Page 43 of The Magic We Made

I am. I completely am, even though I’ve heard of far stupider ones. Members of a popular cult back in the early 1900s believed coconuts were the ideal food since they grow “so close to the sun,” and so they ate nothing but coconuts... until they all died of malnutrition.

Far worse things have happened in other cults, including murder. I don’t want to minimize Ash’s belief that these young girls are going to do something equivalently horrible.

But this whole thing is nuts.

“You do realize,” I say to him, “that it’s highly improbable anyone’s life is in danger here, right? Women are much more likely tobevictimsof a violent crime than to commit one. That’s a statistical fact.”

“I know. And that’s exactly what I’m scared of,” he says. “That Haley is going to get Emma killed somehow.”

He looks genuinely miserable standing there in front of those black-trimmed windows, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his cargo pants. Behind him, the lake sparkles. The sun has burned off the marine layer. I can hear Mrs. DeLong calling to all the little DeLongs to grab their oars. Outside, it’s a typical sunny Saturday in West Harbor.

Inside, the mood isn’t nearly so joyous.

“Well, there’s no need to catastrophize,” I say. “Hopefully Meg will tell Jackie—I mean, Deputy Chief Boyle—what she needs to know about where she’s been, and Jackie will find Emma and the rest of the girls, and then your boss will be happy, and that will be the end of it.”

Except it won’t. If those girls really are in a cult, it’s going to be an uphill battle to get them out of it... and for them to recover. Their parents are going to need to hire exit counselors to help them transition back to normal life, and that’s only if they can get them to come home at all. They’re never going to be the carefree, selfie-posting girls they were before this.

But that’s okay. We’re meant to learn new information-processing skills and coping mechanisms as we age. It’s called being human.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says—but he doesn’t sound as if he believes it, more like he’s trying to placate me. Actually, judging from what he says next, it’s more like he’s trying to get rid of me. “Thanks for all your help this morning. I’m sorry if you felt lied to, but I didn’t lie to you. Not once, not ever.”

I eye him. He looks sincere... but so do all my patients. Not actively lying isn’t the same as telling the truth. Many of my patients have hidden enormous debt, gambling addictions—even a second spouse and set of kids in neighboring East Harbor—by avoiding telling the truth, while insisting all along they never lied.

Just like Ash.

“Well, thank you,” I say. I find myself backing slowly toward his front door. I can take a hint. “For being so honest with me.”

He looks slightly less defensive. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, “after all your help with Meg. Can I take you to dinner tonight to make up for it?”

“Uh, I wish I could.” Now I’m the one who isn’t telling the truth. “But I-I...” I scramble to think of an excuse, then remember my discussion with Angie on the phone. “I’m going to a party.”

“But I thought you...” His voice trails off.

“What?” NowIsound defensive.

“Nothing.” Ash is following me toward the door, his hands still in his pockets. “Never mind.”

“We’ll talk later,” I assure him. It will be hard to avoid it, given that he’s next door. “But right now I need to get home. I haven’t fed the cat yet.”

Or showered. Or called anyone to tell them my new neighbor believes lost things find him, can deadlift an unconscious teenager, and also completely ignored the binder I spent so many hours putting together.

He doesn’t look broken up that I’ve turned down his invitation to dinner... or that I’m leaving. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Francesca.”

I open the front door. The air outside smells divinely of recentlymowed grass. Mr. DeLong is almost as obsessed with maintaining his yard as Richard was.

“Frankie,” I say as I stand on the threshold.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name,” I say. “It’s Frankie. No one calls me Francesca except my mother.” I swallow. “And my dad.”

“Oh, right.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry. Frankie it is. Well, see you later, Frankie.”

“Yeah. Good—” he’s already closing the door “—luck.”

Standing outside alone on Ash’s porch, I wonder what just happened. I didn’t do anything wrong.He’s the one hiding things and trying to pull me into some kind of bizarre drama involving runaway witches.

“Well, no, thank you,” I say aloud—but softly—to myself as I walk back to my own house. I have enough problems without adding teenage witch cults to them—or men who believe they have superpowers. I still need to eat something, then get showered and changed before seeing my Saturday patients.