The older man disappeared into the backroom, and Oliver could hear him opening and closing drawers as if searching for something. After a moment, he returned with a flat, dusty box.
“I thought you threw that thing out years ago. It’s older than I am,” the younger pharmacist said as he loaded Gwen’s basket with their purchases.
“No, I moved it, so you wouldn’t throw it out. I told you one day someone would come back for it.” Pushing the box markedStephentoward Oliver, he continued, “When Stephen got sick that last time, I always hoped he would recover, but when it was clear he wasn’t coming back to the shop, I held onto the things he left here. I thought Joanna would come back and get them, but—” He made a helpless gesture. “After she disappeared too, I couldn’t bear to throw them away or give them to the Jarngrens. I wasn’t sure if you survived or if you’d ever come to Aldorhaven, but I had a hunch you’d be back.”
Oliver’s eyes burned knowing this man had held onto his father’s belongings for almost forty years. He hadn’t known his father’s name until only days before, but someone had refused to let the last pieces of him go. “Thank you, sir, for holding onto this.”
“Most of it is probably junk. Stephen wrote all over everything, but I’m pretty sure his pharmacy school diploma is in there along with a picture of him and your mother on their wedding day. They used to hang on the wall behind the counter.”
As Oliver pulled the box closer, he felt the comforting press of Gwen’s powers against his arm. His brain still reeled from all of this: that his parents loved him, that they loved each other, that they had left the world trying to save him from their fate. After speaking to Mr. Allen, Oliver thought he understood his mother, but he wanted to know about the man whose footsteps he had inadvertently walked inand whose voice he carried. For the first time, he trulywantedto know.
“Mr. Hughes, I never got to meet my father… or my mother for that matter. If you aren’t too busy, would you be willing to tell me about him? From what I understand, there’s no one alive who knew him as well as you did.”
Mr. Hughes stared at Oliver as if still trying to puzzle out where this man carrying the ghost of his partner had come from. With a nod and a small, fond smile, he flipped the counter open.
“After you settle your bill with Junior, meet me in the back. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Letters to Ghosts
Staring down at the half-written note, Felipe drummed his pencil against the notepad resting on his lap and sighed. He didn’t know why he was bothering with this when he could have been reading, napping for a third time, or literally anything else. Even the dog had given him concerned looks before he fled to his owner. As Felipe set the pencil down, he wondered if he was doing it again. Oliver had pleaded with him to stop throwing himself onto swords, and while a letter from his parents was far less dangerous than a bullet or a knife, it cut just as deep. He had spent his whole life running headlong into danger because at least then he could control the pain and hurt to some extent. Waiting for it to come to him was its own agony, and he would rather get it over with. At the sound of panting, Felipe looked up in time to see Argos trot in with a potato in his mouth. The dog shoved his hippopotamus head in his lap as he offered Felipe the stolen vegetable with large, wet eyes.
“Um, thank you?” he said as the dog dropped the drool-coveredpotato directly onto the letter.
At the sound of his name being yelled from the kitchen, Argos wagged his tail at him and bustled out of the room. Felipe was about to set the soggy potato aside when Mr. Allen walked past, his eyes sweeping the hall floor.
“Looking for this?” Felipe called, holding up the offending vegetable.
“Yes, thank you.” Mr. Allen shook his head as he pocketed the potato and perched on the arm of the loveseat. “I was hoping Argos didn’t tuck it away somewhere to rot. Did he bring it to you?” When Felipe nodded, he laughed. “Argos has it in his head that if you’re upset, he needs to give you something. Sometimes, it’s an uncooked potato. Other times, it’s a dead bird or a stick. Be happy you got a potato.” His eyes raked over Felipe’s body. “How are you holding up? You took quite a hit last night.”
“Not too bad all things considered, but I’m a self-healer. Give me a few days, and I’ll be good as new.” Felipe adjusted the sling to take some of the pressure off his elbow. He hated the sling and all it stood for, but he needed it if the pain in his shoulder and the dull throb in his arm were any indication. Ignoring the lingering discomfort, Felipe gave the other man his best approximation of a winning smile. “I had no idea you were such a good shot.”
“I did a bit of sharpshooting during the war, and once you shoot on horseback, doing it standing still is easy. I would have gotten to you sooner, but I couldn’t remember where I hid the damn bullets. You aren’t too shabby with a knife yourself. Too bad the dead didn’t seem to notice,” Mr. Allen replied with a huffed laugh. “Whiskey?”
“I’d love some.”
Rising from the chair with a wince, Felipe followed Mr. Allen into the kitchen. As the innkeeper poured the whiskey into two glasses, he watched Felipe from the corner of his eye. Felipe wasn’t sure what the other man could or couldn’t see written across his features. He might have needed a reading glass, but he saw through him all too well. Taking his drink, Felipe turned to the table and grimaced at thebloodstains that hadn’t come out. In daylight, it looked even worse than it had the night before.
“I’m sorry I ruined your table. We will replace it for you after we leave. The holes in the stable too.”
“It’s seen worse, though Oliver already promised as much.” Sinking into the nearest chair with a relieved groan, Mr. Allen motioned for Felipe to join him. “What were you working on so diligently in the parlor? Every time I went past, you were staring at the paper so fiercely I thought it might catch fire.”
Felipe let out a mirthless laugh and took a long, burning swig. “I was replying to a letter from my parents. Or trying to. I haven’t gotten very far.”
Above his glass, Mr. Allen searched his features. “Estranged?”
“How could you tell?”
“It explains the potato. If you get yourself a second helping of whiskey, inspector, top me off as well.”
Glancing down, Felipe found his glass empty. With heated cheeks, he added a splash of whiskey to his cup and refilled Mr. Allen’s. The innkeeper murmured his thanks and gave Felipe a sympathetic shake of his head.
“Estrangement’s hard. My father and I were estranged for years, but it was for the best. What aren’t you saying in your letter?”
“Me? Everything,” Felipe replied, staring at the amber liquor in his glass. “I don’t think I’ve told them the whole truth in almost twenty years, not that they want to hear it.”
“Feeling guilty about it?”
