Purgatory, West Virginia
March 31
I’ m in a well. It’s dark and cold. The walls are slick, and the rope is broken. There is no way out. I don’t know how long I can survive in this hole.
I think about that cupcake place where we went. You had the lemon with the raspberry filling, and I had the triple chocolate. We came up with ridiculous phone app ideas. Remember? Yours was an app that shocked you if you ate sugar. Mine searched bars by brand of beer. That was a good afternoon.
There’s a stray dog that runs around the compound. I feed him scraps sometimes. Today one of the men shot him.
By the time she finished reading the letters, Twitch was a mess. Some of them were light, matter-of-fact notes. Others were angry and troubled. The hardest ones to read were the letters where Finn confessed his desperation, his loneliness, his regret. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from the edge is knowing I would see your face again. He had even written about his capture. Every time the knife hit my face, they were stabbing our chances for happiness. They were killing our forever. He never wrote I love you, never mentioned love in the body of the letters, but each one was a shared bit of truth.
Each one was a love letter.
She looked up to find Finn standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. She wanted to set the laptop aside and rush into his arms. She wanted to squeeze all the love and compassion she felt right into his soul. She wanted to hold him, feel him, ease that well of suffering within.
So, she did.
Casting all doubt aside for the moment, Twitch stood and moved in measured strides. Without a break in her step, she walked into the circle of his arms and pressed her face into Finn’s broad chest. She turned her head and felt his heart against her cheek. Neither spoke. They stood for long minutes, pouring out their grief and pain.
Finn stepped back, slid his hand down her arm, and entwined their fingers.
Twitch started to speak. “I…”
“It’s okay. I know, Charlotte.”
She squeezed his hand with a teary smile.
“Come on.” Finn pulled her toward the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He pointed to the end of the hall. “To solve a mystery.”
Finn observed Charlotte. She crossed to the bulletin board and scanned the timeline, touching a few of the slips of paper tacked up. Her face was a mask of concentration. With her lip tucked between her teeth, she moved to the whiteboard on the opposite wall.
She had always turned Finn on. He could still remember that lick-of-flame ponytail running down her back when he first saw her. From her sparkling eyes to those perfect breasts to her heart-shaped ass to her feet, she was a pint-sized cover girl with the mind of a tech nerd. They had been the perfect pair once upon a time.
When they met seven years ago, they had fit so perfectly—Finn the dashing sailor off to save the world, Charlotte, the brainy beauty destined for greatness. He had held her hand as they walked around lower Manhattan, and heads had turned. An older lady sitting at a bus stop had smiled as they waited for the light to change: what an attractive couple. Finn had wanted to sit down next to the woman and explain that their appearance was just the beginning—their minds, their hearts, inside and out, they were each other’s perfect complement. Were.
He had failed them both.
“Did he think someone murdered his wife?” Charlotte spoke, still looking at the board.
“He suspected it was more than a simple fall down the stairs. I’ve been reading his journal” Finn held up the leather-bound book. “He was fixated on the fact that a locket she always wore went missing. The evidence in the police report is consistent with a fall. She went down to the basement to get some canned goods. She lost her balance at the top of the stairs and fell backward.”
“Sad.”
As she continued, Finn was amazed at how much Charlotte had gleaned from the scant evidence surrounding them.
“So the husband, Venable?” Charlotte asked. When Finn nodded, she continued, “Venable starts the timeline on the morning of her death.” She returned to the bulletin board and ran a finger across the piece of red yarn that bisected it. “She died on a Monday.”
“I figured he knew she was wearing the necklace when he left that morning,” Finn said.
He came up behind Charlotte and placed his finger above hers. Her body fit perfectly in the circle of his torso. “Their youngest daughter, Clementine, found her when she stopped by.”
“Did she notice if Annabeth had the locket?” Charlotte asked.
“According to Venable’s notes, she was too shaken up,” Finn replied.