by Tara Goedjen
“She’s the one who got real sick, right?” Elle asked, sliding off her ballet flats and then fluffing up the cushion behind her back.
“They called it brain fever,” Mae said. “It was probably meningitis.”
She flipped the page and Elle gasped. There was another photograph of Rose in the bed, except this time her eyes were closed and something was off about her. It was hard to say what exactly. She was just lacking…something vital. An essence.
“Is she dead?” Elle whispered.
Mae nodded. “I think so.” Taking pictures of the recently deceased seemed morbid—but then again, wasn’t it a little like her sketching Ro now that she was gone? So that she’d never forget her, even if her face disappeared from memory. If that happened, you had to rely on photographs. The first portrait Mae had ever drawn was of her mother. Her short, light brown hair and thick bangs, sharp cheekbones and oval-shaped green eyes. She’d traced everything from an old picture, because she didn’t have any memories of her, not one.
Elle turned the next page and then shoved it away. “My God,” she whispered.
Mae pulled the album toward them with her fingertips and stared at it. Distantly she registered that her granddad had hobbled over from the window seat and was standing at her shoulder, leaning on her chair for support. She felt like she needed something to lean on too.
The picture in front of them was nothing like Rose’s. Grady’s mother had been lovingly portrayed in death—her hair cleaned and curled, her eyes gently closed. But this second picture was cruel. It was Grady’s father—unmistakably—someone had taken the time to print his name on the image.
That ink in the corner was the easiest thing to look at because nothing else was. His clothing was torn and dirty, as if he’d fallen or been dragged. His shirt was ripped open, his chest exposed, a wide gash near his heart seeping blood, a dark stain pooling on his pants. His eyes were the worst part. They were open, so pale the irises almost looked white, and they were staring at nothing at all. He was slumped against the side of the house—no ceremony about it—an oil lantern inexplicably set by his hands. Whoever had taken the photo hated this man, hated him even after his death. The remnants of a story Ro told her long ago came to mind.
“He was murdered.” Mae’s voice felt hoarse and she cleared her throat, aware all of a sudden that no one had spoken in a long time. The three of them had been staring at the picture, half entranced, probably all thinking the same thing: Why?
She looked over her shoulder to find her granddad nodding, his eyes still on the album, a sadness in them that hurt her to see. What did he know about the Cole history? So much was trapped inside him, his speech dammed in his throat, his hands curled in on themselves. She wanted to learn about Hanna, and to know more about the ancestors who’d written in the green book before Ro had. But the dangerous part about asking questions in life was not being ready for answers. She hadn’t been ready for this.
Her sister started flipping through the pictures, faster now. “Everyone was afraid of the Coles,” Elle said, her voice hushed. “But no one ever did anything about it because the Coles were rich. At least, they were, till little Grady Junior or whatever went crazy after his father died. Maybe he’s the one who killed him.”
“What are you talking about?” Lance was standing in the archway, his hands shoved into his pockets, that easy grin on his face.
“Someone way, way back in our family,” Elle told him.
His name was on Mae’s lips, but she held it in. Young Grady II, who’d started the green book, his signature penned at the top of the inside cover. Ro said once that he’d been sent to an asylum, but she’d always loved embellishing for thrills, just like the only time she showed her the green book. Back then, Mae shut her eyes instead of looking because she’d been terrified. Because the book had reminded her of something. Of following her sister into the woods one day, trailing her lacy white dress, a basket in Ro’s hand…A hint of the memory came to her and then was gone.
Mae’s heart fluttered. She realized Elle was still talking about Grady. Lance was standing on her other side now, smelling of cologne as he leaned over her, his chest grazing her shoulder while he looked at the album. Elle tugged a picture loose and fanned herself with it, her eyes going to Lance like she was waiting for him to ask for more.
“So what happened to the guy?” he finally said.
Elle gave him a grin. “He spent years building additions to the house, and blew all the family money wandering the world, that sort of thing. But no one really knows what he was searching for. That’s what Ro said.” She finished her story and turned to their granddad. “I was a good listener, believe it or not,” she said. “Bet you didn’t think so, did you?”
He grappled for his writing pad, and then licked the tip of his pen and wrote a single word:
IMPULSIVE
His gnarled hands turned back to the picture of the house that they’d looked at before, with young Grady Cole on the porch. Mae peered down at him.
“Did you know him?” Elle asked. Mae was shocked when her granddad nodded and then wrote on his writing pad.
LONG LIFE
His hands opened and closed like he wanted to write more. Then he was pressing the pen down again and Mae felt Lance lean in closer to look.
NO GOOD
“Was he guilty?” Mae asked, and her granddad shook his head as if she was missing the point. He tapped the writing pad with his finger and added another word.
NO GOOD DEEDS
She’d heard that phrase before, maybe from Ro? But then the trilling cursive rose up in her memory and she remembered seeing it in the book. “What do you mean?”
Her granddad’s blue eyes went faraway, lost in thought, and his fist holding the pen started to tremble. Mae reached out to grab his hand. She squeezed his fingers and then his eyes were on her, coming into focus. He smiled a little, just on one side, and crushed her hand back.
