Page 47 of To the Grave

The words echoed through my mind like an alarm. Was Mac referring to the way she felt about him? That he hoped someday she’d tell the truth about loving him? Or was he talking about me? About telling me the truth that I was his daughter?

Was it true? And if so, had she intended to tell me when I got older?

And why were the edges of the paper scorched? Had my mom tried to burn it? Had it been the last of many letters, the one she couldn’t bear to set aflame?

I could almost see her standing over the elaborate hearth in the formal living room downstairs, feeding pages to the fire, plucking this one from the flames at the last minute.

And then what? Had she ever seen Mac again? Or had she gone on with her life, pretending to be Eleanor Mercer Hammond, the upstanding wife of Charles Hammond, instead of Nory, the girl who ran wild with Mac, wearing cutoff shorts and throwing water balloons, sitting in his lap and feeling like he was all she needed in the world?

I felt closer to her than I ever had since her death, like I could reach out my hand and touch her through the paper in my hands.

Like she was sending me a message from beyond the grave. Except I couldn't decipher the message, and even if I could, I had no idea what to do with it.

Chapter 33

Daisy

Iwas still shaking when I left the attic, my mom’s letter stuffed in my pocket, her sweater and the family photo albums stacked in my hands. Now I was doubly glad my dad wasn’t home. I didn’t know if I could keep my composure with anyone right now, let alone him.

I stopped at the door to Blake’s room on my way out and tried the knob, relieved to find it still unlocked. There might come a day when my dad locked the room, but today was not that day.

I stepped into the room and tried to blink away my cognitive dissonance. The last time I’d been here, the curtains had been drawn, the room dim. Now the curtains were open, autumn sun streaming into the room. The bed was neatly made, the shelves dusted, everything in its place. The basketball was still in the corner, the swimming trophies still lined up on top of the bookshelf next to Blake’s old baseball mitt. I could almost believe Blake was out right now with Jace, Wolf, and Otis.

That he’d walk through the door and tell me to get out of his room.

I closed the door, set the photo albums and sweater on Blake’s desk, and started searching. I’d been thinking about what Aloha told Wolf and Otis — that he suspected Blake had a second phone. It made sense. I used email mostly for work, but I still had the email app on my phone. Who didn’t?

It was weird that Blake’s phone — the one we had — didn’t have email. I didn’t know if he’d been carrying a second phone the day he died, but if he’d had one, if he’d left it at home for some reason, it wouldn’t have been entered into evidence by the police. They hadn’t bothered searching Blake’s room. What had been the point? The Beasts had confessed when the police charged me.

The detectives on the case had their killers, the Beasts had gone to prison, and that had been that.

There were only three possibilities.

Blake hadn’t had a second phone.

He’d had one on him when he died but there had been evidence about the trafficking ring on it and my dad had disposed of it when Blake’s belongings were returned by the police.

Or Blake had left the phone behind on the night he’d met up with the Beasts, the night he’d known they were going to confront him about his plans to traffic me.

I couldn’t do anything about the first two but I wanted to cover my bases on number three.

I checked his bookshelf, moving books and looking behind them, before moving on to his bed. I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d searched the first time, and I didn’t want to leave anything out, so I felt under the mattress and peeked under the bed before checking the drawers in his desk.

No second phone.

I stood in the center of the room, feeling defeated, scanning all of Blake’s stuff, frozen in time. Then my gaze hooked onBlake’s old baseball mitt, sitting on top of his bookshelf along with his swimming trophies.

He’d loved baseball before he’d gotten too cool for it. The memory of watching him play was visceral — fresh cut grass and the hot dogs cooked at the concession stand and the hard bleachers on the backs of my thighs. I’d been surprised when he quit after sophomore year, but it made a weird kind of sense now. Blake had looked the same on the outside, but inside he’d been sinking into a private darkness.

I crossed the room to the bookshelves and stretched to reach the top, feeling around for something that didn’t belong, but there was nothing, just the folded baseball mitt and the trophies.

I hesitated, then reached for the baseball mitt and pulled it off the top of the bookshelf.

The phone fell to the floor, almost hitting me on the head on its way down.

My heart pounded as I bent to pick it up. It was dead, but still, Aloha had been right: therehadbeen a second phone.

And I’d just found it.

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