Bitter Bite
Page 94
Bria tapped her finger on the photo again. “And look who Mab has on her arm.”
Black hair, black eyes, confident smile. Even though I could only see the side of his face, I recognized him immediately.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “That’s Tucker.”
Bria nodded. “There are some more shots of him, talking with different people.” She hesitated. “There are a couple of photos of him with Mom. He wasn’t lying about knowing her.”
Bria looked at me, sympathy in her eyes, then started pulling out more photos and arranging them on the counter. Eira, Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker were in many of the shots, just like she said.
“What do you think it means?” Finn asked.
I stared at the long-ago images, more questions swirling through my mind. Had Tucker been telling the truth? Had my mother really been part of some secret society in Ashland? Were the members of the Circle really responsible for her death? What had she done that upset them enough to want her dead?
I didn’t know, but I felt all the stubborn denial that I’d been hanging on to burning to ash, replaced by the cold, sinking certainty that my mother hadn’t been the person I’d thought she was.
Then who had she been?
And what did that make me now?
“Gin?” Finn asked again. “What do you think it means?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But it’s a place to start looking for answers. And I’m going to find them.”
32
Three days later, I found myself right back where I had started.
Blue Ridge Cemetery.
And just like last time, I was standing inside someone else’s grave—my mother’s.
Oh, I didn’t expect my mother’s casket to be empty, since I’d witnessed her murder and knew that she was as dead as dead could be. But Eira Snow had known Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker, so it seemed like a logical place to start searching for answers. I’d already gone through Fletcher’s house and gathered up all the old man’s files, and I had been systematically going through them one by one, but I hadn’t uncovered any dirt there yet.
I was hoping that I might here tonight.
I’d arrived at the cemetery forty-five minutes ago, and I was almost down to my mother’s casket. This night was even colder than when I was first here, but the steady motions kept me warm, and the quiet gave me time to think about everything that had happened.
But the more I thought about things, the fewer answers I came up with, just like every other time I turned my attention to this new puzzle. For the first time, I envied Finn. At least, he had answers about Deirdre, even if they were dark, hurtful ones. People always said that ignorance was bliss, and I finally understood what that meant.
Because not knowing was driving me crazy.
I was determined to find out exactly what my mother had been involved in, even if it meant disturbing her final resting place—
Thunk.
My shovel hit something, and I frowned, knowing that I wasn’t quite down to the casket yet. But I bent and cleared the dirt off the item I’d hit.
It was another silverstone box.
It was a much smaller box than the one that had been in Deirdre’s casket, but my spider rune was carved into the top, just as it had been on the box in Deirdre’s casket, and there was no doubt in my mind that the old man had left it here for me to find.
“Fletcher,” I whispered.
It was one thing to dig up Deirdre’s grave—a stranger’s grave—and realize that things weren’t what they seemed. But it was another to have the same realization about my own mother’s grave.
My entire body went cold and numb, and I slowly sank into the dirt, the box clutched in my hands like an anchor weighing me down. My stomach churned, and dread squeezed my heart tight, but I’d come too far to stop now.
I couldn’t stop now.
So I took a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I fished out one of my knives and cracked open the box.
Tucked inside was an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. With trembling hands, I opened it, drew out the single piece of paper inside, and read the note the old man had left me.
Gin,
Don’t open your mother’s casket. There’s nothing in there but regret and sorrow for disturbing her.
Love,
Fletcher
Despite the tears streaking down my face, I still smiled. Even now, the old man was looking out for me, knowing how much it would hurt me to open my mother’s casket and see the charred remains of her body. I started to set the envelope aside, but something slid around in the very bottom. So I reached inside for the object and drew it out into the light.
A second later, I burst out laughing.
It was a key to a safety-deposit box at First Trust of Ashland. The bank’s name was stamped into the key, and someone—Fletcher—had scratched the number of the box into the metal: 1300. The irony made me laugh.
“If only I’d had you last week,” I murmured to the key. “I could have gotten you while I was down in the vault.”
But there was nothing more I could do here tonight, so I tucked the key and the letter into my pocket, got to my feet, and picked up my shovel again.
“Need a hand?” a voice called out.
I looked up to find Finn standing next to my mother’s grave, wearing black clothes and with a shovel propped up on his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned. “You mean, how did I find you? Silvio was quite happy to download his tracking apps onto my phone.”
