I watch Harry leave. He jumps down from the window ledge without a look back at me.
My shock shifts slowly to confusion as I recount the events that just took place. Harry's odd calm manner, the way he just left without a word. Granted, I did tell him to leave, but he's right, looking at the big picture. This can't end well for either of us if I continue to help him and get closer to the truth.
All emotions leave me except for one: anger. Blind, hot, fury that begins in my chest and spreads to my fingers and toes, my body temperature rising as I continue to think about what Harry said.
"You don't understand. I don't want you to help me anymore."
What is he afraid of? If he knew it wouldn't end well, why did he ask me to help him in the first place?
My temper is close to exploding as I revisit every moment with Harry, everything he said. He can't just expect me to let all of this go, can he? Just because he thinks it's become "too much"?
I look around my room for something to hit or throw or destroy. I fling all the pillows off my bed and kick them, but it's not enough. I go into my closet and find the box of Harry's old t-shirts and throw them out of the box into the center of my room, scattering them everywhere, colored fabric flying in all directions. My eye catches on the black Arctic Monkeys shirt and I kick at it, sending it flying at my bedroom door. I pick it up and throw it again, fury paired with adrenaline coursing through me. Hot, angry tears cloud my vision as I bend down and take a shirt into my hands, trying to calm myself down.
I try my hardest to put myself in Harry's place to try to understand what he's thinking, but I just can't. Things were going so well, especially after last night I feel that I'm getting closer to the answers Harry needs to cross to the afterlife-so why did he break it off?
When put like that, it sounds like we were together or something. Of course we weren't. I was only helping him to find his killer, even if I did develop deeper feelings for him. Nothing between us can last-because, in the words of Robert Frost, nothing gold can stay.
I throw the shirt back on the ground as my mind still struggles to find any reason behind why Harry cut the ties that connected us. More anger begins to build as I think of how he spoke to his mother in the videos, and the way he barely cared about it, even as a ghost.
"I told you I was selfish and arrogant, I don't know why seeing it on a tape makes a difference."
"I never claimed to be an angel or anything when I was alive, so I don't see why you're so surprised to see it for yourself."
I think back to when my father said that people change, but they do not transform. I see now that he was right. Even if death changed Harry from the egocentric person he once was, little remnants of that will remain with him. He changed, but he did not transform.
And that makes me angry and sad and hopeless-feeling, and I convince myself the latter two are side effects of the angry part of it. The image of Harry shutting my window behind him replays in my mind's eye and my anger boils over.
I reach for something blindly off my bedside table to throw and find the little black box in my hand that showed up in my closet the first day we moved in, the one that was Harry's and that held the Polaroid photo of him. Before I can stop myself from letting my anger take over, I throw the box as hard as I can, shutting my eyes as I hear a shatter and a thud.
I know it before I open my eyes but I don't want to face it. When I finally look up I see the box on the ground, the lid thrown open and the photo of Harry strewn on top of one of the t-shirts on the floor. The mirror hung on my wall is shattered, pieces of glass everywhere from being hit with the box at full speed.
Oh God.
I stare at the mess before me, my anger sliding away and being replaced with dread. My parents are just about going to bury me alive if they come home to this. I've got to clean it up.
Careful to dodge the shards of glass on the floor, I hurry downstairs to get a broom and dustpan. How am I going to explain this?
Internally cursing myself for being so careless and stupid, I sweep up the broken glass (which is fairly difficult on carpet) and end up slicing the side of my finger on a sharp piece of glass. I curse under my breath and wrap it in a band aid before picking up all of Harry's old t-shirts, folding them neatly and putting them back into their box.
I take the frame of the mirror off the wall and set it carefully on my bed. This was the mirror that came with the house; it must have belonged to Harry's family. That somehow makes me feel a lot worse.
I examine the frame of the mirror. It's dark and wooden, carved in an ornate design. It seems fairly old fashioned and antique. The baseboard that supports the glass is now empty, with all the glass it once supported shattered and in my dustpan.
Suddenly, my eye catches on something on the baseboard of the mirror. I squint at it, leaning in closer to look at it.
And then I realize what it is.
"Oh my God," I say, straightening up. My heart pounds as I stare at the baseboard, my eyes wide with shock.
It's unmistakable. The baseboard of the mirror is stained with blood.
My mind snaps to Harry's autopsy report:
"The condition of the body is as follows: small glass fragments found in the remaining clothing and dorsal areas of the body, along with a fracture of the back of the skull due to blunt force trauma."
