Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
R ose exited the woods, her messenger bag across her body. The workshop she’d done at the elementary school had been fun and emotionally rewarding. The students had been excited to design their own character. Next week she’d go back, work with them again.
They’d offered her the title of writer in residence , a once a week position where she’d rotate through the fourth and fifth grade classrooms during their language arts timeframe. She’d accepted.
Her time with Tess after had been lovely as well. To ensure privacy, Rose had picked up deli sandwiches in town and gone to her place. They’d talked for over an hour on her screened-in porch.
I knew. I’ve always known you were hers. We spoke of it then, and a few times through the years, but she never told me who your father was. I didn’t press. We each had our pockets of personal things we kept to ourselves. We respected that about each other.
Briar House came into view. Rose paused. The white wreath Ada had placed on the front door was missing. Something else hung in its place, a piece of paper. Most people didn’t come onto the property, simply shoved their flyers into the old newspaper slot on the mailbox out at the street.
Curious, she climbed the steps to see what it was. She stopped, took a half-step back.
Anger whirled up inside her. Who would do such a thing?
The wreath lay haphazard at an angle on the welcome mat. Its dried white flowers lay crushed and muddied as if someone had stomped on the blooms.
She looked back at the door and felt a little sick.
A folded piece of paper was attached to the door with a tack. It was rude to mark someone’s front door with a sharp object, but that wasn’t the problem. Whoever had done this had shoved the tack through a large cockroach first, as if it were an accent to the paper beneath.
She raised her phone and snapped photos.
One of the wreath. One more of the note on the door.
In seconds, both were on their way to Reggie and Broome.
A typed explanation followed. She rummaged through her bag.
Perhaps she should wait, but damn if she’d let this remain on her front door.
She pulled a red bandanna from her bag, forgotten after her last cold.
Using the cloth like a glove, she removed the tack and the insect, then separated the paper. She opened it enough to see the words.
Much depends
on the match that sparks
the
fire.
Falling trees
never feel a thing.
Ashes
to dust.
All I burn
is because of you.
Sky
and ground.
In the darkness
a riot of flames.
Me
on you.
Dark canvas
painted black for you.
Just
for you.
Bile rose in her throat. Was this supposed to be poetry? A gesture of affection?
All she saw in the words was death.
A fiery one.
Rose backed away, turning toward the side kitchen door. Her fingers shook as she opened it.
She barely made it inside before she became sick.
When she exited the half bath off the kitchen, she went straight to the sink. Her hands shook, part fear, part rage.
Why would anyone torment her like this? She pulled out her phone, checked the security camera app on her phone. The footage was dark and unfocused. She looked up at the camera. It hung at an odd angle, an obvious crack on its front. She texted Broome and Reggie MacShane.
It wasn’t long before Reggie’s Yukon pulled up to the house. In a city, no one would have bothered. The driver’s door protested when he opened it and got out. He wasn’t in uniform. Instead, he wore athletic shorts and a moisture wicking tee.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re off duty?”
He folded his arms once he reached her. “I promised your brother I’d watch out for you. What happened?”
Maybe he hadn’t received the pictures.
“It was on the front door.”
She followed him as he walked up the steps, took in the scene, and then looked at the pictures she’d taken.
“You know how to bring the creeps out.”
“If only that’s all this is.”
“Let me get some things from the Yukon,” he said. “I’ll call Mack too. He’s on shift. That way, this is official.”
“And the sheriff?”
“He’s fishing at the coast. Want me to call him?”
“No.” Maybe she said it too quickly. “I prefer you didn’t. I know what he’ll say.” Sheriff Hutchins said he was harmless. Did Reggie share his opinion? She didn’t want another lecture about letting the old man be.
Reggie was a professional. Whatever he thought about his boss, he kept to himself.
“Maybe this turns out to be nothing, a nasty prank. But Mack and I, we’ll take the steps. These words on the paper, disturbing.”
Mack came by. Both he and Reggie put gloves on. Everything went into evidence bags and vials. They dusted the door and the railing for fingerprints.
They did a walkthrough of the house, the cottages, and checked the overall property. Nothing else seemed amiss.
Reggie asked, “Have you seen anyone lurking about?”
Rose thought of her encounters with George. Every interaction. The cemetery. The cafe. That feeling in the woods that someone was watching her. She shuddered. Last night before bed, for a fraction of a second, she thought she saw a light in the woods. She hadn’t seen him on the property.
“No one.” She held her breath. “I worry about my run-ins with George Hindley.”
Reggie looked down and swore before meeting her eyes. “Should have known. He’s the sheriff’s least favorite topic.”
“Something’s not right with that. The safety of his citizens isn’t Sheriff Hutchins’ priority.”
“I’m well aware of the sheriff’s priorities.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Reggie said, “Hindley was still locked up when I got off shift yesterday. Can you think of anyone else?”
She tilted her head, debated about what she’d seen last night. The lights. A trick of her imagination? “Nothing.”
Reggie closed his notebook. “Your ancestors had a few enemies. I’ve heard the stories. I’ll talk to Broome as well. The Elders. See if they can think of someone.”
Broome called soon after Reggie left. She’d sent another photo of the demented poem. “Got your texts. I’m driving up.”
“No, don’t do that,” she said. “I’m fine. Reggie and Mack were here. What did you find out about the camera?”
“I’ve got footage of someone in a mask, a baseball bat coming towards the lens. I’ll get someone out there to fix it today.” She heard his frustration through the phone.
“Thanks, Broome.”
Rose scrubbed every panel of the painted front door as if the entire door had been covered in bugs rather than one spot.
It didn’t seem to be enough.
The door looked naked when she finally stepped back. Mack took the white wreath in for evidence. Something about boot prints.