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“Why did she go there?” I ask.
“Instinct, maybe? To run from danger? Poor thing. Comes backto discover she’s lost her lovely mum in a fire started by her dad. And that her mum died going back into the fire to look for her. How do you live with that? She was such a slip of a thing too, only nine years old, and small for her age. Poor little Sukie.”
“Sukie? Who’s Sukie?” Amity says.
“That’s what they called her. It was her nickname.”
“How do you spell Sukie?” My hands have gone cold and clammy.
“S-U-K-I-E,” Edwina says.
I know that name. I can see the letters written in bubble font at the top of the inside cover of my Melling School book, each letter carefully shaded in with a different colored pencil. I remember being shocked that someone had been so naughty, drawing inside a book, especially a good hardcover book about kind and spunky sisters at boarding school. But it can’t be the same Sukie, can it?
“What happened to Sukie and her father?” I say.
Edwina takes a sip of tea, sets down her cup, her actions painfully slow.
“George Crowley was never too well-liked and after the fire, I’m sure he didn’t want to show his face. Falling asleep smoking like that, drunk. The shame. Moved away for years. Came back eventually, but I haven’t a clue where he is now.”
I try to remember what else was written in the book, a last name or an address. Or maybe I’m remembering it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Sukie at all. Maybe it was Suzy or Sally. My mind might be playing tricks on me, making connections that aren’t there. I ask if I can use the bathroom.
I sit on the pink, fluffy cover on the toilet and take out my phone. It’s almost 1:00 p.m., about eight in the morning at home. Kim should be at my house, probably done meditating. I message her that I have an urgent favor. I ask her to go into my bedroomand look on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. The Melling School book is on the right side. I tell her I need to know what it says inside the covers.
When I step back into the living room, my phone dings. Kim has sent a photograph. It’s the inside cover of the book. There are the bubble letters, just as I remembered, spelling SUKIE. At the bottom of the page are drawings of daisies and unicorns, foxes and rabbits. I turn my phone around.
“This is in an English book my mother gave me. I always thought she bought it secondhand.”
Another ding. A photograph of the back inside cover. A drawing of a horse with a long mane. And at the bottom, three letters that I don’t remember at all, also in colored pencil. SMC.
“What’s SMC?” Amity asks.
“I don’t know.”
“They could be initials,” she says. “Edwina, did Sukie Crowley have a middle name?”
“I think she was Susan Marie? Yes, that’s it, Susan Marie Crowley.”
Wyatt and Amity trade a look.
“Where is Sukie Crowley now?” Wyatt asks. “Did anyone stay in touch with her after she moved away?”
“My friend Polly did for a while,” Edwina says. “She used to look after Sukie. But that was many, many years ago.”
“Could I talk to Polly?” I say. “Maybe she knows something that might help.”
Edwina sighs. “I’m afraid Polly’s not with us anymore.”
“I’m so sorry.” It must be hard to outlive your friends one by one.
“You’re not going to find answers here anyway,” Edwina says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Didn’t I already say? After the fire, Sukie Crowley was sent to live with relatives in America.”
“In America?” Amity asks. “Where?”
“In the Midwest, I think. Yes, that’s it. Indiana.”