The Herd - Andrea Bartz Page 0,74

said, “but what can we do? At least we’re stuck here together.”

“I guess.” Katie’s misery was contagious. “Well, I’ll call Mom and let her know. She’s probably been watching the flight and already knows.”

That stung, deep in my torso. “Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. And that we’ll talk on Christmas, obviously.”

“Tell her yourself,” she snapped—then three beeps, and she was gone. Outside, the snow churned and throbbed against the window, like something trapped in a glass cage and trying to get out.

Suddenly I realized what I was forgetting, the to-do that had been flickering in the back of my brain all day. It blared inside me, cranked up my pulse. On shaking legs, I walked over to the coat closet and pulled out the blackmail note, popping out the crease and swiveling my wrists to smooth it. I read it over one more time, although by now I could recite it by heart. The same page had been showing up in my own mailbox for a full year now.

With practiced hands, I ripped it in two and rolled the first into a tight cigarette. I crossed the kitchen and turned the stove on, four even clicks and then the boorrsshh of a blue flame.

As I had with three blackmail notes before it, identical but for the deadline at the top and the name on the envelopes they arrived in, I burned its halves one after the other. The ashes swirled like snow before coming to rest on the steel below.

CHAPTER 17

Katie

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 5:15 P.M.

I was grateful for the flight cancellation, in a way; for the ninety minutes I was dealing with it, groaning and texting and falsely thinking each intermittent “please stay on the line” was a human about to help, I didn’t have to think about what my agent, Erin, had told me earlier in the afternoon. Because I couldn’t think about it, couldn’t face it, the sixty-foot tsunami about to come crashing down all over me. Mentally I stuck it on my to-do list: Solve problem, save my own ass.

I called Mom, who picked up this time. I told her about Eleanor, my voice fracturing into sobs as I tried to answer her questions, and she kept repeating, “My poor baby, my poor baby.” Then I told her about our canceled flight, and she was as composed and soothing and deeply, deeply sad as I imagined she would be. She clearly already knew about the cancellation but feigned surprise, a long three-note moan between “awww” and “ohhhh.”

We were wrapping up when Hana called again.

“So I just got off the phone with Eleanor’s parents,” she said. “You’ve met them, right?”

“Yeah, once or twice.”

“Well, I called to help them write their statement for the media now that some jackass leaked the news about Eleanor.” A puff of shame went through me. “And I kinda can’t believe this, but they invited us up to their house for Christmas. They have nonrefundable Amtrak tickets for Monday—for Eleanor and Daniel, but I guess he’s spending it with his family now. And when I said our flight was canceled, they insisted we come up.”

“They want us to take their dead daughter’s tickets?” I said. “That’s the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard.”

Hana let out a little oof, like I’d wounded her.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to…but don’t you think it’s weird?”

“I mean, I can see them not wanting to be alone in that big house on Christmas Day. They’re really warm people. They were always so nice to Mikki and me. And I guess Ted and Cameron’s parents kinda sucked, so they were like surrogate parents to them too.” She cleared her throat.

“Wouldn’t we be…imposing? Don’t they want to grieve privately right now?”

“I said the same thing. Asked over and over. They really want us to come, Katie. Mikki, too, assuming she can’t get to Asheville. They’re calling her now.”

We would go, obviously. This felt like a freebie: a perfect chance to see Cameron in the flesh, maybe even scour his and the Walshes’ home for a photo album with navy herringbone glue on each page. And, though Hana still had no idea I’d been talking to Ted, it wouldn’t be hard to sneak off and see him. But I knew she had to feel it was her call, so I said, “I don’t know, Hana. Maybe we should use the next couple of days to process instead of tiptoeing around and being polite guests, you know?”

She sighed. “I just