Hemlock 03: Willowgrove (36 page)

I didn’t like it, but I sort of understood it—at least I tried to.

I ran a hand through my pixie cut and then hauled two things from my messenger bag. The first was a thick, padded envelope. The second was a hard drive.
The
hard drive.

Hank reached across the table and lifted the plastic box. It looked small in his hands, too small to have been responsible for so much.

Now, almost two years to the day that we had found Amy’s last message, CutterBrown and Zenith were still under investigation for what they had done—both at the camps and before. Several top executives from each company—including Amy’s father—had disappeared. A few had committed suicide. Natalie Goodwin, the woman who had tortured Serena, and Donovan were just two of many
employees looking at prison sentences for their actions.

“You actually found it,” said Hank, staring down at the drive.

“Tess found it,” I corrected. “She was the one who thought to check the house once all of the Walshes’ things were gone. It was in the attic, wedged between the rafters.”

After the death of her son and the disappearance of her husband, Amy’s mother had left Hemlock. Permanently. She hadn’t wanted anything else to do with the town or the life she had led. She had cut off everyone and everything—even Amy’s grandfather, whose health had never quite fully recovered.

The Walsh family had lost everything—their wealth, their status, even their children—because of ambition and lies. It didn’t matter where Ryan Walsh had gone or how long he stayed in hiding: he would spend the rest of his life knowing that his actions had ultimately contributed to the deaths of both Amy and Stephen. I had to believe that knowledge was its own kind of prison.

That night in the square, Stephen had said something about fixing his father’s mistakes, but it was Amy whose actions would eventually help set things right. She had discovered the truth and made it possible for others to do the same.

I toyed with my coffee cup and nodded toward my father’s hand as he slipped the drive into his jacket pocket. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Find out what’s on here that wasn’t on your DVDs and make sure it gets into the right hands—or kept out of the
wrong ones. Don’t worry: I’ll take care of it.”

A few years ago, I probably would have hesitated to trust Hank with something so important and valuable, but a lot had changed.

After the night of the rallies—the night some people called “the unmasking”—Hank had stepped down as leader of the Eumon to take on a leading role in the fight for werewolf rights. He claimed he did it because he didn’t trust anyone else not to screw up, but I knew he was doing it for Eve. He was doing it to try and keep what had happened to her and Trey from happening to anyone else.

Eve had been right: a lot of people had stopped supporting the camps once videos of the tests had become national news. Only one facility remained open—a prison to house werewolves who broke the law or who couldn’t adjust to life on the outside—but there was still a lot of work to do. Werewolves weren’t being rounded up anymore, but discriminating against them wasn’t illegal, and there had been a recent push to implement a sort of national registry for the infected.

I glanced toward the front of the diner where a small sign next to the register read, “Werewolves Welcome.” Things were changing slowly, but they
were
changing. And Portland was at the forefront of that change. It was a city with a werewolf-friendly reputation, a city where wolves were trying to create an inclusive community instead of the traditional, almost ganglike pack system. It was the reason Serena and Kyle had wanted to come here after graduation and the reason I had been happy to follow.

Hank drained the rest of his coffee and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be in San Diego for a few weeks. The pack leader there is being . . . problematic. I’ll call you.”

I knew he wouldn’t, but I nodded anyway.

He paused next to my seat and put a hand on my shoulder—just for a second—before walking out of the diner.

I watched him through the rain-streaked window as he jogged across the street and climbed behind the wheel of an old Jeep. Like the world, my father had changed, but it was still too early to tell whether or not that change had come in time for the two of us to ever have a real relationship.

“Refill, hon?”

I pulled my gaze away as a waitress appeared at the booth with a pot of coffee. “Please. And could I get a southwest omelet?”

“Sure thing,” she said before heading over to another customer.

I pulled out my cell and sent a quick reply to a text I’d gotten from Tess just as I had been leaving my apartment. She had cut back on her hours at work to start taking college classes part-time. “I don’t want to work at a place with a name like the Shady Cat for the rest of my life,” she had said. Unfortunately, she seemed to spend more time texting me about her cute Intro to Accounting professor than studying.

