Archive of Our Own

This trip is not anything like I expected.

There’s an annoying, high-pitched voice behind me still cooing in my ear. “We’re headed straight for the coordinates on the map,” She says, flinging a little tendril of her short, blonde hair behind her ear. “We should be there in a few hours!”

Even though Lori’s enthusiasm seems to seep through the carpeting, I’m not in the mood. It’s been hours since I’ve eaten, and with Tino posted up in the kitchen, I don’t suppose that is going to change anytime soon. I give Lori a little half-smirk, and she settles back down to read her book, long legs tucked behind her slim physique.

Passing between the cars just seems like second nature to me now. The threat of a misstep used to scare me to the bone, but now it’s neither a concern or a thought. I sweep through the cars, making my way back to the dining car to assess the food situation. Like I expected, there’s a distinct crumb trail on the bar, and Charleena’s persistent typing sounds more like bullets hammering away at the side of the train.

It must be obvious that I’m irritated because when I sink into the plush chair, Frank and Joe exchange a glance. “Don’t ask,” I say, rubbing the bridge of the nose with my thumb and index finger. “We’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Sounds like someone needs a nap,” Joe chuckles, jabbing a finger in my direction. I grimace, but that seems to fuel his fire because he screws up his face to mimic mine. “Don’t be such a negative Nancy.”

“How long have you waited to use that one, Joe?” Frank says, but his gaze doesn’t stray from the plethora of paperwork scattered in front of him.

Joe mutters something like asshole underneath his breath, but I try to tune out their subtle bickering and listen to the hum of the train to try to lull myself into a midday nap. Jetlag, if I believed in such a thing, feels real to me now, and my body aches in protest when I stir, fighting to make myself comfortable on such a small seat.

“Why don’t you go just lie down in the sleeping car?”

My eyes open to slits just wide enough to see Frank peering at me over the top of what looks like an old census. His gaze doesn’t last long. Before I can respond, he’s back studying another pile of old papers, dark eyes scanning the length of the pages, something I’d seen him do a million times before.

“That’s… probably a good idea,” I sigh, twisting my legs from back behind me. My muscles are sore and tired, but I manage to stand upright with the support of the table. Still, Frank doesn’t watch me go. He’s too preoccupied with some old diary entries I’d found stuffed away in the caboose. “I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.”

But it’s Joe, not Frank, who answers me this time. “Gotcha.”

 Fifteen minutes later, the train comes to a surprising halt, sending me flying off my bed and into the cabinet unit, bolted firmly to the wall. I grab my elbow, watching a small sliver of blood trickle down the length of my forearm, and swear under my breath.

Outside my room, I can hear Tino’s booming voice. “What in the name of Sam Hill is goin’ on here? What kind of train is this? Lori? Lori!” The screech of the train drowns out the rest of his complaining, and for that, I’m lucky.

I scramble to my feet, the door to my room flying open with a whap. But then it, too, stops short, and Frank’s tall figure appears on the other side of it, pushing the door to the side so he can squeeze through. “Watch it,” He says, almost growling, his mouth formed into a thin, flat line. “You’re going to hurt someone.”

“Sorry,” I breathe, still gripping my elbow, the blood feeling sticky in between my fingers. “I just wanted to see what the hell was happening.”

His face softens a little, and he steps back, giving me room to wiggle outside and shut the door behind me. Everyone is crowded around the emergency break, flailing their arms and screaming at one another while John attempts to take fingerprint samples from the handle.

“Listen you little shit—” Tino points a finger at Joe, his teeth on edge. “—I’m a cop, y’know, and I got reason of suspicion that it was you foolin’ around back here. This is the second time this damn emergency brake has been pulled. That ain't no coincidence.”

Joe rolls his eyes. He deepens his voice a little, imitating Tino’s accent. “Listen you little shit,” He mocks. “It wasn’t me.”

“Impersonating a cop is a federal offense.”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about you son of a—”

I step in between them, ceasing the squabbling for the time being. “John,” I say, wiping my hands on the back of my jeans. “Any luck with the fingerprints?”

John runs his fingers through his hair. “There’s a partial, but… it doesn’t look new.” He stands up, stretching his long legs. “Forgive me if I say this, but, it looks to me like Camille doesn’t want us to go to Jake’s mine.”

Lori emerges through the adjacent car, being careful to avoid standing next to Tino. Everything she does is a performance. While most people crave air, Lori craves attention so badly she’ll be sick without it. “You think so?”

“I’m going to read the energy in the room,” John pulls out a tiny little monitor no bigger than the size of my hand and starts to wave it around the room in cyclic motions, listening to the tiny device beep. He walks the length of the car, pausing in some spots, and when he circles back to us, he doesn’t look happy. “I’m getting a strong reading in here. We all should leave.”

Charleena, hovering in the background, turns on her heels and walks the other direction, back to the dining car. She’s bored and has a deadline; I’m half-surprised she even bothered to see what the fuss was about in the first place. Tino, however, stomps his feet into the floorboards. “What do y’mean, leave? This is a crime scene—and I’m a detective. I have to sweep this whole place for clues.”

From my left, I can see Joe open his mouth, but Frank steps on his foot and Joe clamps it shut. “Go ahead, Tino,” Frank nods, putting his hands up in defeat. “Let us know if you need anything.”

Joe’s face flushes. “What—” But another foot comes down on top of his, and he slams his mouth shut again and sulks off to the dining car again, Frank at his heels.

To anyone else, the dialogue would be a considerate act of respect. But it’s Tino—and I know Frank—so I slip into Camille’s car with John and Lori, being careful to leave Tino pacing around the emergency break without noticing I’d left. I quicken my pace a little. Tino’s incompetency will leave him without much to go on soon, which means my time spent snooping around Jake’s car is limited, but I can’t alert John to my plan either. He’s a suspect—just like everyone else. He disappears back to his gadgets, accompanied by Lori, leaving me to jog the rest of the way.

Jake’s car feels colder than the others. The air is stale and reeks of Tino’s overbearing cologne, making me question how anyone—Lori, namely—could get close enough to him without projectile vomiting. Besides the smell, there are obvious signs that Tino has taken to sleeping here—the couch where he’s slept has moved, leaving tiny scrape marks on the floor, and there’s an assortment of water bottles and granola bar wrappers decorating the area around the waste basket. Even when he’s not here, he’s a problem.

I slip behind Jake’s old desk, unclipping the bind on Tino’s notebook. There’s really nothing of real interest here besides his occasional prideful ramblings, tasteless humor, and tidbits of information given to him by me. In the back, however, a small business card flies out. There’s a number on it, and a small little lipstick stain in the top-left corner. Lori’s. He’s saved it after all these years, from the day they first met.

I don’t linger on this for long, tucking the business card back into the flap of his notebook and putting it back into place on his desk. Then, I begin rummaging through the various drawers, careful not to disturb the woodwork. Most of them are empty, but the big one on the bottom strikes my attention. It’s also empty, but a quick tap against the wood inside tells me it’s hallow, so I fish around the sides for some sort of lever to release the fake bottom. Finally, my hand catches onto cold metal and I tug, watching the board flip up.

A cloud of dust hangs in the air for a minute, and as the light adjusts, I can see a torn piece of paper and a brass key neatly tucked away in the back. I can feel my heart in my throat as I unfold the paper around the key, perspiration bouncing off my forehead. Why was it so damn hot on this train?

Copper Gorge – ask for Ace Mill

My stomach twists a little. Copper Gorge—as in the place we just left? I shove the key and paper into my back pocket and fidget with the drawer to get it back to the way it was, my nerves inching up my body. What was at Copper Gorge? Part of me wishes it’s not important. A whole day of traveling would feel like a complete waste if we got to Jake’s mine, only to realize we needed one final piece of the puzzle. But stopping the train and turning back now feels wrong, especially with Lori’s watchful eye on me. If she lost faith, the entire operation would be handed over to Tino, and then we’d really get nowhere fast. Besides, who was Ace Mill? Frank’s little adventure flipping burgers was enough to tell me that nearly everyone who lived during Jake’s time is dead, so whoever this “Ace Mill” person is, chances are they won’t be helping me six feet under.

Frustrated, I exit the car, feeling the tiny jerk of the train as it begins its slow plug down the tracks again. The engineer must have come back to assess the emergency brake situation.

“What are you doing?”

Tino catches me rounding Camille’s car. All I can hear is John’s machines, clicking away at the atmosphere, which tells me Lori has gone back to the caboose again. “I had to go check on something,” I lie, internally cursing myself for saying something as stupid as that. Tino might be a horrible detective, but he’s not an idiot. “For Lori.” I add, watching his eyebrows relax down into his face again.

Lori is his kryptonite, and it shows. He rounds his shoulders towards me, nodding, and retreats to the isolation of Jake’s car. I don’t believe in any of John’s ghost nonsense, especially about Camille haunting the train, but part of me feels like Tino has succumbed to the same loneliness that consumed Jake after the death of his wife. Part of me feels like he shouldn’t be hanging around so much in Jake’s car, suffocated by memories of loss and desolation, but there’s nothing more I can do for him now. It’s Lori’s decision—and hers alone.

Back in the dining car, Joe nearly slams into me, his eyes wide with excitement. “Did you find anything?”

I push him away, and he slinks back to his chair in the corner. I stare at Frank, wishing he would just look at me, but he doesn’t. Like before, maps and censuses and charts are more interesting than me. “Thanks,” I say anyway, and his eyes dart up to meet mine. “For before.”

A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” He breathes. “No problem.”

“So you did find something,” Joe says, his voice almost rising to an alarming volume. With Charleena right around the corner, it’s easy to slip up. I slide my findings across the wooden table, nodding in the direction of Charleena, and Joe nods, falling silent. “Whoa. I bet this is for the crypts.” He tosses the key over in his palms, studying the design.

“Crypts?” Frank peers over Joe’s arms, coming over the clue just like I had. “Like the ones at Copper Gorge? That has to be what the key is for.”

“I didn’t think of that,” I say, feeling stupid for not thinking of it sooner. Lack of sleep has made me a poor sleuth, and I don’t like the feeling of it. “I don’t really know what would be in there, though. We seem to have everything we need. I mean, we literally have a map leading us to Jake’s mine. What more could there be?”

