Hemlock grove brian mcgreevy(english)

She was offended. “I would never read someone else’s mail,” she said. “Unless it was about me.”

He put the letter in the front pocket of his backpack, joining the fragment of Goblin Market and the shitty picture. He did not know if this would all ultimately come together as something meaningful or if it was like the opposite of those paintings made of dots, the illusion of order a consequence of proximity; if you stood at the other end of the universe seeking resolution you would just end up feeling like an idiot for trying.

When they passed Kilderry Park Letha looked out the window and said, “He’s dead.”

“Who?” said Peter.

“Francis Pullman. The one who saw. He stabbed himself in the brain last night.”

“Oh,” said Peter.

Letha moved her hand as if to take Peter’s but changed the motion into picking at the duct tape patching a rip in the faux leather of their seat. The bus came to a stop at the mouth of Kimmel Lane and she got off with him and started down the hill. Still, neither commented that this was outside the normal run of events.

“Roman seemed weird today,” she said.

“He’s pissed at me,” said Peter.

“Why?” “Because there’s a big Roman-shaped blind spot in the way Roman sees things.”

“What happened Saturday night?” said Letha. “Were you there when he was arrested?”

“Your mom using the sheriff’s department to give you a time-out isn’t the same thing as being arrested,” he said.

“What are the things you’re leaving out?” she said.

Peter said nothing.

“You don’t need to leave stuff out just because I’m a girl,” she said.

Peter looked at her to see if she really believed that. He said nothing.

“I should sock you,” said Letha.

As they approached the trailer, the rain that had been threatening all day began lightly to fall. They jogged inside. The car was gone and they had the place to themselves. They sat on the couch and listened to the rain.

“Do you believe in angels?” she said.

Peter saw no way out of this conversation and regretted for the second time today that it was only one night of the month that he got to drop his human mouth on the ground.

She clasped her hands on her stomach. “It scares my parents, because they don’t believe me. But I guess I wouldn’t either in their shoes. I know it sounds a little crazy.”

“It actually sounds a lot crazy,” said Peter.

“Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you just saying you don’t know because you think I’m crazy?”

“Well, I think you probably are crazy, but I still don’t know.”

She looked at him but he looked away. He felt her still looking at him and wished she would stop, but still tried to make his profile handsomely contemplative. The cat leaped onto the coffee table and sat on the jigsaw puzzle Lynda was still working on and began to groom, not actually disrupting any pieces but proving that it could.

Every cat is a woman, thought Peter.

“Well!” said Letha.

“Well what?” said Peter. He knew but had learned that if there was one advantage to the male sex it was that your obtuseness would never be underestimated; if you pretend you don’t know what the problem is, half the time it just goes away.