“I don’t think this is a letter,”Whitneysaid.
My brows wrinkled. “Whatdo you mean?”
She pointed at the top of the page. “Whodo you know that uses quotation marks in personal correspondence?”
“Writers,”Willowsaid. “Firstperson, past tense.”Shewiggled her finger around the text. “Itlooks like a manuscript, not a letter.Ifit were a letter, wouldn’t it be writtentosomeone?Youknow, in the present tense?”
I looked at the letter one more time and tried to remember whatJackhad told me about the historic period of the floorboard letter. “Thesedon’t match.”
“What do you mean?”Willowasked as she peered into the brick to see if there was anything else in there.
“The letter we found in the floorboard mentions things from the late 1700s.”
Whitney worked her bottom lip between her teeth. “TheSalemWitchtrials happened at the end of the 1600s.”
“No way were these written by the same adult person a hundred years apart,”Isaid. “Besides, the house is old, but it’s notthatold.”
“Whoever it was had the hots for her professor,”Willowsaid. “That’salways a bestseller.”
Whitney looked at me. “Whatwas that about no mysteries?”
13
JACK
THE OTHER WHITLOCK
“Dude, what crawled up your ass and died?”Drewasked as he dropped down onto the weight bench beside me.
“Nothing,”Igrunted asIdropped the weights and gave up on working out in peace.
He tipped his head back and let out a sharp laugh. “You’vebeen a moody son of a bitch since you showed up this morning.”
“Didn’t sleep,”Igrunted asIgrabbed my shirt and water bottle.
He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head toward the bunk room. “Thengo take a fucking nap.I’min a good mood today, and you’re ruining it.”
“Fuck off,”Isaid dismissively.
“Children.”Thetwo of us snapped to attention asChiefstrolled through. “Ican hear you picking at each other all the way upstairs.Now, unless you’d like to wash the rigagain,I’dhighly recommend you cut it out.”
The engine was sitting outside the bay, sparkling in the sun as it dried off from the wash this morning.Itwas barely nine a.m. and it was already nearing triple digits.
"Yes, sir,” we groused as the two of us went to our separate corners.
When theChiefheaded back upstairs,Drewpiped up again. “Weren’tyou off?Youshould be rested and chipper as hell.”
“Long day.Didn’tsleep,”Igrunted asIgripped the pull-up bar and started a set.
“You were home all day,”Drewsaid. “Remember?Iasked if you wanted to drive down to that bar inBeaufortwith me, and you said no.”
Ah, shit.Drewhad asked ifIwanted to go down toJokerswith him.Ishould have.Itwould have been more respectable than peering out my window every five seconds to see ifAurorawas attempting anything quite as stupid as starting a fire on a windy beach lined with dry grass while tipsy.
Part of me felt bad for losing my shit on her.Theother part of me didn’t regret a damn thing.Sheshould've known better.
After the sceneIhad made on the beach the night before,Auroraand her friends had stayed in the house for most of the day yesterday.Partof me hated that even more than watching them make poor decisions outside.Itleft me to stew on what they were doing.Ifthey needed help.Ifshe was in the same sour moodIwas.
MaybeDrewhad a point about me being in a mood . . .