I hesitantly step toward the mirror. I turn it over to look at the back of the frame, and sure enough, the baseboard is dented ever so slightly, protruding out almost unnoticeably.
It all seems to make sense-Harry must have been slammed against this mirror, breaking the glass and denting the frame. The shards must have cut his skin if he wasn't already bleeding and this would explain the pieces of glass found on him in the autopsy.
But the glass must have been replaced if it was broken before by Harry and had new glass before I broke it today. I search the back of the baseboard for a stamp from the glass replacement company, and find it in the corner.
Clyde's Windows and More
Castle Hill, W.A.
June 9, 2013
The glass was replaced on June 9, so that means Harry's parents couldn't have been the ones to replace it since they were out of town. Which means only one thing: the glass must have been replaced by someone involved in Harry's death or the murderer themself.
I decide right then and there that I'm not done helping Harry, not at all. I'm going to find out who killed him whether he wants my help or not, largely because of my recent conclusion that I am in love with him. I am in love with him, and I am going down to Clyde's Windows and More to find out who had this damn mirror repaired.
-
The door to the little shop jingles as I pass through, carrying the heavy frame of the mirror with me. A woman with red hair looks up at me from the counter, smiling.
"Welcome to Clyde's Windows and More, how may I help you?" She asks, setting her crossword puzzle down on the counter as I approach.
"Well, I have this mirror...well, not much of a mirror anymore, because it's broken," I say. "And I wanted to know if you had replaced glass for it before, since I saw the stamp on the back."
The woman gestures for me to place the mirror on the counter and I do, flipping it to the back where the stamp is. She nods.
"Yeah, we've replaced it before," she says. "Did you want to replace the glass again today?"
I hesitate. "Maybe not today, I just had some questions," I say and the woman purses her lips.
"All right."
"Do you remember repairing it before?"
The woman half smiles almost patronizingly. "Honey, we repair a lot of mirrors," she says. Her nametag reads "Nora."
"But it has..." I trail off, carefully turning over the mirror to the side where you can clearly see the dried blood on it. I try not to shudder.
Nora's smile drops from her face as she looks at the horrific dark spots. "Oh," she says. "Yes. I believe my husband would know more about this particular mirror." She backs away from the counter and walks toward the back of the shop. "Clyde!"
A muffled "what?" sounds from the back room.
"Get out here!"
I stand quietly by the counter, my mind racing and my heart pounding. A few moments later, a tall man with graying hair and a full beard steps out of the back room, shooting me a friendly smile.
"Hello," he greets me. "How can we help you?"
"We repaired this mirror before," Nora says to her husband, Clyde. "She wants to know if we remember it."
Clyde steps around his wife to look at the mirror, putting a hand to his chin. It's obvious when his gaze falls on the blood stains, because he widens his eyes and shifts his weight slightly.
"Ah," he says slowly. "I remember. The kid brought it in as soon as the shop opened that morning, at eight o'clock sharp. Seemed in a hurry."
"Who?" I ask, trying to ignore the nauseating feeling building up inside of me. "Do you remember who brought it in?"
Clyde furrows his brow in thought and my pulse accelerates. This is it. This could be it.
"I remember who it was," Nora says from beside Clyde. "It was the detective's son. What's his name, Aidan?"
"Ian," I say. "Ian Whitmore."
"Yes, Ian Whitmore," Clyde says, nodding. "He brought it in that morning very early, like I said. He said the glass needed to be replaced as soon as possible."
The detective's son. Ian Whitmore.
Nora and Clyde continue to talk, but it becomes muted after they stray away from the topic of Ian. Is Ian the murderer? Is he the answer to all of this?
"-Anyways, did you need this fixed?" Clyde asks me.
"No," I say, picking up the frame and tucking it under my arm. They look at me oddly, and I realize I just came into their repair shop and didn't ask for a repair. "I mean," I say. "Not at the moment. I'll definitely come back at a better time, though." I smile, hoping it'll cover for my lack of excuse.
"Of course," Clyde says, smiling. "Have a nice day."
I exit the store and put the mirror in the trunk of my car. I sit behind the wheel for a few moments to gather my thoughts.
Where do I go from here? Should I find Harry and tell him? Should I find Ian and confront him? Should I talk to Detective Whitmore?
