by Rachel Kane
I will admit that I had a moment of fear. A moment where it seemed like history might repeat itself, and we might plunge back into the trees.
But as I looked down, I saw an amazing thing: The forest was filling that scar. We were traveling quickly, too quickly to make out fine detail, yet I felt like I could see baby trees growing in the space we had cleared, green filling in the darkness. My great idea, the arrow dug into the dirt, had completely disappeared. The forest was taking back what the crash had taken away from it.
History doesn’t repeat itself, but it echoes.
The long battle between my dad and Uncle Ron, to try to bring honesty into our family, didn’t repeat in my generation, but Uncle Ron’s decision to be open had given me the strength to be open too. Jake had told me a harrowing story about Pop saving him when he was little, and that echoed too, as Jake fought to save me, and our relationship.
“You’re quiet,” said Jake.
“Just thinking.”
“Still scared?”
I shook my head. “No. No, that’s the amazing thing. I’ve been so scared, all my life. Scared of my parents finding out I was gay. Scared of having a relationship. Scared we wouldn’t survive the forest. I’m done being afraid. When I’m with you, you give me confidence. I know you’ll always try to save me, no matter what happens.”
A smile played across his face. “You know I will. And I know, if I’m ever hanging off another cliff, you’ll get that look in your eyes, and you’re going to come for me.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were talking about commitment,” I said.
“The truth comes out,” said Jake.
“Now that we’re past all the disasters, we really can think about the future. And you are my future.”
He got that look in his eye, the one where I knew he was about to recite a poem to me. I’d come to look forward to that expression so much.
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.”
“That sounds right,” I said. “Everything I feel comes back to love.”
But suddenly he looked a little nervous. “Eli… I wanted to ask you something.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I was going to wait until we landed, but I can’t. I just can’t wait anymore.”
“Jake…?”
“You’re sitting there talking about the future. Do you… Do you want to make it official?”
“Why Jacob Marks, are you proposing to me?”
“I’d go down on one knee, it’s just, y’know, I’m piloting the plane.”
I laughed. “A romantic weekend getaway, a cute boy wanting to marry me…yeah, I think this is going to work out fine. Of course I’ll marry you! I’ll marry you two or three times, just to make sure it sticks!”
If you’d told me, when this all began, that that plane crash would save my life, I would’ve said you were crazy. How could anything good come out of disaster?
But it turns out I was wrong. It turns out that not only can good things come from disaster, but sometimes the hard moments in life show you something important about yourself, and draw you closer to the people who really mean something to you.
And what about the good moments? Can you learn something from those too?
Oh yes, you can. And I was ready to learn all I could from them, to drink down every drop of goodness life had to offer.
We’re all flying to our destiny, every one of us, alone or together, and I was lucky to be flying with someone I truly loved.
The man who saved my life.
Find You Out
1
Cam
“I’ve been wanting to write something darker. Something morbid and crazy and wrong.”
My agent Jane sighed, but through the earpiece of my phone it came out as an impatient crackle. “Cam. We’ve had this conversation a thousand times.”
“I know. But look, money is coming in, things are doing well, I think now’s the time.”
I was coming home after a successful book signing downtown. My hand and face were cramping after all that smiling and writing, but aglow in the adulation of my fans.
Writing brings a funny kind of fame; all those people had come out tonight to see me, to ask questions about my next Miss Katie Clemmons mystery, yet I was able to walk down the street without being accosted. Nobody shouted out of their car windows, Hey, aren’t you famous cozy mystery writer Cameron Carlyle?
One day it would happen. I could feel it, somewhere in my future, a time when everyone would know me. I would be great at being famous, kind and deferential and accommodating, stopping in the street to sign autographs, have my picture taken. Darling you’ll never guess who I saw at the bakery today—Cameron Carlyle! Yes, that Cameron Carlyle, the world-famous writer!
But first there was the minor matter of being stuck writing about Miss Katie Clemmons (and her best friend, pastry chef Roger, who was as gay as I could possibly write him, yet readers tonight had begged to know when Katie and Roger were going to finally go on a date).
“Now is not the time,” Jane said to me. She could be so professional when she needed to be, but I knew I was in trouble, when she used her big-sister voice. “You’ve had two hits come out. It’s time to solidify that, get more books in the series written. The world is hungry for Katie Clemmons, but they’re not hungry for some depressing goth mystery.”
I bristled. “Jane, look. I’ve got no problem writing these mysteries. I can knock them out in my sleep. As long as jilted spinsters and spurned librarians can get their hands on arsenic and strychnine, Katie Clemmons will always have a job. But she’s not real, and I want to write about real things. You remember my first book—”
“The one that never sold? The one that went out of print almost instantly?”
“But it was good, Jane! It was dark, it was honest, it showed the world the way it really is!”
