Page 99 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Yeah. Do you miss her?”

“Rachel? No. Not as a lover. We were friends, and I miss that part.”

Veronica nodded, wondering if that had seemed a needy question. She was out of practice being cool and hard to get.

But was that who she wanted to be? Hadn’t she been pretending to be a particular person, some imaginary version of herself, long enough? Maybe at some point she could just be herself, warts and all.

What would that feel like?

“What’s up?” Henry asked. He had sorted his clothes into piles on the bed, socks, underwear, pants.

She sank into the pink velvet chair, running her fingers over gold fringes. “Do you think maybe Mariah needs to go home, rather than pushing on to India?”

He took a breath. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.” He tucked the neatly rolled socks into his duffel. “She’s getting worse.”

“Yeah. I’m no expert on PTSD, but I’d say she needs at least some more counseling and maybe some meds. She hasn’t really dealt with everything yet.”

“Well, how could you? How could anyone?” He sank down on the bed, and rubbed his face hard. “I’ve been around a lot of PTSD, and she’s a classic, top to bottom.”

“It would be more surprising if she didn’t have some. Such a trauma.”

He nodded, expression sober. Light fell on his face from the open door, showing one side in the light, the other in shadow, and she wanted to takehispicture. A wave of protest and longing moved through her—I don’t want to end this adventure yet!—and the visions of India, visions that were like things torn from a magazine, not real and yet calling her, saris and sacred cows and color, and maybe now semitrucks decorated with plastic marigolds, dispersed like sand paintings in the wind. Mariah’s well-being came first.

“We should talk to her about it.”

“About what?” Mariah said, striding into the room. She’d changed into a blue peasant blouse that left the graceful line of her collarbone exposed. Her blond hair was swept up into a messy bun, and she carried an airy scarf. “My little freak-out today?”

“It was an episode of PTSD,” Henry said, folding his hands. “And it’s not the first one.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I haven’t been doing my breathing exercises, and I ran out of Xanax. I wasn’t sure how to fill a prescription in London.”

“You didn’t think you should ask about that?” Veronica asked.

She shrugged. “You guys are taking this way too seriously. Honestly, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not your kid. You’re bothworkingfor me, and I want to follow it through.”

They exchanged a glance. “Mariah,” Veronica said, “I think maybe you should give it some more thought.”

“Yeah, kid,” Henry said. “Take a beat.”

“Look,” Mariah said, exasperated, “I’m fine. I’ll get the prescription filled, and if I feel panic attacks coming on, I’ll tell you. When I get home, I promise I’ll do some more counseling.” She pressed her hands over her heart. “Promise, okay?”

Both Veronica and Henry were silent.

“With or without you, I’m going,” Mariah said. She looked from one to the other. “Who’s in?”

Veronica sighed. “Better you’re not alone. I’m in.”

“Right, and we have the mystery to solve!”

“We’re making a lot of progress,” Veronica said. “The letters are helping piece things together.”

“Yeah?” Mariah tucked hair behind her ear. “I don’t think I can read them yet.”

“That’s okay. I’m doing it for you.”

Henry hadn’t spoken. “You need to get the meds. And some real help in the lineup. We’re here for you on this trip, but you have to do something when you get back.”

“Still not my dad.”