A couple of days had passed since the funeral and I thought about taking the letter to the police. So far, there hadn't been any advancements in their investigation—or, if there were, they hadn't released any information. Yet there I was, holding a vital piece of evidence and withholding it from the authorities.
I should hand it in.
But the thought of giving up the letter didn't sit right. Would I find a threat in my car the next morning? Would another letter turn up in my mailbox a week later? The part of me consumed by rage desperately needed an outlet. I needed someone to direct my hatred toward and this was the perfect opportunity.
Striking up your own investigation would do more harm than good.
I groaned internally, tired from the constant battle in my head. The letter explained that there were clues to suggest where the next would be found. But there were no signs of riddles or poems or anything remotely like a puzzle. The more I read it, the less it made any sense.
Perhaps I wasn't cut out to be a detective. I took it as a sign to surrender the letter. If I couldn't figure out anything by the end of the day, I'd hand it over.
"Are you hungry?"
I looked up from the letter to see Cass standing at my door, holding a tray of food. Although I was perfectly capable of making my own lunch, she felt the need to baby me. Her older sister instincts (and her unhealthy urge to keep busy under difficult circumstances) were kicking in, but I would have felt a lot more comfortable if she had just gone back to university and focused on her studies. I enjoyed having her around, but I didn't like the reasons why she was visiting.
She had come home to Newtown to be there for my graduation. It was only meant to be for the weekend. Then she had planned to head back to campus to focus on her summer classes. And then I found Colton dead. The school had canceled the ceremony—it was to be rescheduled in a few weeks—and Cass had stayed ever since, trying to provide moral support and warm meals every day.
I shrugged and she entered, placing the tray on my study desk. "Thanks."
"What are you working on?" she asked, nodding at the piece of paper in front of me. "I thought school was officially over."
I reached out and grabbed it, folding it lazily. "Just doing some reading," I answered, shoving it between a couple of books.
"Your eulogy?" she asked tentatively, as if the remembrance of my breakdown at Colton's funeral would ignite another.
"Yeah."
"You really should apologize to the Crests," Cass said, placing her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. "Walking out in the middle of the service wasn't one of your greatest points."
"I know."
She dropped onto the edge of my bed and crossed her legs, nervously tucking a piece of hair away from her face. Her posture was impeccable: back straight, neck poised. That could only mean one thing. She had news—and nothing particularly good.
"What?" I asked, spinning around in my desk chair to face her. She shifted uncomfortably. "Cass?" I prodded. "What is it?"
My sister looked down at her hands and eventually said, "Mom's coming."
"What?"
"She's on the next flight out," she explained.
The divorce had happened before I could remember. Cass said
she recalled getting pulled out of preschool, but that was about it. According to my father, their split wasn't based on anything dramatic, like cheating. My parents had simply lost their spark of affection and agreed that it would be best for them to go their separate ways. I thought it was one-sided, though, because Dad hadn't dated since then, while my mother, Valerie, had remarried and had three more kids.
She visited at least twice every year, usually on our birthdays and sometimes during the holidays, but other than that, we hardly saw her. She was like that distant relative that everyone has. The one who you share an awkward relationship with and who gives you presents you loathe because they hardly know you. That was the kind of connection I had with my mother.
"Is she bringing Ryan?" I asked. Ryan was the name of her new husband. Technically I guess he was my stepfather.
"No," Cass answered. "He's staying home to look after the kids."
"Why is she even coming?"
"She thinks it might be a little overwhelming for you here. She wants to take you out for a week-long vacation. Anywhere you like, as a graduation gift."
"I'm fine right here," I insisted, cringing at the thought of my mother being around and the thick, unbearable tension that came with her visits.
I wasn't sure if I could handle her presence, especially at mealtimes. She was an impressive cook, but that didn't compensate nearly enough for the awkward silence that consumed us at the table. There just wasn't anything I felt comfortable talking about with her, and I was sure she felt the same. She was my biological mother, sure, but her family in Queensland were the ones she had grown to love and treasure. She'd left when I was barely two; we were almost strangers now.
We'd always had trouble establishing a connection, and there was only so much of a relationship that could form through phone calls and cards in the mail. Cass occasionally called her, but I suppose she remembered more of her than I did. Either way, Valerie never put in the effort to see me, so I never returned the gesture. And I wasn't about to start now.
Besides, I had six more letters to find.
"Maybe a change of scenery will make you feel better," Cass suggested. "I don't know about you, but this town just feels so much darker now, even if it is spring."
"I'm not going anywhere, Cass," I answered firmly before I stood, picked up my keys, and swiped the letter out from between the books.
"Elliot! Where are you going?" she called.
But I was already out the door and down the stairs. My dad was in his office, his old typewriter out and a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes next to him. The door was wide open, showcasing a messy display of unorganized papers and a wall of bookshelves filled with paperbacks with cracked spines. Dad looked up at me, startled eyes growing wide behind his glasses. Before he could say a thing, I'd opened the front door and left.
‡
"Check out my new socks," Colton said, lifting his leg out from under the table and pulling his pants up to reveal horrendously stretched-out fabric with clusters of his girlfriend's face printed on it. Lydia buried her face in her hands and made a small, tortured sound.
"That's disgusting," I said.
Colton lifted his index finger for me to wait before he swiveled around in his seat to hike up his other leg. This time when he pulled his pants up, he revealed a stretched-out sock with clusters of my face on it.