Frank shrugs. “Another barrier of defense, maybe, to keep people from just walking right in,” He scans the piece of paper in his hand, then adds it to a pile. “Back then, he probably didn’t know it would still be in the middle of nowhere when someone finally found it.”

I feel heavy, like gravity has shifted. “Well, what are we supposed to do? Turn back now?”

“We can’t turn back now,” Joe shakes his head, tiny blond curls falling into his eyes. “We’re so close. Besides, if it’s a door or something, one of us can just break it down.”

“Break it down?” Frank chuckles. “Who are you, Iron Man?”

“The metal has to be like a thousand years old. Whatever, that’s not the point. The point is that whatever obstacle there is, one of us will figure out how to get around it. There’s no need to go back.”

I turn towards the door again, already set on climbing back into bed. I feel worn and defeated, and even the promise of Jake’s mine isn’t enough to lighten my mood. The nagging feeling in my stomach persists. How could I have forgotten something? How could I have possibly left a lead behind? How could I have missed a clue?

“Hey, Nan,” Frank calls, and I turn my shoulder to face him. He’s analyzing me, but I won’t let him see my vulnerability. Not right now. “Good find.”

It’s enough to get me to smile. And I don’t like it.

 I’m becoming used to being woken up at the wrong times.

The knock at my door persists. With a yawn, I yank at the doorknob, still fully stretched out on the bed. I’d managed to sleep for about two hours, and something is telling me we were approaching Jake’s mine.

As the fog in my eyes clears, Frank’s athletic build comes into focus in my doorway, and my heart leaps into my throat. I pull at my covers hastily, bringing them all the way up to my neck almost, even though I’m fully clothed. “Yes?”

The blanket feels scratchy against my skin, and Frank can sense my discomfort. “You hate sleeping with blankets.” His eyes follow the length of the bed, lingering on the pile of sheets I’d kicked off myself during my nap. “And sheets, apparently.”

“It was an accident,” I say, racking my brain for a good enough excuse to be apologizing for something as minuscule and irrelevant as my sleeping habits. My voice sounds light and feathery and not like me. “What… what’s up?”

He runs his hands up the sides of the door frame, studying the metal hinges. “We’re almost there.”

“I figured.” I slide the covers off, feeling the cool draft from my window swaddle me into a chill. I try to convince myself that the goosebumps on my arms are from the wind, but I’m not a good liar. “Is everyone up and about?”

He shakes his head. “No. Tino and Lori snuck off to the caboose about thirty minutes ago, after the engineer rang to tell us we were almost there,” He makes a face. “Everyone else is just hanging out until then.”

I avoid his gaze by putting on my shoes, slower than normal. I’d never used to act this way around him. Ever since we were kids, Frank and I had been best friends. His family had moved away shortly after my mom died, but we remained close over the years. We’d seen each other through everything—his new school, fights with parents, deaths in the family, and, well, my first boyfriend. Frank wasn’t a fan of Ned back then, and it’s clear he still isn’t, creating an awkward barrier between the two of us. I used to call Frank all the time, eyes heavy with tears, whining over the phone about Ned and the fights we’d had. After a while, he just stopped answering. I couldn’t blame him for that.

It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Frank and his brother. He’s taller now, his dark hair cut short, barely tickling the top of his forehead. The once scrawny kid I’d grown up knowing is now replaced by a much bulkier one, muscles peeking out from underneath his t-shirt. He’s a spitting image of his father, with a strong jawline and stronger eyes, always watching me. Always, always watching me.

“Well, I guess I should get up then,” I say, standing, peering up at him. He’s a full head taller than me. “Can’t sleep forever.”

It takes three seconds for him to grab my wrist, pulling me closer to him. For a moment, I panic, but then he glances down at my bruised elbow, studying the wound like a piece of literature. “You should bandage that, you know,” He nods towards the cut. “It’ll get infected if you don’t.”

His concern rattles my brain, but I try to shake it off. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.”

“Well, if it’s nothing,” he says with a laugh. “You won’t care that I go with you when we get to the mine.”

“What does my elbow have to do with your company?” I try to draw my hand away, but he doesn’t relent, one eyebrow creeping up on his face. He’s not answering me on purpose, letting me stew in my emotions. “I know you want to see what’s in there as much as I do. You could’ve just asked. None of these mind games you like to play.” I wave my hand in his face, and he laughs again, this time louder.

“You’re always one for puzzles,” His fingers inch around the circumference of my wrist. I can barely breathe. “You’ve never complained about my mind games before.”

“Well, things are…” I trail off, turning away from him. “Things are different now.”

The look on his face diffuses into one of confusion and his eyes become hollow, like he’s searching for someone he lost a long time ago. Someone who left a long time ago. “I guess you’re right,” he sighs. “Things are different now.” For some reason, hearing him repeat it back to me makes me want to melt into the floor.

I shuffle passed him, fighting to get my hand out of his, fighting to keep his warmth as far away from me as possible. “I... I should go,” I say, one hand on the doorknob, one hand pressed up against his chest as I maneuver around him. He’s still gripping my wrist, gentle now, and for a moment it looks like he’s about to actually let me leave.

His hand falls back to his side, and a little stand of his brown hair falls into his gaze. He eyes me but leans back. “Okay,” he says, glancing down to the doorknob. “You’re probably right.”

“That’s new.” I breathe, suddenly aware of how close he's standing to me, the rumble of the train drowning out the sound of my heartbeat. But I leave him there, in my room, staring at me as I walk towards Camille’s car, rubbing the spot on my wrist until the warmth leaves my skin.

 Lori hops off the train first, her long jeans scraping against the desert. She points a manicured finger into the distance. There’s a series of rocks and boulders decorating the horizon, but there’s one mountain-like rock figure that stands out from the others. There’s a slit right in in the front, wide enough for someone to barely crawl through—and barely crawl out. The sun beats down relentlessly, and I clutch my canteen close to my stomach. It was full fifteen minutes ago, and now it’s half-empty.

Frank appears next, slinging a backpack over his shoulder. There are splotches of sunscreen coating the back of his neck. “Ready?”

Joe peers at us from the steps of the train. “Good luck with that,” He calls, sticking out his tongue. “I’d rather not get deep fried. Sunburn does not look good on me.” He frowns again, but Lori runs one of her fingers through his hair, giggling.

“Thanks, Joe,” I say, strapping my canteen to Frank’s pack. “We’ll be back in like an hour. We’re just going to check it out and then come back.”

I have no idea how Lori convinced Tino to let us go alone, and part of me wishes she’d failed. Nevertheless, I fall in step behind Frank, using his wide build to shade me from the sun. It’s not a long trek, but the sun makes it stretch on forever, and when we finally reach the little niche in the rock, I’m already tired and drenched in sweat.

Frank hands me his backpack, using one hand to steady himself as he dips into the gorge, careful to watch his footing. Once on the other side, he grabs his bag, and I shimmy myself through the rock to join him. The inside is dark and cool, but there’s enough sunlight streaming through cracks in the rock to see by. There’s a tiny crick running on our left side, carving a tiny route in the dirt. It looks like it’s been there for quite some time, and the sound of running water is comforting after our long walk. So far, I can’t see any signs of Jake or his mine, but we begin to walk, our footsteps echoing in the small cavern.

“What are we looking for?” Frank says, breaking the silence. The latter half of his sentence bounces off the walls and disappears. “Was there anything on the map that said what we should expect once we’re in here?”

Instinctively, I pull the map out of my back pocket. It crumbles along the edges but remains intact. The route to Jake’s mine is bold and dark, but other than the coordinates, there’s not much else to be discovered. Frank takes a turn, too, but he hands it to me again with the shake of his head. “I guess we just keep walking,” I say with a shrug. “There’s got to be something here, though.”

As if on cue, Frank rubs his thumb over a tiny carving in the rock, barely visible in the sliver of light. JH. He smiles at me. “Like this?”

“Like that,” I say, snapping a photo of it with my cellphone. There’s still no service, but I need to document everything I find in here, down to the last gold bar—if that’s what Jake’s hiding—to make sure Tino doesn’t try to fudge the details when we get back home. As soon as my phone slides back into my back pocket, there’s a noise outside.

It shakes the earth, and for a moment I fear the entire cave might close in on itself, but the foundation holds. “What the hell—” Frank disappears around the corner again, slipping through the entrance again. The noise is growing louder, turning into a steady groan as the ground shakes. I hop across the tiny stream and stand behind Frank, watching his dark eyes glint across the desert. “This isn’t good. No, no, no, this isn’t good—”

He starts to dart off towards the tracks, but I can’t see anything behind the cavern, so I squeeze through the opening again and round the bend, searching for Frank’s figure. I finally spot him, panting, hands on his knees. And then I realize we’re missing a great big machine, the source of all the noise. The train is a little speck of black to our right, the smoke billowing up into the sky, swirling around with the clouds.

Frank is still panting when I approach. “Looks like we’re stranded,” He says, cursing underneath his breath. “And I know exactly who to thank for it.”

“What do you mean, stranded?” I say, blinking into the hot Colorado sun, my lips starting to blister.

“I mean the train isn’t here. It’s gone.” He tosses his arms in the air. “And we’re not on it.”

Exhaustion drips from my body and I watch the last of the smoke dissipate into the blue sky, darkening with the approaching sunset. The sky is already beginning to fade into an orange-pink glow, which means the temperature will be falling with the sun in a few hours. The heat seems like it stretches on forever, but thinking about nightfall sends a chill up my spine. Then I remember my half-empty canteen, and my hope sinks into the dirt.

Frank plops down on the ground, running his hands through his thick hair. Frustration leaks off his face, but I can’t help myself. “What are we going to do?”

He glares at me, his eyes brown slits. Before answering, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, waving it around in the air to test for service. I don’t need to ask him the results—his face shows everything I need to know. “If they left us,” he muses aloud to himself, only for my benefit. “That means they had to do something to Joe. He’d never let them leave us out here.”

Joe. My heart suddenly aches for the boy on the train. I hadn’t even thought about Joe until now, and the pain on Frank’s face is hard to ignore. His brother is somewhere on that train with people who want me dead.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I wipe my forehead, feeling the slick of perspiration on the back of my hand. “Lori wanted us to find the mine. She wanted this. She wanted to be the one to find Jake’s long-lost fortune. You’re telling me she’d give up fame and fortune just to leave two teenagers out in the desert? She can’t be behind this.”

