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As I listen to the chief, I look to the wall opposite the bells. It’s partially painted, with streaks of gray primer covering up the green.
I’m hit with a memory—one as sudden as it is surprising.
Me and my father. Side by side at that very wall. Dipping our rollers into a pan of gloppy gray and using it to erase the green. I can even remember accidentally putting my hand in the primer, and my father telling me to make a handprint on the wall.
That way you’ll always be part of this place, he said.
I know it’s an actual memory and not something from the Book because my father never wrote such a scene. It’s also vivid. So much so that I half expect my father to stroll into the kitchen, wielding a paintbrush and saying, “You ready to finish this, Mags?”
Another crack of grief forms in my heart.
“You okay there, Maggie?”
I tear my gaze away from the wall and back to Chief Alcott, who regards me with concern.
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m now dizzy and slightly unmoored. Not just by the memory and its accompanying grief but from the fact that I’m able to remember anything at all about this place. I didn’t think that was possible, and it leaves me wondering—in equal parts anticipation and dread—what I might recall next. Because that memory of my father isn’t entirely warm and fuzzy. It’s tainted by all the years of deceit that came after it.
“Have you ever—” I turn the mug of tea in my hands, trying to think of the best way to pose my question to Chief Alcott. “Have youever wondered why my father told you those things that night? You said yourself you didn’t believe him. So why do you think he did it?”
The chief gives the question ample consideration. With her head tilted back and an index finger tapping her angular chin, she brings to mind a quiz show contestant reaching for an answer that’s just beyond her grasp.
“I think it was a long con,” she finally says. “That your father—maybe your mother, too—was laying the groundwork for what was to come. And naive me was their patsy. I’m not saying they knew it was going to become as popular as it did. No one could have predicted that. But I do think they hoped that tall tale of theirs would get noticed. If I had blown them off, they probably would have gone straight to theBartleby Gazettenext. Thanks to me, that rag went straight to them.”
“After you talked to my parents, did you come out here to investigate?”
“Sure I did. The gate was wide open, and the front door was unlocked.”
“Did you see anything strange?”
“You mean ghosts?” The chief lets out a low chuckle, making it clear she finds the very idea ridiculous. “All I saw was a house with no one in it. Your things were still here, making it clear you’d left in a hurry. But there were no signs of struggle. Nothing to suggest something had attacked you or your parents. You’d cut yourself, though. There was a Band-Aid on your cheek, just under your eye. I remember because I said it made you look like a football player.”
I absently touch my left cheek, my index finger sliding along the inch of raised skin there.
“What happened after you checked the house?”
“I went back to the Two Pines and told your parents that everything was in order,” Chief Alcott says. “I said whatever was there had left and that you all were free to return. That’s when your father toldme he had no intention of coming back here. I gave Walt Hibbets a call, asked him to lock up the place, and took my leave.”
“And that was it?”
“You’re asking an awful lot of questions for someone who lived through it,” the chief says. “Care to tell me why?”
I take a gulp of foul-tasting tea and tell her everything. No, I don’t remember my time here. No, I don’t think Baneberry Hall is haunted. Yes, I think my parents were lying. No, I don’t know why. Yes, I definitely think they’ve been hiding something from me for the past twenty-five years. And, yes, I completely intend on finding out what it is.
The only thing I leave out are my father’s dying words. They’re too personal to share.
When I’m finished, Chief Alcott runs a hand through her silver hair and says, “So that’s why you wanted to sit and chat.”
“It is,” I admit. “I want to talk to as many people mentioned in my father’s book as possible. I want to hear their version of things, not his. Maybe then I’ll have a better idea of why my parents did it and what they’re hiding.”
“Call me crazy,” the chief says, “but did you ask your parents?”
“I tried. It wasn’t helpful.”
“Well, getting folks here to tell their story isn’t going to be easy, seeing how some of them are dead.”
“I already heard about Walt Hibbets,” I say.
“And Janie June,” Chief Alcott adds. “Brian Prince is still around, though.”