Page 36 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“Since you asked.” Tristan Blythe stood, easing his six-foot-two frame from his desk chair. He reached for a thick volume from a shelf behind him and surfed through several pages until he reached whatever page he was looking for. He turned it toward her and pushed it across the desk.
Wren noted a familiar quote from Tolkien highlighted on the page, her father’s scribblings marring the margins. She didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. She knew what it said, and she knew her father would enlighten her for the millionth time.
“Tolkien felt that reality was the fabric from which we are cut. It is who we are, and what surrounds us. Fairy tales are meant only to center us in the actual world using fictional environments. They’re not an escape from reality, they’re areturn toreality.”
Wren waited. As expected, he continued.
“If Meghan Riviera insists the fairy tale of Ava Coons is real, then deep inside her something is seeking to validate her reality with a story.”
Something in her father’s eyes made Wren question whether he was speakingjustabout Meghan. “Your point?” Wren had learned to be blunt with her father.
“She’s avoiding the truth by facing it in a tale. That of Ava Coons.”
“So youdon’tthink there’s even a possibility that Jasmine was taken?”
A glower flashed across Tristan Blythe’s face. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying her daughter is missing. Meghan’s insistence that someone took Jasmine may very likely be an avoidance of the basic truth: Her daughter has wandered off and gotten lost.”
“But she’ll be found,” Wren concluded.
“Will she?” Her father sat back in his chair and tapped the open volume of Tolkien quotes and philosophies, along with the author’s biography. “The other notable difference between realityand fantasy is that fantasy creates hope, whereas reality ... well, one might say we’re dealing with odds.”
“What about faith?” Wren challenged.
“Of course. Faith. The results of faith are the parts of the story, fantasy or reality, we cannot predict. God becomes part of an equation of statistics and imagination. It changes everything. Except the root fact that fantasy is still fantasy. We must always face reality, no matter how painful.”
“So you’re saying, in your roundabout way, that helping Meghan Riviera pursue her theory that Ava Coons”—Wren caught sight of her father’s raised eyebrow—“thatsomeoneabducted her daughter and made her vanish is akin to encouraging delusion?”
Her father folded his hands in front of him, resting them on the desk and leveling a resigned look on his daughter. “Precisely. And we all know the longer the clock ticks, the more likely the little girl will not be found. We don’t want to foster false hopes out of mercy for the individual. It’s a much shorter height to fall from when one faces reality.”
“Well, I’m going to factor faith back into this equation,” Wren mumbled, hating that her father’s calculated philosophy was tremendously discouraging.
He tapped an index finger on his desk. “And that, Arwen, is exactly what Samwise Gamgee would do.”
She wasn’t sure she liked being compared to a hobbit.
“She’s doing good tonight.” Eddie appeared in the doorway to the living room. Wren looked up from her phone. Her eyes had fixated on its screen for far too long, scrolling through reel after reel of people dancing senselessly, playing practical jokes, and her personal favorites, cats and kittens doing funny things. They were thirty-second moments of escape. For all her dad’s lecturing about the importance of re-centering on reality, Wren felt even more anxious to escape it tonight.
Jasmine was still missing.
Ben had responded to her text that said she’d meet Meghan at the Rec Barn in the morning. His response had been curt. Wren stuffed down her guilt that she was doing the wrong thing. She couldn’t squelch her feeling that Meghan wasn’t chasing a ghost. That maybe—maybe there was something connected here, between Wren’s own dream, the woman Jasmine had seen, and even ... even Ava Coons—as ridiculous as that sounded.
Eddie flopped onto the couch next to her, causing Wren to bounce on her cushion. He lifted the remote for the TV and flicked it on to begin an absentminded scrolling through the Netflix options.
“True crime?” He gave Wren a side-eye.
“No.” The last thing she needed was more reality to invade her attempt to escape tonight.
“Ghost hunting?” Eddie was teasing her now, but she wasn’t in the mood for it.
Wren gave him a small scowl. “I should go hang out with your mom.”
“Not a bad idea.” Eddie settled deeper into the couch, which brought his body closer to hers.
Wren could feel the warmth from his leg, his side, his arm, all of which touched her platonically. She edged away. It still affected her for some reason. She could smell the fresh scent of shampoo on his freshly showered damp hair. His deodorant was piney and strong.
Eddie flicked the channel to one of the political debate stations, but twisted to look at her. “What?”
She didn’t realize she’d been studying him. “Nothing.”