Frank purses his lips. They’re beginning to become chapped too. “She’s too stupid to think of something like this.” The words sound harsh coming from his mouth. Frank’s always been the epitome of polite, too kind to ever say a bad thing about anyone. “It has to be Tino.”

“Tino is too stupid to think of something like this.”

It’s apparent that my repetition is everything he despises, because Frank stands up abruptly, his height blocking the ray of sunlight. I feel small beneath him. “Who else has a motive? Who else would want both of us dead? Why wouldn’t they force Joe to come out here with us if they wanted all of us out of the way?”

“Maybe Charleena needed some true testimony for her romance novel,” I shrug. “Two teenagers stranded in the middle of the desert. Sounds like something right up her alley.”

Frank is so disgusted with my poor humor that it looks like he’s going to spit. “I’m glad you think this is funny.” His shoulder connects with mine for a moment, jerking me backward, and this time, he doesn’t reach out to steady me. He takes off towards the opening of the cavern again to free the heat, not bothering to wait. I feel hollow. The whispers from my sleeping car are long gone.

It takes me a moment to register what just happened before I retreat to the cave. Frank leans up against one of the rocky walls, his feet pressing into the grooves and bevels of the stream. It tickles the tops of his boots, the water dividing around his heels and trickling down to the mouth of the cave by Jake’s initials. Frank digs around his backpack, sorting out the contents onto surrounding rocks. He’s organizing things by use. Even with the threat of death, he finds a way to keep things structured. He avoids my eyes, but then again, I don’t expect him to speak to me. Instead, I sit on the other side of the tiny crick, cupping my hands together to taste the water.

I’m no expert on water filtration. I’d briefly helped a friend with their water system when she was away, but that was years ago, and this is not the same situation. Sally’s house on Moon Lake had tests, at least, to make sure the water was safe to drink. Here, it’s all up to my judgment. It tastes fine, but the taste isn’t a marker of safety, and my mind swims with thoughts of tiny bacteria eating away at my stomach. But then the thoughts are gone. Dehydration will kill us faster than any bacteria.

“It’s fine,” Frank says. Just like before, in the dining car, he doesn’t break his concentration from his belongings. He doesn’t say anything else, but I know he’s talking about the water. He’s still upset with me, upset with our situation, but he’s still the same boy I knew long ago, the same one that made sure I was always okay. 

I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I’m growing nervous. I refilled the canteen, and for the past hour or so, Frank and I have been passing it between the two of us. The silence between us persists, and I’ve become acquainted with the sound of the water. I even wiped off my forehead and neck, the corners of my eyes weary of Frank’s meandering stare. But he remains occupied with his things, scrounging around the cave for kindling and dry wood to use for a fire. He’s been at it for hours, though all he has to show for it is a little pile of twigs. Thankfully, there’s some scrap piece of paper from an old notebook shoved at the bottom of his pack, and he arranges the wood delicately so it’ll catch flame.

It’s colder now. I wander outside, watching the sky melt into a series of colors, each one draining into the sun as it makes it descent behind the horizon. It’s nearly seven, but the clouds are already darkening, and I find myself grasping the sides of my arms to keep the chill from rising on my neck. Three hours stranded, and this is what it feels like.

It’s strangely romantic. The sunset splits into the cavern, painting the walls orange and red. Everything I can see holds a shadowy glow. Even the stream looks beautiful, the water glistening in the forgotten sunlight. As the sun disappears, Frank grabs his pack of matches and lights the fire. He clears his throat, but the words stick to him.

“What?” I finally say, shifting my position around the fire. The Colorado heat is long gone, but the fire reminds me of its feverish touch. The cool walls of the cavern are comforting, and the tiny gasps of breeze flitting through the cracks in the ceiling tussle with the edges of my hair.

Frank stares at the fire, his mud-brown eyes turning orange from the reflection. “I’m sorry,” he says, his shoulders heaving with a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have—”

I put up a hand, and he stops, his mouth closing with a smack. “We were both frustrated,” I glance down at my hands, tiny compared to his, and dig at my cuticles. Nervous habit. “It’s okay.”

He falls silent again, but I can tell he’s not satisfied. He fishes for something else in his backpack, finally pulling out a black tubular object. A flashlight. He clicks it on and waves it towards the back of the cave, the part that we left unexplored. Fear shakes my bones. I haven’t considered the possibility of animals yet. We’re invading their home, and it’s only a matter of time before they appear out of the darkness, reclaiming what is rightfully theirs.

Frank seems unbothered by this possibility, rising to his feet in one swift movement. He nods in the direction of the blackness. “Should we at least go see what’s back there?”

Part of me wants to wait until morning when Joe will be back with the train, bad guys strung up on the side like in one of those cheesy western movies. But life isn’t like that—and there’s an aching in my stomach telling me it’ll be a miracle if the train comes back to get us—so I put on my shoes again and follow Frank towards the hole in the wall, trying to keep my distance and stay close to him at the same time. Warmth radiates off Frank’s body, and I hesitate around him, careful not to draw too close. Now is not the time for distractions—whatever that meant. It’s time to figure out what Jake Hurley hid all those years ago.

The cave continues beyond the length of the flashlight, plunging us into more unknown territory. It’s colder back here, and the air feels damp. There are no cracks in the rock for sunlight to spill through, so we rely on Frank’s flashlight. It looks like a long, narrow tunnel, with the occasional rock or boulder to maneuver around. The ground is still hard and flat, which makes for an okay walk, but it stretches on forever, and already my feet are beginning to ache.

“Let’s circle back,” I say, the echo of my voice making me jump. “We’re not getting anywhere. It seems to go on for miles.”

Frank stops, and I touch his back on accident, feeling his muscles tighten at my touch. I’m suddenly grateful for the dim lighting to cover up the red seeping into my face. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here. Not with him.

Things are different now.

Frank pretends he didn’t feel my hand. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I don’t know what the hell this guy was thinking. There’s nothing back here. It’s all empty space.”

We start to head back, my eyelids feeling heavy from exhaustion. The cold is no longer comforting; it's extended its welcome, and I’m already missing the sun. I shiver, hoping Frank won’t notice. He does. “Maybe someone already found it,” I say, the words kicking me in the gut. “Maybe someone on the train knew that the treasure was gone and left us out here on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His voice carries the length of the cave until we’re back where we started. The fire has dwindled into nothing, and the shadows play tricks on my eyes. While Frank goes to try to start another fire, I use his flashlight to look at the initials carved into the rock. It’s intentional. The grooves of the letters mimic the edge of a knife, or something equally as sharp. This is no trick of the light. Fortune or not, Jake Hurley was here once, right where I stand, leaving us a clue even I can’t solve.

Sleep weighs on my shoulders, and I press my hand against the wall, stretching out my arms. But then I realize that the wall feels different—no, soft to touch. I draw my hand back with a shriek, hoping a bug doesn’t slither out from my palm, but there isn’t one there. Frank is next to me, though. I can feel him standing behind me, his eyes burning the back of my skull.

“What is it?”

I can’t answer him. I don’t know. But the initials are soft, and I push against them, this time more confident. They shift under my touch, but bits of rock eventually crumble towards the floor. Excited, I claw at the lump of dirt until there’s nothing more than a circle-like structure jutting out of the wall. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“He managed to make his own initials look like carvings?” Frank’s confusion mirrors my own. “How is that even possible?”

“We were probably so out of it earlier,” I examine the little structure, feeling it with the pads of my fingers. “I bet you we didn’t even notice it looked different. We were so distracted by the train leaving.”

He nods, and I press my palm flat against the circle. It doesn’t budge. “Here, let me try,” he says from behind, and I shuffle out of his way. Frank pushes against the rock, his shoulder moving forward to carry his strength. There are tiny veins peeking out from his skin, and his muscles harass the hem of his t-shirt. My stomach flips, and I turn away, only glancing back when I hear him grunt and a satisfying grind of rock. The sound travels up into the ceiling, followed by much louder sound deep within the bowels of the cave. A hidden entrance.

Frank laughs outright. “Jackpot.”

I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. In a rush, I leap back towards the tunnel entrance, flashlight sweaty in my hands, until Frank grabs my wrist again and pulls me backward. I almost collapse onto a pile of stones, but he doesn’t let me fall. Angry, I yank my hand from his grip. “You have got to stop doing that. I’m not a ragdoll.”

His face flushes with embarrassment. He and I both know his touch meant something else, something way different from that. “It’s just late,” He kicks at a pebble, and it flops into the stream. “We should check it out in the morning when there’s some light to guide us other than this flashlight. Besides, we have to conserve the battery.”

I click off the flashlight, submerging us in darkness except for the dim glow from the fire, cackling away towards the mouth of the cave. The most defining features of Frank’s face stand out in this lighting, crafting his jawbone and squared cheekbones. He looks so much like the boy that left River Heights years ago, but then again, he doesn’t. That boy had braces and hair so long it curled at the ends. That boy smiled often and laughed loud and sang to me in the car. I gave that boy permission to touch me in the places I didn’t let anyone see. But that was a long time ago, and this person, this boy, standing in front of me, is not him. 

Frank edges his way passed me, grabbing the flashlight from my hand as he goes. Without him, I feel colder than usual, so I slink towards the fire again, trying to find an acceptable place to lie down. He eyes me over the flames, considering something, but then tosses me an old sweatshirt he had stuffed in his backpack. It’s been sitting next to the fire, so it’s warm, and it smells like vanilla and cinnamon—Frank’s cologne, the same stuff he’s been buying since he was thirteen. I want to hate it, I want the scent to disgust me, but it doesn’t. It’s familiar, and it reminds me of home.

I say nothing, crawling up into a little ball, using the sweatshirt as a blanket. My hair trails on the dirt, and I’m uncomfortable, but my eyes are already closing before I can move into another position. Frank’s still sitting by the fire, one finger rubbing his chin. “It’s okay,” he says, noticing my stare. “I’ll stay awake for a little, just to make sure there’s not—” He stops. “I’ll stay awake.” 

My eyes flutter open to the sight of a dead fire. The heat has returned, meaning the sun is out again. My muscles ache as I sit up, whining in protest for a night spent on solid rock. There’s half a granola bar waiting for me, positioned on the edge of a boulder near my head. I throw the sweatshirt off, feeling sticky underneath its weight, and scarf down the bar hungrily, feeling it drop into the empty pit of my stomach. I haven’t eaten in hours, and from the looks of it, there’s only one granola bar left in Frank’s backpack.

