Just behind him and slightly to the side is Melanie. Briefly, Jake's wife, but his devotion for a lifetime. I look around at the surrounding graves. I haven't paid much attention to them in the other times I've visited the cemetery, and now I'm noticing something strange about them. None of the rest of them carry the Logan name. I walk several paces away from Melanie's grave and across the yard to either side, but find no other stones suggesting they belong to a member of Jake's family. I suddenly remember he mentioned a family cemetery, which is where they buried his grandmother. I assume that means the rest of his family is there. But if that's the case, why are John and Melanie out here?
Above me, rain clouds I hadn't even noticed forming crack open, and the first droplets of a chilling winter storm fall down on me. The sensation of them soaking through my clothes and slipping across my skin reminds me of the first time I came here with Jake. Standing there shivering beneath the umbrella as the rain mixed with the tears falling down his face and into the remnants of his father's destroyed grave.
The rain starts coming faster, so I hurry back toward my car. I can't remember what I did with the umbrella after that day. I probably tossed it back into Jake's car. He didn't have his truck that day. I found the umbrella tucked under the passenger seat. I look around inside my car but find nothing to block the rain, so I abandon any further exploration of the cemetery and head back to the cabin. There's little hope the call ringing through my phone as I will my cold, stiff hands to unlock the door is a conversation I actually want to have, so I delay answering it as long as I can. It doesn't stop ringing, and finally, I'm inside standing over the furnace when I answer.
“Hello, Eric,” I say.
“I heard what happened. Are you alright?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. “Is anyone ever really alright when someone asks that?”
“Probably not,” he admits.
“What did Creagan tell you?”
“That the guy you've been seeing was murdered, and you have two days before we have to take back over for you.”
“Shit,” I grumble, putting my face down in my hand and rubbing away the exhaustion grinding like sand on my eyes.
“What are you doing to do?” he asks.
“I'm going to spend the next two days finishing what I started. I can't just let him win.”
“Creagan?”
“Creagan. LaRoche. Any of them,” I mutter.
“You sound tired,” Eric points out.
“I didn't sleep last night.”
“You need to get some rest.”
“I can't. I don't have the time.”
“Time isn't going to mean shit if you're not even going to be functional enough to know what you've figured out. You need to get some sleep. Go wrap up in one of those amazing quilts you kept emailing me about when you first got there and get a few hours of rest,” he instructs.
Just as I open my mouth to answer him, the lights around me shut off. The furnace lets out a mournful groan and goes silent. I let out an involuntary gasp and press my hand to my chest to calm my heartbeat.
“Damn it,” I sigh.
“What's wrong?” Eric asks.
“The power just went out. Fun little habit of this place when it rains or the wind picks up. Just hang tight, I'm taking you with me to fix it.”
I walk through the house into the back hallway. Since Eric is on the phone, I can't use the flashlight feature and have to rely on what little glow is coming from the screen to help me through. I get through the laundry room and down the two steps into the bathroom, open the closet, and feel around for the breaker box. When I finally find it, I throw the switches, and the lights come back on.
“Did you get it?” Eric asks in response to my sigh.
“Yeah. That is such a pain in the ass. Someone must have gotten a good laugh planning where to put that thing when they built this house.”
I stop at the dryer and open it to pull out the fresh load of laundry. The first is the quilt. I don't bother to fold it, knowing I'm probably going to be using it soon. Next is a ball of t-shirts and pajamas. Finally, I get to my pants.
“Did someone at least show you around when you got there so you would know where stuff was?” Eric asks.
I turn my pants over to adjust the cuffs, and as I fold them, I notice loose strings. I follow them to a snag in the fabric at the back of one leg.
“No,” I say. “I just had to figure it out.”
“Sounds like fun,” Eric says sarcastically.
I nod, even though he can't see me. My head buzzes, and my lips tingle. I reach over into the basket and pull out the unfolded quilt. My hand runs over the fabric, each of its uneven pieces unique, pattern against pattern, color against color.
“Eric?”
“Yeah?”
“I don't need the two days. Start getting the team ready to roll in.”
“Why? What's going on?”
I stuff my feet back into my boots and slip into my coat.
“You're just going to have to trust me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sometimes we tell stories to make things seem better than they really are.
I step out onto the porch and walk over to the side. Holding onto one of the supports with one hand, I climb up onto the railing so I can reach the roof. My fingertips run over the brown paint and feel the rough patches where someone covered up deep holes. Holes big enough for the hooks to suspend a porch swing.
We'd spend all afternoon hunting for eggs she hid in the yard.
I go back into the cabin and make my way to the back door. Like the ceiling of the porch, the door has seen many coats of paint in an effort to liven it back up and take away some of the signs of wear and tear. But the olive green has done little to conceal deep gashes along the side of the door under the doorknob. They're long and even, uniformly spaced.
That's Mocha. She was obsessed with that dog. My father found him as a puppy in the woods. He never was too interested in being domesticated.
I pull open the door and step out into the backyard. The rain has slowed down, but I still pull up the hood of my coat to stay warm. I walk out to the edge of the yard and push the branches of bushes away to see the round, browned spot of matted down weeds where a birdbath once stood. I look back at the house. In my mind, I can see a woman standing on the steps wearing a floral dress.
That dress was her favorite.
Over the years, the dress would have faded and started to look worn, the floral pattern becoming more muted and the fibers loosening and becoming weaker with every wash and wear. But that made it perfect for the day when she cut it up and added it to her bag to stitch it into a quilt.
My mind goes to the quilt in the laundry basket, and the pair of pants discarded beside it. The tips of my fingers can still feel the sharp point of metal under the seat that snagged my pants. That piece of metal could cause a serious injury to the back of the leg of someone dragged out of the passenger seat.
Better to have your good memories than someone around who doesn't want to make any more of them.
I take off into the woods, heading directly for the path that leads to the railroad tracks.
How much of it was real? How much was his fantasy?
It wasn't coincidences. The cabin didn't just seem familiar or sound like the stories Jake told. It was his grandmother's cabin. It was the place where he hid and found comfort when he was a child. The woods where he played with his siblings.