those crazy 4:00 a.m. drives to the airport? Which, by the way, I cannot drive you to the airport. I’m sure you understand that.”
“Actually, while I was waiting here for you, I changed to a later flight. I’d stay through the weekend if I could, but Saturday is my niece’s birthday and I promised to be at the party. She’s turning eight. Apparently that’s a big deal.”
“Eight is a big deal. What’s the theme?”
“Glitter ponies.”
“Glitter ponies?”
“She made it up herself. Anyway, my point is, I doubled my airfare so I can spend more time with you tomorrow. Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Every bit of her filled with a feeling both new and familiar—a joyful anticipation. A next time. A tomorrow. Their last, but she wouldn’t focus there. “Come to my house. Early. Or, early-ish. Until then, I am going to spend some quality time with your ancestor.” She ran her thumb across the pages, fanning them like a deck of fragile cards, and almost missed the object that floated to the table.
“What is this?” Quin lifted it gently. Lying across his palm was a thin braid, half the width of the ribbon that marked another page. Dini looked closer, in awe of the perfection of the plaiting, tied at both ends with a bit of dark thread.
“It’s hers.” She ran her finger, the one wearing her signature witch’s heart ring, along the length of it. Was this Hedda’s handiwork? Or Carmichael’s? There was no mention in the narrative about ever giving him such a gift, but then there had to be sweet, secret exchanges that lived on only in her heart. And his.
Gil showed up at the table ready to refill their long-cold coffee, even though there was an entire waitstaff he could dispatch for the duty. “Seems safe to come by.” He gave Dini a wink, obviously signaling that he’d witnessed the more intimate moments of their conversation, but then took on a grave expression as Dini held out Quin’s hand.
“Look,” she said, overcome to share the artifact with the one person who truly knew, and truly understood, her passion. “It’s hers. Hedda’s.”
“I always knew he loved her,” Gil said, pouring. “Was a fool to leave her behind. She was never the same.”
Dini noticed the questioning furrow on Quin’s brow. “Gil’s read the book almost as many times as I have. Right?”
“Right. And the staff talk too. People who remember.”
He took one last look, the treasure now laid out on top of the journal, and hovered his hand above it. “Miss Hedda. Quite the beauty in her day.”
Dini carefully placed the plait back within the pages of the notebook and noticed Quin browsing through the photos again. “Do you ever wonder if maybe he fell in love with her because he knew he was leaving?”
“How do you mean?”
“I never really knew him myself, but from family stories, he was…humorless. Typical, stereotypical, G-man. Exacting, high standards. Not exactly stern or mean, but not”—he held out the picture of Hedda, disheveled and lovely—“this guy. The guy who would take this picture. Or who would forgive …” He trailed the thought.
“You mean he felt safe to give in? Because he knew their relationship couldn’t go anywhere?”
“Exactly.”
“But maybe this is the real Irvin Carmichael. And he just became that stringent, exacting person after …”
“No. You saw those notes. Details. I’ll bet in the whole book you don’t find anything scratched over until you get to where he’s trying to write a note to her. He didn’t investigate her because he loved her. He investigated because that’s what he was hardwired to do.”
“But he loved her anyway.”
“Yes. Because it was easy to do. He could let himself. Because he knew, at some point, he was going back to Virginia.”
“He was going to Washington.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you didn’t.”
And then it was really clear that neither of them were talking about Hedda and Carmichael anymore.
Chapter 18
Excerpt from
My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause
Published by the Author Herself
I always hated the winters in Colorado,” I said, finally speaking into the vast expanse of silence between us. Carmichael had come to sit beside me. More like perched, on the edge of my bed, his head buried in his hands. “Was there snow?”
He looked at me, first only peeking through his fingers, and then dropping his hands to reveal an expression of disapproving curiosity. It was as if he couldn’t quite conjure a response, torn as he was between irritation and amusement.