I can hear Frank outside, investigating the cave. Before he comes back in to check up on me, I wipe down myself in the stream, making sure to rid my face of flecks of dirt. There’s an imprint on my left cheek where little bits of rock clung to my face during the night. They’re ugly, dotting my face like worn-out freckles, and I rub at my skin until the indents seem to go away.

“Good morning,” Frank says, glancing down at the empty wrapper. He shoves it into a pocket of his backpack. “Did you sleep okay at least?”

“Yeah,” I say, giving my face one last rub. “I passed out and slept through the night, so I guess so.”

He takes a sip from the canteen and rubs the edges of the spout with his shirt before handing it to me. The sight almost makes me laugh, thinking about all the times I’d come dangerously close to his face. Sanitation seems like a lost cause when you’re stranded out in the middle of nowhere. “It was a fairly quiet night, I’d say.” He watches as I tip the canteen back, a drop of water sliding down to outline my chin. “There was a snake on you at one point, but I got it off.”

I nearly spit the water out, and Frank laughs. “Oh my God, don’t,” I say with a toss of my eyes. “That isn’t funny.”

“Sure, the lie wasn’t, but the look on your face was.”

I stick out my tongue, my thoughts drifting back to last night, the way his face lit up in the shadows. But that memory fades as I remember the passageway. The secret door. “Come on,” I say, jabbing a finger in the direction of the tunnel. “We’re not getting any younger.”

Frank smirks, raising an eyebrow. “No death jokes today, please,” He passes me, one hand already on the flashlight. “I just got used to the idea, and I don’t need someone like you making fun of it.”

We’re laughing, but it’s not funny. Without food, we’d be dead in less than a week—that is, if the heat didn’t get us first.

As I expected, Frank takes the lead out of instinct. Without his little brother around, he uses me as a surrogate, one hand stretched behind towards me in precaution. Just like it’s natural for him to be a leader, it’s instinctual to him to be protective, no matter who he’s with. I let him walk first, sidestepping some rocks and debris from the insides of the cave. The stream tickles the tops of my shoes, pushing passed us in the opposite direction. It’s a miracle there’s running water in this barren wasteland, and before I get to ponder how it’s even possible, Frank stops short in front.

Even though the sun is out, it offers no consolation in the deepest parts of the cavern. Frank strains his neck in the darkness, waving around the flashlight, trying to determine whether or not the new entrance is safe. The creek is a little wider down here, but still small enough that Frank can straddle it with his legs, one foot on each side of the dirt. He motions towards the slab in the wall. Dust hangs in the air like ash from a fire. “Well, this is it,” he says, sticking his arm farther out to illuminate the ground.

Whatever the contraption was at the front must’ve rigged this giant rock to move out of our way. There are a few coils of thick rope wrapped around the edges, peeling the stone away from the doorway. How Jake managed to do this back then, I have no idea, but I don’t have time to think about it. Frank is nearly inside already, his dark hair disappearing into the bleak unknown.

It’s hard to see by the light of his flashlight, but Frank hands it over without a second look, letting me investigate the ground and adjacent walls. It’s a larger room with the same rock foundation, but the air is different, and the water is plentiful, feeding out of a small hole to our left. “They don’t get any rain out here,” I say, thinking aloud. “How is it possible that there’s this much water down here?”

In the dark, Frank shakes his head. He’s just as confused as I am. “No idea.”

In the shadows of the flashlight, Frank prowls behind me. I continue to scour the ground, looking for anything useful. It’s slightly comforting to know that there’s more water back here, but my stomach rumbles in defense and the thought disappears. “Let’s keep going.”

Frank doesn’t move. He’s fixated on a spot on the ceiling. When I shine the light on the spot, I realize what he’s staring at. There are cracks in the ceiling, much like in the mouth of the cave. He looks at me, but I’m two steps ahead of him. I grab a rock from the ground and throw it, hoping the force will knock out some gravel and allow for a makeshift skylight. But before I can throw another, Frank sticks his hand out, this time a little more careful not to grab my hand.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “You have to be careful or this whole ceiling will collapse and we’ll be sandwiched.”

My cheeks burn. “Let me get on your shoulders,” I say, gesturing to the weak spots. “I can probably push some of the rocks up and out.”

Frank considers the idea for a moment, but crouches down a moment later, letting me swing both my scrawny legs over his wide shoulders. He’s so much taller than me that this proves difficult, but with a tiny boost, I’m off the ground, fighting every urge not to grab onto this hair for support. I pass him the flashlight, and he groans, adjusting to my weight. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

When he stands, my hands fly to his neck. He’s got both arms strapped around my legs to help keep my balance, the flashlight shoved into a tangle of fingers pointed upward at my task. Steady, I begin to push, but every so often the impact sends my center of gravity backward. Frank manages, stumbling around underneath me, making sure I don’t plummet down to my immediate death.

“Can you get it?” he says, his feet moving in a little circular dance as I wobble above him. “I mean, are they stuck?”

My teeth grind together as I struggle, but one of the pieces finally gives. It tumbles down to the ground, barely missing Frank’s foot. “Okay, that was the hard part,” I call, shoving my hand into the hole and pushing up with all my might. Eventually, more pieces break off. There are some spots where the cracks extend far beyond my reach, like pulsing veins, but I work around them. After some time, there’s an apt amount of light, so my hands trail back down to his shoulders. “That’s about all I could get. Should be enough.”

In response, Frank adjusts his grip. “Swing your leg down.”

I can see the ground now, and it’s enough to make my stomach drop. “Are you serious?”

He sighs, the heaving of his chest pushing me up towards the ceiling again. “Yes, I’m serious,” he breathes, but it’s me who’s breathless. “I got you. Just trust me.”

 The words are as familiar as his old sweatshirt, taking me back to the days spent in the old woods where we’d hide out in forgotten hunter’s cabins. One time, I’d gotten the nerve to jump off a platform nearly ten feet off the ground, and he’d said the same thing, standing beneath me with open arms. I got you, trust me. But when I finally jumped, I crashed into him, sending both our bodies into the soft earth. I’d managed to get out of there with a bruised knee and some laughs. That was then. This was now.

Frank shifts, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Okay, okay, I’m going.” With the sun above me, there are beads of sweat dripping from my forehead. I grip his shoulders so tight that I fear my nails are digging into his skin, but he doesn’t say anything, so I persist, dropping down my leg off his shoulder so I’m hanging awkwardly off his body.

He’s a man of his word. With his free hand, he grabs me from behind, swinging me up and around until I’m facing him. Locks of hair cling to his forehead, but before I even have the urge to wipe them away, he sets me down on the ground again, brushing his hands on the back of his shorts. Brushing me off the back of his shorts.

There was a time where I’d give anything to be held. I was a fussy baby, according to Dad, and my mom often consoled me by rocking me in her arms, something that carried with me into my older years. But now I don’t want to be touched, especially not by him, but my heart has always been my biggest downfall, and it deceives my brain. Maybe if he hadn’t left all those years ago, maybe if I hadn’t moved on with someone else, I would’ve lingered in his arms a little longer. Maybe.

Things are different now.

Embarrassed, I turn away from him and out of the sunlight.

The newfound skylight seems to work well. There’s room to see by, and we both lapse into silence, mulling over piles of dirt and rocks, looking for clues. Now brightened, the room is more bowl-like than anything, with curved walls that meet a concave ceiling. I’m becoming too familiar with the beige stain of the rocks, and it bleeds my vision, causing me to look twice before moving on. I can’t trust anything out here, not even my own sight.

There’s no gold here—no treasure, no diamonds, no jewels, but still, the room has a lot to say. If Jake went through all the trouble to hide it, something must be here. Something. I feel every crevice in the walls, wiggling my fingers around to see if anything is tucked inside. When that doesn’t work, I pour over every inch of the ground, trying to find a path of dirt that looks different than the rest.

After a half hour of searching, Frank calls me over to a small indent in the wall. “Come look at this,” he says, wiping off some cobwebs. “I think there’s something in here.”

He shines the flashlight into the crevice, pressing his backpack in between his knees. There’s nothing remarkable, just bugs crawling around the inside. But then I see it—a small, flat looking notebook all the way in the back, blending in with the earth. It’s brown and dusty. My small hands fit nicely into the niche, and when I pull the notebook out, Frank’s face explodes into a grin.

I can’t get the thing open fast enough. It’s a diary, by the looks of it, with Jake’s initials stamped at the bottom left. The first entry is worn, the ink bleeding off the bottom of the page, but it’s legible.

My dearest Camille,

The days seem to go on forever without you. This train means little to me now that you’re gone. I wish your sickness would’ve taken me instead of you, so you could’ve grown old and happy and rich with my fortune. I leave everything to you, as I promised. My life, my train, my earnings, my love, my heart. They have, and remain, yours, until the end of time. I wish you back, my love. I wish you never left me.

Forever, Jake

Tears bite at my eyes, but I try to fight them back. Frank scans the page over my shoulder, reading quicker than I can, and he thumbs at the paper, flipping it to the next page. The entries are similar—each one dated consecutively after the day of Camille Hurley’s death. This diary was Jake’s last attempt at talking to his late wife, and as we finger through the diary, I feel sick. The entries continue for nearly a hundred pages, each one sadder than the last, but the last one—the very last page, hits me like a rocket.

Dearest Camille,

I love you. I will see you soon.

Forever, Jake

Frank and I exchange loaded stares, but neither of us says what we’re thinking. I feel weak. Frank takes the diary from me, shoving it in a flap of his backpack, and leaves me to my thoughts. The space between us feels endless and rough, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. There’s nothing I can do or say to save Frank Hardy.

Jake loved his wife so much he committed suicide so they could be together once more. The last lines of his diary ring in my head so loudly I want to scream. I love you. The words are foreign to me though I’ve said them a least a dozen times. To Bess, to George, to my father, to my mother’s slab of cement in River Height’s cemetery. To Ned, once, too, right before I got on the train that took me here. To Frank, nearly a hundred times, my eyes filled with hot tears, right before he got in his car and drove away. I love you. But he never said it back.

