Page 69 of A Heart So Haunted
I wondered if Hadrian had ever laughed like that.
Irene’s finger traveled again. This page, much like the deed, was a copy of a full-page article with weathered edges and creases and stains. She pointed a peach nail to the center headline.
“Looks like that’s what you’re looking for,” she said, just as gentle.
The Virginian
July 23rd1890 (v.71)
Belfaunte Death Felt from Stetson, SC
Hadrian Belfaunte died at his home from natural causes on June 2ndof 1890. Belfaunte came to own the Harthwait Estate via his late father, Howie Belfaunte, in 1878. Belfaunte was a business man of oil for his time traveling west; either via business partners or acquaintances or both. He accumulated a net worth of 1 million outside of his father’s inheritance. Wakes called Belfaunte, “a riotous man that none would think to double back—a show for the bored.” Silas Haste was the only attendee to the ceremony. It was held at Covert Lutheran. There was no burial.
Belfaunte married Cora Pho in 1878. They never had children. Cora preceded Belfaunte in death a year after marriage from natural causes.
The estate affairs are to be dealt with by Haste and their enterprises.
The article was so … dry.
My attention circled the man’s name—Silas Haste—from Virginia. He’d dealt with Hadrian’s affairs post-death. Not a relative, not a cousin, not a wife or child or aunt or uncle. A childhood friendwho didn’t even live in the same state. Perhaps it was the dealing of wealth? Enterprises could mean a corporation—maybe Hadrian left it to him because he knew he would take care of matters instead of fight over the money.
And a “show for the bored”? It was as if the man thought Hadrian to be spitfire entertainment and nothing more. Like a puppet to watch crash and burn.
I leaned back, a sour taste in my mouth. What would be written about me when I passed? Would my parents still be alive, or would it be Emma? Would they talk about my work and my worth with such crassness, or lack thereof? Or would it be brittle and bareboned?
I blinked against a sudden blur overtaking my vision. I handed the paper back. “Do you have any photographs of him?”
Irene licked her teeth. “I think I do. Oh, look! I forgot this one was colorized.”
After a moment of shuffling, she handed over another sheet. This copy took up a fraction of the page—the photograph itself was no larger than a Polaroid square.
And yet.
And yet.
There he was. The date scrawled into the page read 8-8-89. A year or so before he died.
The picture was straight on, squared, and candid.
Hadrian’s features sat too strongly for black-and-white portraits. His lines too taut, his mouth too resilient, his shoulders too rigid. And still, there was a languid aura to the picture. As if the photographer might not have the good enough graces to even be in Hadrian’s presence.
As if anyone else were less than he. But not out of arrogance.
Hadrian’s hair was white, his skin tinged with color, cheeks hollowed with maturity. Not a hint of baby fat remained. And his eyes—all gray. Not an ounce of yellow.
A shiver skittered along my spine.
He looked like the man I had seen and somehow not. Like identical twins: the coloring, the lines, the features on paper matched, but once they were put into motion there was something missing that I couldn’t put my finger on.
In real life, he was different, but I couldn’t place why.
“Can I keep this?” I breathed. I sounded like a frog. “I think I might”—the lie came easily, and I should have been ashamed—“I think I’ve seen pictures of him at the house.”
“Of course,” Irene said. She gathered the copies into a haphazard stack and held them out. “Take them all. All yours.”
“Thanks.” I gave a tight smile. “I appreciate it.”
Her eyes softened. “Of course.”