"Now that," I said, "is a work of art. Awful picture of me, though. My head looks ginormous."
"They only had one size," Colton said, grinning. He lowered his leg back down. "Now my favorite people are with me wherever I go."
"We're already with you wherever you go," Lydia pointed out.
"It's true. This relationship is a tricycle now, what with all my third-wheeling all the time," I teased.
In all honesty, I didn't mind. I never felt like I was intruding on anything when we all hung out together. The dynamics were comfortable. Every Friday after school, we would go to The Jukebox diner for burgers and milkshakes. And this afternoon was no exception.
"I was thinking we could name our first child Percy," I said, stealing a few fries from the basket sitting between us.
"Child?" Lydia asked, her eyes wide.
"Our?" Colton scoffed. "I believe the child would be mine and Lydia's."
"Are you saying I wouldn't be the godfather? The cool guy who lets thekid have ice cream for breakfast and puppies for Christmas? All I can say is wow. I'm offended to my core."
"What makes you think I wouldn't spoil my kids with puppies and ice cream?" Colton asked.
"Wait, I'm still on the whole having-a-child bit," Lydia said, rubbing her temples. "I won't be mentally prepared to even consider kids until at least ten years have passed."
"Oh, definitely," Colton said. His pocket watch had found its way out again, and Colton cupped its face in his palm. On any other eighteen-year-old, it would have looked ridiculous. But I couldn't remember a time when Colton hadn't had it. It was just an extension of himself. His thumb ran over the lid and he smiled, leaning to the side to kiss his girlfriend's cheek.
"Time is ours."
‡
I found myself at the diner again, this time alone, in the exact same booth we always shared, ordering a large chocolate milkshake and side of fries. Then I took out the letter and read as I ate. The words on the page seemed a lot fresher because of the new scenery. The natural lighting from the window made the ink look clearer, and my grease-powered brain helped me see the writing from a whole new point of view.
Take your time, though. I have nothing but time.
Something about those two sentences ignited a spark within me. Time. Whenever I thought of time, I remembered Colton's pocket watch. The gold exterior, the way he always hooked it on his jeans, and the faint ticking sound whenever he opened it and examined the time as if it were a lot more complicated than it seemed. Maybe the next letter was in his pocket watch. But as I was thinking it through, darkness loomed over my booth; a shadow was cast across the letter. Looking up, I saw Lydia, wearing one of her pastel dresses with the church collar and a silver cross around her neck. She had probably just come back from Saturday mass.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked.
I motioned toward the seat across from me. She sat down and tucked her purse in her lap. Reaching out, I pushed the fries toward her. I knew she wouldn't be able to resist. They were her favorite, after all. As I'd predicted, she reached over and grabbed a couple.
"Thanks," she muttered.
I folded the letter away before Lydia had a chance to ask about it. She focused on the food on the table, first nibbling at the small, rejected fries that were extra crunchy from being in the deep fryer too long, then when they were gone, eating the bigger ones and quelling her appetite. It didn't take long for the entire basket to be empty, revealing an oil-soaked paper towel left at the bottom.
"God, that was so good," she said guiltily, looking at the empty tray. "Hey, want to split a second round? I'm meant to be on a diet, but fries get me every time."
She raised a hand to wave someone to our booth. I couldn't find the words to apologize, even though I knew I should. Although Lydia and I hadn't exactly been the closest during Colton's disappearance, that shouldn't overshadow the friendship we had before he left town.
"Lydia," I said. "How have you been?"
"With the diet?" she asked, laughing uncomfortably. "It sucks. I think I gained more than I lost. Comfort food, you know?"
"No," I answered, with a hint of a smile. "I meant how have you been with . . . everything?"
"I've been . . . coping, I suppose is the word." She brushed some imaginary dirt off her dress.
"I'm sorry for the things I said at Colton's funeral. They were uncalled for."
"No, no." Lydia shook her head. "You were right, I'd been selfish even before he died. I could have been a better friend. He left both of us."
"I just feel so guilty—"
"We all have things we're guilty of," she answered, something dark crossing her face, before turning to the employee who arrived at our booth. "One large basket of rosemary-seasoned fries, please. And a diet Coke. Elliot, do you want anything?"
Despite Lydia's suspicious behavior, a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and the knot in my stomach had loosened, making me feel significantly better. However, there was still one more apology to make. Whether it was the comfortable and familiar environment of the diner, clearing the air with Lydia, or the awesome food, I found the stress and frustration I had been feeling all week starting to fade. And it was making me feel extremely determined to resolve all complications.
"No, thanks," I answered. "I should actually get going."
"Oh?"
"I'm going to see the Crests. I still haven't apologized."
"You're full of apologies today, Elliot Parker."
"Maybe, but I hope the world is full of forgiveness today," I answered, picking up my jacket. "I don't mean to take off so abruptly."
"I understand," she said.
"Want to grab a pizza sometime later this week? It's been a while since we just hung out. Just you and me." Lydia flinched as if I'd slapped her. "I didn't mean—it wasn't supposed to come out like that."
It took a moment for her to breathe and look up, but when we made eye contact, she forced a smile. "No, yeah, I know what you mean. It's okay. Pizza sounds good."
But her voice told me she was lying—not just about the pizza, either.