The only thing keeping me upright is the promise of Jake’s fortune right around the corner. He spoke of it many times in his diary, and I can’t give up on him now. I’ve disappointed so many people, but I won’t disappoint Jake Hurley. I can’t. My days left are numbered, but I will find Jake’s mine, his fortune, his earnings. I will find what he left for his dying wife. My love might have failed me, but I won’t let it happen to him.

 The sound of the train is deafening, but my legs can barely keep up with me as I run, chasing Frank through the cavern towards the noise. We both topple through the opening, my knees scraping against the desolate ground. A sliver of blood runs down my calf, but I don’t have time to feel pain. The train is back, and we’re not going to die. Not yet.

After discovering Jake’s diary, we’d made our way back to our camp sight, both looking worn and defeated. Brimstone Canyon was not what it seemed, and we’d both grown comfortable with the idea of dying. It's been a couple of hours since, and Frank had been asleep. I watched him stir, fighting his nightmares, the dark circles under his eyes overwhelming his face. But then, I heard it—faint, shooting through the sky like a firework, getting louder and louder, until I could hear the chug of the train sliding down the tracks. I didn’t even have to wake Frank, either. He bolted out of his sleep, feeling around the ground for his backpack, fingers flying over his shoelaces. We were going home.

The train slows to a stop in front of us. The stacks of smoke cloud the evening sky but I happily inhale it, letting the scent burn the back of my throat. Frank’s already ahead of me, plowing towards the tracks faster than I could ever run like a bullet. He reaches one of the sidecars and throws all his weight into the door, but it flies open just as quick, and Frank goes down, wrestling with a sea of blonde curls.

As I reach the train, the exhaustion kicks me down, and I fall into the dirt. Two days without food has taken its toll, and my stomach churns in protest. Regardless, I’m happy to see Joe unharmed, his hands clasped around his brother, cheering so loud his voice carries over the sound of the wheezing train.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank falls back into Joe, letting his weight press into Joe’s shoulder. Joe’s shorter by a couple of inches, with a tinier build of a runner, but he supports Frank nonetheless, digging his heels into the ground. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Joe’s smile falls. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just tell me—us—what happened.”

I’m back on my feet now, feeling the sting of the dirt climbing into my wound. Joe gives me the once-over, and his face tells me everything I need to know. I look awful. Bloody knee, healing elbow, dirt covering me from head to toe—I’m a sight to see. He tries to be nice and look away, but it doesn’t work. “John happened.”

John Grey? That’s not possible. “John did this?”

Frank mirrors my disbelief. “What—why would he do something like that?”

Joe shrugs, gesturing to the door again, and we begin to walk. I can feel the air conditioning give life to my otherwise lifeless body, but my wound sings beneath the pressure. Joe continues, leading us back into the dining car, where I collapse onto the chair. “Don’t worry, he’s… uh, restrained,” he says. “He apparently convinced the engineer that you guys changed your minds and weren’t going.”

“He convinced Lori’s engineer,” I breathe, the space behind my right eye pulsing. “So the engineer just left?”

Joe nods. “It took as all like ten minutes to realize we were moving. I mean, everyone was either asleep or busying themselves with other shit. I looked out the window and saw the ground moving and nearly freaked out, but we couldn’t find John anywhere. He locked himself in his room. Tino busted the door down and handcuffed him.”

“But…why?”

Joe slams his hand into the oak table, nearly sending me to the floor. Anger flashes on his young face. It’s not like him to be so aggressive, but his deep roots with his brother hold tight, and it’s easy to believe when those ties are threatened, Joe would do anything and everything in his power to get Frank back. “The dumb fuck didn’t want you guys to find the mine,” He throws his hands up. “He wanted everyone to believe that this train is haunted so his show’s ratings would go up, and if you guys found the mine—”

“Camille’s ‘ghost’ would’ve failed,” I finish for him.

It feels like a boulder is pressing into my chest, and as if on cue, Charleena appears around the corner, carrying a tray of soup and crackers. She looks like a regular housewife if it weren’t for her sideways glance at me. She places the tray on the edge of the table, motioning for me to join her, but my muscles ache and it’s impossible to move, so she cups the little bowl of soup in her hands and places it in my lap. The heat burns my inner thighs, but I’m grateful for it, conjuring the energy to plop a spoonful of the liquid in my mouth. In a matter of mere seconds, the bowl is empty. Charleena doesn’t look a bit surprised. “Go sleep,” she points to the sleeping car. “Whatever frivolity you’re getting into, I’m sure it can wait until the morning.”

I don’t argue. I stand, using the walls for support, and inch my way down the hallway, not bothering to say anything to Joe or Frank as I pass. The details of John’s plan are uninteresting to me, and sleep presses against the corners of my eyes. As I make my way between the cars, their voices drown out, until I’m in the sleeping car.

Joe wasn’t kidding. There’s a door three down from mine battered and splintered, tossed aside like garbage. Any other day, I would find myself inside, pawing over John’s belongings, calculating enough evidence to turn over to the police. But I barely have enough energy to twist the doorknob, the soup weighing heavily in my stomach. The dried blood on my leg smells and looks disgusting, but there’s no time to bandage it. My body moves on autopilot, slipping off my dirty clothes and sending me into bed in my underwear. It takes less than a second to succumb to sleep, and I don’t dream. 

I visit John in the morning, after breakfast. Tino is nice enough to spare a bagel for him, and I take it with me, fumbling through the cars like a baby deer learning to walk. A good night’s sleep and some warm food have put me into better shape, but I’m still weak and my skin complains from a choppy sunburn. Even Frank looks better than yesterday. He’s clean-shaven and showered, and the purple circles underneath his eyes have grown less noticeable. Still, he barely makes eye contact with me while I scarf down my oatmeal, instead pawning over some old maps Joe found hidden in Camille’s car. As I pass it, I take a moment to peep my head inside. All of John’s equipment has been tossed into the corner of the room, most of his sensors and lights upside-down or lying in pieces on the floor. His big monitors are shut off and his computer is missing. Probably one of the things Tino took after they got him out of his room.

In Jake’s car, a chill settles over my body as I think about all the sleepless nights Jake must’ve spent here, pouring out his soul into the edges of his diary. But I have little time to think about that. Rounding the corner, I’m confronted with the man who almost caused my death, and the saddest erases from my face.

John looks awful. Normally so put together, he now looks like a scrap of fabric unweaving at the seams. One of the lenses in his glasses is broken, and his lip is fat and puffy. He must’ve found himself on the wrong end of Tino’s fist, but I don’t feel sorry for him—and he doesn’t feel sorry for me. His face is hard and uncomforting, dark eyes scanning every inch of my face, waiting for some spark of vulnerability, but I don’t let him see through my cracked interior. He doesn’t hold the cards here. I do.

“Good morning,” I sneer, sitting down on the edge of the desk. John’s arms are wrapped behind him, locked behind one of the antiques. He can’t move, and it’s killing him. He’s not a big man, but his brain outsmarts any of our physical blows. He’s a threat, even if he can’t throw a punch, and he knows this. His eyes don’t leave mine. He might be a lot of things, but he’s not a coward. “Surprised to see me alive?”

His nostrils flare. Smart or not, he’s useless at keeping his emotions in check. I can read him like an open book. “Don’t test me,” he snarls. “I’m not playing your little games.”

I glance down at the bagel, and instead of giving it to him, I take a hefty bite, chewing slowly to make sure he notices. He does, and fear flashes on his face for a minute. I don’t care. I want to make him hungry. I want him to feel my pain. “They’ll probably have loads of fun games to play in prison,” I say, swallowing, but prison doesn’t scare John. I know what does. “You can make a name for yourself in the Scrabble industry, seeing as you’re going to be a nobody here soon.”

His teeth are on edge. I can hear it. Just like Lori’s immature addiction to fame, John’s just as sick, and he knows it. Being forgotten is not on his agenda—and had he successfully proved to the world that Camille’s ghost killed off two teenagers on the hunt for her dead husband’s mine, he’d be thriving in the limelight. He says nothing, so I press on. “So sorry to hear about your show,” My fake smile isn’t supportive, and it shouldn’t be. “Maybe you can start a documentary about what they do to murderers in prison.”

John opens his mouth, but it’s not his voice I hear. “Attempted murder,” Frank says from behind. He’s barely in the doorway, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks more irritated at me than John, the man who almost left him stranded in the desert. He motions to the hallway, and I relent, pushing the plate with a half-eaten bagel in John’s direction.

I storm out to the hallway, my attitude chasing me around the corner. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Frank says, pointing to the doorway. “Stop beating a dead horse. I’m just as pissed as you are, but going in there and torturing him won’t make you feel any better, no matter how hard you try.”

“I’m just trying to make him squirm,” I whisper, my breath coming out harsh and jagged. “It’s called an investigation tactic. Ever heard of that one, agent?”

The name stings him, just like I intended. He purses his lips together. “You won’t get any more information out of him, no matter how many other tactics you’ve got hidden in your back pocket. Tino was at it all night with him while you were sleeping. We got everything we need to know.”

We. It hurts more than he means, and the words start to fall out of my mouth. “He almost killed us, Frank,” My voice is growing louder with every sentence, but I don’t care if John hears. I don’t care if everyone on the train hears. “He left us out there to starve, and all you’re thinking about is being polite? What is the matter with you?”

My screaming does nothing. Frank stands still as stone, his face neutral. He’s not intimidated by me. He never has been. “I know what he did,” His voice cuts glass. “He’s going to pay for it for the rest of his life. You’re just making it worse. There’s no need to bother him anymore.”

“No need?” My throat rips open. “Did you ever think, just for a second, Frank, that you’re not always right? That what you say, and what you do, can hurt people?” People like me almost comes out, but I don’t let it.

I expect some kind of visceral reaction, but Frank is a trained agent. He’s done this a thousand times, worked his way out of an argument before it reaches the surface, avoided any sort of connection with anyone besides his brother. He forgot how to feel for me, yet he feels for a criminal locked up in the other room. It’s like I’m the only one immune to his care.  He shut off a long time ago, and I was the one who flipped the switch.

The muscles in Frank’s jaw clench. “Do you ever think, Nancy, that what you say, and what you do, can hurt people?” He’s spitting back my words at me. We’re not talking about John anymore. We’re not even talking about the case. My face ignites a curtain of red. I don’t want to be having this conversation. It’s been too long. The subject is dead and gone.

