Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
I never forgot how good it felt to wake up next to my husband, but it’s even better than I remember.
The scent of his skin that’s entirely Charlie.
The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way even as he sleeps, his hand follows my body like a magnet, always touching somewhere.
I could lie here and watch him for hours, but I woke up ravenous and I’m sure the guys will too.
Careful to avoid the old boards that creak, I sneak out the front door with my keys and pray the donut shop on the corner’s gotten with the times and takes Apple Pay, considering my wallet’s scattered in the remains of Black Magnolia Penitentiary with the rest of mine and River’s gear.
By the time I come back with a dozen warm glazed donuts, and a bag of sausage and cheese kolaches, the house is still quiet. I find the bottle of ibuprofen in the same cabinet by the sink, balance it on top of the donut box, and grab a glass of water. I bump open the bedroom door with my hip.
Charlie’s awake, his phone hovering over his face. He peeks around it, soft confusion blurring his eyes. Then he smiles. “I woke up and you were gone. For a second I thought I dreamt everything last night.”
You were gone. The words sock me right in the gut as I set the water on his end table. “Sorry, I should’ve texted you. I didn’t want to wake you.”
He taps his ring with the thumb on the same hand. “This was a pretty decent reminder it was real.”
“Gold suits you.” I trace the shape of it on his finger, relishing in how it feels. I’m antsy to make it back to my and River’s apartment later to slip mine from the stone dish on my dresser and put it on.
“I brought breakfast,” I say, setting the box on the bed. Charlie moves to sit and sucks in a sharp breath, the rest coming after, short and ragged, as his face twists. I reach over him for my pillow, propping it up behind him, wishing I could do more to help. “Meds, too.”
“Thanks,” he half-gasps, before relaxing back against the pillows. “Hurts a lot worse today.”
I level him with a deeply unimpressed look and the most violent scowl I can muster. “I wonder why.” I tap out the ibuprofen and hand it to him with the glass.
“Worth it.” Grinning, he tosses the pills back. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy yourself.”
He slides the chunky black glasses on his face as I roll my eyes and crawl back into bed next to him, curling up on top of the blanket.
It’s muscle memory, the way he lifts his arm and I tuck into the crook of his shoulder.
As I snuggle closer, a faint gray shadow moves toward the open door, then backs away from it. I cock my head.
“Riv?”
My brother sheepishly inches forward, still wearing the old tee and athletic shorts Charlie let him borrow, his hair a crazy mess. “Thought I smelled food.”
Laughing, I wave him in. “Yeah. Here, help yourself.”
He briefly glances at Charlie, who’s focused back on his phone but offers a good morning, then shuffles across the room to perch at the foot on my side of the bed. He reaches for the kolaches in silence.
I swipe a donut for myself and tap Charlie’s knee. “You seem busy this morning.”
His brow pulled taut, he doesn’t stop texting. “Sorry. Getting the safety lecture from Garrett.” He snorts. “And I guess he and Chad swung by the prison this morning”—he flashes a look of apology at me, then River—“unfortunately, they didn’t find any of your equipment. At least, not in one piece.”
“So, the episode’s a bust?” River asks around a mouthful of bread.
His disappointment is a knife to my gut. “I’m sorry, Riv.”
He heaves a long, accepting breath, and nods. “Yeah. It’s cool. Just glad you didn’t, like, lose a leg. That’d really kill the channel.”
I kick at his leg and he grins. “Forget your sister. God forbid anything happens to your streaming career.”
“I’m not a streamer.” He pouts. “I was saving up for a mobile hot spot, so we could start. But I guess I have a lot of other shit to save up for now.”
“I’ve got a mobile hot spot you can use,” Charlie says. “And, miraculously, all my camera equipment made it out without a scratch, save for one cracked lens. You’re free to borrow it, until you can replace yours.”
River casts him a skeptical look. “Really?”
“Sure—why not? Not like I’ll get much use out of it for a few weeks.” Charlie motions vaguely to his busted ribs.
River chews. Swallows. Pokes his tongue into his cheek, gaze dropping to his kolache. “Cool. Thanks.”
I slip my smile between my teeth. Is this the tentative beginning of bonding?
“Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those ghost walkie talkies. Or the candle. Or the thing that plays music. I actually might have a cat ba—”
River scoffs. “Ghost walkie talkies?”
