CRYPT

She makes it about halfway up Cedar Avenue when her phone begins to ring.

Mother Dear.

She declines the call. It rings again immediately.

-Not in the mood, mom, she texts. I'm alive.

-Pick up that phone right now.

"Fuck."

She stops at the stop sign and picks up.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

She doesn't remember Joyce ever using the word "fuck" in casual conversation, so it's almost kind of amusing.

"Ugh. Mom."

"I filed a missing person report, Chloe. I called every hospital from here to Portland. The Coast Guard are looking for you body under the cliffs, as we speak. And then I get a call from random people that my daughter's been spotted driving through town. And she doesn't even bother to call!"

"I'm nineteen, mom. I've only been gone three days."

"Then why didn't you tell me you were going to be away? Why didn't you answer a million of my calls and text messages and tell me you're OK? I'm your mother, Chloe! What was I supposed to do? First Rachel disappears, then you."

This hits hard and surprises her, and she blurts out "Rachel fucking left, mom," before she can stop herself. More like shouts it, turns out. A pair of little girls playing three houses down the street stop and turn to stare at her. One is blond; the other brunette. She exhales slowly and lets the truck roll across the intersection.

Joyce is silent for a moment, but only for a moment.

"Rachel would never just leave without telling you."

That exhale comes back fast and won't come out again. She opens her mouth to speak, to breathe, and can't do it. And then she suddenly can't keep it in, and the breath breaks out through both, her mouth and nose in a violent sob.

She steps on the brakes in the middle of the street and wrestles with the thing and gets it under control somewhat.

"Listen, mom," she growls into the phone. "I'm about a minute away from home. What are my chances of getting in the shower without being waterboarded by Sergeant Asshat?"

"David is not home. He drove out to Newport to look for you."

"Best fucking news I heard all day."

She pulls into the driveway at 44 Cedar, thinking it's a bad idea. Every idea she has, though, every thought, feels like a bad idea. Everything is the stupidest thing she's ever heard. Chloe Price is someone's terrible mistake. Maybe everyone's.

Joyce is out of the door, reeling her in with the tractor beam and scanning her with x-ray vision at the same time. She looks weird in civvies.

"Oh my god," Joyce says. "What happened?"

"Nothing, mom. Just camping out. Ran into a bit of weather."

"You're covered in dirt."

"Mud. It's not a big deal."

She circles her mother and enters the house, then climbs up the stairs. A flashback explodes in her face, too brief - something with lame music - for her to dwell on, but shocking enough to make her miss a step. It's not going to be one of those cases where Joyce just leaves her be, either.

"Chloe," she says, following. "Stop. You're not… well."

There's absolutely no way to prevent her mom from following into her room, so she stops before she opens that door, praying a flashback doesn't catch her during the inevitable conversation that's about to happen.

"I'm fine."

"No. You're not. This is just like… 2010, all over again."

Wrong. It's way fucking worse than 2010. It's 2008. She doesn't say it, but the truth of it fills her to capacity. Her brain can't formulate a suitable platitude fast enough. After a momentary struggle, she just gives up and says nothing at all. Fuck it. What's the point?

"Maybe you should see a doctor," Joyce says after a pause.

"And what's a doctor gonna do, mom? Bill us? Like we need another bill we can't pay?"

It doesn't even register that she's paraphrasing Frank.

"Help you!"

"I don't need some overpaid, uncaring asshole's help! Look, mom. I'm sorry about ghosting you like that. It was stupid. And selfish. Irresponsible. I wasn't thinking. But I'm fine. I'll figure it out. I just really need that shower right now. Cool?"

"Chloe, I know Rachel would…"

"Oh for fuck's sake, mom! Can you really not tell that's the last thing I want to talk about right now? Or are you doing it on purpose?"

"You have to talk about it!"

"Can it not be right now?! Can I at least get this fucking dirt off me first?!"

She storms through the door and slams it in her mother's face. Thankfully, Joyce doesn't follow, but the room doesn't help. It used to be home base, but now it looks like a crypt. Smells like a crypt, too. It's even shaped like a coffin. Oh, fucking great. She sees this next flashback coming like it's a freight train, and it's not the kind she can dodge by hopping off the tracks at the last moment. Thanks, mom.

"People are so stupid. Smug about it, too."

