Page 60 of The Executioners Three
“Oh, the Allard Fortin family wasnothappy when that book was printed in the 1940s.”
“Printed,” Freddie said, noticing that word. “Not… published?”
“Yeah, no publisher would print that. So Fabre here invested all his own money to print copies of a book he swore would transform the Allard Fortin legacy. And the Allard Fortins in turn sued the guy for libel. They won too. It ruined him, and he went bankrupt.”
“Whoa.” Freddie shuffled to the bed, a thousand ideas now colliding inside her brain. “I mean, I guess I understand why they would sue? It says on page one that José Allard Fortin was a murderer.”
Mom chuckled. “Yeah, it does say that.”
“Have you read it?”
“No. Technically no one should have, either, since the books got pulped. In fact, I’m shocked any copy survived, and I don’t understand how it wound up in the local library.”
“Haha, right.” Freddie twittered nervously. “But then, how do you know what the book is about if you haven’t read it?”
“Because you know Berm! The locals were as angry as the Allard Fortin family about that book and Fabre’s claims. Sure, thirty years had passed when I moved to town, but a few people still remembered what happened.”
“Was… Dad one of those people who remembered?”
Instantly, Mom’s body locked up. Her grip onThe Curse of Allard Fortinturned white-knuckled.
And Freddie felt it as her own body did the same.You’re breaking the rule! Thou shalt not discuss Frank Carter!
Yet Freddie knew she had to be a good Answer Finder. Shehadto figure out how Dad had possessed the poem from a book that supposedly no longer existed. (A book that had been in the archives unbeknownst to Mom, and that must have—at some point—been tucked away in Kyle Friedman’s garage.)
“Um,” Mom began, still holding the book for dear life. “Yes. I suppose… Frank probably mentioned it.”
Freddie bit her lip.Tamp it down.Then shrugged as casually as she could. “Did he ever talk about a poem from the book? About executioners?”
Mom flinched.
“Huh.” In a detached movement, Mom sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. Seconds slid past as, millimeter by millimeter, she softened her hold on the book, placing it on her thighs.
Then she patted the space beside her, and Freddie complied.
“Frank did, now that you mention it.” The words slid out, hollow, while Mom stared into the middle distance. “Shortly before his death, he mentioned Edgar Fabre in passing. He said the guy had written a poem, and did I know about it. I…” She swallowed. “I didn’t, though. And unfortunately…” She trailed off.
Freddie feared that was the end of the story. That she would get nothing more. That she’d opened Pandora’s box for no reason, and now feelings would crush out the task at hand.
But then, to her shock, Mom actually did resume. “Unfortunately,” she said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “I never learned why Frank wanted to know about that poem. And I… well, I hate that he probably never got an answer before he died.”
“Oh,” Freddie breathed. Her throat was suddenly very tight. Very dry.
“Oh,” Mom agreed. Her face had a choked-up look. The tense, nostril-flared lines of someone trying not to cry. “He was like you, Fred, you know that? He had the same incredible instincts as you, and if there was ever a problem, then Frank had to solve it. I just… well, I never learned what problem sent him searching for answers about Edgar Fabre and that poem.”
Freddie rocked back on her butt. She felt like she’d just been hit with a monsoon. A double whammy of monsoons, actually, because there wasso much informationrevealed in this one conversation. The fact that Dad had investigated Edgar Fabre—who, if Dad’s note was correct, hadn’t died like people believed. The fact that Dad had been convinced that there was some important lead inside “The Executioners Three.”
But above all—by a lot—was the fact that Mom was saying Freddie was like her dad. That theybothhad these magical guts—and that theybothwere Answer Finders. Deep down, Freddie had always known that. Why else would she be following in his footsteps? But she—and Mom too—had been so effective at tamping all that down. To have Mom break the rule so suddenly…
Freddie made herself swallow. Made herself keep pushing while she still had the chance.
“Sheriff Bowman said I was like Dad too. On Saturday. But she made it sound like… like it was a bad thing.”
Mom heaved a sigh so heavy the bed bounced. “Yeah. I’m not surprised. Frank wasn’t easy to work with.” Mom met Freddie’s eyes, and hers were a different color from Freddie’s because Freddie had inherited her own from this father she’d never known.
“The problem with your dad, Fred, was that he couldn’t let things go. If he thought he was onto something, it consumed his whole life. And while sure, that made him a great sheriff…”
“It made him a terrible husband,” Freddie filled in.And a terrible boss. And a terrible dad.
