Page 7 of Glass
“Right. And where do lost things go?” I ask, my voice harsh with annoyance. I was invested in throwing my pity-party tonight, in getting away from yet another dead end and taking my mind off of what haunts me–I don’t need some man in an Elvis costume patronizing me with each word he utters. The bartender’s warning is too fresh in my mind.
He blinks before narrowing his eyes at me, studying me like I’m the stupid one here. “Well, Acadia, of course. Where else?”
My spine straightens. “What did you just say?”
The song on the jukebox fades away, giving way to a Dolly Parton song that makes everyone in the bar—except me—cheer. Elvis seems to whoop the loudest.
“What are you doing?” I gasp as Elvis wraps his hand around my wrist and drags both of us off our stools. He laughs merrily as he half-drags me across the floor, but he doesn’t make it far before I get my bearings and dig my heels in.
His grip on me slides away and he keeps walking several paces before he seems to realize I’m no longer along for the ride. I think Elvis might be even drunker than I first thought. He bends his knees and does some kind of weird gyration motion to walk back toward me.
“C’mon, pretty baby, it’s time to dance.” He reaches out again as if to grab me, but I see it coming this time. I grab the collar of his shirt and drag him down to my height.
“You don’t ever put your hands on a woman like that,” I growl at him. His mirth finally seems to fade as he takes in my furrowed eyebrows and snarling mouth. I’m happy to tolerate a fair amount of nonsense, but he’s met the end of my rope.
He lifts his hands in surrender. “I—I’m sorry,” he splutters. He might be drunk, but at least he’s self-aware enough to recognize that I’m not as easy to push around as he expected. “I just want to dance.” He gives a spineless wiggle that looksnothinglike Elvis.
“Well, I don’t.” I release him and step back, putting a healthy amount of space between us. “Why did you say Acadia?”
“Huh?”
I clench my fists so tightly my fingernails dig into the flesh of my palms. I’m growing more impatient by the second. “You said to look for lost things in Acadia. Why?”
He raises one eyebrow. For one fleeting moment, he becomes alarmingly lucid and stoic. “You wouldn’t go there if you’ve lost something, but you would go there if you lost someone. That’s where they go—The Lost live in Acadia National Park.”
The Lost.
Those two words keep replaying in my head as I abandon Elvis to slap money on the bar. The bartender calls out to thank me, but I’m barely aware of it. My body shifts to auto-pilot as I leave the bar, glad my bag is already waiting for me in the car.
I’m going to Acadia.