She's at the desk, browsing. She makes a face and changes her voice, to express "stupid smug."

"GMOs are science. They're perfectly safe. Why don't you put on your tinfoil hat and go protest the polio vaccine. Rachel?"

Rachel is not on the bed. She's standing in front of the closet, looking at the half a dozen hangers of her clothes hanging inside. She's wearing white shorts, a black t-shirt and black boots. The dragon on her calf is taking a nap.

"These have been here for years," she says without turning.

"You can drop the rent off in that jar there. Speaking of rent, come check out this apartment I found in Long Beach."

Rachel turns, and Chloe sees her face and knows. She knows she should ask what's wrong, but what she says instead is, "It's a one-bedroom that costs about as much as this house. On the plus side: don't have to share it with the step-fuhrer."

Rachel comes closer and bends down over Chloe's shoulder, until her hair is tickling Chloe's neck. She flips through photos of rooms, but she's not really looking.

"Too shabby for your Highness?"

This makes Rachel wince.

"Too fancy for my station," she says, straightening and turning away.

"You feeling OK, Rach? You're never this modest."

"Are you trying to help by being an asshole, Price?"

"Shock therapy."

Rachel's face brightens up, but just for a moment. Then the light is gone again. Chloe would like to go over there and hug her and whisper in her ear, but she catches Rachel's look and sees that it filters through a glass wall.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything."

Suddenly, this sounds bad. Way worse than Rachel's usual drama. Chloe says nothing else. Just waits, counting breaths.

"I should have probably told you this sooner, but I haven't been getting anywhere with my photos. None of the agencies are interested. I'm too short."

And Chloe is so relieved, she feels like she's about to burst out laughing. Both at her terror from a moment ago, and Rachel's big reveal. Rachel Amber, rejected. Hell frozen over. Apocalypse imminent. A tiny part of her - or is it that tiny? - is even glad. She knows she shouldn't be, though. She knows that even though something like that just seems stupid to her, Rachel is hurting for real. The whole no-fucks-given Chloe Price influence never quite stuck. Rachel can't help but give fucks. So Chloe doesn't laugh.

"How long have you been carrying that around?" she asks.

Rachel shrugs.

"A few months, I guess."

"You're right. You should have told me sooner. But anyway, fuck all that. I've just been saying how people are stupid. You know you're worth more than your height, Rachel."

"Not to the industry, apparently."

"I bet you I know what happened. What actually happened was none of your pretentious Blackwell artistes can take decent photos."

She hears the off-key note, but trying to rephrase and explain is just going to make it worse, so she just plows on, adding a little comic relief.

"Maybe we should commission Max Caufield out of Seattle. That'll open some doors. And if even that doesn't work, then fuck modeling. You can be an amazing actress, Rachel. You can be an amazing anything."

Rachel looks up. Her smile is sad, but it's a smile.

"That might not be a bad idea," she says.

"It's a perfect idea. We get the apartment. You go to a few auditions, get discovered…"

"No, I mean about bringing your friend Max from Seattle…"

"Oh, that… Well…"

"Chloe, I met someone."

There is this half image of some traveling merchant or wizard (Elamon?) or someone, and Chloe starts her witty comeback with "What, like some traveling…" and then her brain just stops working and she stands there in the middle of the room, like her mouth is a hole to another universe, from which no words can escape.

"A guy," Rachel says. "I met a guy."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I thought you should know."

"Why would I want to know about some guy you met? Not like he's the first, or the last."

Unlike the earlier "highness" dig, this one bounces off, which terrifies Chloe all over again.

"He's different," Rachel says, coldly.

"Well, shit. Break out the candles! Let's celebrate quickly. God knows the moment isn't going to last."

"Chloe, why do you have to be such a bitch? Do you think this is easy for me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Life is hard for Rachel fucking Amber!"

The last time Chloe saw that look on Rachel's face, it was directed at a certain District Attorney.

"Obviously," Rachel says, "this was a mistake. I shouldn't have said anything. I thought we were something that we're clearly not."

Chloe tries to scoff, but her eyes are suddenly wet, and it turns into more of a gasp for breath.

"Clearly," she rasps.

Rachel, meanwhile, is somehow already by the door. Teleportation, possibly. She turns and says, "Goodbye, Chloe." And then there's just the door there. No Rachel.

This is eighteen days ago.

This is the last time they speak.