What Fire Brings by Rachel Howzell Hall

Author:Rachel Howzell Hall [Hall, Rachel Howzell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-06-11T00:00:00+00:00

17.

Who am I when I’m not me?

Like . . . during those times when I’ve had too much to drink? Or when I’m dunked into twilight sleep to have my wisdom teeth removed?

Am I a mean drunk or a flirty drunk? Do I sink into the quiet and let controlled substances work as balms to soothe my wounds or drown my depression?

Will I ever meet that other me?

And if I do meet the other me—by some weird coincidence or providence from God—would I even recognize her and know that she is me?

Is meeting that other me even possible?

Who does Avery think I am? A brilliant researcher? A promising investigator? Someone thorough and reliable? Does she believe that only because she needs me to be?

She could ask me the same question. Who do you, Bailey, think I am? Definitely someone who doesn’t share everything—she never told me that she knew Jack. That information? That’s shit I need to know. And now, I think that I don’t know her.

Jack is late to yet another meeting in Santa Monica. He parks in the driveway of his estate and races inside the big house. “Reservations for dinner tonight are for seven,” he shouts at me.

Heading toward the side gate to reach the cottage, I give him a thumbs-up. “I’ll be ready.” But I need wine now, not at seven o’clock.

Nothing in the guesthouse has changed since my departure this morning. No new platters of food have been placed on the dining table. My wineglass and mug are still sitting in the drying rack. I grab the bottle of Pinot Noir from the fridge and pluck the wineglass from the rack, almost dropping it. The mouth of the bottle ting-ting-tings against the rim of the glass, an SOS.

Guess I’m still shaky from fire talk and the lying and the women in the bookstore. I need to capture all of this in my journal, but I need to settle down first.

After missing and sloshing wine onto the countertop a few times, I finally manage to spill wine into the glass. I take one big gulp and slide down to the kitchen floor.

Russell Walker does not work for Privatas. So who does he work for? Who is he? How long has he been pretending? How can I find out more?

I take another gulp of wine and then another. I fish out my phone from my bag and tap questions that I need to solve into my Notes app.

Does Russell have fingerprints on file? How long has he “worked” here? How did he obtain a Privatas truck? Is that a real Privatas truck?

I drain the wineglass and stare at the oven door. I see me, just a reflection in the glass, not quite there, and past that ghost, there’s nothing but darkness.

I need more wine—I’m so tired and scared and frustrated, and I just want to sleep and say, “I tried, six thousand hours is too much . . .”

Bah. I pull myself from the tile floor, then trudge down the hallway to the bedroom.

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