Chapter 32 #2
I have lived with this terrible secret for all these years, and the pain it’s caused.
Not only the guilt of knowing a dangerous man is still walking free, or the unending sorrow over losing Edith, but also the realization that I was not the man I should’ve been.
Perhaps, if I had believed myself worthy and accepted Edith’s request to elope, she would still be here today.
Perhaps, if I had been a strong enough man to resist a married woman, none of this would have happened.
I have made my peace with spending my last days in this place. Even if I were to ever get out, I would still suffer the torture of my own mind.
But I could not live with myself if I didn’t share the truth of what happened to my Edie. She deserves to have her story told.
Warden Rhymes, would you kindly see to it that this information makes it into the right hands? I would like to see justice served for the man who took Edith Page Milton’s life.
The color drains so thoroughly from Charlie’s face, I wonder if he’s having some kind of complication from his injuries. Skin sallow and expression tight, his gaze becomes unfocused as he stares somewhere distant, sitting perfectly still.
“Charlie? You okay?”
“What the fuuuuuuck,” River mutters, snatching the letter.
“Yeah, I”—Charlie shakes his head, throwing off the reverie—“sorry, that’s just incredibly similar to the answers I was getting during the . . . what was it called?”
“Estes session?”
“Yeah. That. I—it’s uncanny . . .” His brows furrow, like he’s trying to piece all the data together to figure out the forecast.
River’s mouth slashes into a grumpy line as he looks at Charlie like he just said the earth is flat, then turns his accusatory look on me. “Bro. Don’t tell me you married someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
Sparkling laughter bursts from my chest. “Yeah, I did.”
“Hey, I’m a healthy skeptic,” Charlie says. And I love him even more for it.
I squeeze Charlie’s bicep. “Guess we’ll just have to convince him. Like you convinced me, Riv.”
“This letter isn’t proof enough?” River waves it in the air.
Charlie rubs his jaw. “Honestly, I can’t explain that.”
“Right,” I snort. “Because it’s ghosts.”
Whatever Charlie does or doesn’t believe, I know one thing to be true: James Dewhurst was an innocent man, and this letter proves it beyond the shadow of a doubt for me. And he deserves to have his story told. He deserves this retribution. Like I’m trying to believe I deserve mine.
Until his last day, James lamented not choosing Edith. Not letting her choose him. I twine my hand with my husband’s. No one can alter the past, but wherever he is, I hope James Dewhurst knows what an integral part his story played in changing my future.
“What do we do with it?” River chews on his bottom lip, still scanning it, like there’s a secret code stashed between its lines. “Do we . . . turn it into the police?”
I shake my head. “I doubt they’d do anything with it. Riv, can you pull up the very first email about this case? From . . . ?”
“Apple,” he scoffs, pulling out his phone. “Her name was Apple.”
He offers me the device and I scroll to the bottom, humming a satisfied noise when I prove myself right. “I thought I remembered there being a phone number. Look, there is. Here at the bottom. She said she’s close to the family. Maybe she can get us in touch with them.”
“Hello?” A feminine voice picks up the call, River’s phone cradled in my hand on speakerphone. All three of us hunch together in anticipation.
“Hi,” I say. “Is this Apple?”
“Excuse me?”
I frown. “Apple? This is Winona. From Halbach Hunts. You reached out to us about the Edith Page Milton case?”
“I—what? I’m . . . I’m sorry, I don't know what you’re talking about.” Not-Apple’s voice pitches, like she’s flustered. “My name’s Evelyn—Evie. I’m not sure how you got my number, but I—I’m Edith Milton’s granddaughter. Are you messing with me?”
“No, ma’am, not at all. I received an email about the case with this phone number attached.” I glance between Charlie and River, their faces matching looks of tense intrigue.
“Case?” Evie hums wearily. “What exactly is it you do?”
I straighten my shoulders, aiming for ironclad professionalism as I say, “My co-host and I run a web series for our paranormal investigations.”
“Paranormal?” Evie balks and I roll my eyes. Great. She’s a skeptic. “What do ghosts have to do with any of this?”
“The person who reached out to us, uh, allegedly on your behalf, wanted us to publicly exonerate the spirit of James Dewhurst and try communicating with him,” I say.
“They claimed Edith Page Milton’s family wanted that, you know, after finding the letters sewn into the quilts and assuming they were lovers. ”
“This must be some kind of prank, it’s—wait. They knew about the quilts?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
River’s eyes flare at me, putting something together I must be missing. My excitement is deflating by the second. It must’ve been a gag after all.
“Strange,” Evie mutters. “Only my immediate family knows about the quilts. But who would do this? We’re very private about these matters.”
“The person who reached out to us went by the name Apple, if that’s any help.
” I sigh. Charlie rubs the small of my back in silent consolation.
“Apologies for bothering you, Evie. But we did run the investigation the other day and managed to find a letter James Dewhurst had written to the warden, telling his honest account of what happened to your grandmother. I’ve read it myself, and I can confirm, he was innocent.
If you’d like to read the story yourself, I’d be happy to share it.
I have it right in front of me. I can send a photo, if you’d like? ”
For all I know, Andrew Page was known in their family as a loving uncle; I’m not about to out him for his crimes and get in the middle of generational drama.
Evie can find out for herself, if she so chooses.
River smooths out the folded letter and positions it in front of me.
I take the photo, load it up in a text to Evie’s number, and hover my thumb over “Send.”
“Evie? Did I lose you? Would you like to see the letter?”
“Apple, you said?” she asks quietly.
My brow furrows. “Yes. Apple.”
“That’s . . .” Evie gives a puzzled hum. “That’s very interesting. I mean, it’s—it’s not possible, right?”
I lean in closer to the phone. “What’s not?”
“Apple—that’s what he called her. That’s what James called Edith in all the letters. My Apple. The apple of my eye,” she murmurs. “The first time I read that, somehow I just knew he didn’t do it. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew. James never would’ve killed his Apple.”
“Your intuition,” I mutter, awed as it hits me.
Instantly, chills race down my spine. The Knowing flares in my stomach. River fists his hair with both hands, mouth flying open in an “O” as his eyes focus on me, as big as saucers. Even the rigid facade of Charlie’s concentrated face falls as his lips part.
Apple . . . is Edith.
“I’d like to see that letter, actually,” Evie says.
I tap the screen, sending it off to her and stay on the line while she reads.
As Charlie would argue, there are plenty of reasonable explanations for someone sending that email signed with Edith’s pet name.
The family isn’t as set on keeping things to themselves as Evie thinks.
Someone mentioned the letters to a friend who was overcome by a sense of vigilante justice and happened to be a fan of our show.
Or it’s a very strange coincidence, which have been known to happen from time to time.
All compelling possibilities.
But you also can’t prove it’s not ghosts.