My eyes widen and I jolt out from under Charlie’s arm. Launching off the bed, I scramble into the bathroom and dig my soiled shorts from the hamper. I reach into the back pocket and an exhilarated laugh bubbles in my chest. The SD card I snagged before the investigation went off the rails.
And James’s letter.
“You okay?” Charlie asks as I crawl back on the bed, unfolding the yellowing paper. “What’s that?”
“James’s letter!” I squeal.
River gapes at me, bug-eyed and a little bitter. “Wait . . . what? You didn’t mention anything about a letter!”
“I forgot all about it until now.” Shaking my head, I give River the short version of what happened at the prison.
About the on and off communication, the creepy shadow figure that pushed me into the cell, and Charlie finding James’s journal—which is now lost among the debris of the prison.
“This letter is all we have left to prove any of it was real.”
River groans. “And I missed all that?”
I flash the SD card. “I also have this. It’s not much, but maybe we can piece together a blooper episode.” River reaches for it but I close my fist around it. There’s some indecent footage of Charlie and I that I need to delete first. “I’ll get it to you later.”
He rolls his eyes. “Can I at least see the letter?”
“Read it, Win,” Charlie says. “Out loud. I want to hear it too.”
River scoots closer until all three of our heads are bowed over the one saving grace from yesterday’s investigation. I clear my throat and begin to read.”
Warden Rhymes, you have the wrong man.
I did not murder Edith Page Milton, but I know who did. However, even if I am not guilty of the crime, I’m not innocent either. Allow me to explain.
The Page name was a good name. The Milton name was a good name.
The Dewhurst name was not. Robert Milton, Edith’s surviving husband, was heir to a dairy fortune.
All I was set to receive from my father was a failing pea farm.
It wasn’t enough to be worthy for a Page, but it would be enough to support my sister, Martha, who took ill as a baby and lost her sight.
My sister is an important piece of the puzzle, Warden.
The man guilty of this crime threatened that if I ever said a word, he would see to it my sister met the same fate as Edith.
If I kept quiet, he would make sure she was provided for until her death.
I was torn between the two women I loved, but the choice was easy, being that one was already gone.
Unfortunately, I recently received word from the care home in which she lived that my sister, Martha, had passed. I have no reason to keep my silence any longer.
I was smitten with Edith Page from the very first time I laid eyes on her, and by the grace of God, she took a liking to me too. We were high school sweethearts. When we finished school, she spoke of getting married.
Edith was the most swell girl I had ever met, but my family did not have the funds to offer a girl like her.
Edith’s father had passed a year prior, and her brother, Andrew, handled the family finances.
Andrew never liked me. Thought me strange.
I knew I would never receive his blessing, and I denied Edith’s request to elope together.
At the time, I thought I was doing what was best for my Edith, but I have come to see what that choice truly was: an act of cowardice.
Edith went on to marry Robert Milton. It was not a love match, but a financially strategic one encouraged by her brother.
She had two beautiful children with Robert, but as Edie once wrote to me, Robert was not a kind nor loving man.
She said this was what drew her back to writing to me—our companionship.
It started innocent enough, as these things often do.
Out of respect for Edith, I shall leave it there.
One evening, we arranged a meeting at the river.
That night, Andrew Page caught us. I had never seen a man so blind with rage.
He spoke of the shame this would bring on the family, and chastised his sister for risking her marriage and the wealth it gave them access to.
He attacked Edith. Wrapped his hands around her throat.
He wouldn’t let go, even as I tried to fight him off of her.
That was how he left my dear, sweet Edie.
Cold and alone on the banks of the river.
I was delirious with grief. I couldn’t think.
Hardly breathe. I wish I had gone straight to the sheriff, pounded on his door in the night.
But I could not leave her side. The police arrived on scene and of course I looked to be caught in something dreadful.
They arrested me even though I insisted I was innocent.
They had no interest in listening. They thought I was mad when I told them Edith’s own flesh did this to her.
Andrew Page, the well connected man he was, had one of the guards slip me a note.
In this note, he made his threat on Martha’s life and told me to plead guilty.
What choice did I have? With my sister provided for, on Andrew’s word, and the love of my life dead, what did I even have to fight for? I accepted the charges the next day.