Page 33 of The Magic We Made

I’m not used to genuinely nice guys, only guys like Richard, who started out seemingly sweet and caring, but as the years went by, grew into a bitter, pretentious asshole. By the time I realized this was his true nature and not a symptom of some kind of mental health crisis or physical illness, it was too late: not only were we married, we’d purchased a house together.

Since there’s never been a divorce before in my family—as my very Catholic mother is only too pleased to tell anyone who will listen—and also because I didn’t want to have to sell my amazing new house, I was determined to make it work. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Richard’s fault: youhaveto have a little bit of a God complex in order to be successful in the medical field.

That might be at least part of the reason why Richard reacted so negatively to whatever he saw at the courthouse. Because he believes he knows everything, encountering something out of the scope of his knowledge and experience completely traumatized him.

Would it be mentally healthier to believe, like Ash and Mrs. Baumgarten, that supernatural phenomena could exist than to be so firmly convinced they don’t that you have a mental breakdown when faced with one, like Richard?

I don’t know. But I have a feeling that might be part of why I can’t stop thinking about my extremely odd neighbor.

Not that I want to pursue a relationship with him. I do not.

Although Mark is right: Idoneed to get laid.

And it’s always better when you live in a small town to get laid by strangers and not someone you’re going to run into whilebuying coffee at 7-Eleven at six in the morning. This is why Rochelle always gets so excited when the Fire Department Instructors Conference comes to New Haven.

Ash Merit isn’t exactly a stranger, but he’s only staying in West Harbor until he’s cleaned up the mess next door. He doesn’t even own that house. He’ll be heading back to the city soon, hopefully never to return after all of this unpleasantness with the break-in.

Which is good. I don’t need that kind of distraction in my life right now. Things are finally starting to go my way again. Richard is completely gone; I own the house of my dreams; my family is healthy, and my patients are doing well (enough); I got Mrs. Baumgarten her refund; and I have a new, possibly pregnant cat to take care of. That ismorethan enough.

Hopefully Ash will get into his truck and drive away today, and I won’t have to see or interact with him again until next summer.

But this might turn out to be easier said than done, because, as I climb from the water after my swim, leaving the marine layer behind, then wrap my towel around my dripping body and start up the steep steps from the dock to my house, I happen to glance over toward Ash’s place.

That’s when I see it: something—or someone—is creeping around underneath his deck.

At first I think it’s only a deer. There are so many roaming the nature preserve, you basically can’t go anywhere without seeing them, especially now, during rutting season.

But when I look more closely, I realize the pale thing I see moving around beneath Ash’s deck isn’t a deer but a human being. Specifically, it’s a very dirty, very small young woman.

And she’s crouched in front of that same basement window, trying to pry it open so she can slip inside.

Again.

“Hey!”

The word slips out because I’m so startled. The girl hears my exclamation and glances my way. Though we’re separated by more than a dozen yards of lawn and hill and trees, I’m certain I see her eyes widen....

Then, just as suddenly, I see those same eyes close, and the girl slumps over into the dirt beneath Ash’s deck.

Ash

Francesca Giovanni is standing on my front porch wearing nothing but flip-flops, a towel, and her red bathing suit.

At first I think I must be dreaming. Iwasdreaming about this very sight until the noise of someone shouting and pounding on my front door startled me awake. I lay in bed for a few seconds, blinking in confusion, until I heard it again, unmistakable this time.

“Ash! Ash, it’s me, Frankie. Ash, open up!”

I was up and at the door in less than a minute, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened it: Francesca, standing there with her long dark braid still wet from her morning swim, a white towel tied around her waist, and her breath ragged from running.

“There’s a... girl,” she gasps, gesturing toward my back deck with one hand while using the other to steady herself against the doorframe as she pants. “I need... phone.”

“Girl?” I repeat stupidly.

“Phone!” she cries, pounding the door again, but this time in frustration. “I don’t have mine on me!”

“Here.” I quickly hand her my phone, which I’d grabbed from the side of my bed. “Who—”

But she’s already dialed 911 and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, this is Dr. Frankie Giovanni. I need an ambulance at Twelve Lakeview Drive for an unconscious young woman—”