Blair drums her nails on the dash. “He talked about wanting things. You just mentioned it too. And I’ve been thinking, what do I really want? I mean, what do Iactually wantthat isn’t what I’m supposed to want? Because there’s a difference.”
“I think you want a lot.”
“I have ambitions maybe, but isn’t a lot of that stuff that I’m supposed to need? Good job, lots of money, all that?”
“You have your brother. How’s Max doing, anyway?”
She smiles tightly. “He’s good, but having a tough time. Being a teenager isn’t easy.”
“Nothing’s easy, but you’re right.”
“I want to take care of Max. I want to feel fulfilled and happy. I want my father to stop being a prick and my mother to come back from London. But those things are all about other people. I’m struggling to figure out what I really want.”
I try to absorb what she’s saying, but I have a hard time pinning down what she means. Mostly because there are so many things I want: money, power, love, respect, joy. Cars and clothes and jewelry and nice vintage records. I want to travel and laugh and feel things, feel them deeply, in such a way that I’m pockmarked by all my experiences, scarred and grooved with all the moments of my life.
But something resonates. Something deep and primal. What do I want? What do I really want? I look sideways at her and her hair’s framed by the window, the sunlight making her glow with early evening purples and blues, and she’s breathtaking in a way I can’t describe. The way she smells, the way she moves and laughs. The way she thinks and cares so damn deeply about everyone in her life.
What do I want? Maybe better to ask,whodo I want?
She changes the subject and we stick to easy topics until we roll into a town deep in the mountainous hilly region of the Poconos. It’s dark now, just after twilight, and the street signs are hard to read but eventually we navigate to a nice cottage set back half a mile from the main road alone in a wooded area. There are no lights, no cars, nothing to suggest it’s ever been occupied.
“You sure this is the place?” Blair asks, frowning out the window.
“I’m sure. Look, right next to the door. Three-twelve. That’s the right address.”
She sighs and kicks open her door. “Let’s get this over with.”
I follow her out. We approach the front door and look all over for a key: on top of the frame, under the mat, along the railing. Eventually I just try it, and the knob turns easily. “Bastard didn’t bother to lock his freaking door.”
“And he’s apparently got a priceless Roman mask in his basement.” Blair slips in after me.
The floorboards creak. I hit a light and the living room is bathed in an orange glow. The place is upscale, must’ve been renovated in the last few years, with designer furniture and oil paintings on the walls. It’s glamping, mountain-chic, and doesn’t seem like the sort of place Cowan would live in.
“Over here,” Blair says, staring into an open door. Stairs descend into a concrete basement, but we both hesitate.
“You’re thinking about how we’re about to walk into a creepy basement in some weird mountain house, right?”
“I wasn’t, but now I am, you asshole.” She glares at me. “Are you trying to freak me out?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the ghosts.”
“You prick.”
I hit the light and descend. The basement is unfinished with a bare floor and walls. There’s so much stuff it’s piled floor to ceiling, and we have to follow a narrow path around the boxes.
“Careful,” I say quietly, frowning at the way it’s all precariously stacked. “If we knock something, it’ll all topple.”
“How does he have so much stuff?”
“Maybe it’s all prop crap from his old movies.”
“God, can you imagine? There must be a fortune in this place.”
“Either that or he’s a hoarder.”
“Probably a hoarder.”
I smile to myself as we reach the far end of the room. It smells like old cardboard and musty dirt, and it takes a minute to locate the old safe. The thing looks ancient with a rusty facade and antique scrollwork around the edges and it’s smaller than I thought it would be, but when Blair kneels down to try the key, it clicks open.