“Anyway, are we getting sentimental over old pictures or are we cleaning?” Elle wiped at her forehead and left a streak of dirt behind. “Granddad,” she said, way too loud again, “if you’re going to keep all those frames, we’ll have to put them in your room.” She glanced at Mae. “Will you take them to the attic? I’ll keep cleaning.”
“Enough for the both of us?” Mae asked.
“Very funny,” Elle answered, rolling her eyes. “But hurry up.”
“And promise you’ll come back,” Lance said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Mae sidestepped him, letting her hair fall across her eyes so he wouldn’t see the surprise in them. “I promise nothing. And remember, please don’t—”
“We know,” Elle said, letting out a gusting sigh. “You’re so demanding.”
Mae laughed at the irony as she put the stack of frames into the empty box and then topped it off with the album. She heaved up the box and carried it out of the room, halting when she got to the foyer.
Scattered across the wooden floorboards were guns and bullet belts and knives, spread out beside piles of coveralls and giant flashlights. Sonny was crouched in the center of it all, rifling through a duffel bag, a pair of binoculars around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Brought this up from the basement.” He didn’t turn around. “To get ready,” he said, like that explained everything.
Mae’s stomach tightened. “Ready for what?”
He looked over his shoulder and glared at her. “You’re standing in my light, Mae.” He was so quick to use the possessive—all shoulders and strength, Atlas carrying the world on his back. She stepped out of the stream of sunlight and he grunted something unintelligible and went back to his duffel bag. The box was digging into her fingers, so she started up the curving steps and then heard footsteps behind her.
“Thought you could use a hand.”
She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know it was Lance. A smile was at her lips that she couldn’t hold b
ack. This might be her chance. “You could get the door,” she told him, “but I’ve got the box.”
Something grazed her elbow and then he was at her side, his T-shirt so white it hurt her eyes. “It’s half your size,” he pressed. “Let me take it.”
The frames were heavy but she tried not to show it as she reached the first landing. “This box is the least of my problems,” she said, the words off her tongue before she could stop them.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Lance teased, sounding cryptic.
She could feel him watching her, matching her pace. Her heart quickened as he stayed even with her, all the way to the back steps. The walls narrowed in on them as they finally reached the top, and he jogged ahead to open the door, the attic shadowy without a light on.
“After you,” Lance said, smiling again.
MAE SET THE BOX ON the table as Lance followed her into the attic. Her stomach tensed with a flutter of nerves. They were alone now. Should she just come right out with it?
“Why does your grandpa stay up here, anyway?” Lance asked, standing too close beside her.
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries,” Mae said, and that was true because she’d asked him plenty of times and had never gotten a straight answer. “He likes the view, mostly.”
“Long way up, though. You’d think after the stroke…” Lance shoved his hands in his pockets as he scanned her granddad’s bookshelf. “I still feel bad about it.”
Mae bit the insides of her cheeks, the pain keeping her from the memory of that day. How her granddad had collapsed when he saw Lance carrying Ro’s body. How she’d almost lost both of them, all at once.
“Ro was real close to your grandpa, wasn’t she?” Lance looked her way, worry crossing his face. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to talk about her.”
She shook her head—there was so much to talk about, but she still wasn’t sure where to start. Ro would dive right in.
“Actually, I do.” Her eyes teared up and she turned, letting out a cough like she had dust in her throat, and then turned back. “Why’d you leave?” She hadn’t known what she was going to ask until it burst out. “After it happened.”
Lance shrugged, rocked on his heels. His gaze settled on the window, the one overlooking the woods and the bay beyond.
“I needed a change,” he said. “Wanted to clear my head. It just about killed me.”
He stopped then, realizing what he’d said. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and she couldn’t help herself. “Because you felt guilty?”
The pain on his face disappeared, replaced by confusion. For a moment she caught a glimpse of the old Lance—the guy who was always lurking in the shadows, trying to catch her sister’s attention—but the confidence returned and he nodded.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, watching her. “I wished I could have saved her. Wished I could’ve got there in time.” He sighed. “Think about it, Mae. Each day ends up being a series of moments, some big, some small, and I know that’s the one I’ll regret the most. That day. That moment I missed.” He stared out the window again and she knew he was looking at the bay in the distance. “To tell you the truth, my dad wanted me gone last year so I’d quit asking so many questions. Quit talking about Ro every night.” He shook his head, let out another frustrated sigh. “Do you know what that’s like? To spend every day thinking about how if you’d just been a little earlier, found her a little sooner…”
Mae’s heart clinched and he glanced up at the ceiling and then back at her again.
“You probably do,” he said, his eyes full of understanding. He ran a hand through his hair, crossed his arms like he didn’t know where to put them. “I loved her, Mae.”
She searched his eyes, trying to catch him in the lie, but it wasn’t there. He’d loved her. He’d loved Ro, and Cage had too. They all had, but that hadn’t been enough to save her.
“Any more questions?” He sounded hoarse, like he was trying not to break down in front of her.
“Lots.” Maybe it was hurting them both, but she needed to keep him talking. “Can you tell me what happened again?”
