Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
I smile boldly toward the light-capped camera setup and flick my eyes up, ready to commune with the dead.
“Were you a prisoner here, Mr. Lindsay?”
Silence.
“Maybe an employee? Here at Black Magnolia Penitentiary?”
Silence.
“Did you spend your days in the cell block we visited earlier, or—”
The REM Pod squeals.
“Thank you for that response. Did you—”
“MURDER,” the Ovilus drones. Every hair on my body stands on end.
Charlie drops his mouth to my ear. “What the fuck are we talking to, Win?”
Apparently, a murderer. I swallow and redirect. “There was a man locked up here for homicide. His name was James Dewhurst. Did you know him?”
Colorful lights throw as the cat ball signals.
I’ll take that as a yes.
“Wherever you are, is James Dewhurst there with you?”
I glance sideways, expecting to find the soft, young face of my little brother, umber eyes matching mine and a mop of dark hair on his head.
Instead, I see Charlie. Piercing light blues.
The small divot between the peak of a cheekbone and strong angle of a jaw.
A square chin. A shadow cast on his nose, pronouncing the delicate bow left from when he broke it playing hockey at fourteen.
Ears that stick out just a little too far from his head, but are wonderful for balancing the arms of his glasses.
“WATER.”
I gasp, shoulders lurching, as I’m yanked back into the moment. I clear my throat. Water . . . water . . .
“We’re not far south from the Red River. Is that what you’re referring to?”
“CLOCK.”
I slip my phone from my pocket enough to check the time and roll my eyes. “About a quarter past three, since you asked so nicely.”
Charlie frowns. “Should you really be getting snarky with a ghost, Winona?”
Smug delight lifts my cheeks. “So it is a ghost?”
He shakes his head, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, but I know him. I know the way the corners of his mouth are turned down means he’s holding back a smile.
I meander around the cafeteria, asking questions, receiving only silence in return for several minutes.
None of the devices trigger. Not unheard of in an investigation, but not ideal either.
However, I still feel the sense of presence in this room—the energy hasn’t drained away. Maybe Lindsay’s feeling shy.
“We want to hear your story, Lindsay,” I say. “We’re not here to judge you for what you did or didn’t do when you were alive. For what put you behind bars.”
Charlie’s unconvinced expression wordlessly communicates, Speak for yourself, this dude was a murderer. I turn on my heel, prying my attention from him, and pace a few steps.
“You were still a person. You still deserved love and respect. I can’t imagine spending my life locked up in a place like this.”
Silence.
“Did you have a spouse? Children? Family you left behind?” My throat tightens. “Do you miss them?”
I strain to listen. For something. For anything.
“I’m sorry if you’re alone, wherever it is you are. I’m sorry if you’re lost, or scared, or lonely, or confused. No one deserves to feel that way.”
More. Damn. Silence.
Charlie clears his throat. “Scientific leanings aside, I can get behind whatever that just was. Even if there’s nothing listening. On the off chance something is—”
“There is, Charlie. He told us his name. You heard it yourself.”
“Pareidolia.” He waves me off.
It’s the go-to debunk for most—your brain is tricking you into seeing and hearing what you want to see and hear—and roots frustration in my gut like a weed.
Such a convenient way to explain away anything we don’t understand.
Maybe if people weren’t so obsessed with hard and fast answers, black and white rights and wrongs, we’d know more about the world around us.
My world made a lot more sense when I made room for gray.
“It was kind of you, Winnie,” Charlie says quietly. “It’s a rare novelty, seeing you be so vulnerable.” His mouth slants with faint nostalgia. “I usually only got that side of you in the middle of night, after I’d just made you—”
Eyes widening, he glances at the camera.
Like he just remembered it’s still recording everything we say, and little does he know, usually River edits our episodes.
Jesus Christ. I’m going to have to take one for the team and handle this one.
A breath catches in my throat at the flood of sweaty, tangled memories reeled in by his words.
Like a true gentleman, he feigns a cough, displacing the conversation enough to change subjects.
“It’s quiet in here,” he says. Nice save. “Should we try another location again?”
Determination tightens in my fists. “No. I still feel something here.”
Maybe I need a new approach. Something that might entice a restless spirit, hungry for closure. For redemption.
“Whoever you are, Mr. Lindsay or someone else, did you know the family of Edith Page Milton no longer believes James Dewhurst murdered her? They found letters—from James to Edith.” The muscles in my throat resist my swallow. “Edith Page Milton’s family believes they were lovers.”
