Catacomb (30 page)

He grinned down at the text, feeling a pang of regret that he wouldn’t get to go and watch Cal and Jordan in action. Apparently they were doing the long-distance thing (usually
via a video game) and it was working out just fine.

Oliver and Sabrina stayed in touch, but only sparingly. All three of them were happy to discover that once Micah’s remains were recovered from the funeral home and buried properly, the messages stopped. They still couldn’t agree on whether it had been Micah’s ghost or some kind of omniscient hacker, but in the end, Dan decided it didn’t matter. They had brought his spirit peace.

Dan slept better. He dreamed better. Even though the occasional image from the past year bubbled up to haunt him, that’s what therapy was for. Lots and lots and lots of therapy.

Now, Dan sent his regrets to Jordan, promising to visit soon, although he didn’t quite know when that would be.

The wind rippled across the park again, frightening dog walkers back down the paths and toward home. Dan looked out in the direction of the water for a second and then began packing up, preferring to finish his studying inside where it was warm. He shoved his books back into his canvas bag and stood, folding up the blanket and wedging that into his pack, too. His phone tumbled out of his grasp, bouncing on the grass below.

“Here.”

He nearly knocked heads with a woman, her red hair whipped around her face by the wind. She grabbed his phone with a woolly white glove and stood, gazing down into his face with the strangest expression. Dan felt a tremor pass from his nose all the way to his toes. He knew her face, and his hand froze as he opened his palm to take the phone.

“Hello, Daniel,” she said softly, shyly. She pushed the fiery hair out of her face, sweeping it behind cold-reddened ears.
Her eyes were pale, pale blue, and she had a black motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.

“Mom.” He tried the word out. It sounded different when he said it to her, tentative but also relieved. “You’re . . .”

Dan hugged the backpack to his chest, feeling small and terrified.

“You know why I had to stay away, right? You understand. . . .” Evelyn Ash trailed off, pressing her lips together tightly. “I’m not here to interfere with your life. You’ve done amazingly well on your own so far. No thanks to me.”

“I wasn’t on my own,” he said defensively, but he couldn’t keep up the chilly façade. He wanted to ask her so many things, just ask and ask until all of the questions he had stored up for eighteen years were finally out of him.

He wondered if maybe he owed her something of an apology for using her as a bargaining chip with Finnoway. But he had been right, hadn’t he? She could handle herself, and she did, taking the Artificer out of the picture for good.

That was something to be thankful for, even if part of him wanted to snap at her, punish her somehow for abandoning him the way she had.

“No, of course not. And, well, if you want me to go away and never come back, I will.” A tear escaped one of her eyes and she brushed at it impatiently. “God knows I’ve done it before. But I didn’t want to, Daniel.”

“I usually go by Dan,” he murmured.

“Dan,” his mother replied slowly, as if testing out the name. “Do you think I could walk with you? Just for a little while? I’ll go if you ask me to.”

“No!” he said, too quickly. Now that he had her there, well, the urge to scream at her was weaker than the urge to know her. Like her. She had made hard decisions, but hadn’t he done the same? For his friends, for himself . . . “I mean, let’s . . . let’s walk. I’m this way.” Dan gestured toward the walking path that circled back toward his dorm. “I knew it was you,” he said after a while. “The anonymous tip? The motorcycle? I wasn’t sure if you would still be around when I got to the street, but I knew it was you.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re obviously very clever. How did you know?”

They kept a meandering pace. Dan wasn’t keen to get to his destination too quickly. This could very well be the first and last time they met, he thought; there was always a chance she could disappear again. “There was a picture of you and Dad in Finnoway’s basement. You were wearing a motorcycle jacket. I recognized the symbol.”

“I wished every day I could reach out to you,” Evelyn whispered with a shivering sigh. “I couldn’t risk it. But when I found out you were going to New Orleans, to
his
domain . . .”

“You were the one who pulled me out of Finnoway’s clinic, too, weren’t you? The good Samaritan,” he said. “He didn’t know it was you because you kept the helmet on.”

“Like I said, clever.” She grinned, then looked closely at his hand and the smile faded away.

“I bet it felt good to run over that jerk,” Dan muttered.

“You have
no
idea.”

“Yeah,” he said with a dry laugh, glancing at his hand. “I kinda do.”

Too soon they were back at his dormitory, standing under one of the yellowed arches carved with elaborate scalloped points. “So this is me.” He dug his toe into the ground, searching for something profound to say. “Can we . . . can we maybe do this again? I don’t know if you’re staying in town or whatever but . . . I’d like to see you again. Get to know you. Get to know about Dad.”

“Sure, yeah, Marcus would . . . God. You look so like him,” she said gently, reaching out to touch his hair. Then Evelyn turned and ducked her head a little, tucking one stand of red hair behind her ear. She gave a wave and started back down the road. “Take care, Dan, sweetheart. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

F
irst, I have to thank the long-suffering Andrew Harwell, my editor, who is always willing to listen patiently while I work through insane plot ideas and blubbering what ifs. He makes my writing better, cleaner, and scarier, and for that I will be eternally grateful. I also want to acknowledge the major contribution of Kate McKean, who is as patient, understanding, and realistic as an agent can be. The team at Harper always outdoes itself with the beautiful design and photos, and they are hugely responsible for the atmosphere in these books.

To my family and friends, who listen to my griping, moaning, and fears, thank you for believing in me and lending your support. I am extremely fortunate to have such an amazing team behind me. Mom, Pops, Nick, Tristan, Julie, Gwen, and Dom, you can’t be thanked often or intensely enough for the faith you’ve put in me and my writing. To Michelle, thanks for becoming such an amazing influence and mentor—you made some of the crappiest parts of this year bearable. To Steve, Kai, and Katie, thank you for pulling me out of the house and making sure I didn’t starve or go too stir-crazy.

And finally, I have to thank the readers and fans who have turned
Asylum
into such a success. I’m constantly humbled by the outpouring of love and interest, and I have to pinch myself every day to have any of it make sense.

IMAGE CREDITS

The images in this book are custom photo illustrations created by Faceout Studio and feature real found photographs from New Orleans.