Chapter Thirty-Six
Mila
She’s wearing jeans and a slouchy beige sweater that falls off one shoulder. Her blond hair is in a nest on top of her head, and her expression is somber. In her hand is a big plastic bag full of cookies. “Hi.”
“Hi.” My heart pounds like a sprinter’s feet on the track.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course. I’ll come outside.” Over my shoulder, I say, “Mom, it’s Gabi. I’ll be just outside.” I step out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind me.
We stand face to face. Gabi isn’t as tall as Everett, but she’s got a few inches on me. She’s also wearing thick-soled brown boots, and I’m barefoot. I have to look up to meet her eyes, which are so much like her brother’s that I feel it like a punch in the gut.
But her face is just hers, and seeing her this close again puts a lump in my throat. A thousand memories engulf me, and I want to hug her, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to. Is she my old friend? Or is she a stranger?
“I made you some cookies,” she says, handing me the bag. “I still stress-bake.”
I take it from her, my taste buds perking up at the sight of the golden-brown snickerdoodles. “You always did make the best cookies.”
We look at each other for a moment, an awkward silence hanging like a curtain between us. How did we come to this?
And then she moves, closing the distance between us and throwing her arms around me. I hug her back, and for a moment, the two of us just hold each other and cry softly. She smells like she used to—like cinnamon and sugar and vanilla—and the scent rolls time backward.
“Mila, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
“No, you have to let me get this out. I’ve been holding onto this for way too long.” She releases me and wipes her eyes. “Nothing that happened that night was your fault. I’m sorry everyone made you feel that way—it was wrong.”
“But I wasn’t careful enough closing up, so maybe it was my fault.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That fire was an accident. It wasn’t your fault my father hadn’t renewed the insurance policy.
It wasn’t your fault the company denied the claim.
It wasn’t your fault we had to sell.” Another deep breath.
“Other things went down that night—really horrible things—that had nothing to do with you. Things I never talked about. Instead of turning to my friends for support like I should have, I shut everyone out.”
A chill ripples through me, and I hug the cookies close to my chest.
“At the time, I thought I had good reason for acting the way I did. Later, I saw things more clearly, but it felt too late to make it right. And I was so ashamed.” Another sob breaks loose from her chest. “Even talking about that night is hard.”
“Then we don’t have to.”
“But can you forgive me?”
“Of course I can,” I choke out, throwing my arms around her again. “I ran away and shut everyone out, too. Believe me, I understand.”
“You guys were the best friends I ever had,” Gabi says. “And I’ve missed you so much.”
Reluctantly, I let her go. “I hear you’re moving back. We should get together as soon as possible—you, me, and Yasmine.”
“I’d love that.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m actually heading over to her bar right from here. I don’t want to waste any more time. We’ve been apart long enough.”
Next to us, the front door opens. My mom appears in fresh clothing, her hair neatly brushed, her makeup done. “Gabi! My goodness, it is you!”
“Hi, Ms. Ferguson.” Gabi does her best to pull herself together and smile. “How are you feeling?”
My mother emits a heavy sigh. “Oh, I have good days and bad. Would you like to come in? Mila, why are you making her stand on the porch?”
“Thank you, but I can’t today,” says Gabi. “I’m taking my mother to see some fitness places. She’d like to do some strength training.”
“That’s so important at our age. When I’m all recovered from my surgery, I’ll be starting up a fitness and flexibility class for women. Tell Patricia she should join us!”
“I’ll do that.” She smiles at my mom and then me. “Let’s get together when I get back. I’ll ask Everett for your number.”
“Perfect.” I blush, remembering the way she caught us in his cabin on Monday.
With my mom hovering, she can’t say much more, but she does take my hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.” I hold up the bag. “And thank you for the cookies.”
“You’re welcome. I’m going to take some to Yasmine, too. I need to tell her I’m back and, well… It felt like old times baking for you guys again.”
We exchange one last smile before she turns and heads down the walk.
That night, I sleep better than I have in months. It feels like everything is falling into place—like the scattered pieces of my life are coming together. Maybe not in exactly the same way they did before, but in a new way that makes me feel almost whole again.
I wonder if it can last.
The following night, I enter the diner at five-thirty.
The place is full of memories.
As teenagers, we liked Ernie’s because it was cheap, open late, and the booths were the perfect size to fit five of us. It was our favorite hangout after late-night study sessions and high school dances, or when the Michigan winters made sitting outside at the foundry impossible.
As soon as I push open the glass door, I’m greeted by the familiar smell of fresh coffee and fried food.
The walls are cluttered with artifacts that tell the story of the town’s history: black-and-white photographs, framed newspaper clippings, company store ledger pages, vintage menus.
