Dinner forgotten, I focused on the table, suddenly anxious at the sight of old mail and bags of cat treats scattered across it. Years of memories, of laughter and dancing and light, buried under junk. I’d clean it up and then Donovan and I could start using it again. Besides, we’d need the space if his family came to visit this summer like we were planning. Surely we’d move past this by then, right?
I got to work on the pile of junk mail, filled with more drive than I’d had in a long time. As I sorted it, most of it going straight into the recycling, I focused on logistics. This house wasn’t huge, but we should be able to accommodate everyone. Donovan’s mother, Rose, could have my aunt and uncle’s old bedroom. Even though it was the biggest room in the house, I’d kept my childhood bedroom. It didn’t feel right to sleep in their old bed. David had taken everything when he’d moved, so it was just me being sentimental, but still.
Brock’s old room was the second largest and if I moved a futon or something in, that would be fine for two of his brothers. Aunt Lizzie had insisted on a tiny guest bedroom and that would fit whichever brother won the battle for his own room, if all three of them came.
Thinking of that little bedroom stopped me in my tracks, a few envelopes still in my hands.
“Louis?” I murmured. He’d perched on the kitchen island, out of the way of my sudden cleaning spree. He tilted his head when I spoke, which was good enough for me. “Charlie said Aunt Lizzie let him stay in the little apartment over the bookshop, but do you think he ever stayed in the guest room, too? I’ll bet she let him sleep there until he was back on his feet, then moved him over there.”
Abandoning the rest of the old mail on the table, I went to the guest room. Once upon a time, when the house was built, it’d probably been a workroom or office of some kind. It sat tucked off to the side, near the main bathroom. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone in, now that I thought about it. I had my routine and with the door shut, the room was out of sight, out of mind.
There was an old, musty scent when I opened the door now. Not an unpleasant smell, just stale air and neglect. It was as tiny as I remembered, with barely enough room for a full-size bed and a dresser. I recognized the quilt on the bed, the wild array of colors clearly marking it as one of Miss Penny’s creations. Penny Featherworth had been old when I moved here as a kid and yet didn’t seem to have aged a day since then. She made quilts out of whatever fabric she got her hands on and sold them at the farmer’s market and at every town event. On the rare occasion someone new moved to town, she gifted them one. New baby? Graduation? Death in the family? New quilt. I don’t think there was a house in town that didn’t have at least one of her blankets somewhere.
The dresser was empty when I checked the drawers and the minuscule closet held nothing but hangers and dust. An old shelf secured to the wall displayed a few books, likely overflow from the stuffed bookcases in the living room, but nothing personal. The only other furniture in the room was a small nightstand, tucked in the corner beside the bed, with an old glass lamp on it, one I remembered sitting on the living room end table years ago. I’d assumed David had taken it with him. Had it been in here the whole time?
My fingers left a trail in the thin coating of dust on the nightstand when I touched it, but the drawer slid open soundlessly. The drawer itself was shallow, barely deep enough to fit a book. It was, however, the perfect size to hold a tattered spiral-bound notebook. Cracks and creases marred the faded green cover, one corner completely torn off while the others were dog-eared and worn. Whoever this belonged to, they’d handled it extensively.
“It’s probably Brock’s.” Even saying it out loud didn’t make me believe it. There was absolutely no reason anything of my cousin’s would be in the guest bedroom. There might be a slight chance it belonged to my aunt, but that felt even more unbelievable. As far as I knew, this room had sat untouched for almost a decade now.
I couldn’t explain the shake in my hands when I carefully drew the notebook out or the pain in my chest when I touched the cover. It was just paper bound by cheap cardboard, but I knew it was more than that. I could almost feel the desperate longing and aching loneliness of whoever the notebook belonged to. It didn’t make sense, and I’d never felt anything like it before, but the feelings wouldn’t go away.
Steeling myself, I opened the front cover. The first page was nearly blank, but the sight of my aunt’s messy cursive at the top stole the breath from my lungs. Tears stung my eyes before I even read the words, and I had to blink them away before I could continue.