The bell above the diner door jangled. I glanced up and my heartbeat kicked up a notch as I watched Kyle scan the room. I knew the exact moment he spotted me. Somehow,
without moving a muscle, his entire expression changed, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that flooded me from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.

No matter how many days, weeks, months, or years passed, I still couldn’t quite believe he was mine.

I stood as he approached the booth.

Kyle pressed a quick kiss to my lips before wrapping me in a hug.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling away a second later. “I’m soaked.”

“It’s okay.” I stole another kiss before sliding back into the booth. “I already ordered,” I confessed. “And you just missed Hank.”

Kyle unzipped his jacket and took the seat my father had vacated. “You gave him the hard drive?”

I nodded.

“Good.” Kyle shook his head. “I know it’s been two years, but the thought of it being in your apartment made me nervous.”

“My roommate is a werewolf,” I reminded him. “Anyone who breaks into our apartment is in for a world of hurt—unless they break in this weekend, since she’s going to Seattle on a shopping trip.”

“What a coincidence,” said Kyle drily. “Jason told me he was thinking of going to Seattle this weekend, too.”

“It’s been over six months. How long do we have to keep pretending we don’t know what’s going on?”

“Until one of them breaks down and says something, I guess.”

It had taken Jason a year and at least one serious relationship while going to school across the country, but his feelings for me had eventually shifted back to friendship. And it took about the same amount of time for him to admit to himself that he thought of Serena as much more than a friend.

He had never told me just why he decided to join us in Portland, but I was pretty sure frequent late-night phone calls with Serena had at least been a contributing factor. As for Serena, she had fallen harder and faster. Of all the people who had been there for her after Trey’s death, the person she kept turning to was Jason. Maybe it was because, out of all of us, he was the one person who didn’t try to fix her. He had listened when she needed to talk and had held her when she needed to cry, but he didn’t try to put her back together with empty words and promises. He didn’t tell her that losing Trey would someday hurt less; he knew better.

“A reformed Tracker and a werewolf.” I shook my head. “It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”

The corner of Kyle’s mouth quirked up. “Hopefully with a better ending.”

The waitress came back and I fidgeted with the edge of the envelope in front of me as she took Kyle’s order. I had some big choices to make. Maybe life-altering choices. Though I had taken a few college classes as a part-time student, I had yet to figure out what I wanted to study or if I even wanted to go to school full-time.

For the past year and a half, my life had been consumed by the contents of the package on the table. Now that things
were coming to an end, I wasn’t sure what came next.
When this story ends, a new story starts. That’s how it goes. How it always goes.
That’s what Amy had said to me once. In a dream.

“What’s that?” asked Kyle.

I swallowed. Suddenly, irrationally, I was scared to show him. Once I showed him, it might start feeling real. Really real.

With a deep breath, I reached into the envelope.

I pulled out the book and slid it across the table.

Wolf Girl: Secrets and Lies of an Epidemic. Advance Reader’s Copy.

Kyle glanced up. “When did you get this?”

“This morning. You had already left for class.” I felt curiously exposed, almost naked, as Kyle turned the book over to read the text on the back and then flipped to the dedication.

“For Amy,” he read. “In dreams, as in life, you helped show me the way.”

“Trey and Eve are in the acknowledgments,” I said quickly. “I didn’t forget about them.”

Kyle shot me a small, reassuring smile. A sad smile. “I know.”

The CutterBrown story had consumed the whole country. Amy’s family was rich and powerful and politically connected. Her father’s ties to CBP—along with the fact that Amy had been murdered by a werewolf—had turned the tale into a real-life soap opera. There was even a movie in the works.

