Chapter Thirty #2
Willow looked up with a start, struck by the character’s initials and surname. Daniel Ramson.
Annabel’s son, whom Hank claimed to be his grandfather, had been named Douglas Ramsey.
Willow turned back to the story. Now that she was paying attention, the parallels between Hank’s version of the old family legend and this novel were too obvious to be coincidental—sure enough, as the story continued, Daniel and Marie got married days before his release from the hospital back to active duty, and she discovered she was pregnant the same day she received news that his plane had gone down, hours before the military hospital itself was bombed …
Willow was sitting up by now, reading as fast as she could.
The hours flew by as she zoomed her way through the narrative—her favorite graduate-student research superpower.
Marie went back to the front; as the Allies moved across Germany, and as her pregnancy began to show, she saw places she’d known as a child obliterated by shelling, still struggling with her heritage and hiding the truth of her German birth from those around her.
Even as she zoomed through page after page looking for clues, Willow was moved by the story, feeling Marie’s heartbreak and terror as she realized she was carrying Daniel’s baby, set against the horrors of the camps and the ill and starving survivors—while Daniel’s mother at home waited for letters from her son, letters that would never arrive.
When she had finished, Willow carefully closed the book, lost in thought.
She glanced down at the cover again, and one more thing clicked—an obvious thing, something she could not believe she hadn’t noticed yet.
Daniel Ramson. Douglas Ramsey. Abel R. Douglas.
The questions in her mind multiplied, each spawning several more: Was Widow’s Walk really a work of fiction?
Could Hank’s story be true? Could the book be an account of an old family secret, clothed in the guise of a novel?
What had happened to Douglas Ramsey overseas in the war?
And who had been close enough to the family to know the truth, but sensitive enough to only reveal it in this hidden, sideways manner?
Who was Abel R. Douglas?
Willow turned back to her computer, searching again for books by their mysterious author on every site she could find.
He had written a dozen in total, including the six she had seen on Annabel’s desk and the beat-up paperback on Willow’s nightstand—Weather the Storm, the last book he was known to have written.
Willow was able to track down copies of almost every title at online marketplaces and retailers—except one.
There was not a single copy of Widow’s Walk available anywhere.
She picked up her phone and texted Catherine. Hey, I’m looking for another copy of the Widow’s Walk book Sue gave me, but none of the online sellers seem to have it. Any ideas where I could look next?
Catherine’s response: Actually, the day you brought in that book, I tried to do the same thing. No one has it. Called my librarian friends. The few that own copies have had them borrowed on interlibrary loan within the past year and they weren’t returned.
Willow: Weird.
Catherine: And statistically improbable. Even more when you factor this in: I found a bookseller in Portland who says he had a couple of copies, but someone reached out online and bought them both. Why would this obscure book suddenly be in demand?
Willow had an idea why. Can you come over? she asked.
I’m not on the island, Catherine texted back. I’m visiting Maine county seats to try to find proof one way or the other about Hank.
Smart, Willow thought. Catherine was skipping novels and complex plots and going straight to the source of the data. When are you coming back? she texted Catherine.
Catherine responded, Not till evening. And I think someone’s following me; I’ve been from Little North to Ellsworth and Belfast and Machias and even to Augusta, and I keep seeing the same blue Camry.
Willow refrained from texting Lots of people drive Camrys back to Catherine; given what was at stake, she couldn’t make light of the librarian’s concerns.
Catherine texted again: Let’s meet at the Raven. I’d feel better having this conversation in a public place.
You found something? Willow texted back excitedly.
Catherine texted back a winking emoji. Then, Maybe about 7?
Sounds good. Hey—are you going to be okay? If the Camry person who might or might not be following Catherine intended her harm, there was a lot of highway between Augusta and the Raven.
I’m taking steps. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe. Gotta go!
Willow put down her phone and glared at her computer. Her online searches had long since passed fruitless and arrived at frustrating. She snapped the lid shut with more force than necessary and looked out the loft window across the lupine field to the hulk of the old mansion.
It occurred to her that almost every useful or important piece of knowledge she’d gained since arriving on the island had come from exactly the same place.
Willow jumped up, grabbed her phone, and put on her shoes, leaving the book on the nightstand. “Finn, let’s go!” she called out. Finn’s look indicated his lack of interest in traditional dog commands, but he got up and followed her, anyway—out of the cabin, across the field, and to the mansion.