We ended up with tons of “junk”—her words, not mine—in our garage, and it reminded her of growing up with my grandma, whose house was filled with stuff. And more stuff. Grandma was a borderline hoarder, only clean and very organized. In fact, after she died, I went through all of her saved-up newspapers stacked in one of the bedroom closets (she used them for making papier-mâché). They were all ordered chronologically and bundled neatly with twine.
Wait. My gut starts to twist. How the hell did I forget about that? There was an article at the top of one of those bundles when we cleaned out her house. I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, except the story was incredibly sad. It was about some guy who froze in a lake. I don’t recall his name, but I do remember thinking at the time it was a terrible way to die. Cold. Trapped under ice. Alone. The story stuck with me for a few days, and many months later, I’d think of it again after I had this weird dream about a man standing next to a frozen lake. I ended up making a mosaic about it, the one I sold a few weeks ago on Etsy.
I blink and mentally shake it off. If Mason “died” the January before last, and my grandma died a month after, the story I read could have been about him. It could be why he seemed so familiar when we met. I’d seen his face before.
No. That’s too far-fetched. It has to have been someone else. Right? But how many rich bachelors die that way and end up on the front page?
Nah. No way. Just a coincidence.
“So you think this connection I feel is because he’s broken and I want to fix him?” I ask my mom.
“I’m merely pointing out a pattern, one I happen to love about you. Most of the time,” she adds.
“I guess it’s kind of ironic that I have a business selling broken glass.” I take useless, damaged things and give them a new life.
“That’s my crafty little Ginnie,” my mom singsongs with a warm smile.
“But what if I can fix him?” Because the way I feel when we’re in the same room is insane.
“Does he need to be fixed?”
“I don’t know.” Clearly something is wrong, or he wouldn’t have let the world believe he died. Maybe I met him for a reason.
“Ginnie, honey, I think what you really need to ask yourself is if getting sucked into this man’s life is the best thing for you. Is it really what you want after everything you’ve been through?” She’s talking about Greg again without actually talking about him. And when she says everything, she’s not talking about the money. Greg robbed me of my faith in others. He robbed me of faith in myself, which is way worse.
I nod solemnly, knowing I have a lot to think over. “Thanks for the talk.”
She’s silent for a long moment, and I know it’s because she wants to say something.
“What?” I ask.
“Does he really think he’s a magical creature who lives in a bottle?”
I roll my eyes. “No, Mom.” At least, I hope not.
“Good. Because I’d really worry if you fell in love with someone like that.”
If she knew that he’s a rich guy who faked his death and is living under an assumed name, I doubt she’d feel any better.
God, I hope Vi keeps her freakin’ mouth shut about that. I’ll text her before I go to bed.
I glance across the table and find the mom-eyes staring me down again. She knows I haven’t told her everything. Dammit. It’s like she has superpowers. “Okay, there’s more I need to tell you, but promise you won’t get upset.”
Chapter Eighteen
I spent two more days at my mom’s. For her sake, not mine. She didn’t take the fake-death part of my story so well, and I couldn’t leave until she was convinced I would take every precaution not to get tangled in a huge scandal or end up hurt.
Mason, or Marus, or whatever he’s called now, has extended family living in Scotland, but his sister is in Manhattan, and he has a cousin not too far from my house, about an hour away. I’m going to give the thrift store woman one more try, and if I don’t get a hold of her, then I’m going to see Rebecca. Last resort is the cousin. Bottom line, I need to find Mr. Wish. I need to talk to him and find out the truth. Why’s he doing all this wish stuff? Why’d he fake his death? Where does all his money come from?
The entire flight home, my leg is bouncing and my thumbnail is shoved between my teeth, being nibbled to a stump. I can’t come close to explaining how I feel. There’s a dark magic in the air. Anything is possible. Tragedy. A fairy tale. A story of violence and greed where family members stab each other in the back so many times that everyone is left in permanent survival mode, a real-life version of that HBO show Succession—my second favorite behind West World (because, yeah, putting “people” back together). However, I know this isn’t a TV show. This is real. My feelings. The facts. The risk. I really wish I knew where he was. I have to talk to him.