Chapter 55 Blake
BLAKE
THE TRAIN FROM BOSTON TO Trenton takes nearly five hours.
A flight would’ve been way quicker, but I wanted to use the time to work on my midterm papers without distractions.
The one I’m currently writing explores the invention and history of radio and its impact on modern media, which reminds me I need to text the Spencers to finalize my New York visit next month.
I finally feel back to normal. Hormones settled, depression gone.
Sure, the aching pit in my stomach refuses to go away, but at least I’m not bursting into tears every five seconds anymore.
If this Trenton trip goes well, maybe Little Spencer and I can record a follow-up episode to the Darlie one.
Who knows. Maybe I’m two hours and thirty-eight minutes away from solving the mystery.
That left me with two options: mail a letter, which could lead to days of waiting or no response at all. Or hop a train, knock on the door, and see what happens.
Worst case, I get my schoolwork done on the train.
Best case, Dolly and Raymond actually live in that house, and I get some answers.
As we pull into the station, I tuck my laptop back in its case and slide it into my bag.
Outside at the taxi stand, I slide into the back seat of a cab and then watch the exciting city of Trenton flash past the window.
1229 Sycamore Lane is located in Trenton’s Hillside neighborhood, which my research says is quite affluent.
That bodes well, since Raymond Loughlin comes from money.
The taxi stops in front of a large Tudor-style house with a spacious front lawn and three-car garage. I’m happy to see a car in the driveway. I hope that means somebody’s home; otherwise, I’m about to make camp on the porch like a stalker.
This was…a really bad idea, I realize.
I’ve done some ridiculous things for the sake of research, like flirt with a Kyle to convince him to dig through old, dusty boxes. But a day trip to a different state to visit a house whose residents might not even be connected to the story?
That’s extreme, even for me.
And yet the lengths I’ve gone to, as extreme as they may be, remind me of Wyatt saying how much he loves my nerdy pursuits. How my hobby isn’t dumb but passionate.
Still, I do feel sort of dumb as I stand awkwardly on the porch and ring the doorbell.
My pulse speeds up when I hear footsteps beyond the door.
Then it swings open, and a woman answers.
An elderly woman. I’m not great with guessing ages, but she looks like she could be in her late sixties.
Also bodes well. Darlie died fifty years ago, and her sister was nineteen at the time, so that would make Dolly sixty-nine now.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a polite smile.
“Um…maybe? Are you by any chance Dolly Gallagher? Loughlin, I mean. Dolly Gallagher Loughlin.”
Her smile falters, joined by a quick flicker of suspicion. But she doesn’t slam the door. If anything, she sounds curious as she says, “I am indeed. And you are?”
“Blake.” I offer an embarrassed smile. “Blake Logan. I’m a student at Briar University in Massachusetts. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. About your sister,” I clarify.
Now her eyes narrow.
God, this is so awkward. “You know what? I’m so sorry,” I tell her, my cheeks hotter than Hades.
“I just realized how crazy this is and how incredibly intrusive. I shouldn’t have shown up at your door like this, but I couldn’t find a phone number or email.
This would have been so much better over email. ”
I guess my nervous babbling eases her concerns that I might be here to kill her, because she laughs softly and opens the door wider. “Why don’t you come in, sweetheart? Do you want a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.” I glance toward the curb and give the taxi driver a thumbs-up. He’s been waiting for my signal to head off.
Inside, I remove my shoes at her request and follow her down a wide corridor toward a large kitchen with sky-blue cabinets and a cedar table by a window that overlooks a beautifully manicured backyard.
This house isn’t as fancy as the Loughlins’ cliffside Tahoe property, but it’s still pretty damn nice.
“That’s a gorgeous yard,” I tell her.
“Thank you! Ray and I do all the landscaping ourselves.”
“Ray? You mean Raymond? So he’s still alive?”
“Alive and kicking,” Dolly confirms. She walks to the kettle on the stove. “I was just fixing myself a cup of tea when you rang. Would you like one or do you prefer water?”
“Tea is great, thanks.”
She returns to the table with two steaming mugs. “It’s peppermint. I hope that’s all right.”
“Perfect,” I say, gratefully reaching for the tea. “I really am sorry for just showing up here. Sometimes I find a topic I’m interested in, and before I know it, I’m obsessed. My family owns a house in Lake Tahoe, right across the lake from the Loughlin property.”
“Lord, I haven’t been back there in decades,” she muses. “Though I hear my sister is still creating quite the stir.”
I’m startled by the humor gleaming in her brown eyes. “So you know about the Darlie legend?”
“You mean that my sister tragically drowned herself because of her broken heart? And that rather than turn evil, she now strives to mend people’s hearts and shower them with love? Or whatever it is benevolent ghosts do.” Dolly releases a peal of laughter.
“You’re saying none of that is true?”
“Honey. I assure you that most ghost stories aren’t true.”
I feel a pang of disappointment, but at the same time, my curiosity hasn’t abated in the slightest. There’s clearly a story here.
“All right, what’s the real story then?” I ask the smiling woman. “I found your sister’s death certificate, which means she did die around the time this legend began.”
Dolly’s expression goes serious. “Yes. My sister passed on. And it was a difficult time for all of us, especially Ray. But it certainly wasn’t as dramatic as suicide by drowning. She died of a brain tumor.”
I gasp. “Wow. Really?”
“It came on so suddenly. Heck, we didn’t even have a history of brain cancer in our family.
Darlie went in for a checkup for migraines and left with a diagnosis of three weeks to live.
The tumor was so advanced, the doctors said even the most aggressive treatment wouldn’t help.