Black hair, black eyes, confident smile. Even though I could only see the side of his face, I recognized him immediately.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “That’s Tucker.”
Bria nodded. “There are some more shots of him, talking with different people.” She hesitated. “There are a couple of photos of him with Mom. He wasn’t lying about knowing her.”
Bria looked at me, sympathy in her eyes, then started pulling out more photos and arranging them on the counter. Eira, Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker were in many of the shots, just like she said.
“What do you think it means?” Finn asked.
I stared at the long-ago images, more questions swirling through my mind. Had Tucker been telling the truth? Had my mother really been part of some secret society in Ashland? Were the members of the Circle really responsible for her death? What had she done that upset them enough to want her dead?
I didn’t know, but I felt all the stubborn denial that I’d been hanging on to burning to ash, replaced by the cold, sinking certainty that my mother hadn’t been the person I’d thought she was.
Then who had she been?
And what did that make me now?
“Gin?” Finn asked again. “What do you think it means?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But it’s a place to start looking for answers. And I’m going to find them.”
32
Three days later, I found myself right back where I had started.
Blue Ridge Cemetery.
And just like last time, I was standing inside someone else’s grave—my mother’s.
Oh, I didn’t expect my mother’s casket to be empty, since I’d witnessed her murder and knew that she was as dead as dead could be. But Eira Snow had known Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker, so it seemed like a logical place to start searching for answers. I’d already gone through Fletcher’s house and gathered up all the old man’s files, and I had been systematically going through them one by one, but I hadn’t uncovered any dirt there yet.
I was hoping that I might here tonight.
I’d arrived at the cemetery forty-five minutes ago, and I was almost down to my mother’s casket. This night was even colder than when I was first here, but the steady motions kept me warm, and the quiet gave me time to think about everything that had happened.
But the more I thought about things, the fewer answers I came up with, just like every other time I turned my attention to this new puzzle. For the first time, I envied Finn. At least, he had answers about Deirdre, even if they were dark, hurtful ones. People always said that ignorance was bliss, and I finally understood what that meant.
Because not knowing was driving me crazy.
I was determined to find out exactly what my mother had been involved in, even if it meant disturbing her final resting place—
Thunk.
My shovel hit something, and I frowned, knowing that I wasn’t quite down to the casket yet. But I bent and cleared the dirt off the item I’d hit.
It was another silverstone box.
It was a much smaller box than the one that had been in Deirdre’s casket, but my spider rune was carved into the top, just as it had been on the box in Deirdre’s casket, and there was no doubt in my mind that the old man had left it here for me to find.
“Fletcher,” I whispered.
It was one thing to dig up Deirdre’s grave—a stranger’s grave—and realize that things weren’t what they seemed. But it was another to have the same realization about my own mother’s grave.
My entire body went cold and numb, and I slowly sank into the dirt, the box clutched in my hands like an anchor weighing me down. My stomach churned, and dread squeezed my heart tight, but I’d come too far to stop now.
I couldn’t stop now.
So I took a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I fished out one of my knives and cracked open the box.
Tucked inside was an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. With trembling hands, I opened it, drew out the single piece of paper inside, and read the note the old man had left me.
Gin,
Don’t open your mother’s casket. There’s nothing in there but regret and sorrow for disturbing her.
Love,
Fletcher
Despite the tears streaking down my face, I still smiled. Even now, the old man was looking out for me, knowing how much it would hurt me to open my mother’s casket and see the charred remains of her body. I started to set the envelope aside, but something slid around in the very bottom. So I reached inside for the object and drew it out into the light.
A second later, I burst out laughing.
It was a key to a safety-deposit box at First Trust of Ashland. The bank’s name was stamped into the key, and someone—Fletcher—had scratched the number of the box into the metal: 1300. The irony made me laugh.
“If only I’d had you last week,” I murmured to the key. “I could have gotten you while I was down in the vault.”
But there was nothing more I could do here tonight, so I tucked the key and the letter into my pocket, got to my feet, and picked up my shovel again.
“Need a hand?” a voice called out.
I looked up to find Finn standing next to my mother’s grave, wearing black clothes and with a shovel propped up on his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned. “You mean, how did I find you? Silvio was quite happy to download his tracking apps onto my phone.”
