"I don't know, Art," I say, sitting down. We're in the cabin. After going to the site of the accident, Marcy left, saying that she'll keep in touch. "I just find it hard to believe."
"You don't believe that she's telling the truth about Joseline's murder?" she asks, sitting down beside me on the couch. She hands me a cup of warm tea, black, strong. Exactly the way I like it.
I sip the tea, moaning theatrically, shrugging. "How can we be sure?"
She tucks my hair behind my ear, leaning into me. "I don't know," she says. "Maybe you should just stop being so stubborn."
She's different, though. Like she isn't talking about the case or the medium.
I pull away from her, feeling my chest tighten. I feel breathless, realizing more and more that what Marcy said about her may be true. This makes what Marcy said about the case true, too.
I rise to my feet, pacing, and mucking up my hair. "I don't know. I just... I can't trust something that doesn't provide actual evidence. You know that cases aren't just built upon word of mouth."
She smiles sweetly, grabbing my wrist, and guiding me onto the couch, hugging me to her. She hides her nose in my shoulder. "Let's just not talk about the case for a minute."
For a moment, we're silent.
"Can I say something?"
"No," she growls playfully, laying down with me on the sofa, breathing me in.
"I just—you'd talk to me if something was the matter. Wouldn't you?"
Art pauses like she needs to think about what it means if she agrees. I turn to face her, frowning. "Wouldn't you?"
She sighs, sitting up. "I don't know..."
"What does that mean?" I ask. "I'm your best friend, Art. You can share anything with me."
"I just think you're better off not knowing certain things," she says.
"So you are hiding things from me now?"
She rises to her feet, pulling me up from the coach. "We should get some sleep. We have an early day tomorrow."
I pull away from her, scowling, feeling hurt. Upset. "What does that mean, Art? Why won't you tell me?"
"I don't want to talk about it right now," she insists. "We should focus on the case. We're so close to solving it. I wouldn't want you to get distracted now."
"You don't say," I argue.
"I don't want to fight with you, Erin. Please."
"What the hell is the matter with you?"
"I just...I can't okay? Not tonight."
"What does that even mean?" I growl. My chest hurts. I can't breathe. Art's been hiding what she feels from me all this time. And I didn't even notice.
"Erin."
•••
I lay in bed that night, thinking compulsively about Art's secrecy and Marcy's words and Joseline's case and all the new leads we have now—after almost ten years.
•••
The next morning, it's like nothing happened. Art's up early, frying pancakes, pouring apple juice that I don't drink. Instead, I make a cup of black tea. "Good morning," I say slowly, inspecting the mess she's made. I lean against the counter, sipping my tea. "What's happening here?"
"Well," she says, flipping a pancake up into the atmosphere. "I wanted to make it up to you. I was being a jerk last night. You have the right to know about things that concerns you. I just...I wasn't ready to talk about it."
I stare at her over the lip of my cup, acting all nonchalant, pretending I'm unphased. "You think?"
She nudges me teasingly. "Take a seat. Breakfast will be ready soon. We have an interview with Joseline Madeline's best friend from college today."
I sit down at the kitchen table, cross-legged, nibbling at the fruit she placed in the centre.
Art places a plate of pancakes in front of me going as far as pouring syrup over them for me. "There you go."
I take a bite, moaning theatrically. "Jesus Christ, Art! These are great!"
She just sits there, staring at me like I don't always react to her pancakes like this. She tries to hide the vermillion blush on her cheeks. But, I catch a glimpse of it when she takes a bite of her pancakes.