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Back Reverie
Chapters (53)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Letter from the Author
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. • One •
  7. • Two •
  8. • Three •
  9. • Four •
  10. • Five •
  11. • Six •
  12. • Seven •
  13. • Eight •
  14. • Nine •
  15. • Ten •
  16. • Eleven •
  17. • Twelve •
  18. • Thirteen •
  19. • Fourteen •
  20. • Fifteen •
  21. • Sixteen •
  22. • Seventeen •
  23. • Eighteen •
  24. • Nineteen •
  25. • Twenty •
  26. • Twenty-One •
  27. • Twenty-Two •
  28. • Twenty-Three •
  29. • Twenty-Four •
  30. • Twenty-Five •
  31. • Twenty-Six •
  32. • Twenty-Seven •
  33. • Twenty-Eight •
  34. • Twenty-Nine •
  35. • Thirty •
  36. • Thirty-One •
  37. • Thirty-Two •
  38. • Thirty-Three •
  39. • Thirty-Four •
  40. • Thirty-Five •
  41. • Thirty-Six •
  42. • Thirty-Seven •
  43. • Thirty-Eight •
  44. • ∞ •
  45. • Thirty-Nine •
  46. • Forty •
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgments
  49. Excerpt from Be Dazzled
  50. One
  51. Two
  52. About the Author
  53. Back Cover

“Let me introduce you to the work of Maxine Osman,” Dr. Poesy said. “She was born in the year nineteen forty-six and has been a fixture of East Amity for seventy-four years. She married, but her husband died eons ago. She has no children. She used to head the East Amity Craft Guild. She is known for the watercolors she completes every year for the East Amity tourism board. In fact, she’s most known for her seasonal series of the Cobalt Complex, completing twelve every year for the official East Amity calendar. Her favorite subject was the old mill, which you blew up.”

Kane stared at the postcard. There was something he knew here. Something important he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You think a painter is going to come after me because I burned down the mill?”

Dr. Poesy pinched the bridge of his nose. “She was set to paint the mill the morning of your crash. She was set to paint it at sunrise, about when the crash happened.”

Kane tried again. “I’m really sorry. I can apologize to her.”

“No,” Dr. Poesy said. “You can’t apologize to her, Mr. Montgomery, because she’s dead.”

Kane’s eyes went wide, dry and unblinking. “She’s…what?”

“Dead. Deceased. Departed.”

“I know what dead is.”

And then Kane realized what Dr. Poesy was saying, and the air went out of the room. The doctor smiled wider, now speaking with deliberate easiness. “Maxine had a small box of supplies she brought with her to her painting sites. Aluminum, with clasps and a handle. In it would have been her paints and brushes. Other artists’ tools.” Dr. Poesy’s eyes were feline in nature. Kane felt that if the lights were to switch out, the cobalt of those eyes would turn to moony disks. “That box was found among the ashes of the mill, melted shut. What’s clear is that you were present for Maxine’s final painting. What is less clear is why.”

Kane’s eyes stung. He couldn’t resist the compulsion to run his fingers over his burns, to hide behind his white knuckles. Dr. Poesy leaned forward, intrigued by Kane’s reaction, as though he already knew Kane was guilty.

“Your parents do not know about Maxine Osman. The police do not know, either. I am not your appointed psychologist, as Thistler believes, nor do I answer to the East Amity Police Department. I answer to forces much more powerful. Those forces have an interest in Maxine’s disappearance. Those forces wish to keep this investigation a secret, and your involvement risks that secret, but I do not believe you are a risk yourself, Mr. Montgomery. I believe you are an answer.”