Wicked Cruel (20 page)

“Over and over.”

“I hope not. But her afterlife isn’t very happy. She’s sad and afraid all the time.”

“I guess you’ll have to visit her again.”

The wide Main Street had little traffic at this hour, but Owen stepped into the shadows behind a tree when a car went past.

“I think that was the last diary entry she ever wrote,” Owen said. “The book was empty after that. She must have died a short time later.”

“Sad,” Sophie said.

Sophie lived over on Water Street, past the post office and the public housing buildings. The front porch light was on, and one upstairs.

“Think you’ll be in trouble?” Owen asked.

“If they hear me come in.”

“Me too. But my mother’s probably asleep.”

Sophie took a deep breath and smiled, looking toward her yard. “I’ll tiptoe,” she said, and she giggled.

Owen started to walk away.

“Owen?”

“Yeah?”

“Mason’s taking Darla to the movies on Friday.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah.” She waited, then shrugged and began to walk.

Owen shoved his hands into his pockets and found his voice. “Want to go, too?”

She nodded and said yeah. And then she slipped away into the darkness.

Owen’s house was dark, as he had hoped. It meant that his mother had gone to bed. If she’d known he was missing, she’d have every light on and would have called Mason’s house.

This was good. Another hour wouldn’t mean a thing. He stayed on back streets until he was near the tavern, then ran across Main when no cars were in sight.

Tree branches rattled in the wind and the grass had a slick dusting of snow. He didn’t dare go back inside the tavern. Too scary, and too illegal. When Sophie was along, he’d felt that it was almost okay to go in because of her grandmother’s connection to the historical society and all.

He knew better. It was wrong to go in there.

But if that diary was still on the desk? Would it provide any information?

Owen took a deep breath. He had to know.

He knew the way through the cellar now and crossed quickly to the steps. He held the kitchen door firmly so it wouldn’t squeak, then paused to gaze at the hearth. He dropped to his knees.

Charity had lived here. She’d been a living, breathing girl for thirteen years. He was thirteen, too. He couldn’t imagine his life ending for many, many decades. So much ahead; so much to think and to do and enjoy.

He climbed the two sets of stairs, shaking as he ascended into the attic. The house was quiet save for the ticking and the wind. No signs of ghosts, just dust and spiderwebs and chilled dry air.

He stopped outside the room with the desk and listened for humming or footsteps.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He closed it behind him, just in case.

The desk was empty. He shined his light on the floor and around the corners of the room, but there was no sign that anyone had been in here lately. There was an undisturbed layer of dust on the desk and the chair.

Owen sat at the desk for a few minutes anyway, imagining what it had been like to live here in fear. This room must have been Charity’s oasis, a place away from her father’s fury and her mother’s grief. A place to write and to hum and to look out the window at the trees.

As he stood to leave the attic, he noticed a dark item hanging from the back of the door. He winced when his light revealed what it was.

He took the tricornered hat from the hook. The Walmart sticker confirmed that it was his.

He held the hat to his face and inhaled. Was there a slight hint of Charity? He wasn’t sure. He hung it back on the hook. Maybe it would make some kind of difference.

It was snowing again when Owen reached the yard, but the wind had eased and the flakes were soft and fluffy. A police car drove by, headed for the highway.

Owen waited until the car was out of sight before sprinting across Main Street toward home.

This book developed during a time of transition. The idea came to fruition under my longtime editor Joan Slattery, who took her career in a new direction a few years ago. Allison Wortche and Nancy Hinkel guided me for an interim period, and Michele Burke saw the book through to publication. I’m indebted to you all!

Thanks to the Cheshire County Historical Society in Keene, New Hampshire, for access to the Wyman Tavern, my model for the Chase in this book. Often, late at night, I walk past the tavern and think I catch glimpses of spirits in the windows. Keene inspires me, with its cemeteries and its Pumpkin Festival, its historical aura and its quirky New England charms.

RICH WALLACE is the author of many books for children and teenagers, including
Wrestling Sturbridge, Sports Camp
, and the Kickers series. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife, novelist Sandra Neil Wallace. You can visit his website at
richwallacebooks.com
.