As long as it can send me back again, I don’t need to know the details.
As I follow my aunt up the stairs to her third-floor domain, I tuck my own gloves into my pockets. I still haven’t gotten usedto the constant sensation of fabric around my fingers after three years not needing them. It’s like my hands are being delicately suffocated.
Daphne leads me into her office, thankfully a separate if smaller space from her workroom. I assume she’s gotten rid of Other Elodie’s body by now, and Idefinitelydon’t want to know the details about that. Just thinking about being in the same space where I saw my own corpse makes my skin crawl.
When she’s shut the door behind us, she turns to me with an eager gleam in her eyes. “You’ve found something out?”
Guilt prods my gut. “I haven’t made a lot of progress so far. I have heard a few things—it sounds like your Elodie was off doing something pretty regularly in the past month or so that didn’t involve her usual friends.” Or violin lessons. “I know you said you weren’t sure what she was up to the night she died, but do you have any idea where she was going or who she might have been hanging out with before then?”
Daphne frowns. “I thought she was spending time with her friends like usual. Stella and Cadance and them. These days, she didn’t often give us a lot of detail about what they were doing. Her—your—dad and I figured she was old enough to deserve some space.”
Which worked out fine until her life was ended by a speeding car.
I resist the urge to clench my jaw in frustration. “She didn’t say or do anything that struck you as at all out of the ordinary?”
“She maybe seemed a little busier than usual, but it never occurred to me that anything might be wrong. I wish I’d talked to her more.” Daphne rakes a hand through her errant waves. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought back over the past few weeks trying to identify a clue. If I could point you in the right direction, I would.”
She looks so anguished I don’t doubt that she means it. I hold in a sigh. “It seems reasonable to guess that whatever she was keeping a secret probably led to her murder. Did she ever get caught up in something she didn’t think you’d approve of before?”
I phrase the question as mildly as possible, but Daphne’s expression abruptly tightens. So does her voice. “Whatever you’re implying, Ellie wouldn’t have— She wasn’t the kind of girl— She had her head on straight. She’d never get involved with anything dangerous. Just being a Devine made her a target.”
Okay, I poked a sore spot there.
I hold up my hands. “Of course. I was only checking just in case. I’ll keep doing my own digging.”
The sudden furor leaves my aunt as quickly as it came over her. “You never knew her. It’s not your fault either.” She reaches out to give my arm a squeeze and jerks her hand back when I stiffen instinctively. “I know this can’t be easy for you. Thank you for helping us.”
No mention of when she might send me back where I belong even if I can’t unravel the mystery. No hint of regret thatshe’sthe reason I’m in this difficult situation to begin with.
As I trudge down to my bedroom, my jaw clenches after all.
The fastest way out of this mess is if I can find the answers Daphne wants.
I know Other Elodie wasn’t taking violin lessons because of the state of her violin case. What evidence might she have left around about what she was doing instead?
Time to tear apart this room and see what turns up.
Over the weekend, I already opened every drawer, peered into every cabinet, and checked the typical hiding places like under the mattress. I go through the whole process again for the sake of thoroughness.
There’s a worn teddy bear tucked in the back of the vanity, as if Other Elodie was embarrassed to have held on to it but didn’t want to chuck it either. Three boxes of hair dye in vivid colors sit under the sink, waiting for her to work up the courage to apply them. I know from looking back through years of selfies that she’s never gone for anything other than subtle highlights.
No hidden compartments reveal themselves to my searching fingers. No proof emerges of sketchy dealings. Not even the tickle of ephemera over my skin reveals anything unexpected.
I return to the middle of the room and inhale slowly to settle my mind. It’s too bad dowsing doesn’t actually work unless you know exactly what you’re dowsing for.
Maybe I have a better tool. I might not be the same Elodie, but in some ways she was still me. Our lives were built on the same early foundations, no matter how far off they veered from that beginning.
Where wouldIhave hidden a secret I didn’t want my family finding?
There were things I didn’t talk to Mom about. Irritations and longings and other emotions I knew would make her feel guilty about the life she couldn’t give me. The first pangs of crushes and the pain of never being good enough.
I found this thick, dull-looking tome of a book—something about the history of sediment—at a rummage sale, brought it home, and hollowed it out to fit my journal inside. Stuck it on my bookcase amid all the other books I’d scrounged up over the years, like it was simply another part of the collection.
Other Elodie has a narrow bookcase next to the desk, half of the space taken up by trinkets rather than reading material. Not much of a bookworm. I check the largest texts and then give even the few paperback novels a little shake to see if anything drifts out. Nope.
Okay, then what’s the Other Elodie equivalent of my books? Something she had a lot of, so she could use one for a covert purpose without it sticking out. Something you could easily conceal another object in.
Ah.