“Cameron Thomas Carlyle,” began Jane. (Uh-oh. Whenever the middle name came out, I knew I was in trouble.) “Your readers know very well how the world really is. They live in it. They work in it, they drive through it, they see it in all its pain and glory. And at the end of the day, they’ve had enough. They want to read a nice book, about a place where problems get solved, where people are good-hearted. They want to read loving descriptions of Katie and Roger’s banter as they make pastries and figure out who shot the archbishop.”
There was no arguing with that. Truth was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to argue with it. After all, one of the best things about writing a mystery is the way the world makes sense in it. Katie and Roger were always going to be back in the bake shop, filling religieuses with cream while talking over the latest mystery, no matter what happened in the outside world. They lived in a perfect bubble…the kind of place I often wished I could live, too.
Yet I persisted. “Don’t you know that every writer has two sides, the side they show to the world through their books, and the other side they wish they could show?”
I’d reached my street, which bordered the park on one side, and there was a certain romance to it late at night, when the park was quiet and still, the trees overhanging the sidewalk. I ran my fingers over the ironwork fence that separated me from the trees and waited for her response.
When it came, it surprised me. “Cam, you know I promised to look out for you. It’s my job as your agent…and as your friend. If you want to write something darker, I’m not going to stop you. It’s just…I don’t think it’s going to sell. Publishers are going to say, Isn’t this the Cameron that writes that fluffy stuff? How can we trust him to know how to write any other way? They’re not going to give you a chance, and I’ll have to work twice as hard trying to sell a book that nobody wants. But I can’t stop you. If it’s the only thing that’ll make you happy, write what you want.”
“God, I wasn’t expecting that defeated tone from you!�
� I said, stopping next to the fence, leaning against it. “Look, I’ll write a couple more Katie books, I will, you won’t hear a peep from me—”
“That’s not the point, Cam.”
I scowled and touched the earpiece of the phone, as though I’d misheard the conversation. “Wait, what was the point? I’m doing what you asked.”
“No, the point is, you don’t trust me to guide your decisions. You don’t trust anyone. That’s a problem in this business. You argue with me, you argue with editors, you argue with the way your books are marketed. You want to control everything.”
That made me smile, and I started walking again. “Of course I do! I am very intelligent, you know.”
She scoffed at that. “And humble too!”
“You know I’ve got trust issues,” I said, more quietly this time.
“I know. Believe me, if anyone knows about your trust issues, it’s me.”
So stop pushing her away, I told myself. She knows what’s best. If there’s anyone in your life you can trust, it’s Jane. She’s practically family by this point.
Hell, it’s not like I had any other family to turn to. I was alone in the world, aside from my friends and my fans.
My love life was equally bleak. It turns out it’s really hard to let someone into your heart, when you feel like you can’t trust anyone to be safe. I’d been single for a long, long time. I was starting to develop a reputation for monkhood among my friends. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to love anyone…I didn’t know how to get past the trust problem.
It was instinct by this point: Whenever anyone tried to take a little control, I found myself fighting them.
Not one of my more attractive traits.
As I came up to my building, I conceded. “Look, I hear you. Okay? I really do. I’m sorry. I went to that signing tonight, and everyone’s always asking the same questions, when are Katie and Roger getting together, when will Katie find out the truth about her father, is Katie ever coming to TV. It made me feel boxed in, even though they all loved me. You know how something can be an ego boost, yet make you feel like you can’t breathe? I just thought a different book, a different kind of book—”
Jane’s voice was full of sympathy now. Now that I was talking about my true feelings, instead of trying to dress things up in an objective discussion, she could talk openly to me. “Oh, Cam, trust me, I know. But you bring so much pleasure you bring to people by writing Katie books. Believe it or not, you enjoy writing them too. I hear it in your voice when you’re in the middle of a book. You love doing this…you’re just not willing to admit it.”
I was listening to her, feeling like we’d put trouble past us, when I looked at the door of my building. “Good grief,” I said.
“What, did I say something wrong?”
“No, no. It just looks like some kids have been by with spray paint.”
“Really? Graffiti, on your side of town?”
“No one is safe from their depredations,” I said loftily. “Kids these days, they don’t even know how to tell time.”
“I don’t understand.”
I pointed at the graffiti, as though she could see it. “It doesn’t make sense. 32:23. What time is that, 32 o’clock?”
“Oh, who knows,” she said, “it probably means something secret to them.”
I shrugged and let myself in. “I just hope the super cleans it off tomorrow. I pay way too much for this place to have it covered in red paint. So look, back to the book issue. I’ve got a couple ideas for the next Katie book that I want to run past you.”
“Not deep dark terrifying ideas, I hope.”
I shook my head, as I unlocked my condo door. “No, not at all. What I was thinking was, what if she’s on a train, and there’s a crime on the train, all the suspects are there, and they’re all turning on one another—”
She laughed. “You’re going to write Murder on the Orient Express?”
“No, no, see, it would be totally different, because—”
I’d left my laptop open on my desk, the way I always do, so that it’s right there whenever inspiration strikes. As I set my keys down and kicked my shoes off, I saw the little red notification icon blinking on the screen. The computer seemed to be working hard, its little fan whirring.
