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What would I do if he fell like this? I wouldn’t be able to just call for a fall assist. We lived on an island. Sure, there were plenty of friends who could zip over. But what about in the winter? Not everyone had access to a snowmobile on short notice.

As Geneva and Landon got their father to his feet, Geneva called out to me. “Mercy, his wheelchair is in the kitchen. Can you bring it closer?”

“Of course,” I said, springing into action.

By the time I got down the hallway, Landon had his father covered with a towel and his robe. I got the chair into position so Landon could ease him into it.

“You need to go home,” Kevin shouted. “You’re not wanted here.”

“Dad,” Landon said. Geneva looked mortified.

“I told you once,” Kevin said. “It’s gonna cause nothing but trouble, ripping open old wounds.”

“I’ve got this,” Landon said to his sister. He wheeled his father back into his room at the end of the hall.

“He shouldn’t have been so rude,” Geneva said as she walked me to the door. “But maybe it’s best that you leave. You were right. We shouldn’t meet here.”

“I’ll be in touch soon,” I said. “We’re going to figure this out, Geneva. I promise.” As soon as the words were out, I wanted to walk them back. I knew better than to make promises. That said, every instinct in me told me I was close enough to touch the answers Geneva was seeking.

“Thank you,” she said. “Right now, it feels like you’re the only one who still believes me.”

“I’m not,” I said. “Your brother believes you. My father. You’re wrong about Sheriff Henderson. Just because he has no leads about the vandalism doesn’t mean he thinks you lied about it.”

Geneva stepped forward and embraced me. The intensity of her hug caught me off guard. I hesitated for a split second then wrapped my arms around her. She felt thin enough to snap. The pain she’d suffered over the past twelve years seemed like a tangible weight she carried.

I had to help lift it. If I couldn’t, then no one could. I feared this girl might sink beneath the waves for good.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

My dad was in a frenzy when I got back to the office. And he wasn’t alone. A white-haired, lanky man stood next to Dad in the conference room. He wore a green golf shirt with white embroidery on the upper left, above his heart. It read “Eastern Michigan University, College of Arts and Sciences.”

“Dr. Pollack,” Dad said. “This is Mercy, my daughter.”

“Henry Pollack?” I asked.

Pollack shook my hand. Derrek Sidney’s jailhouse letters were still spread all over the tables. They’d been rearranged since last night. One table had been cleared. A stack of letters was heaped on the table beside it. Dad and Professor Pollack had spread out a few dozen letters on the central table where they stood peering over them as if they were a war map.

“I brought you this,” Pollack said. He reached into a leather bag behind him and pulled out a brown paper bag, handing it to me.

I slid its contents out. A dog-eared copy of a paperback book fell into my hands. It was a thick, mass-market size, like the kind you could find in a dollar store. The edges of the pages were sprayed a faded brick color. I flicked my thumb through the pages.

The cover depicted a black raven sitting on a branch overlooking the ruins of a city. The title, The Traveler’s Guide to Oblivion, was printed in bold black letters.

I turned the book over. An author photo took up half the space. It was incredible. J. Marvin Sherman sat in front of a giant bookshelf. He had bushy brown hair and a thick moustache. A pair of reading glasses was perched on his head. He wore a bona fide leisure suit and held a cigar in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other. An old gray-and-black Smith Corona typewriter sat on the desk in front of him.

“Holy early eighties,” I muttered. The back cover copy was even worse.

“In a world stripped of its certainties, one man walks the ash-strewn road between what was and what might be. The Traveler’s Guide to Oblivion is a profound and haunting novel of survival, memory, and the search for meaning in the ruins of civilization. Part epic, part meditation, part field manual for the soul, this is a book that will stay with you long after the last page.”

“Wow,” I said, handing the book back to Professor Pollack. “That’s sure ... something. You didn’t have to drive all the way up here. I would have been fine waiting for the mail.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I just kept turning all this over in my mind. The idea that Derrek Sidney might have used parts of Sherman’s book as his MO. Well, that’s earth-shattering news in the literary world.”

“I wouldn’t romanticize it,” Dad said.

“No. Of course not,” Pollack gasped.