Things are different now. I said those words to him, but it’s me who has a hard time believing them. I yearn for the people we used to be, swirling underneath the twinkling lights at my first homecoming dance, feeling his palms press into the small of my back. That was the night things changed for him and me, when our friendship delved into deeper waters.

I’m staring at him, unable to speak, unable to think. I turn on my heel, racing towards the exit, to leap across to the other car and leave him behind. But Frank’s too good. His hand slams on the door handle, boxing me in between him and the cold metal. I can’t look at him. His brown eyes tell stories about the way things used to be, but I can’t face those memories. I was busy making new memories with the shy boy back home that bought me flowers, held my hand, called me every night, showered me with compliments and made me feel electrified. But even Ned can’t do what Frank does. Ned can’t make my heart beat out of my chest and crumble to pieces at the same time.

Part of me wants to reach out to Frank, to grasp onto the folds of his shirt and beg him to leave me alone forever. But I’m caught in the endless cycle of hating him and loving him. He set the trap and I walked right into it. I shouldn’t have come on this godforsaken adventure, shouldn’t have placed myself right where he wanted.

“Don’t,” he says, peering down at me. “Don’t leave again.”

It almost makes me laugh aloud. He was the one who left me all those years ago, the sad girl in River Heights that stained her sheets with mascara, crying over a boy miles away. I didn’t cry about Frank these days. He plagued my night terrors for years before I finally shut him out. But this isn’t a dream. He’s real, breathing, standing right in front of me, and I can’t escape.

I’m weak. This time, it’s not from sleep deprivation or a couple days without food. It rattles deep into my bones, almost pulling me down to the floor. My hands shake. No. Not this. I can’t do this to myself again. I promised I wouldn’t disappoint anyone anymore, but here I am, disappointing myself, disappointing the boy I left back home, swimming in Frank’s bronze eyes.

He’s pleading with me but remains still, keeping his hand on the door handle and the other by his side. He won’t touch me. He won’t do anything I don’t want. Even after all these years, he rests in the palm of my hand. He knows where my allegiances lie. He knows Ned has a giant teddy bear and a bouquet of flowers waiting for me at the train station. He knows who I sleep with at night. But Frank doesn’t move, as still as a statue, watching the emotions whip across my face.

He’s hurting, is all I can think, watching his big eyes travel the length of my body. He’s hurting and I’m letting him hurt.

His fingers find the edge of my chin, and I don’t pull away. I should, but I don’t because I’m weak and so tired of this charade, this game we’re playing. I want it all the stop. The rumbling of the train drowns out the sound of my heart, nestled in the middle of my throat. His hands are rough and calloused, working their way along the side of my face, finally settling along my cheek. He waits for me, waits for the hesitance, waits for me to pull back. I’ve gotten so used to running away that even Frank knows when it’s coming. He strokes the side of my face, and I lean into him, kneading my head into his palm.

But then his hand is gone, and the cold slaps my face stronger than any insult could. His hand falls off the handle. He’s letting me go. He’s giving up. He’s giving up on this. On me. He takes a couple careful steps back, his eyes hollow and dead, and turns away from me. In a matter of seconds, he’s gone. 

We return to Copper Gorge. It’s nightfall by the time we reach the old town. The moonlight dips in and out of view, shrouded by a mask of heavy clouds that work their way lazily across the sky. In the darkness, the buildings cut sharp silhouettes against the dirt road. Even the neon lights of the station seem to blink out of existence, the letters flickering, painting the pavement with pale colors.

I practically fall off the train, the autumn breath chasing my every move. I needed to get away from that train, from Jake’s loneliness. It sticks to every inch of the place, infecting me like a parasite. Now, in the bleak moonlight, I feel whole again, even though half my heart sleeps on the train.

Joe follows me outside, his hair a mop of stark white underneath the florescence. Even Tino hops off to stretch his legs a little on the solid ground, his face long and confused. We’re all confused. Lori barely spoke to me after my rescue, too embarrassed to even look me in the face. It’s not her that I blame, but she feels the guilt anyway. I know that feeling. I know how it feels to hold guilt that’s not your own.

It doesn’t take long before I notice Joe following me up the steps to the crypts, fidgeting with the key I found in Jake’s desk drawer. Another break in the case is what I need. There’s a lot of things I need, but this one will be a good enough distraction to take me away from what I left on the train.

I don’t stop Joe. I’m tired of fighting and my throat feels coarse and raw. Besides, he’s not here to talk. The vents on the train are so permeable it’s possible he heard the whole thing with Frank hours ago, but I don’t dare ask him. Besides, there’s nothing he could say that would make me feel any better. I was dating his best friend. My allegiances might be skewed, but Joe’s are torn between a friend and his brother. I couldn’t ask him to speak about that, even if my mind was racing with a million questions. I hurt too many people today.

My fist bangs against the metal gate. It’s the dead of night, but I wanted the keeper to be around still. It’s foolish thinking. The caretaker probably has a life, a family, some solace from all this death. But to my surprise, his ghastly voice echoes off the tiny hill. “Yes?”

“I need to see Ace Mill,” I say, fumbling over the name. He opens the gate just long enough for Joe and I to squeeze through, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the night almost as quickly as he came. With the key in hand, I scour the different name plates until I find the one I’m looking for.

It’s not as beautiful as Camille’s, but it’s just as terrifying. There’s no stained glass, only dirty windows infested with moths and coated in a thick layer of grime. My footprints leave marks on the floors as the dust flies up to greet us, swirling through the air in tiny bursts. The coffin, a giant, marble looking thing, is covered in it too. No one has been here in years.

At first glance, the room is not remarkable. There are no delicate carvings into the stone, no sculptures decorating the windowpanes. Whatever life this man lived was boring and unfulfilling because he has nearly nothing to show for it. There are not even any mementos at the end of his coffin, no dead flowers or pieces of clothing or anything that would suggest he was alive at all. But somehow, he was important to Jake Hurley, and therefore important to me.

Joe hesitates by the foot of the stairs, barely visible in the light. He watches me work, combing over the intricacies of the coffin, straining to see. I think back to my time in the cavern and how bad I need Frank’s flashlight, but I stop myself before the thought snowballs into something else. I’ll never ask Frank for anything ever again.

My foot scuffs up against something, and when I look down, there’s a little white square emerging out of the dust. Picking it up, I realize it’s a photograph. There’s a young gentleman in suspenders, holding a woman close. He looks happy.

Joe’s behind me so suddenly I nearly drop the picture. “That looks like Jake and Camille.”

He’s right. I’d seen pictures of them dotting the walls of the train. But what would a picture of the two of them be in another man’s grave? Did Jake leave this here for Ace to have? “But why is it here?” I mumble aloud.

“Wait…what’s this guy’s name again?” Joe says, wrapping his knuckles against the coffin.

“Ace Mill,” I say, joining his thought process. “Ace Mill.” I repeat, louder this time.

“A-C-E-M-I-L-L.” Joe draws the name in the air. “What else do those letters spell?”

Camille. Of course. It’s so obvious I feel stupid, running my hands along the side of the coffin. “The note said to ask for Ace Mill. Camille.” I say, feeling the blood pound in my ears. “This is it. This has to be it, Joe. Help me move this.”

“If it’s not, you’re apologizing to the skeleton.”

He takes the left end and I grip the right, sliding back the top of the coffin with all my might. It weighs a ton, and even Joe can feel the resistance, the veins sprouting on his forehead like little flower stems. We push until my arms feel like jello, but there’s only a tiny little crack to see through. No much work, and little progress. It’s a feeling familiar to me.

Joe’s eyes glint. “Look,” He says, craning his neck to see in through the little sliver. “It’s gold.” Through the moonlight wafting in the muddy windows, I can barely see the gleam of gold bars underneath the slab of cement. There are stacks of them piled up to the top, all symmetric in order, creating rows and rows that go back farther than I can see. Joe is all smiles. “You did it.”

I’d heard the compliment so many times before, but this one doesn’t feel as satisfying than the others because Joe is just being nice. He means what he says, but he and I know there’s more to it. There’s someone else who fits in here, someone he knows I don’t want to talk about.

Bravery runs in their family. Joe clears his throat. “He tried, you know.”

I’ve already got one foot on the first step, but I stop. “What?”

“He tried to get us to move back,” he sniffs. “He begged our parents for days. Weeks. He looked up all these old buildings for Dad to move ATAC back to River Heights. He wanted it so badly.”

The color melts from my face. “Oh,” I say. It’s not the response he wants.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Joe brushes passed me, already focused on something I can’t see. “But I can tell you that he tried. Really, he did. He loved you.”

Loved. Past tense.

“It was a long time ago.” I say, meeting him at the top. The feelings of euphoria about finding the treasure are long gone. I stare at Joe, trying to read his face. He looks a lot like Frank, with kinder eyes and fuller lips. Not even the color of his hair can deceive the genetics. Their blood runs strong together.

But what he says next is enough to knock the breath right out of me. “My mom tells me stories about your mom sometimes.” He kicks at the grass. “They were friends.”

He doesn’t have to tell me what I already know, but he’s doing it to be kind, to be considerate, to be the nice guy for once instead of pummeling me with feelings. Joe has a way with words. It’s something he’s always had, a skill I always envied. I don’t speak. I can’t. “My mom was the maid of honor at your parents’ wedding. Like, you know, a hundred years ago before I was born.” We. Frank and I. He’s avoiding it on purpose. “Anyway, my mom tells me all the time that she’s never seen a happier couple than your dad and mom.”

I know what he’s doing. I know what point he’s trying to make, but I don’t want to listen. I’m already halfway down the hill, but his right at my heels.

“You can’t keep doing this.” His voice is a shadow behind me. I can barely hear him over the roar of the train, springing to life again. Lori’s slim figure appears in the distance, calling me over to get back on board. I should run to her, tell her everything I’ve found, implore that the engineer set us on track for home.

But my feet are planted in place. “It’s killing him.” Joe’s voice sounds dreamy and faraway, but he means what he says.

“I thought you weren’t going to tell me what to do.”

“Maybe I lied,” He shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “But I’ve done worse.”

So have I.

I want to face him, but my body is immobile. I stare at Lori’s tiny speck, watching her pace around in confusion. “He doesn’t want me,” I say, hot tears swimming in my eyes. “He let go.”

“He’s lying,” Joe says. I want to scream. “You’re the only thing in this world he can’t ever give up.”

