(32, continued from above)
Bridget’s trailer lay nestled in the furthest recesses of the park, all but hidden from the world at the end of a curling gravel road. Esmee’s sleek luxury coupe attracted no small amount of attention from the neighbors as she navigated through.
The driveway was empty, save for an unusual number of trash bags and recycling bins. One had fallen onto its side, spilling a mountain of pizza boxes and fast food containers into the overgrown yard.
Esmee sidestepped a Chickin Kitchin bucket and picked her way toward the front porch. She held her nose, but couldn’t help but glance at the mess of garbage. Every bin was filled to the brim; one of the recycling bins contained nothing but emptied beer and liquor bottles.
The flattened cardboard of a box of wine fluttered up in the wind. Esmee clutched her coat tight against the bitter Winter chill and jabbed a shivering finger at the doorbell.
There was no ring and no response. She knocked on the door, a little more violently than she’d intended, and it flapped open.
Esmee stood back a moment. “Miranda?” she called. “Bridget? Hello?”
Nothing replied but the icy wind.
“Hey, it’s Esmee. I tried to call.” She stamped her feet against the cold, glancing up and down the road. “Look, I’m gonna come inside…”
She backed into the trailer and pulled the door shut behind her. It flapped open again and she realized the latch was broken.
Esmee stiffened. She slipped a hand into her purse and gripped her phone. Stepping cautiously around more discarded bottles and food containers, she made her way into the living room.
There was no one inside. She called out again but got no response.
She unbuttoned her overcoat and took a long breath, staring in turn at piles of accumulated clutter, at the stack of plates on a nearby TV tray, at a box of Bridget’s frighteningly skimpy costumes, and at the ratty sofa. One of its cushions seemed to have been all but flattened.
Avoiding the kitchen, Esmee pushed open a bedroom door. It took some effort, as a chair had fallen behind it. She managed to force her way through, but her blouse unhelpfully untucked itself in the process.
She bit her lip, feeling the brass of her belt buckle press against the flesh of her muffin-top. After a minute of fumbling with the blouse, she gave up and let it hang.
A scale caught her eye in the corner of the room. She started toward it, but stopped herself.
One foot of the bed had broken. The frame was propped up by a block of wood, but the mattress still notably sagged.
A yoga mat had been unfurled on the far side of the room. A couple of small handweights lay beside it. A set of enormous workout clothes were draped over the back of a nearby chair.
Esmee stepped closer, reaching for the broad-strapped tank and curious to see its size, only to freeze.
The chair faced a desk, covered in old files and leather-bound books. Drawn on several of the folders was a curling, seven-armed sigil. One of the books was open to a page that showed an old stone tablet featuring the same glyph.
Esmee opened her phone and swiped through her pictures to an image from the chairman’s presentation: a mask with the same design.
“Oh my god,” she breathed.
Her stomach whined. Esmee ran a hand through her hair and set down her purse.
Shoving the chair aside, she leaned over the desk and leafed through the various papers. There were academic articles, newspaper clippings, hastily scrawled notes, and a few strange old playbills. Pulling open the desk drawers, she found a bundle of envelopes. Each was addressed from the archives department at Thalia University.
They were empty. Esmee frowned and dropped them back into the drawer. Her stomach gurgled again.
“Okay. Fine. I give up. Dinner.”
She stalked back into the living room, slinging her purse over her shoulder and eying the assortment of take-out boxes strewn across the dining table.
“Something tells me I’m not going to find a salad in this town,” she muttered, absently massaging her exposed roll.
Her eyes landed on an overturned fried chicken bucket and lingered longer than she would have preferred. Underneath the bucket, though, she noticed another envelope.
She crossed over and brushed the trash aside. The envelope was open and still contained its missive, a handwritten note on university letterhead.
“Miranda,” it read.
“I Wish I had better advice for you. I know the last six months have been miserable and confusing. You and your friend haven’t done anything to deserve any of this. Unfortunately, with Thalia’s copy of the play still missing and Professor de Chiel still unavailable, we have very little to go on.
“I don’t know how your bracelet made its way back to your doorstep, but you wrote that a gemstone had been added to it. This suggests to me that our fears weren’t unfounded: other branches of your family are still active in their pursuit of power and are aware of your experiences last summer.
“You need to leave. As soon as possible. You and Bridget have seen firsthand what the people dedicated to these ideas are willing to do to get their way. You are both in danger and should get out immediately. Pack as little as possible, don’t speak to anyone, and get rid of your phones.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to tell you. I can only hope this reaches you before it’s too late. The two of you were looking to start over, you said, so if nothing else maybe here’s your chance. Just probably not what you thought.
“There was an idea I had, though, based on something you mentioned a few letters ago. You said your latest diet hasn’t been going very well. I think this may actually be a sign. My advice: no more dieting. Being part of the Whately bloodline has made you a target, but being the heaviest of the remaining candidates may afford you some special protection. If anything, it might actually be safer for you to keep putting on weight.
“It’s just a theory, since I don’t have access to the primary sources, but it’s something. Try to keep that advantage. I’ll keep trying to track down the books.
“Good luck. And remember: it’s worth keeping all this secret. People read about these incredible artifacts or world-shaping beings and immediately start dreaming about how they can get their hands on them or harness their power. I’ve read enough in this job to see that it’s a fundamental misunderstanding. These texts aren’t invitations. They’re warnings.”
Esmee folded up the letter. She glanced around, listening, and caught her reflection in the mirror.
Avoiding the sight of her pooching midsection, she sucked it in and closed her coat. She slipped the letter into her purse, shuffled back out onto the porch, and opened her phone.
A large crow lighted on the porch railing. It cocked its head and stared up at her.
Esmee stared back. It studied her with one eye, then the other. After half a minute, it spread its wings and leapt back into flight.
She watched as it flapped up. It circled the trailer a few times, let out an ugly screech, and turned to soar out over the cornfields.
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