Lance stepped toward her. “Everything’s in the police report,” he said, his voice softer now. “You know I made an official statement, Mae.”
She’d read it. A hundred times over. “Yes. To your dad.” She gave him a loaded look, let the words hang in the air.
He shook his head and then smiled as if half amused, half disappointed in her. “Kind of how it works when he’s a cop.”
“What about the differences in what you said to my dad and what you wrote in your statement?”
Lance nodded slowly, stared at the ground for a breath like he was thinking about what to say. “Like what?” he finally asked. His hazel eyes held a challenge but she wasn’t going to back down.
“You told my dad you thought Cage killed her.” She was watching his face. Lance’s jaw was firm but not clenched, his gaze steady. “But in the statement you only mentioned that you saw him standing over her.”
He nodded again. “That’s true.” He took another step and seemed suddenly taller, his skin darker, tanner, everything about him magnified. She fought the urge to back away, put distance between them.
“Why’d you say that to Sonny, then?” Mae asked. “Tell him something like that when you weren’t sure?” All of the not-knowing of the past year rose up in her throat and she wanted to cry. “Do you really think Cage did it?”
Lance rubbed at his forehead, leaned against her granddad’s bookcase. “At first I did, but I—” His voice cracked. “I remember that day, clear as clear. I just don’t know what he was doing. He was either holding her, or…”
Mae felt herself flinch, and Lance saw it too. “I should quit talking.”
“No. Go on.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans to keep them from shaking. “Please.”
“I wanted it to be his fault,” he said, and now he wasn’t looking at her anymore, like he was embarrassed. “I never liked him, Mae. He kept to himself. Never noticed anyone but her. Never spoke to anyone but her.”
Her eyes narrowed. Didn’t he realize he was describing himself too?
“That’s not a reason to think he killed her.” The black door in her mind flung open and she threw all her sadness into it, all her anger. She had to stay focused.
“I know.” Lance rubbed at his forehead again, his shoulders tensing. “That’s why I left it out of my statement. Would’ve just sounded jealous anyway.”
“So instead you told my dad you thought Cage did it.”
“I don’t know what I saw, Mae.” A hint of frustration in his voice now. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m allowed an opinion. I found her.” He walked over to the box on the table, his elbow grazing her arm as he passed. “I saw Cage standing over her body. I saw the blood. He ran off when I shouted at him. And that’s the truth.”
Her heart felt tight as it all sank in. Surely she hadn’t gotten Cage wrong? But he ran. And she’d known it all along. He ran.
Lance’s hair fell over his eyes as he pulled the lid off the box. Inside were the old photographs, all those faces gaping up at her, the younger Grady’s near the top. The black-and-white daguerreotype couldn’t hide his lankiness or that impression of being restless to the bone. It reminded her of herself—how she felt right now, how she’d felt all year—and she stared at him and knew she had to try harder.
“Tell me what else you didn’t say in the report.”
Lance smiled, but he looked sad. “Kind of seems like you’re interrogating me,” he said, forcing a playfulness into his words. Maybe he couldn’t stand the pressure in the room either. Maybe that heavy sadness that was pressing down on her was pressing down on him too. “Planning on keeping me a prisoner up here?”
Mae folded her arms across her chest. “Do I have a reason to?”
“No, but I wouldn’t really mind, long as you were here.” He stepped toward her and she could
smell his cologne again, and something like sand and salt—that scent from being outdoors in the sun. “Listen, I know there’s things I could have done better,” he said. “I know that.” His words struck her as odd, but his eyes were serious when he looked her over; she could see the depth of his gaze. “Mae, I want the same thing you want. I—”
“Lance?” Elle’s voice filtered through the open door. “Mae?”
They both turned at the sound of her shout, and then Lance shrugged.
“Best not get in trouble with both of you.” Suddenly his hand was on the side of her face and he was leaning toward her, warmth radiating from his skin, his hazel eyes pinning her right where she stood. “Believe me,” Lance said, his voice breaking, all his words coming in a rush, “I would have done anything for her. I still would.”
And then he was gone, his footsteps pounding down the stairs.
Mae was left alone in the attic. Frustrated, she shut the cardboard lid over Grady’s picture. She hadn’t learned anything from talking to Lance, not really. And she’d gotten nothing from Cage last night.
She sat down on the edge of the table. Maybe Lance would open up to her if he trusted her more. He’d seemed honest enough, willing to talk, but her gut told her he was holding back. She needed to go downstairs and small-talk him, start slow. Use every minute before nightfall to lure out whatever he wasn’t telling her about Ro.
As she stood, gearing herself up for the task, she heard a scratching noise. She took a step toward the stairs and heard it again. It sounded too loud to be mice. Her next thought was Lance; but she’d seen him leave. Maybe it was another bird, or some small animal had gotten trapped inside the attic?
Beyond her granddad’s tidy room was the storage space, full of stacks of old furniture and books, over a century of clutter, all put away behind the newer plywood wall. The sound had come from back there. Curious now, Mae started into the warm shadows. This was the unfinished part of the attic, lit by the window on the far wall.