Page 40 of Fall for Me

Chelsea

Iaimed my phone over the wound on my foot, focusing on the disappearing stitches as I snapped a picture. Jude insisted I send him pictures of them as they healed. He was the one in the family most interested in my injuries, on a scientific level. Probably because he’d had his fair share of them growing up as the family daredevil, and later after his surgeries during his pro-tennis career. But I had to admit, it was fascinating watching them go through the process of healing. At first I’d tried not to pay too close attention to them, but now I flipped through the pictures with a kind of grotesque fascination, watching how my skin crept ever more over each stitch. The only one that was hard for me to look at was the one on my face. It was still pretty grotesque, even with most of the swelling down. The doctors told me plastic surgery was an option in the future, but even with that, I’d have a visible scar for life.

Right across my face.

It didn’t matter. A scar wouldn’t stop me from living.

But it would keep people staring. I still hadn’t gotten used to that, and that was with the bandage still on.

I wasn’t going to let that stop me, though. Jude had insisted I send him photos daily, even though today we were meeting for lunch and he could see in person. He was keeping a record, he said. I promised myself I’d only send them for a few more days—just like I promised I’d send Cass photos of my breakfast every morning to prove to her I was eating. Between those two and Eli and Dad texting every other day just to ‘check in’, I felt a mix of deeply touched by their concern and half exasperated. Only Griffin left me alone, though he did quietly come by with a truckful of groceries before announcing he was leaving town again until Christmas. Somehow he’d managed to get all my favorite things, and that’s why at the moment, he was my favorite.

Once I heard the telltale whoosh that my photos were sent, I put my phone down, getting up to get dressed.

Today, I was going to get out of my apartment, and I was going to feel good about how I looked, despite the scars. I strode to my closet, grimacing only slightly at the pain. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had at first. I could mostly ignore it. The headaches, too, were mostly gone. The doctor said I was lucky—some people with concussions had persistent headaches for much longer. I decided that today, I’d let myself feel lucky.

I pulled on a pair of black floral-print wide-legged slacks and a snug black wool top. I toned down the volume on the pants with motorcycle boots and my favorite leather jacket. Then I spun in the mirror. Not bad. A little more springtime with the flowers than fall, but for the first time since the crash, I felt good about the way I looked. Then I found myself wondering what Seamus would think, and my cheeks flushed, both at that thought, and with irritation at myself for thinking it.

It was a week and a half since I’d gotten home. Since I’d avoided home, more accurately, and driven to Seamus Reilly’s place to hide. A burst of heat ran through me even now as I replayed that night for the hundredth time. It was absurd that I’d chosen to go there, straight from the hospital. It was even more absurd that I’d found myself opening up to him in a way I couldn’t remember having done with anyone in recent memory.

Not since Mom.

I was just heading to the bathroom to put some product into my hair when my phone buzzed. A text message. I let it wait for a moment while I shook the product through my hair.

As it turned out, I liked my hair short, especially since Cass had surprised me by offering to have her hairstylist come over and re-cut my hack job. I’d surprised myself by accepting. Sloane, who had awesome short hair herself, with a buzzed undercut on one side, hadn’t even blinked at my bandages. In only a few minutes, she shaped my choppy mass into a cut that looked more purposeful. Stylish, even. I’d been experimenting with slicking it back, which made me feel kind of badass, but today I was wearing it loose, the way Sloane had shown me.

My phone buzzed again. I knew it was Jude, responding to my scar photos. Or giving me another hint about the ‘big development’ with the Room 114 mystery he was going to reveal today over lunch.

Jude, encouraged by Dad, was convinced the east wing was haunted by the ghost of a woman named Eleanor Cleary. Supposedly, she’d been murdered in room 114 a hundred and some odd years ago by her jealous husband. The east wing, which had been boarded up for years, was part of the revitalization plans Blake had helped plan with Cass back when he was our consultant, and several months ago, Jude and Griffin, along with Cass and Blake, had made a discovery there: a room that had been built over by previous owners around a hundred years ago. Not only that, but they’d uncovered an old diary Jude swore had some secret code in it.

It aggravated Cass and Eli to no end. “It’s ridiculous,” Eli said. “How can you listen to Dad? We don’t even know if Eleanor was a real person.” Dad had gotten more and more eccentric over the past few years and had been the one to tell us about Eleanor in the first place. He’d discovered her name in some ‘haunted Vermont’ books he’d been reading that also named the Vista Grand—the previous name of the Rolling Hills resort.

“So ridiculous,” Cass agreed. “You know the rooms are going to be demolished once we get a contractor and permits in place to renovate.”

But Jude, who’d taken on the role of head ghost-hunter, was determined to solve the mystery of who Eleanor was and what had happened to her. “That’s why we have to figure this out first!”

I didn’t necessarily believe the ghost story, but I did find the whole thing fascinating. I’d seen the diary they found in Room 114—it was full of illegible code, and apparently belonged to someone with the initials JEQ—so not Eleanor Cleary, the woman who’d allegedly been murdered. Now, Jude had roped me into checking out some of his research, given I ‘wasn’t doing anything’ right now. As if I knew what to do with a mysterious cipher left by a mystery guest a hundred years ago. Still, getting out of the house would be good for me, I knew. I’d been spending most of my time in my apartment, ostensibly going through all my old stuff and cleaning. But if I was being honest with myself, I knew I was hiding.

Then, surprisingly, my phone started ringing.

“Cool your jets, Jude,” I muttered, going over to pick it up. That guy gave impatience a new name. But when I picked up my phone, it wasn’t Jude on the other end. It was Mia.

“Hey,” I said, surprised to hear from her. Mia and I had a strictly text-based relationship, unless it was something urgent.

Which, from the sound of the dog whining on the other end and Mia’s frantic “Chels!?” It was.

“Hey Mia. Are you okay?”

“Thank God you picked up. I need your help. It’s Lola.”

The dog barked frantically in the background.

My chest tightened. “Is she okay?” I remembered how sweet Lola was, how soft her fur and how much I’d wanted to stay snuggling her. The thought that she might be hurt—

“Yes, she’s fine, but Mike had to leave town for work, so I’ve been looking after her all week. It’s been a bit of a disaster—she’s so wild!”

“You need help?”

“Right now I do—I just got a call for a job interview!”

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