Magic Hour

In the back row, behind the reporters and photographers, were the locals. The Grimm sisters (and poor Fred, in ash form), Barbara Kurek, Lori Forman and her bright-faced children; several of her high school teachers.

And Max. He gave her a nod and a thumbs-up. It was surprising, but that show of support helped calm her nerves. In Los Angeles, she’d always felt totally alone in facing the press.

“As all of you know, I’m Dr. Julia Cates. I’ve been called to Rain Valley to treat a very special patient, whom we’re calling Alice. I know that many of you will wish to focus on my past, but I beg you to see what matters. This child is nameless and alone in the world. We need your help in finding her family.” She held up a photograph. “This is the girl we’re calling Alice. As you can see she has dark hair and blue-green eyes—”

“Dr. Cates, what would you say to the parents of those children who died in Silverwood?”

Once she’d been interrupted, all hell broke loose. The questions came at her like shrapnel.

“How do you live with the guilt—”

“Did you know Amber had purchased a gun—”

“Have you listened to the Death Knell lyrics—”

“—played the Doomsday Cavern video game?”

“Did you test her for an allergy to Prozac?”

Julia kept talking until her voice gave out. By the time it was over and the reporters had all run off to meet their deadlines, she felt utterly spent. Alone at the podium, she watched the people leave.

Finally, Ellie came up to her. “Jesus, Jules, that was bad,” she said looking almost as shaken as Julia felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“You couldn’t have.”

“Can I do something to help?”

Julia nodded. “Watch Alice for me, will you? I need to be alone for a while.”

Ellie nodded.

Julia tried not to make eye contact with Peanut or Cal. They stood near his desk, holding hands. Both of them were pale. Peanut’s bright pink cheeks were streaked with tears.

Julia walked down the steps and into the cold lavender night. At the sidewalk she turned left for no particular reason.

“Julia.”

She turned.

He stood in the shadow of the street, almost lost in the shade from a giant evergreen. “I bought the motorcycle when I worked near Watts. Sometimes a man needs to clear his head. Seventy-five miles an hour on a bike will do it.”

She should walk away, maybe even laugh, but she couldn’t do it. In all of Rain Valley, he was probably the only person who really understood how she felt right now. How she knew that, she couldn’t have said. It made no sense, but the notion stuck with her. “I think forty miles an hour would do it. I have a smaller head.”

Smiling, he handed her a helmet.

She put it on and climbed onto the bike behind him, circling him with her arms.

They drove down the cool, gray streets of town, past the pod of news vans and the parking lot full of school buses. Wind beat at her sleeves and tugged at her hair when they turned onto the highway. They drove and drove, through the night, along the narrow, bumpy highway. She clung to him.

When he turned off the highway and onto his gravel driveway, she didn’t care. In the back of her mind she’d known when she climbed onto this man’s motorcycle where they would end up. Tomorrow, she would question her judgment—or lack thereof—but for now it felt good to have her arms around him. It felt good not to be alone.

He parked the motorcycle in the garage.

Wordlessly, they went into the house. She took a seat on the sofa while Max brought her a glass of white wine, then built a fire in the imposing river-rock fireplace and turned on the stereo. The first song that came on was something soft and jazzy.

“You don’t need to go to all this trouble, Max. For God’s sake, don’t start lighting the candles.”

He sat down beside her. “And why is that?”