Page 78 of The Words We Lost

I try to project my voice over the engine noise as Allie takes a right onto Water Street. “Do you know anything about a list of conspiracy theories involving Cece’s death?”

By the way her expression distorts, and the way her foot backs off the accelerator, I know her answer even before she confirms it. “Unfortunately, yes. I do.”

“How come I never saw anything pop up on her memorial page? There are hundreds of thousands of fans on there.”

She slows her speed even more to allow a car to pass us. “Because the admins on that page try our best to block and report any post that isn’t verifiable. Even still, a few have gotten through. We keep a record of all the offenders by taking screenshots of their posts and profiles. It’s gross what some people will do for attention.”

“Have you actually seen posts about a publisher’s reward for findingThe Fate of Kingsand...” I swallow back the acid in my throat. “And then one about her faking her own death for a publicity stunt?”

She crinkles her eyebrows. “Who told you that?”

“My boss.”

Her frown morphs into a look I can’t quite decipher, like she’s scrolling back in her mind and reading them all over again.

“Please, Allie, I need to know everything, even if you think it will be hard for me to hear.”

With some reluctance, she finally nods. “Most of the conspiracy posts I’ve seen are related to the cause of Cece’s death, assumptions on how she actually died—drug addiction, murder, rare disease, suicide, etc. But others claim to have proof she’s still alive, writing in some nondescript location off-grid somewhere. And...”

“And what?” I ask, though I’m already dreading her answer.

“There were rumors circulating in the fan groups a while back that Wendy was the one who helped her daughter escape, and that she’s also the only person who knows where Cece is hiding out and where her last manuscript is hiding, too. A group of them showed up here this spring, looking for Wendy.”

I twist in my seat, gawk at her as if I can’t possibly be hearing this correctly. “This spring? As in a few months ago?” I calculate the timeline. “But I thought it was the reporters who were following Wendy around. Joel said the media was hounding her for an exclusive.”

“At first it was, but the media didn’t stick around too long. It was everything that came later that was the real problem. Stephen said our spring tourist population was triple what it usually is—there wasn’t a single hotel room available within ninety minutes of Port Townsend.” We approach the hotel and turn into the staff parking lot.

“But I knew it wasn’t just tourists,” she continues. “I could see the online traffic in the fan groups. And for every “Wendy sighting” post or hashtag I saw and reported, I’m sure there were a dozen more just like it posted in secret groups I couldn’t access. It’s why Wendy stopped leaving her house and why Stephen hired security guards to park in front of her driveway for weeks at a time.”

I’m as gutted by the heinous insensitivity Allie’s described as I am by the ignorance and cruelty of those who claimed to love Cece’s art and still dared to treat her mother this way. I can’t even begin to fathom the trauma Wendy must have faced each and every time she was confronted by one of Cece’s fans accusing her of hiding her daughter away. Worse, accusing her of being an accomplice in a publicity stunt when in reality Wendy was still reeling from the grief of having to say good-bye to her only child.

I tug at the collar of my T-shirt, suddenly unable to take in a sufficient breath despite being surrounded by fresh air. My mind spins with questions that throw my entire center of gravity off-kilter, because if all those conspiracies were sparked by rumors without any basis, then what will happen if the rumors of a found manuscript are substantiated? What will happen to Joel’s family?

What will happen to Wendy?

The answer hits me with such force I barely have time to signal Allie to shift into park. I stumble out the passenger side door and into the only patch of green I can see. I’m braced to be sick, hands on my knees as my stomach attempts to eject itself from my body multiple times. The world blurs and shimmers, and from somewhere outside me, I can hear my name being called. Feet smack against the pavement. A dog’s panicked bark circles my eardrums. But my lungs scream louder than all those sounds combined.

I claw at my chest as globs of darkness crowd out the last of my vision.

Another wave of nausea hits, and this time, it takes me to my knees.

There is no more air.

26

When my eyes blink open, two familiar faces peer down at me. One has a phone to his ear, speaking in hushed tones and answering questions about my well-being. The other holds a cool, wet rag to my forehead.

“Are you here to stay this time?” Allie asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“What happened?” I ask groggily, my head pounding.

“This is the third time you’ve opened your eyes and asked that same question before falling back to sleep. You’re beginning to sound a bit like my great-grandma Dotty, and she needs help remembering to put her teeth in before breakfast.”

“Yes, Dr. Jacobs,” Joel says into his phone while his eyes rake over me with concern. “Will do. Thanks again for your help.”

I try to sit up from the comfy recliner I’m stretched out on, but Joel shakes his head and moves toward me. “Easy. How do you feel?”

“Headache, but otherwise I feel okay.”

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