Page 93 of You'll Be Sorry

Which made her eyes burn, because she genuinely didn’t deserve him, and given last night’s news clip, it was only a matter of time before he discovered the same. Nothing good lasts forever. She’d always known that.

Hands sticky with blood…the screams of her siblings in her ears.

Now you’re just like me.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Then, because the best defense was a good offense: “Tell me why you really want the diary.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“What’s really in this thing? Or what does someone believe might be in this thing? Because thieves don’t generally break into homes to steal books. And yet last night, one did.”

Betty, blinking rapidly. “I…I don’t know,” she stated abruptly. Sighed. Sat down hard on one of the chairs. Mr. Man placed his head on her lap, offered a comforting tail wag. She stroked his head. “This journal, finding it now, knowing Janet Dixon had it last. It bothers me. It all bothers me.”

“You guessed I had it,” Raquel pressed. “Mason surely knows I have it. Who else?”

“Dear Lord, in this community? Gossip is what we do best.”

“What about ATVs? How many people own one?”

“Again, in this community…”

Raquel huffed in frustration. She wanted answers. She wanted to know what was going on in this crazy town and her tragic property and, oh, yeah, what exactly the police chief had found in the woodslast night. She also wanted to curl up in her husband’s arms and forget she’d ever lived a different life, in a different time and place.

“I’ve gone through the volume multiple times,” she offered finally. “If there are deep, dark secrets in this diary, I didn’t see them.”

“May I?”

“Well, as long as you’re enjoying your cup of coffee.”

Theo pulled out a chair for himself, watching as Betty delicately handled each section of pages. As was the practice, the volume was comprised of a series of “signatures,” groups of folded sheets that were layered on top of one another, then stitched together. In theory, each section bore a printer’s mark on the first few pages to help guide the binder. Raquel had hoped to identify the marks—generally either alphabetic, section A, B, C, or numeric—to assist in the reassembly. Mostly, however, she’d identified random dark smudges, making the entire process slow going.

Now Betty donned her reading glasses, then held up one of the less damaged sheets to the overhead light. “A,” she murmured.

“How can you tell?” Raquel wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or indignant.

“Practice, dear. I’ve handled dozens of old and rare volumes in my time. You…” The older woman gave her a look over her readers. “I’m guessing not so much.”

Raquel sat down, feeling thoroughly put in her place. Theo, she noticed, was biting back a grin. She smacked his leg. His smile grew broader.

Whatever Raquel might think of the older woman’s intrusion, she did know her business. In under an hour, with a bit of debate and haggling over was that a letter O or smudged letter C, they had the journal mostly set to rights. Nothing they could do about the broken stitching, but apparently Betty knew a guy who could assist with such a thing.

They were both more interested in the entries anyway.

“I’m telling you, it’s all very basic. Weather, location, followed by key activity of the day, from making jam to delivering a baby,” Raquel related. “No gossip, or shocking events, or even tragic news from her own life or others. If this woman—Rita Louise Light I think is her name—had feelings about the babies dying, she didn’t include them. If she suspected her neighbors were turning against her, she doesn’t mention it. Even where she came from, which sounds like a bit of a mystery, nothing. As diaries go, I’d consider it short on personal revelations.”

“Mmm-hmm. More coffee, dear?” The woman eyed Theo, who promptly jumped to it. As he headed back to the kitchen, Betty turned to Raquel and whispered, “That is one fine-looking man. I loved my husband, mind you. We had our trials and tribulations, but I’ve never regretted our time together. Still, I wouldn’t have minded coming home to that every night.”

“Oh, please, he’s ridiculously handsome and he knows it. Most days, I just have to hope he uses his superpowers for good.” Raquel nudged the woman, capable of some insights of her own. “So…Mason?”

A definitely girlish giggle, then Betty slapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were still dancing, however.

“He’s such a stick in the mud,” the woman stated, which Raquel took to be a sign of affection. “Seriously, just because his family owned half this town back in the day. They had a grand old inn right in the center of Shereford that hosted Boston’s and New York’s finest families for the summer. Sadly, the resort burned to the ground in the seventies, when Mason was a teen. But you’d never know it, given how much he’s prone to bossing the rest of us around. This town, these mountains.” Betty sighed. “Shereford’s not just a place, dear, it’s an identity. Which is to say, we all live with one foot in the past. May I?”

Betty reached for the heavy locket around Raquel’s neck. Raquel flushed. She’d had it tucked beneath her sweater. With all the shuffling about, it must’ve worked its way out. Her first instinct was to quickly tuck it away. But given the obvious appeal of an old daguerreotype to a historian, it seemed simplest to hand it over.

Betty inspected the worn gold finish, then popped open the piece without bothering to ask.