I lasted exactly one word.
‘Charlie.’
“Fuck,” I breathed, staring up at the ceiling and battling the urge to cry. I’d been prepared to see bits and pieces of Charlie’s life, but not my aunt’s. Stupid, really, since she’d clearly been an important part of his life. It took a few slow breaths to battle back the grief enough for me to continue.
‘Charlie, I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. I won’t push you to talk about it if you’re not ready, but maybe writing it down will help? Sometimes, just seeing the problem laid out on paper helps me figure out what to do. This notebook is yours and yours alone. If you decide to use it, you could leave it on the kitchen table surrounded by flashing neon signs and I’ll never open it. The last few days have been a lot to take in and I hope this can help even a little bit. If nothing else, it’ll make some killer paper airplanes! ~Lizzie Rowencourt.’
I choked on a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Aunt Lizzie’s sincerity shone in every word, and I knew she meant every bit of it, including the paper airplanes. At some point, she’d taken Charlie into her home just like she’d taken me in. What I didn’t understand was why she’d never told me. Sure, I hadn’t visited as often as I would have liked once I moved out and went to college, but we talked on the phone at least four times a week, usually more, and never once had she mentioned anyone staying there with them.
The next page held another short paragraph, written in shaky printing. Charlie never told me exactly what happened and why he died, only that he’d made bad choices, but from the way his letters sometimes ran together and the lines shook, I had a feeling I knew. What he wrote only confirmed it.
‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to write in this. She says it will help, but I doubt it. Nothing will. At least no one can find me while I’m here, not that they’d bother to look. Everything is such a mess. I don’t know why I keep screwing everything up like this. I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to stop. I thought it would be easier with Vanessa helping, but she couldn’t stay clean, so what hope do I have of getting through this?
This is the worst. The stuff they gave me at the hospital helped, but it’s all worn off and now I just feel sick. I can’t stop shaking. Will Lizzie let me stay here if I puke all over the bed? I’m only doing this for her sake. She literally saved my life, so now I have to at least try, right? Even when I mess up, at least I can say that I tried.’
The entry ended there, the last few words so faint I could barely read them. Those hopeless, beaten-down words weren’t the Charlie Taggert I knew. I’d spent six years with him and his snarky sarcasm and biting wit. How had someone so vibrant ended up so defeated? Which was the real Charlie?
There were more entries. I could make out writing through the thin paper, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn the page. The anxiety that had kept me on edge all night deserted me, leaving behind only exhaustion and a dull apathy. I wasdonewith this day. Completely and utterly done.
I hesitated a moment before sliding the journal back into the nightstand. Taking it out of the room just didn’t feel right.
Food forgotten, my phone still sitting on the coffee table, I stumbled to bed. Screw this day. Screw this whole week, actually. I’d deal with everything tomorrow.
Chapter 10
Donovan
Mondaymorningbroughtwithit a chill wind and gray clouds. The local weather forecaster smiled brightly as she warned everyone to stock up on supplies, because all the makings of an early spring snowstorm were stirring up in the mountains. I wasn’t one to obsessively watch the news, but after the chaos of the last week, I needed the noise to keep my mind distracted.
After sleeping in and getting Will back to Lynn’s Tavern to pick up his car, I’d gone in to work for a few hours on Sunday afternoon to close up the case and finish the reports, just to avoid carrying it over into this week. We’d go over the details with Chief Cornell at some point and likely brainstorm ways the LCPD response time could be improved, but for now, I could start Monday with a clean slate.
Well, with one jarring exception.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without talking to Alex since I’d asked him out that first time. Even in the beginning, we’d texted and met up for breakfast nearly every day. Some people might say getting some space might be healthy for us, given the circumstances, but it just made me want to crawl out of my skin. I missed his smile, his awful jokes, even that demon cat of his. The only way to fix this was to talk, though, and if he wasn’t going to reach out first, I would.