Charlie’s brows lift in interest. Right. I forgot to fill him in on the backstory.
“But what they still don’t know is who did it, then.
Was it her husband? Did he catch them in an affair?
Was it purely an accident that Mr. Dewhurst was blamed for?
” I pace down the aisle between the tables again, glaring at each device as I pass.
Willing something to react. I rack my mind, trying to recall specifics from River’s research.
“The Dewhurst family didn’t come from money like the Miltons.
Or the Pages. James Dewhurst was known to be a recluse, a black sheep.
” Muttering under my breath, I add, “A death sentence in a small town.”
None of the devices trigger. Not even the Ovilus makes a peep. But the energy in here still sits like a sheet of pure lead on my chest. A tense restlessness. A deep sorrow. A twist of rage. A spark of The Knowing, deep in my gut. I take a slow breath in, then out.
There is someone here. And I won’t let them play games with me any longer.
“Fine. You don’t want to talk to me?” I stalk over to the jar of moonshine and snatch it. “We can wait.”
Charlie’s mouth falls open, gaping at me. “What are you doing? Did you just steal that moonshine from your ghost? Do you think that was a good idea?”
“Yes,” I say curtly. “Spark of intuition.”
“Intuition,” he mutters. “I don’t think I have that like you do.”
“Yes you do, Charlie. We all do.” I take a swig of the moonshine; it burns all the way down. “Some of us are just better at listening to it.”
He wears his curiosity like some people wear their hearts on their sleeve.
Being on the receiving end of it now makes me squirm.
With a heavy sigh, I blow the loose strands of hair around my face and lean back against the wall next to Charlie, extending the liquor toward him.
He stares at it, then with a resigned what-the-hell shrug, takes it from me and sips.
“And now, we wait,” I grumble.
I don’t turn to meet his gaze, but I feel Charlie watching me. From my peripheral vision, I see the intrigued quirk of his mouth, and another intuitive spark lights in my gut: he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this.
“Why don’t we play Truth or Dare?” he asks, like we’re in college all over again. But there’s something sharp behind his eyes. “You know, kill a little time. If you skip, you drink. Asker gets to go again.”
My throat constricts. I don’t need any special sixth sense to see right through what he’s getting at: Charlie wants answers.
He wants to know why I left—the paltry story I gave wasn’t enough.
But I’ve wound this truth so tight around myself, pulling a single thread will unravel the rest. Giving him what he wants means giving him everything.
The thought of telling him . . . it feels like being deep under water. The growing dark. The mounting pressure. The more I speak, the more air I lose, and the further down I sink until I can’t kick my way to the top again. Until I’m drowning.
My skin’s too hot. My heart’s too fast. My leg starts to bounce.
We’re in this godforsaken prison together and I know he won’t stop wanting this.
I can’t keep running, even though I want to.
It’ll only hurt him more if I do. I have to do this.
I have to give this to him, even if it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. He deserves it.
I pull myself together enough to flash him a bored look. “Fine. I’ll take Truth.”
“Why’d you come back to Texas?”
My shoulders sag with relief. Softball question. “I never meant to leave forever. Job offer helped too. You’re up.”
“Dare.”
Because I’m a coward deep in my core and desperate to delay the inevitable, I bat my lashes at him and provocatively deadpan, “I dare you to take your shirt off.”
He scoffs. And drinks. “Try again.”
“I dare you to tell Mr. Lindsay you think he’s funny.”
“I think Mr. Lindsay is—” he says, facing me.
“No.” I motion vaguely above us. “Tell him.”
Charlie presses his mouth into a chagrined line and looks up. “Mr. Lindsay, I think you’re very funny,” he says flatly.
My snort eases some of my tension. Makes it easier to repeat, “Truth.”
It’s already darker in here than from when we first set up, the clouds outside the barred window growing denser.
The pitter-pattering rain is a steady droning now.
Tipping my chin up, I spot a shattered window, high on the opposite wall, where the sound leaks in.
The damp smell of petrichor and rust swirls around us.
“Are you seeing anyone?” It’s so quiet, it’s almost covered by the murmur of the storm.
I swallow. “No.”
He’s silent for a beat, and I can almost hear him working this out in his head, stress testing hypotheses to see what holds up. “Truth,” he says.