Now that I think about it, it all makes sense. Ian said his mother saw Harry as almost another son to her. It would explain why the case was closed early, too-if his mother knows, she could have closed it for the sake of protecting her son. Could jealousy have gotten the best of Ian? Is it enough of a motive to actually kill Harry?
I guess at this point, it doesn't matter how big of the motive. What's done is done, and right now all signs point to Ian.
I start my car and begin to drive.
-
"Hey."
Harry turns around, shock gracing his features as he looks upon me. I try to keep my mind off my acrophobia as I look back at him.
"What're you doing on my roof?" I ask.
"I was sick of the graveyard, I suppose," he replies.
I nod, chewing on my lip. I don't know what to say to him. I don't know where to begin.
"Harry, I know you said you didn't want my help anymore..."
"Jane, please don't-"
"What? What is it? What are you afraid of?"
He shuts his mouth, sticking his hands into his front pockets. He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you."
The words leave his lips and I'm not sure if I heard them or if I was imagining them. He stares at me unwaveringly, fully confident in his statement, as I struggle to come up with a response.
"Are you...I don't..." I command myself to form a coherent sentence but I can't. I know I must love him back-I realized that before. My mind and my voice seem to be disconnected as of now, especially under his expectant gaze.
"Wait," he says, putting up a hand. "Allow me to correct myself. I'm not afraid I'm falling in love with you-no, that ship sailed a while ago-I'm afraid that I've fallen in love with you. They're two different things, see. One could change at any time and one is certain-and I'm certain that I am in love with you."
Every word he says is like poetry and yet I have no words of my own to describe my reaction to it. I stare at him in bewilderment, trying to find my voice.
"I'm sorry for being so awkward," I finally say and he laughs, looking down and kicking lightly at a shingle in the roof.
"I like awkward."
I smile at him and look down at my feet, pushing my hair out of my face. "The thing is, Harry-"
"Oh, God," he says humorously, smiling crookedly. "Is this where you reject me?"
I shut my eyes and laugh, shaking my head. "No," I say, opening my eyes to look at him again. "No. It's just that...I've fallen in love with you too. And it makes me sad, because I feel like the more I love you, the more I'm losing you."
"Because my crossing to the afterlife is inevitable." He nods, breaking my gaze.
"Right." A light breeze brushes through the air around us.
"I thought about that too," he says, sitting down on the roof. "And I guess it is inevitable, and I hate that. I want to go to the afterlife, but I also don't want to leave you."
I walk over and sit beside him. "Is that why you said you didn't want me helping you anymore?"
"Yes."
I'm thankful for his straightforward answer, and I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the softness of his sweater against my cheek and his cold aura chilling my skin. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
"Even if you end up leaving, I still love you," I say. "And I still will after you leave. The afterlife can't change that."
"I'm happy to hear that," he says. "God, you don't know how happy I am to hear that. But let's not talk about leaving, all right?"
I nod. He tilts my chin up to look at him, eyes tracing over my face before leaning down to kiss me softly. I wish I could kiss him forever. I wish he would never leave.
We stay silent for a while after we pull apart, watching the wind move the trees. I know my parents will be home soon, but I ignore that fact for now.
"You know what I think," I say. "I think that the word 'love' is overused sometimes. Don't you?"
Harry frowns in concentration, looking off into the trees. "Maybe a bit," he says. "But it's one of those words that can be applied in many ways. From mother to son, from friend to friend, from lover to lover."
"Yeah," I say. "But I think it's begun to lose a bit of its meaning since being used so much. I don't know. Maybe it's stupid."
"No, it's not," he says. "It's a strong word, but like any word, it can be overused."
"Yeah," I agree, nodding. "That's what I mean."
"How about this, then," he says. "Instead of telling you I love you, what if I told you that you are the product of my long term and overwhelming adoration?"
I smile. "I like that," I say.
"Well, then. You are the product of my long term and overwhelming adoration."
"And you're the product of my long term and overwhelming adoration," I reply.
We look at each other and laugh. "I don't know, maybe we should still say the other one," Harry says.
"Yeah," I agree, laughing still. "Why not have both?"
Harry pulls me to him so that my head rests on his shoulder. I shut my eyes and pretend that this moment will never end.
But it has to as I remember what I discovered today. It is overwhelmingly likely that Ian killed Harry, and Harry needs to know that. Harry deserves to know it. I can't just keep it from him, even if it does ruin this moment. It's why I came up here in the first place, anyway. I take a breath.
"Harry, there's something I need to tell you..."