Page 58 of A Curse On Black Lake
“A few years later you had your seizure,” he mutters.
I nod and self-consciously run my hand through my hair.
Tears brim in my eyes, and I force a deep breath, but it fills my lungs like razor blades, slicing me at every angle. I walk around the room, looking for the journal I know Grams put it in.
Moving a few stacks of books, I find it at the bottom. A piece of paper was sticking out of it. She probably left it there because she was going to come back to it. But never got the chance.
“Here it is,” I rasp.
Killian comes up behind me, waiting patiently for me to open the book. It almost feels like I’m trespassing. I’m aware she doesn’t need any of this. It’s not like she’ll catch me going through her things. Not that she would care either, she always encouraged me to learn and study, ask questions no one had asked before.
I force my hand to grab the corner and open it, making my fingers flip through the pages until I find it.
Oddly enough, the paper was marking the spot. She probably wanted to study the flower more.
There is a picture of the flower she drew. It’s small cone shape with purple flowers on either side going up the stem. Long leaves frame the flowers. It’s quite pretty, and yet very strange that it’s here for a day and gone the next. There’s one pressed between the next pages, snipped before it could die.
“This is it,” Killian says.
My throat tightens as I read the name and description of the flower.Monitio Flos de Letum.Part of my schooling with Grams, on top of getting through typical high school, was to learn Latin. Most research is in Latin when it comes to plants, naming them and where they fall in the scheme of things. Are they just flowering plants, or do they produce a fruit or vegetable?
In this case, this flower, or weed, is nothing but a symbol.
I read what Grams wrote about the flower, based on her observations, and my stomach lurches.
It would appear that this flower correlates with a death in Black Lake. A woman was murdered a year ago. Considering the timeline that was given by the local paper, the flower sprung up possibly later that night after she was killed. The weed or flower also came up when Eliana’s parents drowned.
“What?” Killian asks.
I step to the side, letting him read it. He glances at me and studies the flower. “What does the Latin mean?” he asks.
“I have a feeling you already know,” I mumble.
“Enlighten me,” he drawls.
Skimming my tongue across my teeth, I look him in the eye and say, “Its direct translation is Warning Flower of Death. In other words, Death Flower.”
“Do you think the timing of the weed coming up is truly connected to death? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn't it?” he asks.
I shrug and trace the lines of Gram’s drawing. It’s not very good. She was never very good at drawing, but she could describe every detail.
“If Grams said it is, then it is,” I tell him.
His brows squish together as he rubs his beard.
“Why are you asking about this?”
He drops his hand, slipping it into his pocket. “I found it in the woman’s hand … the woman on my land, as if he picked it the last time it came up. I’m starting to think the killer has a strange sense of humor, using this as a signature.”
Bile rises in my stomach, and I think back to when Grams died. It sprung up then too, but I didn’t think much of it.
“Do you know how dry it was?” I ask him. Drying plants is a long process. If the person drying it wants to maintain the integrity of the bloom, it has to be done carefully, with temperature control, and making sure moisture is pulled from the piece so it doesn’t mold. It’s not difficult, but it does take attention.
“I didn’t touch it, but now that I think about it, it wasn’t flat like this one between the pages. It was as if someone had cut it from the stem and dried it without disturbing a petal. The shape and everything was intact, but the color was dull.”
“Kind of like the lavender?” I ask him.
“I mean, sort of, but that could have come from anywhere,” Killian says.