My mind floats to Jake Hurley, of all things. All the money in the world and he never could get over the death of his wife. Even with an extravagant train, the pain sought him out.  He could’ve give up Camille. He couldn’t let her go—even after she was already gone.

“He should,” The words stick in my throat. “I’m not worth it.”

I walk away from him, the tears streaming down my face, but Joe doesn’t follow me. I can’t hear his footsteps anymore as I blur passed Lori’s babbling. When I turn around, he’s in the same spot where I’d left him, staring up into the big orb in the sky, looking less like my old friend with every second.

Everyone congratulates me on my findings at Copper Gorge, but the compliments feel more like daggers than words.  Lori sings in my ear, talking about fame and the paparazzi, but I’m not listening. She’s convinced me to let her steal some of my spotlight, and I’m happy to do so—without her father’s money and this train, none of this would’ve been possible. Tino, on the other hand, assures me the whole thing was a test of my skill, but his praise washes over me like waves on the shore. Together, they share a cocktail at the bar, rekindling the flame they once had.

Even Charleena is in good spirits. She’s finished her book before her deadline and treats herself to a drink too. I didn’t even know there was alcohol on the train until Tino pulled a big handle out from one of the cabinets, but everyone indulges except me. I don’t miss when Joe steals a shot with Lori, much to Tino’s dismay. But happiness eludes me, and I watch them all laugh and talk with little interest, instead focusing on the bustling landscape outside.

Thoughts invade my mind like pesky flies.

Don’t leave again. Frank’s last words to me. I touch the side of my face, remembering what it felt like to be so close to him, to feel his anger pulsate. 

It’s killing him. Joe was only doing what he thought was right. Still, I can’t help but hate him for making me feel so guilty. I already twitch under guilt’s steady torture. I don’t need to feed it with any more ammunition. It’s like I’m staring into the barrel of a gun, playing roulette with my emotions. One wrong spin, and it’s over.

Hours drag on. It’ll take nearly another full day before we’re back at Union Station, and judging by the scenery, we’re somewhere in Missouri, dancing on the border of Kansas.

I’m the only one awake now. After a drunken argument, Tino stumbled back to Jake’s car and Lori fell into Charleena’s arms, weeping. She took her back into the caboose but never returned, so I assumed she went to bed. The train is still. It speeds over the terrain, not even bothering to bat an eye at the weather, which has turned dark and ugly in the past hour. I wonder if the engineer ever has time to sleep, or if he’s forced to the front, forever steering us out of trouble.

The rain pats against the window, but the sound is comforting. The glass is cool to the touch and I lean my forehead against it, trying hard to sleep into a dreamless sleep. But my detective instincts are never able to shut off, so I can hear him when he enters the room, trying his best to stay quiet. My eyes are slits. Frank rounds the table, shoving some of the forgotten papers into folder before stuffing it into his backpack. He doesn’t know I’m awake, or maybe he does. I don’t know who he is anymore.

The chill from the window encloses around my skin, but I don’t move. The train curves around a bend, throwing off my center of gravity, and I tumble forward, nearly hitting my head off the corner of the table. I throw out my arms to catch myself, landing on my hands and knees, pressing my palms into the worn carpet. There’s nothing remarkable about the pattern, but it’s either the floor or Frank, and I’m only willing to stare at one of them.

“You’re awake.”

It’s a statement, and he’s not looking for an answer. Looking up, I can see him over the tabletop, dark eyes scanning the landscape. The pattering of rain has begun to drown out the familiar noise of the train, and little teardrops swim down the glass. Rainstorms like this comforted me, but not like this. The distance between Frank and I stretches on for eons and the silence is as thick as cement.

“Couldn’t sleep.” I say, rolling onto my side to wrap my arms around my knees.

“Me neither,” His face softens, eyebrows drooping down and settling towards the center of his face. “But that’s normal for me.”

He’s making this hurt. He’s making me hurt. Every word feels like a shard of glass nicking my skin, not deep enough to cause any permanent damage, but persistent enough to cause a scar. They’re on purpose, intentional, carefully thought out and delivered, almost sounding rehearsed. I don’t say anything, but he’s not expecting a response. He’s expecting me to sit and cower at the sight of him, replay the moments before he left me broken in Jake’s car, suffer like he has suffered all these years. At this point, he’d rather have me dead then still exist in the same space as him.

“Should be there in a couple of hours,” he sniffs, throwing his bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to look down at me before heading towards the door. “Tell Ned I said hello.”

“You can tell him yourself. We’ll be at the same train station.” The words come out faster than expected, and I slam my mouth shut. Frank stops in the doorway, his left hand grazing the trim. “You know Joe is going to want to see him too.”

“My apologies for not wanting to be present,” he says, his voice flat. His teeth are on edge; I can hear the strain in his voice. “Not really sure it would be all that appropriate.”

The word makes my face grow hot. Appropriate. Like we had some sort of secret Ned wasn’t supposed to know about, a moment of lapsed judgement, a time of mixed feelings. There were no secrets between Ned and me. He knew Frank and I had our past, but he’s more than willing to overlook it because he loves me so much. That’s what you do when you love someone. You let things go.

“Don’t say it like that,” I’m on my feet now, pulling my jacket from the chair I’d been perched on. In two seconds, I’m squeezing my way through the tiny gap in the doorway, underneath his right arm. He doesn’t stop me from going, but he follows at my heels. We’re both going to the same place—to the sleeping car, away from one another, ironically three rooms apart.

“Don’t act like you’re something you’re not.”

Frank has a way of stopping me dead in my tracks. I’m anchoring myself to the platform between cars, the rain dripping down the back of my neck. The roar of the train is louder now, and I watch the tracks disappear beneath me, letting the water settle in the folds of my shirt. “Don’t act like something I’m not,” I whisper to the sky, feeling his eyes burning into my back. Things are different now. “Pretty solid advice from someone like you.”

Frank’s like me. He has no time to play games. His emotions have already been hung up to dry, packed away for another time. He edges passed, running his hands through his hair, already slick from the rain. “All right, Nancy. Whatever you say.”

He’s already hopped to the other side, but I’m fuming. Passive aggressiveness has always been his specialty, even when interrogating suspects on a case. It seems to be a universal dislike, and right now it’s making my blood boil. I pile after him, expecting to feel the smack of my face against his broad back, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, my foot slides across the platform, sending me flying towards the little gap in between cars. Panicked, I try to grab on to something, but there’s nothing around me except open air and raindrops and Frank’s ghost disappearing into the sleeping car. I scream, the sound dissipating into the black night, and prepare for impact. Once I’m off the train, they won’t find me again. With any luck, I’ll land in the middle of the tracks and get run over by an oncoming train. Maybe that would make the ache in my heart stop. Maybe that would change things. Maybe I’d be happier in the afterlife. Maybe things would make sense.

But I don’t hit the cold earth. Instead, I land onto hard arms, pulling my discombobulated body into the next train car. I’m gasping, choking on the stale air, trying to piece together what just happened. Frank’s crouched over me, pushing wet tendrils of hair from my forehead, watching the color seep back into my cheeks. I’m cold, and I can feel his heat, but I don’t dare move towards him. I shiver instead, wiggling myself up against the wall, jumping at every little bump. I clutch my wrist, feeling the singe of pain run down the length of my arm.

“Are you—” He stops, noticing my face becoming damp again, this time by hot, sticky tears. “What do you need?”

“I need you to stop,” I push at his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense at my touch. My wrist sings in pain, but I don’t care. He’s unmovable, a human stone, but I keep pushing, flattening my palm against his collarbone. “I can’t do this anymore, Frank. I can’t.”

His hand wraps around my wrist, but he doesn’t squeeze his fingers against it. He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the tender spot on my wrist before lowering it back down to my side. “It’s just not the right time,” he says, hovering over me. “It’s never been the right time.”

“He loves me,” I choke. My breath comes out jagged and short. It’s like me to fall apart in front of him. I’d done it so many times before. This time was no different. “He loves me Frank, don’t you get it?”

I expect Frank to draw away, to wince at the words, but he doesn’t. He nods. “I know he does.”

I don’t want him to justify this to me. I don’t want him to be okay with what I’m saying. I want him to fight for me, I want him to reach out and tug at my shirt and tell me it’s all bullshit, that Ned is just a flake and I deserve better. I want him to find the longing in the face, to find the pieces of my heart, to understand. But he’s Frank Hardy, and he’s kind and thoughtful and miraculous and he’d never in a million years do anything to keep me from Ned. Not even now, in the shadows of the hallway, our voices dropped to whispers, our face inches apart. He won’t.

“You left me in that car yesterday,” I say, and his jaw tightens. I find strength in my voice. “You left me.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he says. “Your mind was made up.”

“You could’ve convinced me, Frank. You always could’ve.”

“That wouldn’t have been right.” He falls into a seat, leaning up against the wall opposite of me. “He makes you happy.”

“So do you.”

“I’m not around like he is,” He trails his fingers against the floor. “He’s good for you.”

“Please, just for once, just for fucking once, Frank, don’t try to rationalize everything that comes out of my mouth,” I spit, the tears dripping onto the carpet. I throw my hands into the floor, expecting a noise, but there isn’t one, and my wrist becomes aflame with pain again, tearing up my forearm. “Just be honest with me, please, that’s all I’m asking.”

Frank opens his mouth, but then closes it shut. He’s too methodical to say anything without speaking, too calculated to let his emotions show without a second thought. His words need meaning, and without it, they’re just letters rolling off his tongue. He swallows his thought, and although his gaze lingers on my face, I can tell he’s not looking at me. He’s looking inward, at himself, trying to piece together something I broke a long time ago.

Time passes by in suffocating silence, until his words rip through like a knife. “I’m honestly pissed at you.”

“Okay, and why—”

“I’m pissed at you because you didn’t wait. You didn’t even give us—you didn’t give me a chance,” The words are rushing from him now, like blood gushing from a wound. It hurts just as bad. The thick veins on his neck are beginning to stick out. “I might have left River Heights Nancy, but that wasn’t my choice. You were my choice. I chose to leave myself with you, and you kicked me in the stomach and left me to bleed. You left me.”

