Page 45 of To the Grave

That part was true. I’d been too devastated over Jace to care about the news.

“I’m not sure,” Joan said. “As far as I know, they don’t have any leads, so maybe it’s just gone cold.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” I said.

She nodded. “Maybe. He always was sketchy. Gave me the creeps.”

“Has my dad hired anyone to replace him?”

Joan nodded. “Some guy named Kevin. Ex-military, I think. He’s got less personality than Calvin, but in a good way.”

I laughed. Calvin had personality all right — the personality of a sociopath.

“Well, wherever he is, I hope he stays there.” I’d never made a secret about my dislike for Calvin.

“Same,” Joan said.

“I’ll be upstairs.”

I didn’t want to think about what it meant that my heartbeat had calmed by the time I started up the stairs. I’d meant what I said about Clavin: I was glad he was dead.

Maybe I was a sociopath too. Or maybe I was sinking deeper into the Beasts’ world, a world where punishment was meted out on an as-needed basis.

One where it was meted out with blood and fire.

Chapter 32

Daisy

The attic was musty and dim, dust motes floating in the air, illuminated in the column of light shining from the small rectangular window near the peak of the roof. It cast the massive attic in shadows, making the stacks of bins and boxes look creepy and ominous. If I’d been in a horror movie, I’d be called too stupid to live for coming up here alone.

But this was no movie, and one thing I’d learned over the past few months was that the biggest horrors of all weren’t usually the ones you expected. Not demons, ghosts, or boogeymen but the secrets lying in wait from your own past.

Those were the boogeymen that would bring you to your knees, make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself and your life.

I hunted around for something to provide more light and found some old lamps, but there were no electrical sockets — none that I could find anyway — so I used the flashlight on my phone to scan the boxes and bins on one side of the attic.

It was slow going since I only had one free hand, and I passed over an assortment of neatly printed labels (Joan loved her labelprinter): CHINA - CIRQUE CHINOIS; CHINA - LE JARDIN DE PYTHAGORE; STERLING - MERCER; BLAKE - BABY; DAISY - BABY; RUTH - BABY; CHRISTMAS DECOR - INTERIOR (ten of those); CHRISTMAS DECOR - EXTERIOR (sixteen of those), and on and on it went.

Specialty crates leaned against the walls. I recognized them as the kind of custom, careful packing that was done to protect fine art, but I couldn’t see what was inside.

I was surprised to see so many things labeled MERCER, my mom’s maiden name. I’d assumed all the Mercer family heirlooms had been kept in the house at the top of the falls, but clearly some of them had been appropriated and brought here.

Had it been my mom, hoping to use it in the mansion my dad had built to convince himself he was rich enough? Or had it been my dad pilfering valuables from the Mercer estate, trying to convince himself he was old money because he’d married one of them?

Another question, another secret.

I finally found what I was looking for in an antique trunk stuffed behind all the modern bins and boxes. Its label was simple: ELEANOR.

My heart started pounding again and I propped up my phone so I could use the light to drag the trunk out into the open.

It wasn’t locked, just latched, and I lifted the heavy lid and sat on the floor in front of it. At first I just scanned the contents, trying to process what I was seeing.

There was a stack of clothing on one side. The garment on top looked to be wool. A sweater maybe. Photo albums seemed to be stacked on the other side, and in the middle, cardboard containers made to store photographs.

I pulled out the sweater first and lifted it to my face, then closed my eyes when the scent of my mom hit my nose. It activated a gut punch of memory: my mom laughing outsideas she threw autumn leaves at me and Ruth, her hair brushing against my cheek as she held me after a fall, her face up close when she leaned in to get my attention.

I blinked back tears and set the sweater aside to take home with me. I still had the one I’d chosen after her death, but it didn’t smell like her anymore. This one still carried the scent of her favorite perfume, Roja Haute Luxe, and her shampoo, which had smelled like green apple.

---