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Marta Carver.
Trying to ignore the unwanted attention, she browsed a shelf of new releases, her head held high. But then she caught me staring, and I had no choice but to approach her. Nervously, I said, “Excuse me. Mrs. Carver?”
She blinked at me from behind her spectacles. “Yes?”
“I’m Ewan Holt.”
Her posture straightened. It was clear she knew who I was.
“Hello, Mr. Holt.”
We shook hands. Hers was small and contained the slightest tremble.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if there was anything still at Baneberry Hall that you’d like to keep. If so, I’d be happy to deliver it to you.”
“I have everything I need, thank you.”
“But all that furniture—”
“Is yours now,” she said. “You paid for it.”
Although her voice wasn’t unkind, I sensed an unspokensomethinghumming just beneath her words. It was, I realized, fear.
Marta Carver was terrified of Baneberry Hall.
“It’s not just the furniture,” I said. “I’ve found other things that I think belong to you. A camera. A record player. I think there are some photographs still there.”
At the mention of photographs, Marta Carver glanced at the freshly made copies still clutched in my hand. The top one, I realized, was the article about her husband murdering her daughter. I flipped the copy inward against my body, but it was too late. She’d already seen it, and reacted with an involuntary flinch.
“I need to go,” she said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holt.”
Mrs. Carver slipped past me and quickly left the library. All I could do was mumble an apology at her back, feeling not only stupid but rude. I returned, vowing never to bother her again.
“Look at this,” Petra said when I came back to the table.
She was reading aGazettearticle about Indigo Garson’s death, written a few months after it happened. I looked over her shoulder at the headline.
GARSON DEEMED INNOCENT IN DAUGHTER’S DEATH
“According to this, a maid told the police that on the night of Indigo’s suicide, she saw Mr. Garson in the kitchen putting what looked like a bunch of baneberries in a bowl. She was coming up from the cellar, so he didn’t see her. She said he took the berries and a spoon upstairs. An hour later, Indigo was dead. I just know he killed her, Mr. Holt.”
“Then why wasn’t he put on trial for her murder?”
“That’s what this whole bullshit article is about. How there wasn’t any evidence and how even if there was, a man like William Garson would never do such a thing. ‘An exemplary member of the community.’ That’s a direct quote from the police.” Petra pointed out the words with a stab of her index finger. “I know things were different back then, but it’s like they didn’t even try. ‘Oh, a teenager is dead. Who cares?’ But you can be damn sure that if it was theother way around—if Indigo had been seen bringing a freaking bowl of baneberries to her father—she would have been hung in the town square.”
She slumped in her chair and took a deep breath, her rant over. I understood her anger. We’d reached a dead end. Even though both of us believed William Garson had killed his daughter, there was likely no way to prove it.
“I’m going to go,” Petra said. “I’m too riled up. I need to get ice cream. Or scream into a pillow. I haven’t decided. See you tomorrow.”
I looked at her, confused. “Tomorrow?”
“The sleepover. We’re still coming, right?”
After all the ceiling chaos and fighting with Jess, I’d forgotten about the plan to have Hannah and Petra spend the night at Baneberry Hall. It wasn’t a good time for a sleepover. It felt like the worst time, actually. But Maggie was in desperate need of friends. I couldn’t deny my daughter that.
“It’s still on,” I said as I tucked the articles under my arm, preparing to leave the reading room. “Maggie can’t wait.”
Fourteen