“You asked me before about the Hawkins boys,” he begins.
“Yes,” I breathe, barely a whisper.
“Well, I knew them once. We were . . . we were close.” He stops, clears his throat, and it turns into a coughing fit. His face turns red, his eyes widening, and I jump from the bed to grab him more water. He reaches out to stop me with his hand. “I’m fine,” he wheezes, the coughing fading and his coloring slowly returning to normal. “Sit yourself down.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, dammit. Would I tell you so if I wasn’t sure?”
I shrug, thinkingyes, but keep my mouth shut and do as instructed.
“Anyway, what happened to them is what eventually drove me to become a PI. I specialized in domestic abuse. See, we didn’t have CPS back then. If the cops didn’t listen to you, you were screwed. So we worked the cases the cops couldn’t be bothered with, and made sure families who were too scared to go to the authorities knew they could come to us.”
“Is that how you met Grams? Did she hire you at some point?”
“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “Tallulah and I go way back, before my PI days. I wasn’t the one who helped her—it was the other way around. But we’re getting off track now, aren’t we? Do you want to know about the Hawkins boys or not?”
After a beat, I nod. I desperately want to know his history with Grams, but figuring out my connection to those brothers is more important by a landslide right now.
“All right. Now, what I’m about to tell you is scientifically impossible. Do you understand? In fact, lately I’ve started to wonder if it ever really happened, or if it was in my head the whole time. I might really just be an old loon. Still up for it?”
Scientifically impossible? The man has no idea. “Trust me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now . . .” He rubs his wrinkled hands together, lets out a grunt. “So, I was in my twenties when it happened. Just another ordinary day working cases. And I, uh, well . . .” He stops, shakes his head. “I started seeing things. Hearing things. Things that sure as shit were not normal.”
“Like what sort of things?”
“Eh, you ever read ghost stories?”
“A little.”
“Well, think ghosts. Spirits. Otherworldly and all that crap.”
“So, you’re saying you saw a ghost?”
He scoffs, looking at me like I’m the crazy one. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t see a damn ghost.”
“I’m confused—”
“Iheardone.” He inhales, long and slow, his eyes glazing over like he’s losing himself to the memory. “It started out at night, in my dreams. Sound familiar?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he continues. “I’d feel this strange pull. Like, well, like something was calling to me. Tried ignoring it, taking sleeping pills, then it got worse. Eventually, I’d hear his voice when I went out. Didn’t matter where I was, I’d hear him so much it nearly drove me mad. Not nearly, itdiddrive me mad.”
“His voice?” My palms are beginning to sweat. “Whose voice?”
“Enzo’s, dammit. Enzo Hawkins.” My stomach does an odd flip, my mind trying to comprehend his words. A strange expression crosses over Mr. Blackwood’s face, like a mixture of sadness and frustration, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“Enzo?” I repeat. “The older brother, the seventeen-year-old?”
“No, no, no.” Mr. Blackwood gets up so quickly he nearly falls over. He grabs onto the bed to steady himself, then plucks up his cane. He just paces, wobbling and all. “He’s not seventeen anymore. Well, he wasn’t seventeen when he died, anyway.”
“But I thought—”
“Justlisten, child,” he barks, instantly shutting me up. “Yes, Enzo was seventeen the day of the fire. But he didn’t die that night. He—he needed to get away. He needed a life free of his past, where he could be his own person, move on. So, with the forced help of Chief Wayne Mulligan—” He pauses, stopping his frantic pacing to look me in the eye.
He doesn’t need to worry though; he has my undivided attention.
“When Mulligan tried investigating the case further, he was able to get enough soft evidence to prove Thomas’s death, but not Enzo’s. And so he became determined to find the boy. Mulligan may have been a shit husband, a shit human being, but he was a decent cop with a reputation to uphold. Didn’t hurt that he and the boys’ father were long-time friends, either, but really it was his reputation on the line. Mulligan wanted Enzo found, so he was gonna find him. He quickly learned Enzo was the one who started the fire and was willing to set the boy up with a decent lawyer to prove it was self-defense. He didn’t care so long as he was able to close the case.”
Mr. Blackwood reaches a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving the flask I’m surprised he hasn’t already chugged by now, and takes a long gulp. A sigh escapes him, and he squeezes the bottle like it’s his lifeline. I begin to wonder how long it’s been since he’s spoken to anyone about this. Or if he’s ever spoken about it at all.
