Last Girl Ghosted(74)

“I knew you’d have questions one day,” she says. “These things have a way of rising up as we come of age, grow older, find new perspectives.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Tell me.”

I sit at the long wood table that stands in an open area between the shelves and shelves of books. I’ve been here before and know that this historical library houses books and records, primary documents like letters and diaries. Everything from the town’s founding documents, to files of old newspapers. There’s a microfiche room, and a computer lab, a nod to the new way records are kept. Here in this library, Joy Martin has amassed as many pieces of town history as exist. The place has an energy, like a thousand voices whispering their piece of the story of this town.

I tell Joy about everything that’s happened, and she listens carefully, foot tapping. Bailey stands by the door, arms folded. Something about the expansiveness of the room, the silent presence of recorded moments in time, the ticking of the clock on the wall over the desk, I feel lifted away from the world outside. My words seem to float on the air, soft and dissipating like a breath. When I’m done, I take the newspaper article from my bag and put it on the table.

She reaches for it, regards it for a second with a frown, then stands to sort through a stack of red, hardbound binders that sit on the table. She opens one labeled Carson Family Murder and starts shifting through the pages. When she finds what she’s looking for, she opens the book to me. Bailey moves in closer, standing over my shoulder.

The space in the book is blank. She places a protective hand on the newsprint.

“That article came from this book.”

I stare at the empty page, trying to make sense of it.

You were here in this room, digging though my past? How? When? Why?

“Was someone here, asking about this event?” Bailey wants to know.

“When?” I ask. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Joy raises a hand.

“Hold on,” she says. “About a year ago someone did make an appointment to come in and search through old records. One of the local Realtors was searching for a history on a property a client was looking to buy. Your property.”

“You still own the property?” asks Bailey.

I nod my head, but find I’ve lost my voice.

“It’s been in the Carson family for generations,” says Joy. “Luke Carson signed it over to Robin, well, legally Wren Greenwood, when he went to prison. He’s serving two life sentences without possibility of parole.”

Yes, she’s right. The property is mine, and it’s true that Realtors do often call with offers on the place. City people looking for their little piece of nature, their escape from the modern world—for the weekend anyway—make huge offers to raze the house and put up some gleaming monument to their wealth. And anyone with half a brain would have sold it years ago. But I didn’t. I’ve held on to it because some piece of me still lives there. We used to think that the house was haunted. But really it’s our ghosts that roam that land. It’s their home, and though I should chop off that part of my life like a gangrenous limb, I find I can’t. In my dreams, I still live there roaming the woods and listening to the birdsong, even if in my waking life I can’t stand the thought of stepping foot on that property.

“Who was the Realtor?” asks Bailey. He’s still running his agenda, while I’ve veered off course some, drifting into the past. All of this is not so much about you as it was at first. I feel like I’ve stepped into quicksand.

“I keep a log of visitors,” she says, rising. She walks over to her desk at the end of the room, her heels clicking purposefully. A few taps on the keyboard and she looks up, over her glasses.

“Rick Javits,” she says thoughtfully.

The name rings a bell; he was probably one of the Realtors who called me and whom I ignored. There’s a woman, too, Barbara something or other. She called only recently. Maybe I should call her back.

“Did he come alone?” asks Bailey.

“No,” she says. “He had his client with him, wanted to show the place off. You know how people like to think they’re buying a piece of history.”

“Do you have a name there?” I can tell he’s getting annoyed, having to drag every piece of information out of Joy.

“I’m sorry, no,” she says stiffly. “I entered Rick Javits and client.”

“That seems odd,” says Bailey. “You’re so meticulous about everything else.”

He sweeps his arm around the library to make his point.

Joy peers at him over her glasses, annoyed, imperious. “If I thought he’d be moving into town, I might have paid more attention to him.”

“But he was looking to buy property, so wasn’t that a reasonable expectation?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Carson property is not for sale and never has been. Robin won’t sell that land.”

Won’t I? How does she know that?

“Is there a way for us to reach Rick Javits?” asks Bailey.

“He’s a Realtor, Mr. Kirk, I promise you that he’ll be easy to find. You have heard of Google, right?”

“Wow,” he says. “What’s your problem with me?”