” Her breath catches. “She was engaged. She was happy. She had her whole life ahead of her. Lord, we never even saw it coming.”
“Why wasn’t there a medical report?”
She wrinkles her forehead. “Well, I’m sure there was. Hospital records for her scans, certainly.”
I nod. After I found Darlie’s death certificate, the first thing I did was call all the hospitals in the area, but it turns out they don’t release private medical records to random college girls.
“Her cancer was no secret,” Dolly says. “And she died at our house, looking out at the lake, surrounded by her family and Raymond.”
Sorrow tugs at my heart. “They were still engaged before she died?”
“Of course. They loved each other very much.”
How did you end up with him? I almost blurt out, but I resist the urge.
She must read my thoughts, because she laughs again.
“If you’re wondering about me and Ray, I’m afraid it’s not very scandalous what happened after.
We grieved together. Darlie’s death brought us closer together, and eventually the grief faded and turned into love.
But it was too painful to stay in the place my sister loved so deeply, so we moved to the East Coast after we got married. ”
“Why isn’t there a grave for her in Tahoe?” I ask curiously. That was another strikeout for me, trying to locate a headstone for Darlie in all the local cemeteries.
“She wanted to be cremated. We spread her ashes over the lake.” Dolly giggles. “Which probably contributes to the ghost story.”
I marvel at her. “It doesn’t bother you that everyone believes your sister is a ghost who was betrayed by her sister and fiancé? That people think you and Darlie were both sleeping with Raymond all over Tahoe? Meeting up in lighthouses? Secret tree trysts?”
“Oh, the tree was real.” Dolly’s eyes twinkle.
“I used to cover for her when she snuck out to meet Ray. I’d stuff pillows under her blanket so it looked like she was asleep in bed.
She and Raymond were quite the wild ones.
He still has some of that wild streak, even now.
I never did, but I believe that might be a good thing. Every relationship needs that balance.”
“One person is the storm, and the other is the lighthouse,” I murmur, and my heart clenches as Wyatt’s lyrics echo in the kitchen.
She smiles. “Yes. I like that. And no, it doesn’t bother me. My sister died at the lake surrounded by her family. Her fiancé found a second chance at love. And this legend… Well, it keeps her memory alive. To be honest, Darlie would love this.”
“She would?”
“Oh yes. She was fun-loving, mischievous, always causing trouble. The fact that everybody is still talking about her fifty years later? Spreading the story that she’s a ghost who loves love? All that attention? It would delight her.”
I sip my tea, letting everything sink in.
No ghost.
No plot twist that makes you gasp.
Just a boring, run-of-the-mill ending. Someone died, two people got married, and now they garden together in New Jersey.
And yet I’m not disappointed. Although it would’ve been cool if it turned out there really was a ghost—it would make the Spencers happy anyway—I realize I care more about the journey it took to reach the end of this story rather than the ending itself.
I don’t need to solve crimes and take down killers.
I don’t need shocking plot twists. I loved the research.
I loved the digging. And yes, I loved sending emails to county records offices.
Not to mention the episode I recorded with Little Spencer is at almost two million views now.
Two million people enjoyed it, and that is incredibly validating.
So maybe my hobby is dorky and dumb, but Wyatt’s right.
I shouldn’t be embarrassed of it. I might not possess a flashy talent or supermodel looks, but I have something I’m good at, something I enjoy. And that’s not nothing.
I stay a while longer, chatting with Dolly.
We drink a second cup of tea. She tells me about her and Raymond, how they never wanted children, how they’ve enjoyed every second of their life together.
I tell her about school and how much I dislike it.
How I feel destined for a boring job and that maybe I shouldn’t even bother doing the podcast.
At that, she shakes her head in rebuke. “Do it. It’s not as if you can’t still work your tedious nine-to-five while you do the podcast. If you want this old lady’s advice, Ms. Blake Logan, here it is: Life is short.
If I’d done what was expected of me, I wouldn’t have married Raymond.
My parents weren’t thrilled with the idea—they worried he was trying to replace one Gallagher fiancée with another.
But I knew he loved me for me, and I know I made the right decision.
But there are also some things I didn’t do, and once you reach my age, you tend to look back and think, well, shit, that was a missed opportunity. ”
I bite my lip, more affected than I thought I’d be by her words.
“You’re twenty-one. Your life is swimming with opportunities. Don’t squander them.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I’ll try not to. And I appreciate you inviting me in and talking to me. You have no idea how much it means to me. With that said, I won’t take up any more of your time.”
If I leave now, I can make it back to the station in time to catch the five o’clock train. I could be in Hastings by midnight. This was a quick trip, but I don’t regret it. I got everything I was hoping for.
“Come back and visit anytime,” Dolly says, and we exchange phone numbers, because she does have a phone, and email addresses, because she has one of those too.
As she walks me to the door, I promise to send her a link to our podcast on Darlie.
“Are you going to record a follow-up now that you know what happened?” she asks curiously.
I shake my head, which surprises her.
“But you solved your mystery.”
“Yeah, I did.” I shrug. “But I don’t think Darlie would want me to ruin the legend.”
“No,” her sister agrees. “She would not.”
“Which is why I’m going to keep this visit to myself. I don’t even plan on telling my podcasting partner. So…no. No follow-up. Let Darlie keep haunting Tahoe to her heart’s content.”
We say goodbye at the door, and I’m already pulling up a ride app as I descend the porch steps. I’m so focused on ordering the car and locking in the pickup spot that I don’t even notice him approaching.
Then I hear a mystified, “Blake?”
And I turn to find Wyatt standing there.