Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
CHAPTER
36
I’m out of trash bags. I curse as I tie off another one filled with Mom’s clothes and glare at the chest of drawers, which still contains far more stuff than I’ve bagged up to drop off at the church.
Boxes? Maybe there are boxes somewhere. Mom was a bit of a hoarder, and she often left the liquor store with so many bottles they’d have to give her something sturdy to carry them all. I look around her bedroom once more. I’ve barely made a dent. It hits me that my mother knew she was dying and took the time to plan her own wake and funeral for me, yet didn’t bother to sort out her life. Somehow, it seems fitting for our relationship.
I check everywhere for more trash bags or boxes—the kitchen, the laundry room, the closets, even the shed outside. The only ones I find are already filled to the brim. More I need to go through. Eventually, I collapse on the bottom step of the staircase, gazing up at the ceiling and wishing I were anywhere but here. My mind circles back to where it has spent most of the last twelve hours. Noah. That damn Saint Agnes glistening on his neck, staring up at me.
He had to know, right? Had to know about the necklace Jocelyn—I—was given. Was it possible Mr. Sawyer gave them to everyone? Perhaps . . . But why would he give his son Saint Agnes, the patron saint of virgins and victims of sex abuse? It didn’t make sense. It did make sense, in a sick way, why he’d given it to me. But not to his son. And why did Noah suddenly start wearing it? A month has passed since we met, and he’s never worn it before. My stomach churns, thinking about it, thinking how vulnerable I’ve made myself to Noah.
And he said he was working on a novel—a novel.
Could he be Hannah Greer?
I bite my lip hard, like I bit his just last night, dig my teeth into the meaty flesh until I taste blood and the shock of pain jolts me from my thoughts. It’s too much to be a coincidence. Way too much.
Besides, it doesn’t make sense that Hannah is anyone else. Now that I think about it, hasn’t it been obvious all along? Sam has helped me—found information on Jocelyn, been there for me in a way that quite frankly I didn’t deserve. And last night he wouldn’t have left so easily if he had something. Or if he wanted something. What he wants, more than anything, is me. At least until yesterday.
I force myself to my feet and wander into the kitchen. I grab the coffee carafe, dump out the cold, burnt coffee, and begin the process of making more. Who else? Father Preston. But he hasn’t been sniffing around, either. Now that Mom’s dead, he’s rinsed his hands of me. Probably, he’s glad for that. I sure am.
In the cupboard, I shuffle around for the coffee, for the oversized plastic Maxwell House container Mom bought at Walmart. When it’s not there, I crouch down to search the lower cupboards, pushing aside expired cans of soup and boxes of mac and cheese. This will all need to be sorted, too.
But who else? Who else? The chief has been oddly absent in all of this after his constant appearances, but I’ll take that as a positive sign. And why would the police not arrest me if they knew the story? Enrolling in my class, sending haunting chapters—no, it’s personal to whoever is doing this.
That leaves Ivy. Ivy who, as it turns out, was more involved than just helping me cover up my crime. I still can’t get over that she slept with Mr. Sawyer, too. Maybe she only told me part of the story and the real truth is that she was in love with him. And now she wants revenge on me for what I did. It’s possible, isn’t it? Lord knows anything is in this crazy mess. Then again, she has so much to lose. She was there that night, too, and she has more at stake than I do, what with her family. So as much as finding out she’s kept secrets from me for twenty years leaves me unsettled, it doesn’t change that I’m almost certain it’s not Ivy doing this to me.
With a sigh of frustration, I abandon my attempt to make coffee. I need more bags or boxes anyway, so I’ll just pick up my caffeine fix while I’m out. Plus, I could use some fresh air. So I find my purse, my keys, take a long look through the window—no red pickup truck—and hurry out to my car.
The hardware store is nearly empty. It’s a local one, run by a couple who lives at the edge of town—or maybe their kids own it these days. I take a cart and wander through the aisles, finding coffee and trash bags, a pallet of moving boxes stocked eye-high in the back. I load up an armful and head down the cleaning aisle. I haven’t inventoried what’s at the house, but Mom probably doesn’t have anything besides Comet and Windex, and the place is going to need a good scrub.