them? ) , let the ones outside in, put the ones inside out, repeat, repeat, repeat until the sun goes down. Drop by anytime, is what I tell people. Here Iâll be.
Looked at the book again, by the way, since I wrote. It just doesnât seem like your others. Not in a bad way, but it unsettles me. Like maybe my copy is missing a chapter.
Of course, Iâm no detective. Probably you got it right, after all. You read people real well, and no oneâs ever accused me of the same. Would I be here if I did? Iâve always liked you, but you probably arenât impressed by that. Youâve always been too hard on yourself. You couldnât have known what would happen.
I might write you again. Donât worry about answering. Youâre probably real busy.
VTY,
Constance Wellington
And a postcard, handwritten and signed with the same name in the same hand. The script was New Palmer. Rima had no idea how she knew that. The postmark was July 6, 1976:
Regarding my letter of July 2, you know how cats sometimes engage in heroic battles with imaginary enemies? Am persuaded Iâve done the same. Please disregard.
The picture was of a musical group identified in a cursive made of ropes and lassos as the Watsonville Cowboy Wranglers.
Â
Â
A s for the Ice City dollhouse, there was still the whole second floor in which to look, and Addisonâs studio. But Rima decided to shortcut the process and asked Tilda outright if she knew where it was. âI canât ever keep straight which one goes with which book,â Tilda told her. âTheyâre all just dust to me.â
âThere would probably be a cat,â Rima said, which didnât help; Tilda claimed there were lots with cats, even though Rima had yet to find a single one. Tilda didnât appear to like the dollhouses or want to talk about them, so Rima didnât press her.
She wouldnât have asked Addison, though she couldnât have said why. Rima had expected that she and Addison would talk about Rimaâs father. It had seemed inevitable, in light of his recent death, that Addison would reminisce. Rima had steeled herself for this. Now that it wasnât happening, she longed for it. When she ate with Addison, there were lots of silences between them. They might have been awkward silences, or they might have been companionable. How did you tell the difference?
Addisonâs main mode of conversation was to tell stories. She was, as you would expect, quite good at it, but there was a polish, a sense of practice that, no matter how intimate the content, kept Addison behind glass. Tilda told stories too, and she was terrible.
She always left out some crucial piece and had to go back and add it later. âDid I say he was blind?â âDid I tell you they were identical twins?â âDid I say they were on horseback?â
Rima was surprisingly comfortable at Witâs End. She loved her room. She loved looking at the ocean. The night before, among the ticking clock, the rattling shade, the pulse of waves, and a distant train, sheâd imagined she heard someone walking in the attic above her bed, somewhere in the vicinity of the Bim shoe box, and even this noise was comforting, as if someoneâMaxwell Lane, maybe, or maybe the woman from the Donner Partyâwas watching over her. Sheâd fallen asleep imagining those circling footsteps. If Witâs End was haunted, it was haunted by her own people. Her tribe. Survivors.
Assuming she was surviving. Sometimes it seemed too close to call. Addison had told a story over lunch, a story Rima already knew. Thereâd been a time in her life when she did her best to find and read every interview Addison gave, and this story had appeared in those interviews often. It was the Mystery of A. B. Early.
When Addison told it, the story wasnât explicitly directed at Rima; in fact, it came up with regard to Tildaâs son, Martin, and how Tilda had
Looked at the book again, by the way, since I wrote. It just doesnât seem like your others. Not in a bad way, but it unsettles me. Like maybe my copy is missing a chapter.
Of course, Iâm no detective. Probably you got it right, after all. You read people real well, and no oneâs ever accused me of the same. Would I be here if I did? Iâve always liked you, but you probably arenât impressed by that. Youâve always been too hard on yourself. You couldnât have known what would happen.
I might write you again. Donât worry about answering. Youâre probably real busy.
VTY,
Constance Wellington
And a postcard, handwritten and signed with the same name in the same hand. The script was New Palmer. Rima had no idea how she knew that. The postmark was July 6, 1976:
Regarding my letter of July 2, you know how cats sometimes engage in heroic battles with imaginary enemies? Am persuaded Iâve done the same. Please disregard.
The picture was of a musical group identified in a cursive made of ropes and lassos as the Watsonville Cowboy Wranglers.
Â
Â
A s for the Ice City dollhouse, there was still the whole second floor in which to look, and Addisonâs studio. But Rima decided to shortcut the process and asked Tilda outright if she knew where it was. âI canât ever keep straight which one goes with which book,â Tilda told her. âTheyâre all just dust to me.â
âThere would probably be a cat,â Rima said, which didnât help; Tilda claimed there were lots with cats, even though Rima had yet to find a single one. Tilda didnât appear to like the dollhouses or want to talk about them, so Rima didnât press her.
She wouldnât have asked Addison, though she couldnât have said why. Rima had expected that she and Addison would talk about Rimaâs father. It had seemed inevitable, in light of his recent death, that Addison would reminisce. Rima had steeled herself for this. Now that it wasnât happening, she longed for it. When she ate with Addison, there were lots of silences between them. They might have been awkward silences, or they might have been companionable. How did you tell the difference?
Addisonâs main mode of conversation was to tell stories. She was, as you would expect, quite good at it, but there was a polish, a sense of practice that, no matter how intimate the content, kept Addison behind glass. Tilda told stories too, and she was terrible.
She always left out some crucial piece and had to go back and add it later. âDid I say he was blind?â âDid I tell you they were identical twins?â âDid I say they were on horseback?â
Rima was surprisingly comfortable at Witâs End. She loved her room. She loved looking at the ocean. The night before, among the ticking clock, the rattling shade, the pulse of waves, and a distant train, sheâd imagined she heard someone walking in the attic above her bed, somewhere in the vicinity of the Bim shoe box, and even this noise was comforting, as if someoneâMaxwell Lane, maybe, or maybe the woman from the Donner Partyâwas watching over her. Sheâd fallen asleep imagining those circling footsteps. If Witâs End was haunted, it was haunted by her own people. Her tribe. Survivors.
Assuming she was surviving. Sometimes it seemed too close to call. Addison had told a story over lunch, a story Rima already knew. Thereâd been a time in her life when she did her best to find and read every interview Addison gave, and this story had appeared in those interviews often. It was the Mystery of A. B. Early.
When Addison told it, the story wasnât explicitly directed at Rima; in fact, it came up with regard to Tildaâs son, Martin, and how Tilda had
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