Page 42 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

At the diner, I picked at my BLT as Oscar and I rehashed the conversation.

Sorting the lies from the truth felt impossible because all of it was tangled up in hurt feelings and small-town histories.

I also reminded myself that no one could resist casting themselves as the wronged but noble hero of their own story.

I didn’t want to admit that Wren may have lied to me, even by omission, but I couldn’t deny the possibility.

I also knew that Oscar had his own doubts about Wren, though he was kind enough not to double down on them now.

Instead, he pointed out the waitress he’d spoken with and asked if I wanted to confirm that Griffin and Sandra had once been engaged, but I shook my head.

I already suspected that part to be true.

But what about the rest of it? Did Wren have a history of falling for men who were already in relationships?

She’d put a sympathetic spin on her history with her high school boyfriend but mentioned nothing about Griffin and Sandra.

By omitting that part, had she been trying to present herself in a better light, or did Tessa’s account fall apart when other important truths were added to the story?

Griffin, for instance, might have pursued Wren, not the other way around; he seemed the type who would have recognized her vulnerability after the death of her grandma.

But again, it was impossible to know for sure.

After we finished, neither Oscar nor I wanted to walk.

I think both of us were ready to be alone, so he drove me home after reminding me again that he’d be tied up most of the following day.

Reece was digging in the garden while Louise was snapping green beans on the front porch of the cottage as I stepped into the house.

With my thoughts circling, I was again drawn to the bookshelves in the parlor. I waited for a sign to guide me, but when nothing materialized, I pulled down a book at random and flipped through the pages, stopping at the first highlighted passage.

It was by Emily Dickinson:

Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant—

I looked up, nodding in recognition: Yes, I thought, that’s exactly how it is.

So much of what I’d been told felt slanted. The final lines captured my confusion as I’d groped my way through the investigation without much success.

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—

On the opposite page was another short poem by Dickinson that Wren had not only highlighted but underlined as well.

As subtle as tomorrow

That never came,

A warrant, a conviction,

Yet but a name.

In the margin, she had written, Believe!

I smiled, thinking that perhaps my search for the truth wouldn’t be in vain after all.

· · ·

Later, I glanced out the window and saw Reece loading gardening implements into the wheelbarrow.

I strolled out to the porch, struck by the beauty of the afternoon.

There was just enough breeze to move the leaves, and the sky above was an unbroken expanse of blue.

Inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass and a trace of the sea, I meandered down the steps.

Reece had just lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and begun to push when he saw me approaching. He stopped, lowering it back to the ground before reaching for a red bandanna in his back pocket and wiping his brow.

I stopped a few feet away, feeling his wary gaze.

“Did the repair go okay this morning?”

“It did,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if another fuse blows soon. It’s an old system. I’m sure that you didn’t come out here to talk to me about the fuses, though.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You want to know about Wren.” He tucked the bandanna back into his pocket. “My wife’s been telling me about all the stuff you’ve been saying to her.”

“I know it’s probably hard to believe,” I said.

“There’s no ghost in that house,” he said.

“Louise and I have been inside hundreds of times. Earlier in the spring, I sanded and restained the floors in the entire place. Upstairs and down. I must have spent forty hours in the house that week, and nothing happened. I think either you’re seeing things or you came here with that story ready to go. ”

“Why would I do that?”

He leaned over and pretended to adjust the gardening implements, as if buying time to find the words he wanted.

“I looked you up when I was in town,” he said, straightening.

“On the computer at the library. You’re smart, you’ve got money, and maybe you think that this story you’re telling will help you buy this property for less than it’s worth.

Then you can turn around and sell it for even more.

That’s how rich people stay rich.” There was a suspicious light in his eyes as his gaze swept over me from head to toe.

I didn’t take the bait.

“Your wife believes that I’ve seen and spoken to Wren.”

“I know she does. She pointed out the drawing you made after I finished the repairs. We weren’t snooping. It was on the sofa, and I couldn’t help but see it.”

“What can you tell me about Wren?”

He shrugged. “Nothing that my wife hasn’t already told you.”

“Why did no one find her until Monday?”

“Guests on that particular weekend left the house early and got home late because of the festival. No one wants to take a bath in the middle of the night, and frankly that bathroom isn’t used all that much the rest of the year either. Wren used the tub more than anyone.”

I tucked a hand in my pocket. “What did you think of Wren as a person?”

He shrugged. “She seemed like a good kid, but Louise knew her better than I did. I was always too busy working to spend much time with her. I’d see her coming and going, but that was about it.”

“Did you ever see her business partner, Nash, here at the house?”

“Sure,” he said. “They were friendly when they were in high school, I think. And then they opened that store downtown together. So yeah, I saw him from time to time, but I don’t really know him.”

“And Griffin—he visited the house?”

Reece scowled at the name. “Yeah, he came around. Not after they were married, but before. He used to drive up in his Porsche at all hours of the night, always acting like the world owed him favors.”

“You don’t like him.”

“No.”

I didn’t bother asking about Dax, since I already knew the answer. “Was Wren acting strange on the Friday she died? Was she upset about anything?”

“I didn’t see her at all that day. I was in the woods, cutting up a fallen tree to use for firewood. If I’d known it was the last day she’d be alive, of course…”

I nodded after he trailed off. “I guess that’s it. I appreciate your time.”

I turned to leave when I heard his voice again.

“You really think someone killed her?”

“I do.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You think she knows who did it?” His expression was skeptical as he studied me, but I also detected a faint air of curiosity.

I considered the question. “I think she knows something important that will lead me to the answer.”

“Why hasn’t she told you yet?”

“I don’t think she’s ready.”

“What’s she waiting for?”

I remembered the poem I’d just read.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “I think she’s waiting for tomorrow.”