The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(95)
Author: Karen White

 

See pic!!!!! This was followed by an exploding-head emoji.

 

I opened the photo to see a handwritten page from what looked like the back of Jeanne’s clientele book, each cramped cursive letter rounded over the next as if for protection. I imagined the writer clutching the cotton swab—or whatever instrument she’d used to dip into the lemon juice—close to the end. The characters themselves were the color of burnt paper. Which, I realized, was what happened when a fire source was held close to a letter written in invisible lemon-juice ink to make the writing visible. There was a singed hole on the far right of the second paragraph, and I could only hope that Sarah had parental supervision while experimenting with fire and paper. Knowing her, and her similarities to Melanie, I somehow doubted it.

 

I looked at Beau with excitement. “It’s from Sarah. She found something in Jeanne’s clientele book!”

 

He didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard me, still focusing on his phone. “I’ll read it out loud, then, okay?” When he didn’t respond, I said, “The letter starts with the date January 16, 1964, the year Jeanne was murdered. And it’s signed by her.” Beau finally lifted his eyes but remained silent. Assuming he wanted to hear the rest, I continued to read:

 

Dear Mother,

 

My diary isn’t safe—Father goes through it and thinks I don’t know. I hope you remember Marguerite and me playing Nancy Drew and writing secret messages and that makes you search where Father wouldn’t. If I die you will look for a reason and I pray you look here. I’m pregnant by Frank. Can’t call him Uncle because of what he did. Father knows and wants me to accuse Dr. Ryan. I won’t and Father is angry. You and I know what he is capable of and I am afraid. Not of what he will do but that he and Frank will get away with it. Whatever happens, I love you.

 

Jeanne

 

 

 

I looked up to find Beau still watching me, his face unreadable.

 

My triumphant smile faded. “This is the proof you’ve been looking for! It not only exonerates your grandfather, but it points to the two guilty parties. I thought you’d be a little more excited. This is big,” I added, as if he needed reminding that one of the two huge questions haunting his family for decades had finally been answered.

 

He didn’t smile, or dial Mimi’s number to tell her, or jump up and down—all the things I’d imagined we’d both do if we ever made this kind of discovery.

 

Instead, his voice was flat when he finally spoke. “So, tell me, Nola. Would you only be showing Sam instead of sharing it with me if I didn’t already know about your little agreement? Was that the deal? To curate all information so that decisions would be made on my behalf without my knowledge?”

 

I couldn’t breathe, his accusation sucking the air out of my lungs. I didn’t respond because we both knew the answer. Instead, I cleared my throat. “I’m going to e-mail this as an attachment to both you and Sam, all right? I’ll let the two of you work out what you want to do. I expect you’ll want to tell Mimi, too.”

 

He rubbed his hands through his hair, and my mind wandered to how soft his hair was beneath my fingers and against my neck. His words jerked me back to reality. “This has nothing to do with you anymore, Nola. Do you understand? I don’t want you involved. I’ll handle it from here.”

 

I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but it wasn’t in my nature to allow myself to be dismissed without having a final word. “Fine,” I said. “Just don’t forget that it was you who asked for my help to begin with, and I agreed against my better judgment. And before you get angry with Sam, remember that she was just trying to protect you, because for some unknown and completely incomprehensible reason she has feelings for you.”

 

He stared at me in silence for a long moment, then stood. “It’s time to leave. I’ll be waiting outside in my truck.”

 

When I crossed the lobby, the same receptionist from the night before looked up from her book, saw my chin, and winked. Mortified, I ducked my head, gave her a quick wave, and headed toward the door.

 

The truck was already warm, and my seat heater had been turned on, which at least meant that he didn’t completely hate me. Or maybe his upbringing and ingrained good manners couldn’t be forgotten.

 

As he pulled out of the parking lot, the tires turning the snow beneath us to a watery slush, I sent a quick text to Jolene to let her know we were on our way back. She responded with a thumbs-up emoji and another wink emoji. I quickly turned off my screen so Beau wouldn’t see.

 

“How are the roads?” I asked.

 

“Fine.”

 

I knew I was wading into dangerous territory, but I had to know. “Do you want to discuss last night?”

 

“No. There’s nothing to discuss. I want my mother to go away, and she won’t as long as she thinks I need her. And I don’t.”

 

I wanted to point out the obvious, that if he found out what she wanted he could send her to the light. But the subject wasn’t up for discussion, so I said nothing, feeling more than a little relieved that he didn’t seem to remember anything past the time he went to sleep or why he found me sleeping on the floor in the morning.

 

We drove in complete silence, the lack of sound as unnerving as a crowd blowing vuvuzelas at a soccer match. In an attempt to lessen the tension, I flipped on the satellite radio and scrolled down to the eighties station to play our old “name that tune” game.

 

“Don’t look at the screen,” I said. “That would be cheating.”

 

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge that I’d said anything.

 

At the intro to the next song, I blurted, “ ‘Steppin’ Out’ by Joe Jackson!”

 

Beau continued driving without a word as I waited for the next song. The first notes of the intro had barely played before I shouted, “ ‘Tarzan Boy’ by Baltimora!”

 

After three more songs, including two with me shouting out glaring and deliberate mistakes, and Beau’s continued disinterest, I gave up and flipped off the music. I turned on my phone and checked my photo album, annoyed that Sarah’s photos from the cemetery still hadn’t completely downloaded.

 

I checked my texts, answering a few from work and one from Alston in Charleston asking when she and Lindsey could come visit, and then put my phone away. I spent the rest of the ride staring out the window until I passed out with exhaustion from a restless night, my dream one with a pervading sense of dread mixed with a longing for something just out of reach.

 

 

 

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