“I contain multitudes,” I tell her solemnly.
She rolls her eyes but motions me toward the back room. “Be careful with the binders. They’re older than you and twice as fragile.”
The archive room is cooler, quieter. Rows of battered binders line the shelves, each labeled in Millie’s precise handwriting.
I pull one down and flip it open carefully, the plastic sleeves crackling in protest.
Bonnie Kentwood.
That’s the name I’m looking for.
At first, it’s harmless. A church fundraiser mention. A notice about a bake sale. A clipping from the county fair. Bonnie smiling at the camera, hair pulled back, eyes bright, one arm slung around someone cropped out of the frame.
She looks relaxed. Happy.
Young. Too young to become a headline.
I scan the pages slowly, methodically, the way I was trained. Letting patterns emerge instead of forcing them. And then I see it.
LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD; INCIDENT RULED ACCIDENTAL.
The headline is small. Polite. Almost apologetic.
The article itself barely fills a column. Bonnie Kentwood, early thirties. Found near an old logging road outside town. Cause of death: injuries sustained in a barn fire.
Authorities report no evidence of foul play. The responding officer notes that the scene “suggested an unfortunate accident.”
That’s it.
I read it again, and a sentence near the bottom hooks under my ribs:
Fire investigators noted the circumstances were unusual, but not inconsistent with an accident.
Unusual.
That word doesn’t belong unless someone wants credit for noticing something without responsibility for explaining it.
I flip the page. Another article, a week later. Brief. Mentions community grief. Praises law enforcement for handling the situation “with discretion.”
Discretion is another word that raises red flags.
A letter to the editor follows. Unnamed. Asks why no inquest was held.
I feel a presence behind me and glance up to find Millie watching over her glasses.
“You find what you’re looking for?” she asks.
“I found… something,” I say carefully.
She hums. “That one rattled folks.”
“Still does?”
She tilts her head. “You don’t come digging into old papers for peace of mind, Wyatt.”
Fair.
Before I can respond, the door creaks open, and Earl Jensen wanders in, smelling faintly of hay and peppermint. He squints at me.