Overnight, anyone connected to Amy or her family
became a hot commodity. It seemed as though everyone from the Walsh family housekeeper to Stephen’s high school girlfriend had gotten their fifteen minutes of fame. Once word leaked out that we had been at Thornhill, that we had been the ones to find proof of the Arcadia project, things had gotten really crazy. Jason, Kyle, Serena, and I had been flooded with more requests and offers than we could count. A major network had even contacted us about our very own reality show. I couldn’t leave the apartment without being trailed by photographers and reporters, and all of us—Jason, especially—had gotten death threats from Trackers.

In the end, we agreed to do a single interview: an hour-long televised conversation with Sandy Price, the reporter I had given the DVDs to at the rally.

But even as I turned down—or flat-out ignored—hundreds of offers, I still wanted a chance to tell my story. Our story. At least as much of it as I could safely tell.

One night, a few months after the rally, once the attention had started to die down, I began writing about Amy’s funeral. Once I started typing, I couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t the whole truth—I would never tell anyone just how Branson Derby had died or about the man Serena had killed in the junkyard—but it was close. It was the important parts.

Sandy had been the one who had put me in touch with an agent, and she hadn’t seemed surprised when three publishers entered a bidding war for the rights to the story. The only thing that did seem to shock her was the fact that I had given away most of the advance.

I didn’t want to profit from the things that had happened. They were too horrible. I had kept just enough money to cover living expenses while I worked on the book; the rest had gone to a charity that helped wolves transition out of the camps and back into life on the outside.

It was what Trey and Eve would have wanted—at least I liked to think so.

Besides, I had gotten more out of writing the book than money. The act of writing let me examine things from different angles; it let me revisit the past without drowning in it and had helped me move on.

I studied Kyle’s face as he flipped through pages.

Writing our story had helped me come to terms with the past just as moving to Portland, being part of the community here, had helped him come to terms with being a werewolf.

We had each become more accepting of ourselves, and in doing so, had become stronger together.

More companies were working on a cure. Openly. Ethically.

Maybe someday they would find it and maybe Kyle would take it, but whatever he chose, I would be by his side.

Werewolf or reg, it was our actions, not our blood, that defined us.

The world was changing, and Kyle and I were changing with it, but no matter what happened, we belonged to each other.

A
BOOK DOESN’T HAPPEN IN A VACUUM
(
THOUGH WRITING
does occasionally feel like being jettisoned out of an airlock). So many people deserve thanks for their support and input, but especially:

Emmanuelle Morgen, my fantabulous agent, for believing in Mac, reading early (and unpolished!) drafts, and spending many hours with me on the phone. I was truly blessed the day you picked my query out of your slush pile.

Claudia Gabel and Melissa Miller, my amazing editors, who cared about Mac and her story as much as I did. It’s been an honor to work with you over these past three books.

Katherine Tegen for running such a terrific imprint—one I am truly grateful the Hemlock books have been part of.

Tom Forget, Amy Ryan, and Barbara Fitzsimmons in design for making
Willowgrove
look amazing, and Lauren Flower, Casey McIntyre, Onalee Smith in publicity and marketing for getting the word out. Thanks, also, to Kathryn Silsand in managing editorial and Alexandra Arnold.

And massive thanks to everyone else at KTB and HCCB
who had a part in getting the Hemlock trilogy onto shelves. Special thanks, also, to the team at HCC for taking care of this wee Canuck and to Whitney Lee for finding homes for the Hemlock trilogy in other countries.

Huge thanks to all of the bloggers and readers who helped spread the word about the books. I am so incredibly grateful for the support. Thanks, also, to everyone who suggested writing music for
Willowgrove
during the playlist contest, especially Alyssa of the Eater of Books! blog, Charis, Claire Smith, Cate Knox, Jay Uppal, Jade Fuller, Kendall McCubbin, Molli Moran, and Jennifer Nix.

Thanks to Christina Ahn and Cassie Frye for answering medical questions.

Huge thanks, as always, to my friends. Jodi Meadows, Debra Driza, Jamie Blair, and Kate Hart: thank you for putting up with endless emails, circular conversations about plot, and general angst. You are incredible writers and amazing friends. Nancy and Chris: thank you for endless phone calls, advice, and handholding. As always, you guys rock.