Page 34 of The Magic We Made

Unconscious young woman?

That’s when it finally dawns on me.Emma.Emma has finally found me.

I jam my feet into the running shoes I left on the living room floor the night before, then sprint around to the back of the house, where I see that there’s an unconscious young woman sprawled beneath my deck, all right.

But she isn’t Emma Bridle.

At least, I’m hoping she’s not. It’s a little hard to tell because she’s covered in so much grime—and has so many scrapes and cuts and bruises. This girl is slight like Emma, but her hair is short and blonde—or at least it looks as if it would be, if it wasn’t caked in mud... and is thatblood?

I don’t wait around to find out.

“Hi, I’m Ash,” I say as I kneel beside the girl, my feet—and bare knees—sinking into the dirt where only the day before Francesca and I had stood, gazing down at my broken basement window. Only now all that dirt has turned into mud thanks to yesterday’s rain.

The girl’s eyes are closed, but it’s possible she can hear me. You never know. That’s why I say, “I’m going to help you,” and scoop her up as gently as I can.

She’s so thin, she seems to weigh nothing at all. But my adrenaline is pumping, too. Maybe that’s why I get back to the housewith her so quickly, before Frankie has even finished her call to emergency services.

“No,Twelve,” I overhear her saying to someone over the phone as I step back into the house, the girl limp in my arms. “The emergency is atTwelveLakeview Dri—”

That’s when she turns and sees me.

“What are you doing?” she demands, her eyes wide, while her hand—still holding the phone—falls limply to her side.

“What does it look like?” I head toward the couch with my fragile burden. “Was I supposed to just leave her out there?”

“No, of course not.” Francesca trots after me, the phone in her hand forgotten. “But you shouldn’t have moved her. She could have a neck or spinal injury—”

I deposit the girl as gently as I can on the same couch cushions where, just last night, I’d sat and watched the ball game. Guy’s wolfskin rug—made from real wolf, a gift from the Blackfeet Nation—is close by, so I carefully cover the girl with it, because her skin feels as cold as ice.

“Her neck and spine seem fine to me,” I say, since, despite my caution, the girl has given a little moan and is rolling her head around on the cushion behind it. “I think she’s waking—”

That’s when the girl’s eyes—blue as the sky—fly open, and she looks from me to Francesca, who hovers nearby.

“Who—” The girl tries to sit up, then moans and falls back against the cushions.

“Shhh,” Francesca says, reaching out to pull the wolfskin over the girl’s shoulders. “Don’t try to get up. I’m Frankie, and this is Ash. Can you tell me your name?”

But the girl only thrashes her head against the cushion, moaning.

“She’s in shock.” Francesca kneels down beside the couch. “Canyou make some coffee? She needs fluids... preferably something warm and sweet.”

“Okay.” I go obediently to my coffeemaker but keep an eye on the girl, who is staring nervously up at my neighbor. I’m definitelynotstaring at Francesca, even though she’s wearing my favorite outfit. I haven’t allowed my gaze to stray once below her collarbone. That would be inappropriate.

The girl is another story. I let myself stare at her full on. There are so many questions I want to ask her—first and foremost isHave you seen Emma Bridle?

But I keep my mouth shut for the moment.

“Hi, honey.” Francesca is speaking to the girl in a kind, soothing voice—the kind you might use to lure a stray cat inside your house. “We just want to help you. Can you tell us your name?”

To my surprise, the girl opens her mouth, but not to moan or scream. “Please,” she whimpers. Her voice is ragged, partly from weeping, and partly because she’s still so cold—or possibly frightened—her teeth are chattering.

“Pleasedon’t call the police,” the girl begs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what we did—”

“What you did?” Now Francesca’s voice is light and friendly, completely nonjudgmental. But her gaze is laser-focused on the emaciated figure beneath Guy’s favorite fur. “What did you do?”

“N-nothing. I swear.”

But I know exactly what the girl did. I also know why she’s trying to cover it up. I recognize the Nikes she’s wearing—size seven, an exact match for some of the footprints I’d seen in the photo Francesca showed me. They’re wet and coated in mud, too, just like the rest of her. But the tread is unmistakable.