Karen shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a white blouse and blue jeans underneath it, and I was surprised by how slim she looked without the armor on. Was it armor? I thought it might be. There was a scattering of wooden rings around her wrists, which rattled slightly as she reached up with both hands and gathered her hair back, tying it into a loose ponytail.

“So,” she said. “What is going on with you?”

“It’s a long story. How much do you want to know?”

“Oh, everything.”

I considered that. As a writer, one of the things I’d always believed was that you didn’t talk about your stories until they were finished. If you did, there was less of an urge to write them down—almost as though the story just needed to be told in some capacity, and the pressure reduced the more you did.

So with that in mind, I decided to tell Karen everything.

Almost everything, anyway. She already knew about the junk in my garage and my visit from the man who’d turned out to be Norman Collins, but Jake’s near abduction in the middle of the night made her raise her eyes. Then what I’d learned from Mrs. Shearing, and the events that had unfolded yesterday. The discovery of the body. The safe house.

And last of all, my father.

The impression I’d gained so far of Karen was that she was fairly frivolous: prone to playful sarcasm and jokey asides. But by the time I’d finished explaining, she looked horrified and deadly serious.

“Shit,” she said quietly. “They haven’t released any details to the media yet—just that remains had been found at a property. I had no idea it was yours.”

“I think they’re playing it close to their chests. From what I can make out, they think it’s the remains of a kid called Tony Smith. He was one of Frank Carter’s victims.”

“His poor parents.” Karen shook her head. “Twenty years. Although I guess they must have known after such a long time. Maybe it’ll even be a relief for them to finally have some closure.”

I remembered my father’s words.

“Everybody deserves to go home,” I said.

Karen looked off to one side. It seemed like she wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if she should for some reason.

“This man they’ve arrested,” she said.

“Norman Collins.”

“Norman Collins, right. How did he know about it?”

“I don’t know. Apparently he always had an interest in the case.” I sipped my coffee. “My father seems to think he might have been Carter’s accomplice all along.”

“And that he killed Neil Spencer too?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I hope so—well.” She corrected herself. “I mean, I know that’s an awful thing to say, but at least that way they’ve got the bastard. Christ, if you hadn’t woken up…”

“I know. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“It’s fucking terrifying.”

It was—and, of course, not wanting to think about it didn’t mean I could stop myself.

“I read up about him last night,” I said. “Carter, I mean. A bit morbid, but it seemed like I needed to know. The Whisper Man. Some of the details were just horrific.”

Karen nodded. “If you leave a door half open, soon you’ll hear the whispers spoken. I asked Adam about that, after you mentioned it. It’s a rhyme some of the kids say. He’d never even heard of Carter, of course, but I guess that must be where it originated. Passed down.”

“A warning against the bogeyman.”

“Yeah. Except this one was real.”

I thought about the rhyme. Adam had heard it without realizing what it meant, and maybe it extended beyond Featherbank. Things like that often spread among children, so perhaps one of the kids at Jake’s old school had repeated it and that was where he’d learned it.

It had to be something like that, of course. The little girl hadn’t taught him it, because she wasn’t real.

But that didn’t explain the butterflies. Or the boy in the floor.

Karen seemed to read my mind.

“What about Jake? How’s he handling all this?”

“All right, I think.” I shrugged, a little helplessly. “I don’t know. He and I … we sometimes find it hard to talk to each other. He’s not the easiest of kids.”

“There’s no such thing,” Karen said.

“And I’m not the easiest of men.”

“And again. But what about you, though? It must have been strange seeing your father after all this time. Have you really had no contact with him at all?”

“None. My mother left with me when it all got too much. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Too much…?”

“The drinking,” I said. “The violence.”

But then I trailed off. It was easier to explain it like that than to go into detail, but the truth was, that final night aside, I had no actual memory of my father being physically violent toward my mother or me. The drinking, yes, although I didn’t really understand that at the time; I just knew that he was angry all the time, that he disappeared for days, that there was too little money, that my parents argued furiously. And I remembered the resentment and bitterness that would beat out from him—the sense of threat that pervaded the air, as though something bad might happen at any moment. I remembered being afraid. But actual violence might have been pushing it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Karen said.

I shrugged again, feeling awkward now.

“Thanks. But yes, it was strange seeing him. I remember him, of course, but he’s not like he was. He doesn’t look like a drinker now. His whole manner seems different. Quieter.”

“People change.”

“They do. And it’s fine, really. We’re both completely different people now. I’m not a kid anymore. He’s not really my father. It doesn’t matter at all.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Well. It is what it is.”

“That, I believe.” Karen had finished her coffee and now she began slipping on her coat. “And on that note, I’m going to have to love you and leave you, I’m afraid.”

“You have to go and be tired somewhere?”

“No, I slept well, remember?”

“Right.” I swirled around the dregs of my own drink. She didn’t seem inclined to tell me where she was going, and it occurred to me that I barely knew anything about her at all. “We spent the whole time talking about me, you realize? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Because you’re much more interesting than I am, especially right now. Perhaps it’s something you can write about in one of your books.”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I googled you.” She looked momentarily embarrassed. “I’m good at finding things out. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe.”

“Glad to hear it.” She paused, as though there was something else she wanted to say. But then she shook her head, clearly thinking better of it. “See you later?”

“You will. Take care.”

I drained the last of my coffee as she left, wondering what she might have been about to say just then. And also thinking about the fact that she’d googled me. What did that mean?