Towering

Zach, her father.
    I got into the car and drove down the still-dark road to the expressway. I drove slow because something about the day was dangerous. I could barely make out the snow-dappled boulders that lined the road. I imagined myself running off it, dashing against those rocks, no one knowing who I was, where I’d come from.
    And Rachel would never know what happened to me.
    I slowed further and moved to a different lane.
    In the first morning light, I thought I heard a voice, Rachel’s voice, saying, “Call me.” Crazy. But I didn’t have my phone anyway, and I’d be there soon. Aloud, I said, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”
    Finally, I reached Gatskill. The streets were deserted. I passed the library, then almost missed the Red Fox Inn. As I was about to pass it, I noticed something. A light in a window. Someone was there.
    With a deep breath, I pulled into what was left of the parking lot and got out of the car. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like dead bones. Its whistle was almost a warning. Almost. I reminded myself that the real danger was in the place I had just left. I trudged toward the door. The snow was high here, as if the wind had collected it. I left footprints where there had been none.
    I hesitated. Last chance to leave.
    Before I could knock, the door opened.
    “Are you Wyatt?”
    I stepped back, but I nodded.
    The man was just as old as his brother, maybe eighty, maybe more. Like his brother, he had startling bright blue eyes.
    “I’m Carl.” He held out his hand. “Come in.”
    “I’d rather not.” Even as I said it, the wind kicked up, and a chill ran from the bones in my shoulders down my body to the ground. “I’d rather stay out here.”
    The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s cold out there, and you said you wanted information on Zach.”
    “You said you knew where to find him.”
    “I might. But first, I need to know why you’re looking for him.”
    I looked down. “No reason. I mean, nothing bad.”
    “Are you sure?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been completely truthful so far. I mean, you told Henry you were staying with the Brewers, but that’s not true, is it?”
    I shook my head no.
    “Didn’t think so. You’re really staying with Celeste Greenwood.”
    It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “But how did you know?”
    He laughed. “Little thing called Caller ID.”
    “Oh. I forgot they had that here. So many other things are a little . . . retro.” I could feel the warmth coming from inside. In fact, he had a fire going. Somehow, that made it seem even colder out.
    “So why are you looking for Zach?”
    “I know someone who wants to see him.”
    “Who? Old girlfriend? Or creditors?”
    “No, nothing like that. No one who wants anything from him, just someone who liked him once, a girl, a friend.”
    “A girl and a friend, but not a girlfriend?”
    I decided to lie. This guy would never know. I could tell the truth when I met the real Zach. “My mother, Emily Hill, she was a friend from school.”
    The guy opened the door farther, taunting me with the heat. “So you’re saying Zach is your father?”
    “No, n-nothing like that.” I could barely keep my teeth from chattering. “J-just a friend.”
    “Why don’t you come in? If I was wanting to kill you, deserted as it is here, I could have done it by now. Or the cold would do it for me.”
    I looked inside. The fire was inviting, and there was a dog lying by it, wagging its tail, almost like Josh’s hardware store.
    I stepped forward.
    The door slammed behind me.
    From behind a pillar, the guy I’d met on the first day, Henry, stepped forward.
    “Okay, Wyatt, why don’t you tell me why you’re really looking for Zach?”

Rachel
    After Mama left, I lay in bed, missing Wyatt, but I knew it was too late to call. Wyatt had told me that the phone in his house would ring and wake everyone. That’s why I had to wait for him to call me.
    I was sorry. For all the disadvantages of my upbringing, the one advantage was that I had never missed anyone. Now, I did.
    Since I couldn’t call Wyatt, and I couldn’t sleep, I did the only thing that interested me.
    I took out the letter.
    It was surprisingly crisp looking considering the date on it was almost eighteen years ago. It was written on white paper with blue lines and stuffed in an envelope that was the wrong size. The handwriting was pretty, in purple ink.
    Dear Danielle:
    Are