Just Like Home(79)
“Where did you get that?” she asked, pointing down at the board.
Duvall crossed his arms. “I rebuilt the front porch for your mother. She said I could keep the trash.”
“Not the board. The papers. That’s my father’s handwriting. Do you have—did you take—” Her heart was in her throat. She stepped closer to the boards against the wall, examining them with increasing horror.
The longer she looked, the more words she spotted. They were everywhere: little pieces of paper with frayed edges, blended into the surrounding medium so seamlessly they might have grown out of it. There were places where water had made the ink bloom, bleeding from the paper and into the surrounding medium. She picked out a few sentence fragments, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
SO SMART
REMEMBER THAT FIRST FISH, HOW IT STRUGGLED
AN UNPOISONED MIND, A CLEAN MIND
MISS YOU SO MUCH, VERA-BABY
“You shouldn’t be in here.” Duvall’s breath was hot on the back of Vera’s neck. She whirled around, too furious to be afraid, too hungry to notice that he was standing between her and the only exit from the shed.
“You took them.” She had to crane her neck to look up at him. He was so close that she could see the muscle of his jaw working. “You took my father’s letters, his journal.”
Duvall’s mouth twitched. “Journal?”
She pointed to the board on the sawhorse. “It’s right there. It’s his handwriting. Don’t bother denying it, you—”
“That’s his handwriting,” Duvall said, his voice as soft as the flesh inside a cheek. He took a step closer, forcing Vera to step back. “But I don’t know anything about a journal. Why? You hiding something, Vera?”
She shook her head, taking another step back as he moved closer again. “Those were mine. Those letters were all I had of him. How could you take them?”
“Daphne said I could have anything I wanted for my work,” he said. “You and I both know I had more of a right to those letters than you did.” Another step toward her, and now they were past the edge of the sink and all the boards and tools were out of Vera’s reach. The single lightbulb overhead was just behind Duvall’s head, framing him in a blinding halo that made it impossible for Vera to make out his face. “This house is mine. It’s my legacy. It’s my right to elevate it.”
“How could it possibly be more yours than mine? My father built this place. You don’t have a right to any of it. You’re just … you’re just a visitor.” She took a step back and felt something soft against the backs of her knees—the edge of the thin mattress in the far corner of the shed.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured. “You cold, Vee? There’s a blanket right there behind you.” He reached over both of her shoulders, his chest pressing into hers. She recoiled, turning her face to the side to avoid his. Then he drew back just enough for her to breathe. A soft, tobacco-reeking weight settled onto her shoulders. She reached up reflexively and her fingers found the scratch of wool.
Duvall shoved his hands into his pockets but didn’t step back, forcing Vera to remain bent over backward to keep from touching him. He looked down at her the same way she’d seen him look down at so many microwaved dinners—a combination of resigned interest and removed disgust. “Oh. I should answer your question,” he whispered. “This place belongs to me more than it belongs to you because your mother is leaving it to me when she dies.”
A violent shudder of revulsion climbed Vera’s spine and rattled her like a terrier giving a rat the killing-shake. She shrugged off Duvall’s blanket and ducked past him, her stomach climbing up into her throat. “No,” she said, “no chance. Never.”
“You left, Vera,” he said. Vera turned to see him standing with his hands still in his pockets, his shoulders up around his ears, that same slippery half-smile resting easy on his lips. “But my dad? He called Daphne. He wrote. He helped her find boarders when money was tight. Really, we’re more of a family to her than you’ve ever been.”
“She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t give the house to you.” Even as Vera said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Daphne had adored Hammett, had loved the attention his book brought her.
He grinned at her, that warm lopsided grin that made his eyes crinkle up, the one that made Vera’s soft palate itch, the one that made her stomach twitch with humid want. “Your mother is leaving the house to me. The documents are in the fire safe in the shed,” he added, “in case you’re thinking of trying to interfere with your mother’s last wishes.” His smile grew wider. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you stay. Someone’ll need to give tours, and I’ll be too busy by then.” He gestured at the boards as Vera backed toward the door. “I’ve already got international interest. We’re going on tour together, me and the Crowder House.”
Vera stumbled out of the shed and onto the lawn. It was half-dark outside already. She wasn’t aware of crossing the backyard, climbing the back steps, walking through the kitchen and the dark, cold dining room. She had spent the day shying away from her bedroom, but now she wound up there with all the inevitability of water sliding down a shower drain. She only realized she’d been in motion when she slid the desk chair under the doorknob.