I stare at the picture, tracing the image, and suddenly a small detail catches my eye. I zoom closer. There, on Sheriff Theriot’s bare chest, near his rib cage—a small, dark tattoo. A circle with two sets of horns: one facing up, the other down.
It’s unmistakable. The symbol from the swamp. Le Culte de la Lune’s mark of protection.
“God Almighty,” I whisper, though it’s not God’s language inked on the sheriff’s skin. How is this possible? I drag the mouse slowly, forcing myself to focus and move methodically through the rest of the picture, scrutinizing the grainy image as if it will speak to me. There—the tips of the horns peek out from Killian’s unbuttoned shirt. And there—the symbol’s slender circle rests just above Fred’s waistline, revealed by his lifted shirt as he laughs. I don’t see tattoos on Augustus or my father, but they’re both still wearing shirts. Could the symbol be hidden, waiting there, a thing I’d missed all my life?
And what does it mean that these men were bound together by it?
I print out a copy of the photograph on the basement’s old, sputtering printer, then think twice and print four more. It can’t be a coincidence that John Abraham, whoever he was, took a picture that clearly angered my father, published it, and then the newspaper was shuttered by the end of the year. In fact, no paper copies of theBuglehave survived. Only this microfilm, a technology so underused in the library that it would be easy to forget it existed. If someone did try to erase this photograph’s existence—if they thought they’d gotten rid of it—better to have backups.
Sweeping up the warm pages, I’m about to head upstairs when I realize that in my haste, I skipped over the remaining photos in the issue. I force myself to sit back down and scroll to the end. There are so many faces I recognize: Old Man Jonas manning the barbecue; Mrs. Autin lying under an umbrella, clutching a bottle of sunscreen; a wide-framed picture of a huge crowd gathered near the docks, watching the fireworks. I search for my face but don’t find it—it must’ve been after my parents forced me to go home. But there’s thirteen-year-old Beth Fortenot at the outskirts of the crowd, wearing a rapt smile, holding hands with—
Barry Holt.
MyBarry.
The sight punches me in the gut. If I was fourteen that summer, Barry was fifteen, not yet a football star but on his way. In the picture, he tosses back his swooped brown hair, grinning down at Beth with a matching secret smile.
They dated. Looking at the picture, there’s no other reasonable conclusion. I’d never witnessed them together, and Barry had never told me. Then again, it’s not like Fred Fortenot would’ve allowed it, so maybe that’s why they kept quiet. Barry was exactly the kind of boy Beth longed for: popular, athletic, loved by everyone. Was he who she’d met out at Starry Swamp the night her father beat her?
Dear Lord. Was Barry…
No.
Nissa is right: the basement is full of ghosts—but not the kind I expected. It’s where my certainty that I know anyone in this town has come to die.
I jab the computer’s power button and bound up the stairs, my footsteps heavy. When I reach the top all I can think of is getting home and putting more pieces together. I whirl around the corner—
And run right into Coby, one of the Fortenot Fishing Wives, nearly knocking her over.
We both stagger back, arms pinwheeling. I only just manage to keep my pages from flying everywhere.
“I’m so sorry.” Heat rushes to my face. “I didn’t think anyone was here. We’re supposed to be closed.”
To my surprise, Coby clutches her purse to her chest, eyes finding the floor like she’s afraid to meet my gaze. “I was just returning some books,” she murmurs. “Forgot the hours. Silly me.”
I watch, amazed, as she hustles to the door, unlocks it like an expert, and slips out.
“Oh!” booms a voice. “You still here?”
I whip around, my hand on my chest. “Nissa! You scared me half to death.”
She chuckles, winding around an aisle before coming into view. “Look at us burning the midnight oil. We need a raise. Go tell your daddy.”
“What are you doing here?” I glance at the door. “And what was that with Coby? She practically flew out of here.”
Nissa puts a hand on her hip. “If I tell you, do you swear to keep it a secret?”
“Of course.” I’m well versed in secrets. Like everyone else in this town.
She straightens a row of books. “You’ve probably noticed I make it my business to gather information—in whatever forms it comes. Certain people in this town know if they have news to share, they can drop by the library after hours.”
I look around. The rows of books blink back innocently. “That’show you get your gossip? You use the library like an information speakeasy?”
“I give them a fair exchange,” she insists. “Secrets for secrets. Everyone needs a whisper network. It’s how we look out for each other. You know how people are always talkin’ about Lila LeBlanc steppin’ out on her man? We started that rumor. Keeps them distracted from the fact that she’s been working on her AA out at the community college in Saint Lafitte.”
“She has?”
“Studying to be a social worker. Says she’s plannin’ to leave her husband and move outta Bottom Springs as soon as she’s through.”
