Page 25 of Ashes and Lilies
Julian raised his eyebrow, and I was almost offended. “I’m serious!”
“What’s the news?” Miles tossed the pillow onto an armchair and leaned back in his seat. Even though his posture was more at ease, his face was still pinched. “Gregory has left his phone behind—he can’t help you.”
I expected Mr. Weaver to demand that we track him down anyway. But his face fell instead. “I suppose I have no choice.” His eyes darted to me as his fingers moved nervously over the handle of his cane. “Bianca—”
He knew my name? I had no idea he had even been paying attention.
“Make sure you get this exactly right,” he said. “No making up any wild theories.”
How dare he—
“Yesterday, Gregory asked me to look into Aine Hamway’s property.” He sighed. “He’d started research on his own, but his contacts were limited as the files were locked. He thought I’d have better luck.”
Dr. Stephens did? “Why would you have better luck?” I asked him.
Mr. Weaver paused from scratching his chin as he glanced at me. “Because I’m the lead historian for the area—or at least, Iwas. Are you that clueless?”
I touched my fingers together, taking this in. It was difficult to believe that this cantankerous man had been a historian. I thought they were supposed to be a refined and elegant people. Not mean humans who yelled at young women and tried to shoot cats.
What was his expertise supposed to be?
Mr. Weaver didn’t notice my expression. Or if he did, he didn’t care.
Instead, he continued, shrugging. “It wasn’t easy, not using my pre-retirement connections. Finally, however, I was able to access some records that I normally wouldn’t be able to, and I learned that Aine purchased her home from Edward Cole. He’d abandoned it after his son, James, and his wife, Rosanne, both died there…”
His words trailed off as he eyed me, and asked, “Why the devil are you looking at me like that?”
“James…” I repeated, the name rolling off my tongue. A shiver ran through me as I recalled the angry ghost that’d tried to kill me. It had to be him.
Julian touched my hand. “What did he say?”
This time, I repeated the words precisely as Mr. Weaver had spoken. Apparently, I had gotten close enough; Mr. Weaver offered no complaints.
But as I neared the end of his report, one thing stood out to me.
“Mr. Weaver.” I could hardly speak through the guilty lump in my throat, and I clasped my hands together in front of my chest. “Does this mean that it’s my fault that you were killed?”
6
Miles and Juliantensed at my question, but I could hardly pay them any mind. I felt so guilty.
“What makes you so important that it’d be your fault?” Mr. Weaver looked at me.
“Because…” I said, pressing my toes against the floor. I felt like a child in the prelude of a strict scolding. “Dr. Stephens was helping me. I asked everyone to help me research the house.”
“Ah, so it wasyou!” Mr. Weaver exclaimed.
“I’m sorry!” I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my shoulders. Going into this, I hadn’t expected anyone to die. Justice would be swift and terrible. But when he didn’t respond—or maybe I missed it—I cracked my right eye open.
He was studying me, lips twisting, before he nodded. “Okay then.”
The tight feeling in my chest softened. “Okay…?” I asked. Granted, he’d taken the news of his death in stride—he seemed to be more annoyed at the method than the actual event—but how could he not hold a grudge? “I’m no better than a criminal.”
“What youareis ridiculous.” Mr. Weaver snorted. “You’re hardly able to control other people’s actions.”
I blinked at his frowning form. But this time, I noticed all the life he might have had left in his decrepit frame. Despite being old, he was a tall, broad man. He must have been strong. Perhaps he had even dreamed of wrestling a bear before death claimed him. And now, because of me, he never would.
Mr. Weaver shrugged. “I’ve already told you I have no regrets. Besides only,” he began, anger beginning to leak through his expression, “the pure injustice of it all!”
