadn’t been saved.

I’d thrown an epic tantrum when I discovered they were gone.

Once I felt strong enough to sit at the table in the small cabin, I proceeded to fill an entire steno pad with what I could remember, and made lists of where to look next, but whenever I got to working on it, my head would start pounding and I’d have to stop, almost like a psychosomatic block against ever finding out whether the carnival was a figment of Granddad’s imagination or something real.

Some place that possessed healing, transformational magic.

I eventually came to believe that the answers to my current dilemma could be found at this place.

When I was able to focus, I spent a lot of time thinking about what my next act would entail, once I was myself again.

I could continue researching important issues and writing powerful pieces on issues that others were afraid to talk about, and I could do that anywhere.

My agent could sell my stories, and I’d never have to show my face in public again.

Because there was no way in hell anyone would ever hire me to be on TV now, not with my ruined face.

I had to actually be able to think to work, though, and I was barely making inroads.

Of all people, I should have known how debilitating a traumatic brain injury could be.

I’d done an extensive piece on the continued phenomena of concussions in high school sports, despite the current research and improved equipment, and how brain injuries impacted student achievement.

I had all the TBI symptoms, and it appeared many of them would linger and become chronic:

Fatigue

Balance issues