Chapter 70
If there was any remaining possibility of rational thought, it had vanished.
Tessa’s brain felt like those schedule boards at train stations, clack clack clack , as the flaps switched positions, changing everything.
Obliterating what had been there before.
Clack clack clack, in Tessa’s head now, as her weary brain tried to comprehend what this person in the Oakdale Books audience could possibly mean. Tessa had not touched that photo.
DJ must have done it. She’d been angry on the phone. And early on, she’d happily given DJ access to her Facebook page.
“The man by the water,” the woman went on. “His photo is gone.”
“Oh, right, of course. My poor, overworked book-tour mind.” Tessa banged her palm to her forehead, duh .
Get it together, kiddo , she thought. If DJ had taken the photo down, fine.
But she had not told Tessa. So now she’d have to make up some reason why it wasn’t there.
If it really wasn’t. Unless this person—who seemed straightforward and guileless—was testing to see how Tessa would respond.
“Here’s a secret.” Tessa leaned forward, conspiratorial. “I’m not the only one who has access. My fabulous publicist does, too. So maybe she has news. I’ll check when I get back to the hotel.”
Slow down, Annabelle said. People don’t need to know every single thing that might possibly have happened. They’re only trying to connect with you.
“Oh, do,” the woman said. “And post it. It would be so fun to know who Locket Mom is.”
“Wouldn’t it?” It was all Tessa could do not to look toward the far bookshelves. Search for Harper’s face. “I’m as eager to find out as you are.”
“And on that note”—the store manager took a step closer—“I think we will—”
“Could I just ask?” The voice from the back, again.
Damn it, Annabelle said. She’s still here.
“Sure,” Judith said. “Quickly.”
“Before—someone—took it down,” Harper said, and Tessa could hear the disdain in her voice, “I saw a comment that said they thought the photo was from Maine. Did you see that? Or hear about that?”
Everyone, even the store manager, was watching Tessa, expectant.
If she lied now, Harper could make this worse.
And push her and push her and push her, and who knew how far this woman would go?
She had spent the last weeks, even longer, Tessa was sure, making Tessa miserable.
And now, the hook set and bit between her teeth, it was impossible to control her.
Talk about understanding a character’s motivation.
And how far they would go to get what they want.
“I did, ” Tessa said, feigning enthusiasm. “Isn’t it superly fascinating! Yes, I’ve been to Maine, and I love it there.” Oh-so-perky. Oh-so-congenial. “So—thank you so much, you all!”
The applause gave Tessa a moment to think. DJ had told her the person who posted the Maine reference had asked about her pink diary. Did that mean something to her? DJ had asked.
No, Tessa had told her.
But it did. The pink leather book with the tiny brass lock—the key long ago lost—she’d had since she was fifteen.
The only people who had ever seen that diary were her mother, who had given it to her when times were different, and Emily.
The real Emily. After that second summer in Maine, it became Tessa’s solace, writing in her bedroom, even keeping track of how many times she’d written to Emily.
How many letters went unanswered. Until she’d finally tucked it away.
Tessa hadn’t opened it since. But it wasn’t gone. She knew right where it was.
And of course it revealed The Bad Thing. And her real name.
She thought about that diary as Judith pointed Tessa’s fans and readers toward the signing table.
At least, in their old house she knew where it was.
But it had been packed and moved and was now someplace in their brand-new Rockport home.
And now, everyone in that house—including and especially Henry—might have access to it.