Maybe it was coincidence? Sometimes strange things happen, and we have no explanation. But what defies explanation for me is how none of them tried to save her. Not Sam, despite his proclamation of friendship. Not any of the people who watched her grow up. Not even her parents.
Kyra’s paintings changed Lost for the better. It’s easy to see how happy Sam and Roshan are. Sam tells me that Mrs. Morden has taken to whistling while she works, and everyone who visits the post office is cheerier for it. People hold their heads high, and there seems to be a common understanding between them, even if I’m not part of it. They see each other and nod or grab hands in passing. They whisper stories about Kyra. About the stories she told. They share their own stories.
They have hope. They’re happy.
Kyra would be proud to see this side of Lost, the changes she inspired. Kyra wanted to make the world a better place, and she started in Lost Creek. My Kyra was a wonderful, ordinary, lonely girl. Lost Creek’s Kyra was the girl of legends and stardust.
And she died.
Even if Lost treated Kyra like an oracle, their faith was never worth Kyra’s pain, her death. I don’t understand why Lost’s happiness didn’t start with helping her. They owed her that. They owed her community. They owed her life.
But as much as the town believed in her, they still didn’t value her enough to save her.
And I lost myself to the world outside the town’s borders. I forgot about her too.
? ? ?
I walk back to Lost with Roshan and Sam. I would have stayed at the spa, but the Hendersons still have my passport and my flight is in twenty-four hours.
Before we cross the tree line, I linger. “You two should go ahead. It won’t do either of you any favors to be seen with me.” I don’t want them to pay a price for their kindness.
“I don’t think there’s anyone left in town who doesn’t know where we spent the night,” Sam says softly. “Word travels fast here.”
“Will you get in trouble with your dad?” Sheriff Flynn wouldn’t let anyone harm Sam. They may not always see eye to eye, but the Flynns are fiercely protective of one another. And Roshan’s father will soon be bankrolling the entire town.
“Nah. Kyra would’ve wanted us to help you.”
Nevertheless.
“Please be careful,” I tell them.
Roshan hesitates. “It may not be my place to say this, but before you leave, I think you should talk to the Hendersons. I know you’ve been avoiding each other. But they care about you, like a second daughter. You should sit down and talk.”
I once considered the Hendersons my other parents. I thought they loved Kyra fiercely. That was before they let her die, and before they were willing to let me burn. “I’m honestly not sure if that’s a good idea.”
“Mr. Henderson’s talking to our fathers again today, so I’m not sure if he’ll be around. But Mrs. Henderson will be in the bakery. Go say goodbye. Don’t leave on these terms.”
My reply slips out before I can bite my tongue. “The only Henderson I want to talk to isn’t here anymore.”
Stealing in
Roshan’s comments help me clear my mind. I wait until he and Sam are well out of sight, then head to the Hendersons’. If Mr. H is talking to Mr. Sarin and Sheriff Flynn, and Mrs. H is in the bakery, then the house will be empty, which is perfect.
I know where the keys are. Kyra and I crept through the house many times on missions to find food after our nightly escapades. Like two years ago, on the longest night, when we stayed out to watch the aurora borealis and completely forgot the time. Or last spring, when we scared each other telling ghost stories out by the hot springs. We were too terrified to walk back through the woods to Lost, so we spent the night in a bed at the spa, sneaking back into her house after the sunrise. The only difference is that now I don’t want to be here. I double check that the street is empty, because I don’t want the neighbors to alert the Hendersons if they see me, then I slip the key into the lock.
The house is quiet and dark. I pass the photos of Kyra, but I try not to look at them. I climb the stairs. My two best chances for finding my passport are in Mr. Henderson’s study—a small office, opposite the master bedroom—or in the bedroom itself. Both were always strictly out-of-bounds for Kyra and me. I start with the study. But when I ease open the door, I gasp. Every inch of wall space is covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. I step closer to see what the books are. Unlike Kyra’s room, the shelves aren’t filled with stories. They’re filled with books on mining and minerals. On the history of Alaska. On his father’s research into the legends of the gold rush and the narrative history and current affairs of Alaska’s Indigenous peoples. On the desk lies what looks like a blueprint of some sort, folded at the edges, and a historic map of Lost Creek.
I never knew that Mr. Henderson cared this deeply about Lost Creek. I glance again at the books on minerals. It might not be the town he cares about, but its riches. Around these parts, the gold rush is recent history and only a memory away.
I look over the shelves to see if my passport is lying out before I turn to Mr. Henderson’s desk. It’s covered with stacks upon stacks of paper. Quotes from mining funds, in particular. I try not to shuffle the documents as I peek under them. Nothing.
The drawers. I feel a bit guilty going through those, but I need my passport back. I try not to read his letters as I leaf through to get to the bottom of the first drawer, and I ignore the checkbook in the middle drawer. I shouldn’t be here. I should take the mature route and go find Mr. H to ask him for my passport.
It’s just that I don’t know if he’d let me leave. I don’t know if he wants Kyra’s story told. And I will tell it. The story of a lonely girl in an abandoned spa and the town who came to revere her. Though I don’t think anyone will believe me. Even with Kyra’s letters and her writing on the walls, who would trust our words—an outsider and a bipolar girl—over her father’s word or the sheriff’s?
But still, I need to try. I owe her that much, and so much more.
The third drawer holds office supplies: legal paper, envelopes, and pens.
My passport isn’t here.
The front door opens and closes, and my heart slams into my throat. If Mr. Henderson finds me here, he’ll kill me. I don’t even know if that’s an empty threat anymore. And it wouldn’t be any better if Mrs. Henderson found me.
I slide into the hallway and close the office door behind me. On the landing, I avoid the creaky floorboards and slip around the bedroom door. Dim sunlight filters in through the window, and the deep blue bedspread glows.
Kyra once told me that there was a safe in here, and while I don’t know the code, I have to try it. When I find the safe, I start with Kyra’s birthday, then Lost’s zip code.
I go through the most obvious choices, but nothing works. The safe mocks me with its refusal to budge.
Another door slams—somewhere inside the house. The same person? I shake my head and focus on the safe again.
I was convinced that Kyra’s birthday would be the code, so I try it again. The lock doesn’t click.
I try the date Kyra died.
It clicks.
The safe swings open.
My passport lies on top of a stack of papers.
I grab it and slip it into the pocket of my jeans. Then I still. Kyra’s handwriting peeks out at me.
Corey
An envelope. Addressed to me. I pick it up as if the paper might burn me—or disintegrate at my touch. I don’t trust simple appearances anymore. But the envelope is thick and weighty in my hands. The top has been carefully sliced open, and it’s filled with folded papers.
My hands tremble and my heart pounds in my chest. I don’t have time to look at these letters here, so I fold the envelope and slide it into my waistband. I close the safe and sneak across the bedroom and into the hall.
Someone clears their throat.
My heart stops. I forget to breathe. All I want is to disappear where I stand.