Spells for Forgetting(41)

Nixie set down the knife and took a sip from her own glass. “I know I should have told you. A long time ago.”

I slid onto the stool, facing her. I wasn’t going to tell her that it was okay, because it wasn’t. But Nixie had a way of seeing me that no one else really ever did and although I didn’t like that there was no hiding with her, she was often the only one I really trusted. I’d learned the language of my parents, finding ways around their fussing and their worry. But it seemed that Nixie had learned mine.

I pulled the letter from my pocket and set it on the butcher block between us without a word.

Nixie read the address before she put it together. “Oh.” She frowned.

“I need you to read it,” I said, my stomach twisting in knots.

She looked like she was going to argue until I lifted my glass, taking several anxious gulps.

“You all right, honey?”

“Not really.” I breathed.

I watched as she picked it up and carefully lifted the flap of the envelope. Once she read it, there was no going back.

Her eyes ran over the letter slowly, but her expression didn’t change. She said nothing when she glanced up at me, and then she was reading it again, from the beginning.

“The words are the same the second time. And the third,” I said. “I’ve read it a hundred times.”

She set it down on the counter without refolding it.

“What do you think it means?” I asked, my voice small.

“I think”—she paused—“I think there’s no way for us to know what it means, because Eloise isn’t here to tell us. They were her words.”

“But Nixie, it says—”

“I know what it says,” she said, exasperated. “You asked me what it means.”

“I think there’s only one thing it could mean.”

Her lips pressed together. “You don’t believe that.”

“Maybe I should have. All along.”

That was the crux of it. Nixie had been right that night in the barn. It was no ordinary childhood love between August and me. It was something else entirely. And even if I’d wanted to, I didn’t know if I could have seen things clearly. I don’t think I would have believed it even if it came from his own lips.

“I think she was saying that he did it,” I whispered, “and I think I have to give it to Jake.”

Nixie stiffened. “Em, listen to me. You’re upset about your parents and Dutch. About August being back. You need to take a breath before you make your mind up about anything.”

“This isn’t just about August, Nixie. It’s about Lily. I can’t just keep this a secret.” I flung a hand at the letter. “The only reason he wasn’t charged with her murder is because there wasn’t enough evidence, right? Well, this is evidence. What if this is what could prove that he did it?”

“Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t.”

“If he…if August killed Lily, we have to know. Her family has to know. I have to know.”

Nixie was quiet a long time. Her gaze drifted past me, to the fire, and I could see the words turning in her mind. Finally, she picked up the bottle of wine, refilling her glass nearly to the rim. When she was finished, she filled mine.

“You do what you have to do, Emery,” she said, “but if you’re going to cut this wound back open, you better be damn sure you’re right.”





Twenty-Three


    AUGUST


I’d forgotten the rain. The Oregon coast and the streets of Portland saw their fair share, but Saoirse was different. The rain this time of year was heavy and thick, with a sweet smell that clung to you wherever you went.

After two days of digging through every scrap of paper at the house, I’d finally given up the hope that I was going to unearth the deed to the cottage.

Eric’s next best guess was the records office, and though Saoirse didn’t have much, it did have one of those. The records office, the marshal’s office, and the Saoirse Journal were one and the same—a small red brick building that sat at the end of Oak Avenue only one block away from Main Street. The only other building that shared the crude, gravel lot was an old ice-cream parlor that was shut down in the colder months. From the look of it now, I wasn’t sure it had been open in at least a few years.

Jake’s truck wasn’t parked in the lot and that would make this easier. The less I had to see of him, the better.

The latch on the door stuck, and I leaned my weight into it by memory, lifting up on the handle until I could push it open. I’d come here a lot as a kid, when Jake had been something like a father or an uncle to me. But it was the times after Lily that I remembered most about being in this place.

I lifted the door on its hinges to get it closed again, eyeing the hallway that led to his office. Two of the three lights were burned out, leaving only the one that hung over his closed door.

The smell of ink and stale cigarette smoke hung in the still air, threatening to dig up those days from where I’d buried them. For weeks after the fire, Jake had hauled me back in here to ask more questions, looking for the tiniest crack in my statement or maybe hoping I’d eventually make a mistake. But I didn’t. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that he had nothing to go on. All I had to do was stick to my story.