“Ooh,” I said, “someone’s mentioning me on the internet.”
“Must be someone from the signing,” Jane said. “Which is good. Word of mouth is the best marketing.”
I clicked open the window, ready to bask in praise, ready to read about how handsome and intelligent and thoughtful I was, how I was just like how they pictured me, just as dapper and sophisticated and—
“Oh. Oh, no,” I said.
“Cam? Is something wrong?”
“Jane, are you near your laptop? Have you seen this? Of course you haven’t, you would’ve told me.”
“Seen what? What are you looking at?”
I listened to the clatter on the other end of the line, as she opened her computer and clicked her way through.
“What…Cam, what is this?”
The message on the screen said: Get ready to learn the TRUTH about Lying Author Cameron Carlyle!!!
You have been LIED TO for long enough! The TRUTH will set you free! Stay tuned, because SECRET READER is going to reveal ALL!
“What…what does it mean?” I asked Jane. My heart was racing. The message was so vague, and yet I found myself full of dread.
“Hell if I know,” she said. “What truth are they talking about? Who is Secret Reader?”
I shook my head. “It’s got to be a random crazy, right? Just someone who wants to mess with me? Maybe somebody who didn’t like the way the last Katie book ended? Maybe they’re mad that Katie and Roger didn’t—”
“Oh no,” said Jane, her voice quiet and frightened. “Cam, we might have a problem.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling unable to breathe. “Tell me.”
“I did a quick search for Secret Reader. Cam, you have to see this. This…this person has been exposing the private lives of writers. A lot of writers. Photos, snippets of their private conversations. Calling them criminals, calling for their publishers to sever ties with them. Oh god… Cam, this is bad.”
I felt paralyzed, yet my mind raced over the words on the screen. I swallowed. I tried to tell myself to stay calm. To breathe.
“What…what do I need to do, Jane?”
My voice came out in a whisper. Behind my question were a hundred things I could not say.
Because…I had things to hide.
There were things about my past that no one could know. So many things, that the world would hate me if they ever came out.
This monkhood my friends joked about, it wasn’t entirely by choice. I was in hiding. I’d been in hiding for a long time now.
Jane knew nothing about it. No one did.
Yet here was this stranger, this secret reader, claiming to know…something.
“Okay,” Jane said, and I’d never been so grateful to hear her big-sister tone take over. “Step one is don’t worry. You’re not allowed to worry about this, Cam. This is what I’m here for. This is why I earn the big bucks off you. I’m going to find help. Someone who knows how to handle this. Just trust me.”
Great. The one thing I’m worst at. Trust.
2
Alex
The zinnias had overtaken the garden, but continued their march forward. Their descendants weren’t satisfied with the border of the garden; they’d started poking up at the edge of the gravel path. Left to their own devices, they might follow the path all the way from the garden to the house.
Trowel in hand, I tried to decide what to do. Cut these stragglers down, to maintain order on the path? Or let nature take its course, let the walk become a riot of uncontrolled flowers? One wrong move, and I might change the entire character of the garden, and might be gripped with a regret that would take another growing season to erase.
I had not yet made the deci
sion when I heard the creak of the garden gate.
My hand gripped the trowel tightly. Who would come disturb my privacy? Who dared?
“Burying the bodies, I see,” said Micah.
I made a beckoning gesture. “A nice lawyer-sized hole for you here, if you’d like to step in.”
He laughed. Micah was incongruous here. He had on his lawyering outfit, the sharply tailored suit with a blisteringly bright tie. I wondered what the gravel would do to his leather soles.
“You don’t answer your phone these days?” he asked.
“Not often. I don’t want it here in the garden. I don’t want you here in the garden either. You’re not dressed for outdoor work.”
He looked down at himself. “No, I suppose I’m not. I’m just stopping here on my way to the courthouse. Big case today.”
“Thank you for saying hello,” I said, turning back to the flowers. “Goodbye.”
“Come on, Alex, let’s not have the act.”
“What act?”
“I think I’ve been very well-behaved since you left the business. I haven’t bombarded you with requests, I haven’t tried to reel you back in…much. So don’t act like I’m your enemy.”
“You’re not an enemy, Micah, you’re a distraction. Like my phone. You belong inside.”
I stood. It was obvious there was something on his mind, otherwise he wouldn’t have come this far out of his way. Regardless of what he said, my street was nowhere near the courthouse.
In the old days, when I’d been out west, working for lawyers that made Micah look like a hayseed, I’d been on call 24 hours a day. That was the way we’d worked, and back then, I thought I was being useful. They’d call at three on a Saturday morning to talk strategy, and that made sense. We’d pull all-nighters going over depositions and PR plans.
Nowadays, I was on my own. Gainfully unemployed, as I told people. Early-early retirement. It had taken a while, but my life had gradually begun to return to the natural cycles of the day. I woke up at the first light, and by sundown was ready to go to bed, regardless of the thousand bright entertainments offered to those who sacrifice sleep.
