Page 26 of Firefly Effect

Something tells me the subject of her daughter weighs on Francine. I can’t help but wonder if her daughter’s death plays into that depth of sorrow too.

“Of course.” I smile and fill a glass with ice before topping it with two shots of the thick, sweet honey-colored liquor. “You struck me as a martini girl.”

Francine takes the glass and swirls it slowly, watching as the liquid coats the inside of the glass. “That was the old me. The married me.” She meets my eyes then narrows hers playfully. “Always so predictable.” When the glass’s rim hits her lips, she tips her head back, gulping down half the liquor in one swift swallow. Afterward, she sets the glass down and grins. “Not anymore, baby girl.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Maybe your daughter was just intimidated by your talents. It’s a tough job living up to our parents’ expectations, you know?”

Francine shakes her head. “I wish that was the reason—that would mean there might have been a chance of saving her from the dark path she went down. No, my Becca was a night owl, partying until all hours, hanging out at the wrong clubs. Eventually, she just stopped coming home.” She takes another sip of her whiskey. “Until years later when she turned up three months pregnant.” Francine’s tone shifts. “I finally had my baby girl back. Well, until Lucy was born, anyway.”

I frown, curiosity about all the small details I’m missing eating away at me. “She left Lucy after she was born?”

Her face ashen, Francine nods. “Said she was going to the grocery store and never came home. Lucy had just turned one.” She takes another sip of her whiskey. “After I found out Becca died, I got her phone back and started to put together clues as to who the father was.”

“Geez. That’s—a lot.” I have no other words for what I’m hearing, for what Francine and Lincoln went through to become a family for Lucy. As much sense as it makes now in context, there’s nothing normal about it. “I’m sorry”—and I hate that I’m even about to ask this question, but I have to—“can I ask how Becca died?”

“An overdose. A mixture of things I couldn’t even begin to name for you. It’s a miracle Lucy is as healthy as she is. God knows what Becca was doing before she knew she was pregnant.”

I reach across the bar and cover her hand with mine. “Lucy is perfect because your daughter, for twelve whole months, was her very best self. In her own way, she loved Lucy very much. She cared enough to make sure her baby was healthy, even if she was struggling.”

Francine nods, her eyes meeting mine. “Thank you for saying that, dear.”

“I mean it.” I squeeze her hand.

A noise from the back corner of the bar steals my attention. Turning back to the nook, I see Lucy fussing in Lincoln’s lap. He stays calm through it all, talking to her gently, kissing her cheek, and then carrying her over to where Francine sits.

“This baby goose is hungry,” he says.

The adorable nickname makes me smile, even though I don’t understand the meaning behind it.

“I should get Lucy home,” Lincoln says to Francine first before looking at me. “Thanks again for showing her your books. I’m sure she’ll be begging to come back sometime soon.”

Lucy buries her face in his armpit, and I have to bite the inside of my lip to not laugh.

“Anytime,” I say. “Thanks for swinging by.”

“Next time, I’ll be a paying customer,” Lincoln adds. “I promise.”

I wave my hand to dismiss his thoughtful comment. “Don’t worry about it. Have a good night.”

After Lincoln walks out with Lucy, Francine pushes her unfinished glass toward me and leans into the counter like she wants to be sure I can hear when she says, “He’s a good man.” Something about her tone tells me she’s acknowledging this for herself as well as for me. “A handsome man, too. Also, very single.” She winks and hops off the stool. “Anyway, do what you want with that unsolicited information.”

Gratitude fills me up. Francine might be completely overstepping, but it’s nice to feel like someone is on my side. I can’t help but smile long after Lincoln, Lucy, and Francine depart, floating around the establishment while tending to customers and ignoring Kyle’s amused glances.

When it’s closing time, I shut the blinds while Kyle sweeps, then he begins to mop while I count the till. We’re a well-oiled machine. All the while, a late-night news program blares from the flatscreen behind the bar. Usually I can tune out the noise and stay focused on the mission at hand, and I do a good job of that… until something the broadcaster says makes my head turn to face the screen.

A reporter is standing in the middle of the woods at Deep Creek Campground, her face filled with bewilderment as fireflies flash their synchronous lights all around her.

“And there you have it, folks,” she says. “Firefly season is at its peak. You won’t want to miss this natural phenomenon in action.” She points a finger sternly at the camera. “Remember the rules. You can look, but don’t touch.”

A chuckle comes from the other side of the bar where Kyle is removing his apron. “That’s right,” he mutters to no one in particular, “or the Firefly Man will come and getcha.” Then he locks eyes with me and flinches, like he forgot who was in the room. He offers me an apologetic smile. “See you tomorrow?”

Sometimes it blows my mind how my childhood playmates can speak of the Firefly Man like he’s still just a campfire tale when there’s an actual serial killer on the loose who has earned that name. He’s still out there, claiming victims throughout the Appalachians.

Then again, my peers hadn’t been close to Carley like me. And they weren’t the ones who had stumbled upon her dead body.

For a second, I almost forget to answer his question. Janessa’s party. My stomach knots in a way it hasn’t for years. Get ahold of yourself, Evie. I can go to the picnic area. I can stay for a short time to celebrate Armando. It’s not like I have to go anywhere near the campground.

Sucking in a slow, deep breath, I try to hide my anxiety behind a smile. “Of course. Tomorrow.”

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