Authors: K. Ryan
The question hangs in the air for too long. So after all this, we're stuck at another dead-end? Sure, we could take everything we've found back to Father Lindsay, but unless we have some idea of what this means—even if we're wrong—I doubt Father Lindsay is going to be very willing to sit down and explain his connection to all this. It wasn't like he was exactly forthcoming the first time and even with Jack in tow, glaring at him like he's glaring at the fountain right now, I wouldn't put it past the priest to bolt like he did last time.
"Well," Bennett muses and scratches his chin in thought. "What's the common denominator, my little math nerd? It's gotta be something...I just don't know what."
He said the magic words and I pull my iPad from my purse to que up another list. The first thing I do is enter all the author names and their corresponding works. If I really wanted to, I could upload all the passages into the list as photos, but that would definitely take some time to put it all together. For now, we focus on what we know and what we can easily research.
"So," Bennett continues. He leans forward to see my screen, but not before casting another quick glance at Jack, who still hasn't moved. "We know Oscar Wilde was Irish, probably gay, and pretty much just wrote plays, right? Didn't he write that story about the guy in the painting who never gets old, too? Anyway, it's easy enough to figure out where all the other ones were from, so maybe we start there?"
That seems like the best course of action for now and we get to work, pounding away on our devices, thanking Stefani Germanotta for wifi, and mapping out general stats on all the authors including where they were born, where they lived, what genre they wrote, and the literary movement they were most associated with. Jack, on the other hand, chooses not to participate. Shocker.
In the end, we just find more stray threads.
"I think we just dug ourselves yet another hole, Clamato," Bennett shakes his head and leans back in his chair. "So Louisa May Alcott's from Philly, but died in Boston. Emerson was born in Boston, but died in Concord. Edgar Allan Poe was from Boston, but died in Baltimore. Hey, was he murdered? Why doesn't anyone know that for sure?"
"Forget it, Benn," I just bat a hand his way and gesture back to the list on my iPad. "James Joyce was Irish. So were Bram Stoker and C.S. Lewis. Some of them wrote poetry, some of them essays and novels. Almost none of them are connected to the same literary movement in the same time period except for Stoker and Poe, who both wrote gothic stories, but that's probably just a coincidence..."
"So basically," Bennett finishes for me. "We've got nothing. Again."
Only the sound of falling water permeates the air between the three of us. Bennett rests his chin dejectedly in his palm, I chew on my bottom lip in thought, and Jack remains as statuesque as ever, staring blankly out into the expansive green courtyard.
There's one question still simmering below the surface. One question none of us have had the courage, or maybe the detachment, to ask. At this point, it might as well be me. She was my mother. I deserve to know, don't I?
"Do you think..." I trail off quietly, summoning the most accurate phrasing for the most difficult question. "Do you think my mom and Father Lindsay were—"
Jack finally snaps out of it and his stormy gaze darts to me.
"No," he pushes out in a clipped voice. "They weren't."
"But don't you think it's a little suspicious? You know, considering my
dad
had those postcards locked in his bottom drawer and none of them are addressed to him? The only reason my dad even has those is because of my mom. That's the only thing that makes sense. So, doesn't it make sense that her and Father Lindsay had an aff—"
"Rae!" Bennett admonishes with wide eyes and a hand at his heart. "You're talking about a priest, you know. They take
vows.
"
"Yeah," I frown. "I know. But I think we all know not every priest follows those vows to the letter. Father Lindsay pretty much admitted he knew her. What's the other explanation, Benn?"
He falls back in his chair, shoulders slumped and at a loss for words.
Finally, Jack's hoarse voice floats from the other side of the table. "I think Father Lindsay did know her, but not how you think."
"Okay," I throw my hands up in defeat. "So what is it then?"
Jack's grey eyes meet mine. What I find in them sets all the hairs on my arms on end.
"I don't know," he murmurs. "But I think we all know who does."
Jack
I want to forget I ever saw those postcards. I want to forget I ever met Rae and got pulled into this mess. I want to be wrong.
God, I need to be wrong.
But even as I barrel through the entrance of St. Anthony's with a one-track mind, the evidence is too real to ignore. Too rational to be just a coincidence. My life is right on the precipice...everything I've ever known, everything I've ever believed to be true...I know it's all about to shatter right at my feet. I can't stop it. Maybe I don't want to stop it now either because I need answers just as much as she does.
And because I can't bring myself to look him in the eye and ask, I'm here instead, inside the only place where truth still lives.
The truth hit me the same way a light bulb illuminates a room. It just switched on. Everything from that point on just slid right into place: the postcards, Father Lindsay's involvement, why Moretti would have them, and finally, why Sean was there that day. Some questions are answered, others are just clouded by a darker mystery, and I want to be wrong.
But I think I might be right.
When I skid to a stop in front of Father Lindsay's office, I feel her behind me. Flanked by her protector, she has no idea what's coming and maybe that's for the best. I'm somewhere between racing for the nearest trashcan and slamming my fist into a wall. Knowing what I know, I don't think I'd wish it on my worst enemy, and that includes her.
Father Lindsay's words in that alley echo in my mind: "
Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in the darkness shall be heard in the light..."
I think it's time for some illumination.
He opens the door two seconds later like he was already expecting us. His face falls, his shoulders slump, and he admits defeat without even having to say it.
"Look her in the eye," I point to Rae, my voice rough with something I don't recognize, "and tell her it's not true."
Father Lindsay runs a hand over his face, but he still doesn't speak. Rae's eyes dart back and forth, trying to make sense of what's happening. She isn't free-falling the way I am just yet, but she will be.
Finally, Father Lindsay shows just a hint of the man I always believed he was and shakes his head.
