Page 102 of You'll Be Sorry

“The chief already knows I have the historical society’s journal,” Raquel interjected bluntly. “No need to be coy about it.”

But the disclosure didn’t seem to matter. If anything, the tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. Even the dog sensed the mood, whining uneasily.

“How did you know Raquel had the journal?” Chief Grady asked Betty.

“When Mason informed me that Raquel claimed I’d mis-shelved it…that seemed a hint.”

“Why do you care?”

“About a historic document? A first-person account from a young woman who might have been killed as a witch in this very town? How could I not care?”

“We discovered hidden information interspersed in the entries,” Raquel provided, trying to move the discussion along.

“Invisible ink!” Theo exclaimed.

“At first blush”—Raquel gestured toward the various chunks of fraying paper now dotting the coffee table—“what you see are straightforward daily accounts. But, if you hold that same page up to heat, another story emerges. Emotionally distraught women relaying accounts of monsters and demons, rejecting their own babies as devil’s spawn. Whatever was going on, it was shrouded in so much fear, the midwife—Rita Louise Light—took steps to disguise her notes on the subject.”

“Unfortunately, the real perpetrators accused Rita of witchcraft, sealing her up in the well with the incriminating birth entries as well as the remains of a poor infant.” Betty sighed. “Horrible, horrible business.”

Chief Grady, staring at Betty stonily. Then: “Bullshit.”

Even Raquel recoiled at the harshness of her tone.

The town cop stalked closer until she was mere inches from Betty’s now shocked features. “Cut the crap. You’re lying. To me. To my father? Jesus, Betty. Once and for all, tell me what the hell happened with the Dixons thirty years ago.”

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.

I lead him back to my cabin. He stumbles along, rubbing at his temple, mumbling under his breath. I can feel the pain and confusion radiating off him in waves.

Bumbling into the small clearing surrounding my home. Him drawing up short, expression growing even more wild-eyed.

“I know this place. Why do I know this place?”

“Let’s get you that cup of tea.”

Inside, the oppressive wall of heat. My own personal security blanket, as if thirty years later, I’m still trying to chase the chill of that one night from my bones. He breaks into a sweat, his face going from deathly pale to dangerously flushed.

I don’t tell him what to do, or point out where he should sit. I trust muscle memory to lead the way.

Sure enough, he collapses on the floor directly in front of the woodstove, reaching out automatically to stroke Lovey III’s pale head. Even if she isn’t the dog he’s thinking of, she appreciates the attention.

I busy myself at the little table, starting the hot pot, scooping out dried ginger mint tea. The smell takes me back as well, and my hand is shaking terribly by the time I finish my task.

The fierce lash of the rain against my windows, the howl of the wind rattling my roof. Then, another sound, echoing in the distance.Barking. Frantic, desperate, growing ever closer. Lovey whining low in her throat before practically throwing herself against the door.

I barely get it open before Dog the dog bursts from the woods, wet fur plastered against his powerful body as he plants himself before us and howls.

No time for a hat or raincoat. I grab my boots and we’re off, sliding down a trail of mud, careening around boulders, bouncing off tree stumps, two determined dogs and one extremely panicked woman braving the hellacious elements for nothing that can be good.

All the way down, down, down into the meadow. Then racing across the field, lungs burning, side stitching. But Dog doesn’t slow down. We must go. Now, now, now.

Until the giant house emerges at last, a dark, hulking shadow set against an even darker, stormy night. Dog sprints down the driveway.

Where I see…

I see everything.

Now I remove the steeped leaves, then carry the chipped mug to my guest. His color has evened out slightly, but his breathing remains ragged. He accepts the tea wordlessly, blowing on it before taking a first fortifying sip.