16.

The apartment building was sixteen stories tall—the tallest building in the neighborhood. Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest of Shutter Avenue, south of the bridge.

Timothy slowly made his way through the front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone over the entrance were dark marble words: THE MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the handle, the door swung inward. A man stood just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you here to see?”

“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”

“Abigail?”

“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother? Mrs. Kindred?”

He was delivered by the elevator to a small hallway with three large black doors, one of which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.

As he approached, he heard a dog barking. Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!” Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue artist smock. At her feet, a small gray dog greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say hello, but the dog backed away into the apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the dog. “Don’t you, little queen?” Hepzibah listened for a second, then began barking again. Abigail rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to stand in the hallway,” she said to Timothy. “She won’t bite.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you afraid of, then?”

Timothy felt his face flush. He stammered, “Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not afraid of your dog. That’s all.” He came through the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d you come up with it?”

“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The dog sniffed Timothy’s cuff. He stuck out his palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”

“Good. I like her too.” Looking around, Timothy felt small. “Cool place. It’s huge.” Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened into a sprawling living room filled with antique furniture. Outside, through paneled French doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of the spires from the college were visible beyond the railing, and beyond those were the river and then the hills of Rhode Island. Through a smaller doorway in the foyer, a long hallway stretched into darkness.

“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.

“You don’t like it?”

“Well, I didn’t ask to live here.” Suddenly, she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, I probably sound like such a little brat. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t.”

“My grandmother is really lucky to have this place. And I’m really lucky to be able to stay until … well, for now. It’s just that at night … it can get a little … creepy.”

“Creepy how?” said Timothy, suddenly noticing the many shadows in the numerous corners.

“Here,” said Abigail, leading him into the dining room, changing the subject. “You can put your stuff down. I’ve already gotten started in the kitchen.”

“Started with what?”

She turned to look at him. With an embarrassed smile, she said, “You’ll see.”

Timothy dropped his coat and bag on a chair at the end of the dining table, then followed Abigail through a series of doors to a narrow, cluttered kitchen. The countertop was scattered with a number of plastic bottles, and on the stove sat a small cardboard box. On the cover, a woman smiled as she ran her hands through her black hair. The words COLOR ME WILD—RAVEN SILK leapt out in white text underneath the woman’s shapely chin.

“You’re going to dye your hair black?”

“Nope,” said Abigail, snatching the box from the stove-top and handing it to him. “You’re going to do it for me.”

Hepzibah came around the corner from the direction of the dining room. She sat in the doorway and looked at him, as if prepared to watch the show.

“You want me to dye your hair?” asked Timothy, appalled.

“You don’t need to be good.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I just need an extra pair of hands to get the back, but the box only comes with one pair of gloves, so you might as well just do the whole thing. You don’t really mind, do you?”

Timothy thought about that. After everything that he’d been through that week, helping his new friend dye her hair shouldn’t be a big deal.

His new friend? Was that what they were now?

“Okay,” said Timothy softly.

“Great.” Abigail reached into the open box and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves. “See if these fit. I’ll start mixing.”

Hepzibah followed as they set themselves up at the long dining room table. Abigail spread out some old newspapers underneath their supplies, then sat in one of the high-backed chairs. Grabbing the plastic bottle, which Abigail had filled with pungent-smelling chemicals, Timothy squeezed a lavender-colored gel onto her head.

“Ooh, it feels gross!” she said.

“Sorry,” said Timothy.

He remembered the reason he’d come here: to talk to Abigail about her grandmother. But he still didn’t know how to tell his story.

“Why did you want to do this anyway?” he said instead.

“I guess I just want to be someone else for a change. I’m cutting it all off next.”

“Really? All of it? Like a crew cut?”

“Nah, sort of, like … ear length. I’ve got the scissors in the bathroom.” She glanced up at him. “Make sure you get it all even. Then just start combing it through.”

Even through the gloves, the gel was squishy. “Is it just you and your grandmother here?” he asked.

“No. I came with my mom from New Jersey when Gramma fell again last month. Mom thinks she’s getting sick. I just think she’s getting old and doesn’t want to admit it. She says to my mom, ‘If I’m sick, you’re sick.’”

“Is your mother sick?”

“Not in the conventional sense of the word.” Abigail suddenly burst out laughing. “My mother suffers from a disorder called Freakazoidism.”

Despite all the talk of illness, or perhaps because of it, Timothy couldn’t hold back his own laughter. “So do my parents!” he said.

“Yeah,” said Abigail. “My mom left my dad … like, left-left him, and didn’t tell me, and thought I wouldn’t notice that they weren’t living together anymore, you know? In the same state?”

“But I thought you came here to help your grandmother.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “There’s always an ulterior motive with my mom. She really just needed a place to go. Voilà—New Starkham, here we come!”

“Wow,” said Timothy. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s the truth. The funniest thing is that she thinks she has me fooled, that I’m just so young and gullible.” She sniffed. “So why are your parents freaks?”

“They’re not freaks, exactly. They just don’t really seem to know how to talk to me.” Abigail didn’t say anything. Before he knew it, he blurted out, “My brother’s unit was attacked overseas. He got hurt. Bad. They’re keeping him in a coma, I think to protect his brain.”

Abigail shuddered and brought her hand to her mouth. “He’s in the—what, the army?” she asked. Timothy nodded. She grabbed his hand, and he flinched. “I’m so sorry … I had no idea.”

“No—it’s—” Timothy stammered. “Nobody did. That’s the thing … My parents didn’t want me to tell anyone.”

“Why not? It’s public information anyway. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I think they felt ashamed. Like his injury is their fault. They don’t want their friends to blame them.”

“That alone is ridiculous, but what on earth does that have to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t they thought that you might want to, I dunno, talk about it with someone?”

Timothy shook his head. “Guess not.”

“I mean, ever since I moved here, all I’ve wanted to do is talk to my cousins back in Jersey about everything that’s happening. It’s good that they listen on the phone, you know, about Gramma, and Mom and Dad, but still, there are things I feel like I can’t tell anyone … not even them … and it’s kinda driving me crazy.” Abigail blinked, as if she expected him to ponder that last statement. “So I sort of know what you’ve been going through.”

“Thanks,” said Timothy, secretly wondering what it was that she couldn’t tell anyone. Would she tell him now?

“So where is your brother?”

Guess not. “He’s in a military hospital somewhere in Germany. He’s been … critical for a while now. They say they’ll send him home when he’s healthy enough to travel, even if he is unconscious,” said Timothy. Abigail was staring at him again. Her head was slick with purple goo. She looked funny. He smiled. After a few seconds, he realized that he’d actually finally told someone about his brother. It had been easier than he thought it would be. “So … what is it that you can’t tell anyone?”

Abigail glanced at the floor, her mouth pursed. She actually looked like she was considering the answer, but then said, “Never mind. It’s not important.”