But Dad never did. He had taught her that the most important thing a person could do was protect and shield vulnerable things. Precious things.
Things too sacred to be cultivated.
Eva skimmed through the more personal entries. Part of her ached to linger and soak in the details Dad had written about her mother. These pages were a window into the woman who’d given Eva life, but they weren’t hers to read, and she couldn’t help but feel the press of time.
When her eye caught on a bulging envelope wedged between the other journals, Eva paused. She reached for it and peeled off the address sticker holding it closed, then slid the contents onto her lap.
Photographs.
Her breath caught, and she flicked through them quickly, her hands unsteady. Some of the photographs had light leaks, or theoccasional blur. She’d never seen this roll developed, but she recognized each one of these moments, and the memories made the center of her chest ache.
Arthur had taken these.
There were shots of the cottage, both inside and out. Shots of her father tending the bees. Shots of Eva pulling weeds from the garden. Eva snipping herbs in the greenhouse. Eva lifting the binoculars to her eyes as she searched the canopy for birds. Eva grinning as she lay on the dock of their pond, her cheek turned toward the camera.
She remembered that afternoon. They’d spent it sunbathing on the dock, playing truth or dare. Her cheeks warmed when she remembered how, precisely, that game had ended.
The last photograph made her breath catch. Arthur had taken it during the golden hour. The sun had made everything in the garden glow. Eva held a bouquet of dandelions in her hand, ready to be dried and jarred for tea. She was laughing at him, not sure how or when to smile, one hand out to block the camera’s view.
This had been the day Eva realized she wanted Arthur to stay.
Grief scalded its way up her throat. Burning, burning,burning. Eva wanted to scream, but the sound that escaped was more of a sob. Dad had no business developing these. She’d thought the roll of film Arthur had left her had been lost in the months of grief after he left. Eva had tried finding it, then tried forgetting. She didn’t want them. She didn’t wanthim.
Frustration rose inside her, and Eva hurled the photographs away. They flew apart, fluttering—briefly—like wings. No, what she’d wanted was to matter enough for him to stay, to write to, to give a damn about the state of her heart after that night in the chapel when everything changed.
The flight of the photographs knocked down a few sprigs of tied-up sage. When her breathing returned to a normal rhythm, Eva got on her knees and collected the herbs and photographs from the floor.
She didn’t want to hold the greenhouse in such high regard, because if she did, it meant she was still holding on to Arthur. He was all over this room. When Eva closed her eyes, she could still see him hanging herbs on the clothesline. Snipping tomatoes. Coaxing a ladybug onto the tip of his glove.
And there, in the corner. There was a hidden place where the greenbrier climbed the wall outside, blocking their view of the house. It was the perfect place to hide, and they’d used it well. Eva flushed at the flood of memories. Arthur always had the coldest hands. It had been such a sweet relief, in the summer heat.
Why did he come back?
If he’d just stayed away, her father wouldn’t be hurt. Arthur wouldn’t be stuck behind the very bars he’d run from in the first place. And she wouldn’t be here, hating him for it.
As Eva dumped the photographs back into the open bin, her eyes caught on a purple envelope she’d never noticed before. Curious, she opened the flap and slid out a card. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Eva’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the page, where the name of the sender was scrawled in curling loops.
The air rushed out of her lungs.
Lottie.
Chapter 11
Arthur
A silver sleeve of Pop-Tarts sat on a bench near the door to the holding cell where I’d been left, waiting, for hours. I bounced a knee, holding a cloth against the cut in my eyebrow.
“You need stitches.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk to the monster right now.
The motion sensor had long since flickered off, casting the spartan room in pitch blackness. The darkness was cold, so like the icy state the monster had forced upon me when it tried to take its vengeance on Lenny Walker.
The monster bristled.“You wanted to hurt him too,”it said.
But I wouldn’t have. That was the difference.
With the chemical burn of cleaner stinging my nose, I replayed the events at the cottage. The memorial service I couldn’t finish. The fight with Lenny. The slip in control that allowed the monster to puppet me like a violent doll under its command. And Jack. Large, wonderful, powerful Jack hitting his knees, face distorted in pain because of me.
