Page 48 of You'll Be Sorry

Mason bounced across the room to a closet-sized bathroom. Two minutes of vigorous scrubbing later, he was back, exhaling slowly like a warrior preparing for battle.

Raquel took advantage of the situation to move to the other side of everyone and take up further inspection of the mud-caked pottery.

“Seventeen ninety!” Mason declared triumphantly seconds later.

“I knew it. Historic remains!” Theo sounded as giddy as the town historians.

Betty slanted Theo a look. “I’ll have you know, young man, that I happen to have books from the 1790s in my possession. That hardly makesmea historic skeleton now, does it?”

Raquel bit back a laugh, as Theo followed the flaw in his logic.

“Umm, er, point taken.”

Raquel lowered herself to kneeling, peering deeply into the rounded crockery.

“Look at this, Betty,” Mason extolled. “It appears to be an extensive list of town records—births, deaths, marriages. ‘Born December 1, 1790. Departed this life…Wed on…’”

“A name,” Betty spoke up firmly. “What’s listed on the inside cover. Maybe the identity of a town clerk, or doctor, local clergy member?”

“The ink’s too faded. I can’t make it out just yet. But given all the embellishments, it strikes me as distinctly feminine.” Mason glanced up. “Say, a midwife?”

Betty sat back, blinking rapidly. “Seventeen ninety? You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think—”

“Now, now, no getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s take it entry by entry. Just…” Mason ran a finger down the densely scribbled accounts.“Baird, MacAllister, Dixon, McLean. The sheer volume of notations. We’re going to need weeks if not months to sort through all of this.”

“Date of the final entry?” Mandy prodded.

More delicate turning of pages. “It appears the final note is from 1791. I’m not sure of the month.”

“Did you say midwife?” Raquel interrupted the exchange. Because she now understood what was at the bottom of the crockery. The so-called debris.

And it made her hands tremble and her heart hurt. Because no, it hadn’t taken physical violence or abject poverty to break her. Hope had proved a much more effective annihilator.

“There was more in here than a ledger.” She met the gaze of the others. “You’re going to need the forensic anthropologist again. Pebble-sized bones. Rose petal fragments. These are the skeletal remains of an infant.”

Stunned silence.

Chief Grady walked over to study for herself. “Jesus. I think you may be right. But how did you know?”

“I just do.” She couldn’t speak anymore. Blindly, she turned toward Theo, the man who protected her even at the expense of himself. He pulled her gently into his arms, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, where their pain could belong to them, and them alone.

Another long moment.

Then, Chief Grady: “I’ll make the call.”

But wait, there’s more…

Miss me yet? It’s okay if you don’t. Some days I’m sick of my own company. But I’ve no place else to go, nothing better to do. So here I sit. And wait. And ponder and plan and sob and rage until I pant in frustration or collapse in exhaustion. Sometimes, I even sleep. But mostly…

I’m tired tonight. Thinking too hard, worrying too much. I know you have nights like this, too. Where you pace your humble abode, all keyed up for reasons you can’t explain. Do other people live like this? Or do they magically return to welcoming homes each evening? Maybe they’re already anticipating a great book/movie/TV show with favorite takeout in hand. Night isn’t a mere punctuation point on a long, exhausting day, but the beginning of a new and exciting chapter.

I see only punctuation points. Here, there, everywhere.

You?