The Sinners - Ruby Vincent Page 0,82

aside looking for something—anything.

“There’s nothing here,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not in the house. We’ll look through everything like you promised Eli.” He held out his hand to help me up. “If it gets too late, we can sleep here.”

“We won’t have electricity or water. We’ll freeze our tails off and smell stinky doing it.”

Royal laughed. It was the most beautiful music.

“We better hurry, then,” he said. “Where do you want to start?”

“Up here. See if there are more loose floorboards.”

We swept through the lake house pawing through every nook and cranny. We looked in the appliances and behind them. We moved the furniture to look underneath. I got on my hands and knees searching for loose floorboards. Royal picked the lock on the shed and we examined the tools like they were potentially more than metal and plastic. As the sun set, we finally accepted the lake house did not hold a clue for me.

I hefted a fallen lawn chair, righting it before the firepit. This is the chair Eli sat in while we roasted marshmallows.

Marshmallows. That’s what our Christmas needs. Hot cocoa and marshmallows.

I’d have to get some on another trip off campus. This one was over.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s getting late.”

Together we went in through the back door, locking it behind us, and passing through to the front.

“This is a nice place,” Royal remarked. He carried the rolled-up posters under one arm. “For real. I was thinking what’s the point of leaving one riverside town in the middle of the forest for the same thing by a lake. But this place is nothing like Raven River.”

“No,” I murmured. “The people are nice here. They don’t care about silly things like which side of the gate you’re on. And Mom was different here too. She was softer. Freer. Happy. Because she was away from... the memories.”

Royal and I climbed off the porch. I pointed to the flowerbed lining the house. “See? Someone’s been taking care of them. I bet it’s Mrs. Henderson. She planted these flowers with me one summer when I told her how much I loved her garden. She and I...”

I trailed off, eyes bulging and trained on a tiny black insect scuttling over a flower petal.

“What?” Royal prompted. “What did you do?”

“Royal,” I croaked. “Holy shit, Royal. I’ve got it.” I smacked at my pockets, rushing to grab the key. “The message. The key. I’ve got it. I know what it opens!”

“What?” he asked. Shock, excitement, and anticipation lighting his handsome face.

“Mrs. Henderson!”

“It opens Mrs. Henderson?”

I grasped his bicep, running to the car. “Come on. We’re driving back. I’ll explain on the way.”

Royal didn’t waste a second. We hopped in the car and he gunned it, peeling out of the driveway and kicking up a shower of fallen leaves in our wake.

“Mrs. Henderson is from Easthaven. She retired here ten years ago and filled her house with toys, games, and even had a tree house built to encourage her grandchildren to come and stay with her. They rarely did.

“When Eli and I were here, she’d invite us over instead. We’d hang around for hours playing and eating cookies in the tree house. Mom and Dad got close to her and every Thanksgiving she was the first one they’d invite over.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “She’s friends with your parents. Do you think she knows what the key opens?”

“I know what the key opens.” I rolled the innocent hunk of shaped metal on my palm. “It was fricking obvious. I should have known the second I saw it.”

I shot forward, pointing out the window. “Stop here. Next to the mailboxes.”

“Mailbox?”

Nodding, elation bubbled up, straining the limits of my excitement as I showed him the key. “This is a mailbox key, Royal. And Mrs. Henderson lives on Earnshaw Drive, house number twenty-two.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

We dove out of the car at the same time, leaving it running and doors wide open. My hand shook as I fitted the key in the lock, turned, and drew it open.

I found it. I can’t believe I was right. Eli was right. They didn’t just leave us.

Yanking out the stack of mail, I roughly pawed through flyers, coupons, bills, and personal letters.

“Lisa Henderson, Lisa Henderson, Lisa Henderson—”

I froze having reached the bottom of the pile and the final letter.

“Ember Bancroft,” I read.

I raised my head, latching on to round, chestnut eyes holding the same feelings as mine except for one.

Fear.

“This is it,” I said. “What if their location is in here?