Chapter 12
I went back to Pine Knot because I didn't know where else to put my hands.
It was just after nine and the overcast hadn't lifted. Same flat light, same bare trees, same leaves stuck wet to the path. I still had the tan backpack over one shoulder, the yellowed envelope folded inside my hoodie pocket, and the brass key for Storage Unit 108 knocking against my keys every time I walked. I'd filed the intent to contest that morning at the clerk's office and the woman behind the glass told me the lis pendens would at least freeze everything for a little while. It was supposed to feel like progress. It felt like I'd bought a clock.
The groundskeeper was already at the edge of the lane, near the same headstone where he'd found me the first time. He wore the same olive work jacket over a dark shirt, brass keys on his belt, his hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.
He'd been waiting.
"You came back," he said.
I stopped a few feet away. My breath made a small cloud.
"I wanted to thank you," I said. "For the letter. For holding on to it."
He nodded, like he'd expected that. He looked past me toward the gate, then back.
"Your father told me you'd come back," he said. "Even if you didn't the first time, you'd come back the second. He said you'd have the backpack."
That caught me. I gripped the strap without meaning to.
"He described me?"
"Described you exact," he said. "Gray hoodie. White tee underneath. That tan pack. Said your name before you said it. Finnley Dennis."
Wind moved through the stones. Somewhere a maintenance cart rattled.
"I didn't get your name last time," I said.
"Harlan," he said. "Harlan Cobb."
We stood there a second. He didn't shake my hand. He just looked at me like he was deciding if I was ready.
"He left something else with me," Harlan said. "Told me not to give it unless you came back on your own. Not if you were pushed."
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Not the big brass keys. A small, yellowed envelope, smaller than the first one, sealed with a piece of faded tape that had gone brown at the edges. My father's handwriting again, in thin blue ink. FINDLEY — SECOND.
My throat went tight. I hadn't realized I'd been holding the first letter so hard in my pocket until I had to let go to take the second one.
"He gave you two?" I asked.
"Same day he gave me the first," Harlan said. "Said the first was the key. Second was where to use it. Said if Raynan won the first round, you'd need the second to finish it."
I stared at the envelope. The paper was soft at the corners from being kept close to his body.
"Can I—" I started.
"It's yours," he said. "He wanted you to read it here."
I slid my thumb under the tape. It gave with a quiet rip. Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper, folded twice, same handwriting, hurried but steady.
Son —
If Harlan gave you this, you believed the first letter. Good.
I'm at St. Mark's outreach on Chestnut. Room 6, back of the parish hall. They call it hospice but it's just a bed and a nurse who checks my blood pressure. Don't call ahead. Just come.
I need you to do one hard thing for me. Don't hate Raynan all the way through. She wants the house because she's scared of having nothing. That doesn't forgive what she did. It just explains it. I needed her to think I was gone so she'd file the papers and show her hand.
Come before noon. I get tired after.
— Dad
I read it twice. The second time slower. My hands started to shake and I had to press the paper flat against my thigh to keep it still.
"St. Mark's," I said out loud. "Chestnut."
Harlan nodded. "You know it?"
"Kind of. Near the highway. By the old middle school."
"That's the one," he said. "White church, little brick hall in back. Food pantry on Tuesdays."
I folded the note back up, careful along the same creases. For a second I couldn't speak. The part about not hating her sat like a weight behind my ribs.
"He asked me not to hate her," I said.
Harlan made a small sound in his throat. Not quite a laugh.
"He told me that too," he said. "Said you'd struggle with that part most."
"Did he—" I had to swallow. "Did he tell you why here? Why Pine Knot?"
Harlan looked out over the rows of gray stones. The light was so flat it made everything look closer than it was.
"Because she never comes here," he said simply. "He told me that clear. Said Raynan hadn't visited a grave in twenty years, not even her own mother's over in Milford. Said she thinks cemeteries are bad luck and a waste of gas. He said Pine Knot was the one place she would never check to see if he was really buried."
That hit exactly right. I remembered Raynan in the doorway in her dark mauve blouse and pearl earrings, saying Pine Knot like she'd rehearsed it, like it was a period at the end of a sentence. She'd never thought I'd drive out there.
"He knew her," I said.
"He knew her well enough to trap her," Harlan said. "He'd come out here sometimes and just sit on that bench by the shed. Didn't visit anyone. Just sat. Said this was the only quiet place she wouldn't follow him."
He shifted his weight. His keys jingled.
"He's sick, isn't he?" I asked. I didn't want to ask it, but it was there in the note, in Harlan's face.
Harlan didn't look away. "He's thin. Moves slow. But he's there. He was there last Thursday when I dropped off that blanket for him. Asked if you'd come yet."
I zipped the second note into the front pocket of my backpack, next to the first envelope and the brass key with the tag for Storage Unit 108. The metal was cold through the canvas.
"Harlan," I said. "Thank you. For waiting."
"You go on now," he said. "Before noon, he said."
I nodded. I started back down the leaf-strewn path toward the gate, then stopped and turned.
"Will you be here if I need to find you again?"
Harlan put his hands back in his pockets. "I'll be here," he said.
May you like
I walked faster as I hit the sidewalk, the backpack bouncing against my hip, the two letters and the key all in one place for the first time. The church was twenty minutes away if I caught the bus right. I checked my phone. 9:22.
I had time to get there before noon.
