few pictures of Hedda Krause. Her mind’s eye conjured the image of Hedda in front of the Christmas tree, haughty and defiant in her finery. Or the photo portrait at the front of her book, the one she’d given to Irvin at some point. Or Hedda in a San Antonio Express-News special feature, aged, elegant, and wistful. In none of those did she look this beautiful. This natural and content, like she’d just exhaled and could easily do so again.
“She loved him too.”
They sat next to each other, just breathing, the series of black-and-white photographs displayed like a timeline of romance. A man and a woman living a lifetime together, isolated, over the course of a single perfect day. Suddenly she felt the distinct guilt of a voyeur. She picked the photographs up one by one—gently, like she was gathering cards from a card trick.
“One thing,” she said, jarring them both back into the moment, “these are in incredibly good shape, given they weren’t preserved in an album or anything.”
“They’ve been hidden in here all these years,” Quin said, scooting the notebook across the table.
“Hidden?”
“Think about it. He married my great-great-grandmother just a few years after he arrived in Washington. He couldn’t exactly have these framed and out on the bureau.”
Dini set them aside and ventured a sip of her coffee. Bolstered, she took the notebook back from Quin and began its examination again with the first page.
“You don’t want to start at the back?”
She ignored him. The pages were darkened around the edges but toward the center held what must have been the original hue—a light peach, with cadet-blue lines. The first three were blank, which she found puzzling, but then the workings of a detective’s mind came out in full force. Lists, addresses, names. The handwriting was neat but occasionally blurred, evidence of his left-handedness. What she would give to spend an afternoon at the library, scrolling through the archived newspapers to find the crimes and cases annotated here. She read the detective’s questions, written to himself, and his answers—some marked with stars, others obliterated with a heavy hand.
And then—
February 14, 1916, 22:30
Robbery/Menger Hotel
Ghost??? (Annie Sally White)
Arnold Sylvan, mgr
Dini and Quin had chosen to sit on the same side of the booth so they could peruse the notebook together, but it was soon apparent that Quin had little interest in much before this date. She was aware—extremely, acutely aware—that he was studying her as intently as she was studying Carmichael’s notes, offering a disinterested hmm between sips of coffee. But now he set down his mug and drew closer.
“Can you imagine what was in his mind when he had to write ghost?”
“He spelled Sallie wrong.” Dini hovered her finger over the name. She turned the page and gasped.
“What is it?”
“The three questions.” She pronounced it as if it were some notable historic document.
What is your name?
Hedda Krause
In what city is your husband’s death certificate filed?
Denver
In what state were you married?
Tennessee
Dini marveled at it—his handwriting so prevalent and her responses neatly scripted within. And that single word. Denver. Two truths, one lie. For a moment, the heart pounding in her ears was Hedda’s. The tips of her fingers tingling as she imagined the grip of the pen; her wrist involuntarily twisting in the act of writing. How could she choose what to confess and what to conceal? And did she want him to know, want to unburden herself?
Finally, Dini took the little notebook in both hands and brought it to her face. Careful not to touch her nose to the page, she closed her eyes and inhaled, deep enough to feel her shoulders rise with the effort. There it was, trapped in the living pores of the paper. Cigarettes. His cigarettes. His breath, his skin.
After a few such breaths, she lowered the book and opened her eyes to find Quin’s face, closer than she remembered, looking amused.
“You are such a nerd,” he said.
“I know.”
And then he was closer still, one finger along her cheek, turning her toward him. At once the pulse was her own, the man beside her alive, and he was about to kiss her. Silently she pleaded with herself—don’t freeze. Relax. Breathe. But the closer he came, the icier the chill down her neck, and when his lips touched hers—so lightly as to be fairy’s feet—her hand broke free from its grip on the notebook and splayed itself on his chest, pushing him away.
“Don’t,” she said so softly the word was little more than a click