The Last of the Moon Girls(33)

As if in answer, the air around her seemed to ripple, the subtle breeze freshened with the scents of lavender and bergamot. The fragrance was unmistakable, like the brush of fingers against her cheek, and suddenly she knew what she needed to do.

. . . come back to the book when you are ready. Trust me in this, sweet girl. You will know when it’s time.





Bluebells . . . for truth.

My dearest Lizzy,

If you’re reading this, you have been pulled back to these pages, perhaps because you’re wrestling with a choice, searching your heart for what’s right. I knew that if you came back, this day would come, and that it would not be easy. The truth seldom is. Which is why we spend so much time hiding from it. But the truth is incapable of real harm. It is we who do harm, when we refuse to face what is real, because it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient.

When you were a girl, you were such a sensitive little thing, afraid of the dark, and the monsters you swore lived under your bed. Nearly every night you would wake, soaking wet and rigid with terror, certain you were about to be dragged off into the dark and devoured. You would come wailing down the hall, begging me to save you, to hide you, and I would let you climb in with me. I would soothe you, and promise that the monsters would never get you.

And then one night I realized I was helping you keep your monsters alive, by coddling and protecting you. I knew if I let you climb in with me again that the next night, or the one after that, you would be terrorized all over again. And so I carried you down the hall—do you remember it? You fought like a hellcat the whole way. But I made you go in, and I flipped on the light. Then I took you by the hand and made you look under the bed and in the closet, in every drawer and corner of that room, until you saw for yourself that the monsters weren’t there, that they’d never been there.

You never had the dream again. Because you understood that what isn’t real can’t hurt you. Illusions have no power—unless we insist on clinging to them. Then they become a warped kind of truth, a story we settle for because we prefer to remain in the dark with the monsters we know, rather than face new ones.

That’s why the worst truths—the ones that do the most harm—are those we refuse to face. We prefer falsehoods and half-truths, inventions meant to gloss over things we don’t wish to see. But knowing half a thing is to not know it at all. We tell ourselves the price of truth is simply too high, that it’s better to leave a thing alone in the name of peace than to inflict pain in the name of truth. But that kind of peace comes at a price.

We must never forget that there’s always another side to the coin—that on the other side of every lie is a truth that has gone untold. And there is always a cost to such things. We all of us come to a place in our lives when the things we dread inevitably come for us. Not the childish things that lurk in dark corners or under beds, but the kind that live in our heads and our hearts. The grown-up things. The kind that cut deep when they’re finally revealed. And then we must choose—do what’s hard and topple the lie, or simply allow it to stand.

You have always had a good heart, my Lizzy—a kind heart. But it is never a kindness to allow a lie to stand, however hard the pursuit of the truth may be. In the end, light is the only thing that has ever chased away darkness—the only thing that ever will. Seek truth in all things, my dearest girl. There can be no healing without it.

A—





ELEVEN

July 22

It was nearly five when Lizzy pulled into the parking lot of Mason Electric. She’d purposely waited for closing time but found herself hesitating as she reached for the door handle. Once she approached Fred Gilman, there’d be no going back. But Althea’s words thrummed in her head. Seek truth in all things. There can be no healing without it.

So be it.

The door chimed softly as she stepped into the lobby. A young woman in cat-eye glasses and a lime-green sundress glanced up from the counter with a polite smile.

“Can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak with Fred Gilman. Is he in?”

“Sorry. He’s out on a job. But if you leave your name, I’ll have him call you.”

Lizzy wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. “No. Thank you. No message.”

She was preparing to leave when she noticed two men in gray work shirts huddled around the watercooler behind the counter. One of them, the taller of the two, locked eyes with her over his paper cup.

“What do you want with Fred?”

Lizzy eyed the name patch on his shirt—JAKE. “I want to talk to him. On personal business.”

“No,” he said flatly. “You don’t. I know who you are, and I know all about your business. Hasn’t your family caused enough trouble in this town?”

Lizzy fought the urge to step back, registering the caustic combination of lye and hot tar. Not exactly a promising sign. “I didn’t come to cause trouble. I just need to ask him a few questions.”

Jake leaned across the counter until his face was inches from hers. “Leave the man alone. He doesn’t need your questions. None of us do.”

“Jake!” The woman in the cat-eye glasses slapped a manila folder down on the counter. “Get back to the warehouse where you belong. You too, Tommy.” When the men were gone, she turned back with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about them. Fred should be back shortly. You can wait if you want.”