"I can't," he murmurs.
There it is. Something true. Something that feels as tangible as it is abstract, but I guess that's the way the truth works. It doesn't forgive. It doesn't make excuses. It just is.
He pushes the door open a little further and gestures inside his office. Bennett and I don't hesitate, but Rae hangs back. She's finally realized that stepping inside this cramped space means stepping over the invisible line between reality and illusion. I can't blame her for pausing. I would too, if I had the luxury.
When Rae and Bennett are seated in the two chairs in front of Father Lindsay's desk, I lean against the wall with my arms folded across my chest, readying myself for the inevitable blow. At least, if anything, I have the luxury of knowing what's coming.
Father Lindsay takes his place at the desk, resting against the front of it like he can't bring himself to sit down, and he glances at me with all the things I've never noticed before: weariness, exhaustion, and guilt. So much guilt. Maybe I just pretended not to notice.
The room waits in anticipation as he takes a moment to stare a hole in the ground and I wonder if he wants to sink into that hole, to let it swallow him so he doesn't have to do this.
Finally, his tired, lined eyes snap up to Rae and a grim smile works its way across his face.
"I have to apologize for the way I behaved the first time we met," he smiles sadly. "I thought I saw a ghost."
"So you knew her," Rae whispers.
"Yah," he nods sharply. "I knew your mother. Not as well as I know your father, but I knew her."
She frowns, shifting in her chair with stiff, stilted movements. "I don't understand. I thought you didn't know my dad."
He shakes his head. "No, I can't say I've ever met Mayor Moretti. I was talking about Roark Callahan. Your father."
SHE NEVER SAW him coming. She certainly wasn't looking for him. All she'd wanted was just some time to herself for once, to go some place where she didn't have to look over her shoulder, where she didn't have anyone breathing down her neck and dictating every little moment of her life. So she finds herself at her favorite retreat, the best place on earth: the library.
Surrounded by aged paper and musty ink, she can escape. She can put on someone else's life the way she would a new pair of jeans. It feels like she's changing outfits a lot these days.
She trails leisurely down a random aisle, not caring where it leads or what she might find. The quiet is enough. The seclusion is a nice bonus.
Movement behind the stack catches her eye and when she dips down to find the source of this disruption, she stills. Sharp, sky-blue eyes stare back at her. Then the edges crinkle up, like the owner of these magnetic eyes might actually be smiling.
She whirls around until her back is facing him with a hand at her heart.
"Sorry," a deep voice murmurs behind her. "Didn't mean to scare yah."
"You didn't scare me," she lies. It rolls off her tongue too easily, but it feels good. Too good.
"Sure," he chuckles.
There's something in his voice she can't place. It's not familiar, but it sounds like a voice she's heard before, maybe only in her dreams, but it's like coming home. Like a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapping around her body, squeezing her tight, and warming her in places she wasn't sure existed.
He's said all of...what? Eight words and here she is, waxing poetic about a voice she'll probably never hear again after this day. But he's here. He hasn't walked away from her. At least not yet. Maybe she should run with it and grab hold of something that's always been out of reach until this moment.
She decides to test him, to see what he'll do, and steps down the aisle, keeping a hand on the shelf and her eyes on him. He doesn't disappoint.
He follows her lead and her movements, a smirk playing at his lips that reaches all the way up to his eyes. They move in unison and she's still not sure what kind of game they're playing. Cat and mouse? Something darker? More sinister? But it doesn't feel like it, not with the way he's watching her right now. There's something else, too. A fascination radiating from his eyes...maybe she's not really going crazy. Maybe this is real.
"Which book were yah lookin' for?"
She holds up the book the way she would a prized possession and he whistles softly.
"Bronte, huh?" His eyes seem lighter than they did before. "I guess I shoulda known you'd like that stuff."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She shoots back playfully, surprised by her own forwardness. This isn't like her, but something about him brings it out in her.
His eyebrows lift into his forehead as they continue their easy walk down the aisle. "Nothin'. You just seem like...I don't know, one of those girls who's smart enough to read those kind of books. That's all."
Oh, great
, she thinks.
Now I feel like a jerk.
She tilts her chin up to steal a glance at him and that's when she notices the red welt on his cheek and the smattering of purple underneath his left eye.
"What happened to your face?" she blurts out without thinking.
He just lifts a shoulder like it's nothing.
Okay. Maybe that
was
a little forward, considering they've been talking for literally two minutes. But he's still here, watching her with that soft smirk playing across his lips as they inch further and further toward the end of the aisle.
"So, um," she tucks some auburn hair behind her ear in a wasted effort at camouflaging how nervous he makes her. "What book were you looking for?"
He holds up a copy of Stephen King's latest book,
The Dark Tower,
and shrugs. "What can I say? I like the local guys."
She mulls it over and frowns back at him. "Local? Stephen King isn't from Boston, is he? Isn't he from Maine or something like that?"
"Eh," he waves a hand. "Close enough."
Silence seizes the air between them, but it isn't an awkward one. There's an electric charge between them that's so palpable, she'd probably be able to reach out and skim her fingers along its edges. His eyes never leave hers as they tip-toe up to the end of their respective stacks and then there's no obstacle between them anymore. Only a little bit of space that she wishes she had the nerve to close.
He does it for her and that smirk deepens into a full-blown smile as he holds a palm out to her.
"My name's Roark."
She sucks in a deep breath—this is just a moment. A drop in the ocean. One of many moments she'll have in her life. But this feels like so much more. It holds her in place and she hesitates for only a moment, not because she's scared, but because she's absolutely terrified. He's the kind of boy you could get lost in. The kind of boy you could give everything to without a second thought.