Daniel has texted me that he’s sitting in a booth near the squat-bellied cast-iron stove, and the worn wood floors creak under my feet as I make my way back.
I pause for a second by the burgundy vinyl booth we’d always claimed was “ours.”
This is the booth where we hung on Lydia’s every word when she told us what it was like to kiss a boy.
Where I mastered the cherry stem trick with my tongue.
Where we celebrated Gabi’s state championships.
Where we brainstormed campaign strategies for Yasmine and tried to talk Rachel into dumping her unfaithful boyfriend.
It’s where we all cried when we learned the cancer was back.
“Mila! Over here!”
I look in the direction of the cast-iron stove and see a guy waving at me. Clean-shaven and fair-skinned, he’s medium height and maybe in his mid-thirties, wearing glasses, a plaid button-down shirt, and khaki pants. His dark hair is receding slightly. I walk toward him. “Daniel?”
“Dan is good.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
“Please sit down.” He gestures to the empty booth, and I slide in across from him. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you. I have to go home and make dinner for my mom, so I can’t stay long.”
The server comes by, and Dan orders the meatloaf and an iced tea. When we’re alone again, he reaches into the pocket of a jacket next to him on the bench. “I’m sure you’re anxious to know about the new evidence.”
“Very,” I admit.
“I won’t keep you in suspense.” He places his closed fists on the table.
In each of them appears to be a small plastic baggie.
“These items were found by a bystander in the alley behind the bakery the night of the fire. We have reason to believe they belong to someone who was there for a short time after the bakery closed, but who left right before the explosion. Strange, isn’t it? ”
“I don’t know. Because I don’t know what’s in your hands.”
He turns one fist over and opens it up. “Exhibit A. The ponytail holder.”
I take one look at it and roll my eyes. I can’t help it. “That’s mine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. One hundred percent. I used that kind of holder to put my hair up every single day for ballet class.”
Dan looks a little deflated. “Well, what about this?” He turns his second hand over and uncurls his fingers slowly. “Exhibit B.”
I squint at the bag. Then I gasp. “My necklace.”
“This is yours, too?”
“Yes.” My eyes are filling with tears. “It’s my ladybug charm necklace. I lost it that night.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in his voice is evident.
Heart racing, I pluck the bag with the necklace from his hand and reach inside it.
The clasp is broken, so I hold it up by both ends of the chain.
The ladybug dangles in the center. My throat is so tight that my voice comes out squeaky.
“I never thought I’d see this again. Can I have it back?
I can give you proof it’s mine if you’d like.
I have a bunch of photos of me wearing it. ”
“That’s okay. You can take it.” He looks so dejected that I feel bad.
“I’m sorry the evidence didn’t turn out to be more exciting,” I say.
“Me too.” He sighs. “I’m trying to start a true crime podcast. This was going to be my first case.”
I smile sympathetically. “I was actually hoping you did have something to clear my name.”
He lifts his chin, like he won’t accept defeat. “I still believe there’s more to the story.”
“I don’t think so, Dan,” I say gently. “Investigators were positive it was a flour dust explosion that originated at the back of the kitchen. An oven or burner must have been left on, and I missed it. I confessed to being distracted that night. But the only other person there was Everett McKean.”
“There’s a witness who says otherwise,” he blurts.
“A witness to what?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Dan looks frustrated but resolute. “I’m trying to convince that witness to come forward.”
“I don’t understand. Didn’t the police interview everyone who was there that night?”
“Not this person. They were gone by the time police arrived.” He hesitates. “It’s the same person who found the items in the alley.”
“Oh.”
“Would you be willing to talk to this person? That might be enough to bring them—and their story—into the public eye.”
“I don’t know, Dan. At some point, shouldn’t we just leave the past in the past and move forward?”
Dan shakes his head. “Impossible.”
“What do you mean?”
“The past is always with us. The people we’ve known, the places we’ve been, the experiences we’ve had.
All of it shapes our present reality and therefore influences the future.
And it’s always possible to discover new things about the past, isn’t it?
Memory can tell a story that skips a page, and it’s only later you learn it was there all along.
” He stops. “And then the present is reshaped once more.”
His words remind me of learning that my father was an artist. It did feel like discovering I’d skipped a page in a book. Knowing doesn’t necessarily change the ending to my story, but it fills in a gap.
Maybe Dan is right. Maybe the past still matters. Maybe there are still things to be learned.
“Let me know if the witness is willing to meet with me,” I say, scooting to the end of the booth and getting to my feet. “At the very least, I’d like to thank them for returning my necklace.”
“Okay.”
I tuck the chain and charm back into the baggie so I don’t lose it. I can’t believe how lucky I feel to have it back after all these years. “It was nice meeting you, Dan. Good luck.”