It stings far more than my wrist ever could. But he doesn’t give me a chance to retaliate. “I tried, okay? I tried to go back to River Heights. I tried to get my parents to move again. And when I finally came down to visit, and saw you with—” His face screws up. “—him, I tried to be supportive. I tried to erase the messages on my phone, I tried to burn the pictures, I tried to move on. I tried so hard to be the best friend for you. But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

The thought of him tossing old photographs of me into a pit of flame makes my brain explode. That’s exactly how I feel. Enclosed in flames licking at my ankles, burning at the edges, searing open wounds, threatening to swallow me entirely.

“I’m pissed at you because you make it so fucking difficult,” He slumps back down again, his back hitting the wall with a smack. “I’m pissed because you’re the one thing I can’t seem to forget about, no matter how hard I try.”

My voice is small. “Why would you need to forget about me? I didn’t—”

His voice, in contrast, is loud and sharp. “I need to forget about you because you’re like this insufferable rot tearing my brain apart,” The color drains from my face. He looks like he’s about to apologize, but he doesn’t. “You hurt people, Nancy. Even yourself.”

There’s a reason why going on cases halfway across the world is so easy for me. For once, I’m someone else. Teenage sleuth, amateur detective, happy teenager just looking for adventure. I don’t have to deal with the pain of my mother’s death, or my father’s slow decline into chronic loneliness, or the fact that I treat my friends like absolute shit and my boyfriend like pond scum. I haven’t talked to Bess or George in well over a month, and yet they live less than a mile away, two streets over, in a town where everyone knows everyone. I couldn’t even figure out why. They’ve both got souls of warmth and compassion and yet, whenever I get the chance, I dip out faster than a shooting star. I can’t be called to settle, not even for the sake of my friends. I can’t even call them my friends anymore.

And then there was Ned. Someone who’d openly professed his love for me three months after we’d begun dating just because I needed to know. He was always there, the perfect foundation. I’d perfected the art of masking guilt with feelings of justice. I need to go, Ned. I need to go help someone with something that the police probably could handle by themselves. I could have a house and two kids with him, white picket fence and a dog, all wrapped up in a bow. I could have it, if I wanted it, but I don’t. I could have a lot of things if I didn’t choose to push away everyone and everything that mattered. I’m just a shell of a girl, probably someone my own mother wouldn’t recognize. If she saw how I acted, she’d be mortified at my selfishness, the way I combat every single act of affection, the way I run away from it like the plague. My mother was a runner, too. She ran for adventure. I run from love.

I stare at the window behind Frank’s head, watching the gleam of water rolling down the side. I wish so badly to exchange places with a raindrop, to feel the rush of the chase and then hit the ground and disappear. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’d just be an irritation, a drop of water, something else to ruin someone’s walk to work. I wouldn’t be so dangerous.

“Okay,” I muster, feeling the weight of a thousand bricks on my shoulders.

“No, not just ‘okay’,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Just for this once, I’ll be the best friend again. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I expect tears to stream down my face again, but none come. I’ve cried too much and my body is tired of it. My skin has outgrown my bones and wishes for another host to suck the life from. “You’re right,” I push my hands back over my knees. “I hurt people.”

“You also save people,” He clears his throat. “There are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t be the same if it weren’t for your help.”

“They don’t cancel each other out,” I bite. “You don’t need to make me feel better. I get it. I’m a horrible person, and I have to live with it.”

“I’m a horrible person too.” It’s not the response I’m expecting. In fact, I would’ve never guessed those words to come from his mouth. “Everyone has a part of themselves they wish they could change.”

“Most people wish for a flat stomach or a smaller nose,” I shift, leaning my head against the cold wall. It’s comforting, but only for a second. “I wish I could be someone else.”

“Sometimes I don’t listen to Joe,” Frank blurts out. I glance back at him, and he rubs the back of his neck, kneading the sore spots of muscle. “Sometimes, he has a really good idea. Genius, honestly. But I don’t listen to him. I try to convince him that it’s dumb, or it’ll never work. I make him feel inadequate. He’s my baby brother, and I make him feel like he’s not good enough.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Look, all I’m saying is the darkest parts of yourself have the ability to change if you want them to change,” He’s suddenly in front of me again, his stubble peeking out from his strong jaw, the waft of his cologne filling the space between us. My stomach turns. “But you can’t just give up.”

“It’s a lost cause.” I stare down at my lap. I’m a lost cause sounds more fitting, but I don’t correct myself.

“Is that what you say when you’re stumped on a case? ‘It’s a lost cause’? Is that what you tell those families, those people you help?” I know what he’s doing, but I can’t seem to get myself to care. “If you wouldn’t say it to someone else’s face, someone asking you for help, then you shouldn’t say it about yourself.”

“That’s different, Frank,” I bat my hand at him. “Those people aren’t asking me to fix them. They’re asking me to help with an issue. A static problem. Something without the complexity of human emotion. A project. A puzzle. That’s what I do, Frank. I solve puzzles.”

A smile twitches at his lips. “Oh, I know,” He chews his lower lip to keep the grin from widening. “You are a walking puzzle. You’re the only one I couldn’t ever figure out.”

It’s supposed to be a compliment, but it reads more like an insult. More frustration, more annoyance I’ve caused him, all because I’m too wrapped up in myself and didn’t give enough to him when he was around. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I didn’t think it would,” He sighs. “Look at me.”

I’m still fixated on the spot on the wall, but he pulls my chin up to him, his forefinger and thumb wrapped around the circumference of my jaw. It doesn’t hurt, but my heart plummets deep into my stomach. He scans my face, taking note of all the signs of sleep deprivation, probably, until he lands back onto my eyes, puffy and swollen. “You will never be a lost cause to me,” he says, but I can barely hear him. I’m focused on the way his lips move around each word, each time revealing a glint of his white teeth. “I can’t lose you again.”

 It’s late. Out of my peripherals, I can see the colors of dawn inching into the horizon, miles away. It seems like forever ago Frank and I were doomed to Brimstone Canyon, left to starve and rot in the hot Colorado sun. It’s only been two days, but I can still feel the watchful eye of the heat beating down on me like a prisoner, watching me scald. This feeling is similar. Just like on Jake’s car, Frank’s waiting for me. He’s waiting for me to choose. Again. But this time the choice is different. No longer is it a competition between him and the boy he’ll never live up to, the boy with all the right things to say, hours away at a train station waiting for me. Frank knows he doesn’t measure up. He doesn’t have the same charisma, he doesn’t have the Nickerson charm that used to send my head through the roof, he doesn’t even have Ned’s compassion. He has anger, towards me, for the things I’ve done to him, and yet he’s giving me a choice not to give up on myself, not to wither away into next to nothing, not to succumb to all my dark parts.

We’re hours away from Union Station. Maybe even minutes. I have no idea how long I’ve spent in this hallway, watching my mind unfold in front of Frank Hardy. And yet I can’t seem to stop myself from closing the space between us, pressing my lips against his, feeling something in the middle of my chest skyrocket towards the moon. I’m weak. He knows how broken I am, how broken I made him. In any good story, two broken people would live a life of fullness, of happiness, with one another. But this is no fairytale, and two people with bruised emotions and catastrophic tension will never work. It can’t.

In this moment, it does. My lips move around his until he finally slams back into me, the force so strong it knocks my head back into the wall with a resounding smack. He grips the side of my face, pulling at strands of my hair, trying to take me with him, make me stay, change the course of our lives even though we both know it’s not changing. He lives in Bayport. I live in River Heights. We’re too far apart, too distant, too alike to make this work.

I’m still exploring the textures of his lips, but he draws away from me. The cold returns immediately, like a wet blanket. “I can’t—”

I don’t let him finish. I know what he’s going to say. Instead, I just shrug at him, using what little strength I have in my body to slink up the side of the wall and stand upright. He doesn’t move for a moment, still crouched by my feet, but when he does stand, the shadows dance at my shoulders. I don’t wait for him to say anything. “I’m okay,” I say, gesturing to my wrist, but he knows I’m not talking about my sprain.

I slip down the hall, finally disappearing into my sleeping car, but I don’t sleep the rest of the night.

Joe bangs on my door what feels like moments later, but when I slide open the door, sunlight spills into the hallway. Frank is nowhere in sight, but I didn’t expect to see him today. He and I both know that last night was the last time we’d see each other in a long time.

“All deboard?” Joe laughs, trying to salute me. I shuffle my suitcase out, catching a glimpse of Tino piling off the train, a handcuffed John Grey in front of him. “I don’t know what conductors say when you get off the train.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say, giving him my best smile, and Joe pretends, for my sake, that it’s genuine. He helps me carry my suitcase off the train, setting it beside his own and another brown one, but his brother is nowhere to be found. “I think Ned’s already here. I checked my phone this morning.”

I scan the bustling station, looking around for a familiar mop of sandy-blonde hair. I’m met with nothing but empty faces and lifeless bodies wandering around to the next terminal, dragging suitcases behind them. I can’t seem to find Ned anywhere, but then I see a vacant body on the outskirts of the terminal, planted on a bench. He’s unmistakable, impossible to not see once I’ve spotted him. And, like I’d expect, there’s a big balloon next to him.

I almost run to him, but then I remember Joe. “Bye, you goon,” I smirk, throwing my hands around his shoulders. He’s bonier than his brother, and his shoulder blades prod at my arms. When I pull away, the lopsided smile on his face disappears. “Don’t worry, I said my goodbyes last night.”

“He’s probably just—”

I throw a hand up. “Joe, it’s fine.”

He takes a couple of steps back, kicking my suitcase forward. I grab it by the handle and walk towards the bench in the distance, keeping tabs on Ned’s frame. He can’t see me yet, but he’s searching the crowd for my face.

I’m almost halfway there when a shoulder knocks into mine. I spin a little, using the suitcase to steady myself, and whip around to see the perpetrator, only to be met with dark brown eyes. There’s a curtain of brown hair hanging over his forehead, but he looks the same as last night. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, but then he’s gone, disappearing into the faces of the crowd. I search for him, but come up empty.

That’s when a booming voice behind me takes me by surprise. Ned loops his arms around my waist, pulling me close to kiss my neck. “I’m so happy to see you.”

I’m still looking into the crowd, searching for Frank’s familiar face. It would’ve been easy to disappear with him, hop onto a train and abandon any remnants of our lives back home. Right before Ned can pull me around to face him fully, Jake Hurley’s words float through my head, the very last thing he said to Camille before he swallowed a bullet. 

I love you. I will see you soon.