Taking a deep breath, I turn on the phone. There’s a document waiting for me. I open it.
“Bloody hell…” It’s scanned pages of Nellie’s journal.
Oscar. He was in her house.In her bedroom!
I’m mad as hell and… curious. I’ve been doing so good. Okay, maybe not “good,” but not bad. Sometimes not bad can be a really good day. It’s all perspective.
The journal gobbles up the rest of my day. Hundreds of entries, some short, some quite long, but they’re all written to Bell. A lot of them don’t make any sense and in some ways they confirm Nellie’s diagnosis. Other entires remind me of my last day with her, the lucidity, the moment I questioned every day before with her. By the time I reach the end of the final entry, I don’t feel the enlightenment that I had hoped I would find. I wanted to know more about the “incident” that led to her mental state. One thing I know is that something happened to Bell, and Nellie is responsible.
However, the last entry, which was three days ago, is most shocking. She’snotinsane—at least not in the way her family believes she is. And I think Bell is the woman with whom Harold had an affair. I don’t know if anyone else would read these same words and come to the same conclusion, but I feel it in the spacebetween words. Bell and Nellie were friends who betrayed each other. That much bleeds through every page of the journal.
Bell,
I’m done. The lie has to end. I don’t know if the truth will set me free, but I have to try. I’ve found someone who makes me want something more than revenge. I’m not even sure if revenge was ever mine to give. That’s probably something you would know. What about forgiveness? Have I earned that? Have you forgiven me? I’ve forgiven you. I think I could even forgive Harold if I thought it would give me true freedom.
~Nel
My name is Scarlet Stone and for my twelfth birthday, Oscar gave me a signed first edition ofSherlock Holmesby Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, an Inverness cape, and a deerstalker cap. It was more than a gift; it was symbolic of my duty to solve mysteries.
Nellie and I need to have a chat. I grab my bag and open the door. “Nolan.” I gasp.
“Scarlet, we need to talk.”
“Oh, um… okay. Come in.”
He steps inside and looks around my tiny flat, specifically at the bed and massage chair that consumes the room.
“Have a seat.” I nod to the massage chair.
His brow tightens.
“You don’t have to turn it on if you don’t want to.” I return a half smile while grabbing my picnic chair, unfolding it, then taking a seat. It would feel too weird to sit on the bed.
Never mind. Nolan’s gaping-mouth assessment of my place has already maxed out the weirdness level. I should have just sat on the bed.
He eases into the chair like each inch he descends is the final crank to a Jack in the box. “Your father,” he begins once he’s convinced a scary clown is not going to jump out.
For me, the clown is already out and his name is Oscar. Tapping my finger on the plastic arm of my chair, I bide my time. It’s too early to jump to any conclusions.
“He and my mother were…”
Here it comes: horrific tales of the trouser snake. The small smile on my face feels pained. I can only imagine what it must look like.
“…having dinner last night. They seemedclose.”
As long as he wasn’t eating her for dinner, then I can handle this. It’s still manageable. “Dinner at your house?”
Nolan nods.
“With your father?”
“He’s out of town.”
I swallow a hard lump then clear my throat. “What… what were they eating?”
Nolan narrows his eyes. “I don’t know.”
My sigh of relief is a bit louder than intended.
