“You will seek the raven, as the raven has scoured the earth in search of you.”
It had been among the last words spoken by Joan Waterhouse before she withdrew herself from Addison’s presence. She’d said the raven sought Addison at night, with a desire to make her like him, whatever he was now. At least she hadn’t said he desired to kill her or do her harm. Or maybe he did, and Joan had left that part out.
How did Corbin even know he had a sister, and how long had he known?
Maybe their father had told him.
Addison told herself it didn’t matter. She had other more pressing issues to deal with, starting with an overdue meet-and-greet with Theodore Price, the sole survivor of the car crash.
Theodore Price’s house was a modest, single-level, Cape Cod style, with a white exterior made of wood slats. Blue shutters trimmed the front windows. The yard was tidy and symmetrical, right down to a bi-level row of perfect, rectangular shrubs, looking like they’d been manicured by Edward Scissorhands himself.
Addison walked to the front door and knocked. A trim man with an absence of hair answered. He leaned against the side of the door and crossed his arms, staring at Addison like she’d interrupted his favorite television program. He was much different than the charming, attractive boy he’d been in his youth. And yet, his eyes were the same. They still had the same gentle glimmer they’d had in the car the day Addison had seen him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I hope so,” Addison said. “I’m looking for Theodore Price. Am I at the right house?”
He nodded. “Everyone calls me Theo. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Scarlett Whittaker and Sara Belle.”
Theo stepped back and waved a hand back and forth. “Nope, no thank you. I’ve relived that nightmare enough times. I’m done with it.”
He attempted to swing the door closed, but Addison wedged her foot inside before he had the chance.
“Please,” she said. “I have no interest in dredging up the past and making you relive it. I’m only looking for a few answers to just a few questions, and then I’ll never bother you again.”
He stared down at Addison’s shoe, a knee-high black boot—a boot blocking him from immediate freedom. “Move your foot, lady. Okay?”
It wasn’t the nicest response she’d ever heard.
It wasn’t icy, either.
If anything, it was a plea for understanding, which played on an emotion she didn’t want to have at the moment—guilt.
“If you could hear me out, I’d appreciate it,” she said. “Five minutes.”
“Why should I?”
“If you let me in, I’ll explain.”
He considered her request. “No. Now please leave.”
His use of the word please furthered her guilt. She retracted her shoe and nodded.
“I understand how you must feel,” she said, “and you don’t know me, so why would you talk to me? I guess I’ll figure it out another way.”
He nodded. “Thank you for understanding.”
The door closed, and as she turned, she heard the lock click. She bent down and sat on his front porch step, wishing she could reenact the scene, try again another way. A few minutes passed and she took out her cell phone, sending Briggs a text message:
You’ve had time to think.
Any chance you’ve decided I could take a look at the files today?
Two minutes later, he hadn’t responded, and she decided to leave. Halfway back to the car the lock on Theo’s door clicked again, and she turned.
Theo stepped outside. “What did you mean when you said you’d figure it out some other way? Figure what out?”
“I don’t know ... everything, I guess.”
“What’s everything?”
It was her chance, her one chance for a redo.
Where to begin?
“I want to know what really happened the day of the car accident. I want to know who the driver of the other car is, and why he fled the scene, leaving Scarlett and Sara to die, and you in critical condition. I want to know why the Belles became hermits in the wake of their daughter’s death. A few years in hibernation? Yeah. Okay. It makes sense. Grief is a process. But decades? Seems like a long time to never get over it enough to live a decent life. I’d like to know why Cecilia Belle’s mother Josephine was banned from visiting her daughter, until one day when they allowed her to come over, and then she died the day after that. I’d also like to know what happened to Libby Carrington.”
“Wow,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing. All these questions I have? I intend to find answers for every single one.”
“Are you some newbie detective with nothing better to do than scour old case files? I don’t know if they told you, but you’re not the first one to try and reopen the case. You’re not the second either. I mean, it’s been a long time since anyone has, but do you get where I’m going with this?”
“No one ever gets anywhere.”
“Right, and talking about it got old about twenty years ago.”
“I’m not a detective,” she said. “I don’t work for a department, either, or a news agency.”
“Then who are you?”
“Someone who knows more than they should sometimes.”
“Ahh, well, you’re going to need to fill in the blanks.”
The door had already been closed on her once.
Why not take a risk?
“Have you ever had a dream you couldn’t explain?” she asked.
He scratched his head. “I still don’t follow.”
“Have you ever dreamed about an event in your life or in the life of someone else and discovered something you didn’t know—something you found out really happened? It may not have even been a dream. It could have been intuition. Let’s say you knew you needed to call a friend one day, and when you did, you learned he was going through a depression because he’d just had an argument with his wife, which led to her saying she wanted a divorce.”
She stared at the blank look on his face.
He hadn’t.
She was losing him.
Again.
“I ... uhh ... no,” he said. “Why?”
“I have those experiences sometimes.”
He shrugged. “Why tell me?”
“I know a few things about all the mysterious events surrounding Belle Manor. Even though they happened long ago, I’ve seen them.”
“You’re saying you dreamed about something you couldn’t know any other way, and it turned out to be true?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Ahh, you know, I don’t believe in those things. Not to take away from your own experience or anything. I just don’t.”
His eyes left hers and wandered back inside the house.
He was seeking a second escape.
“I have a pot roast in the oven,” he said, “and my wife will be home in about twenty minutes. I should go. Good luck on your ... you know ... what you’re trying to do.”
He turned and walked inside the house.
Think, Addison.
Think fast.
“You were taking Sara to get ice cream the day she died,” Addison said.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve told a lot of people the story.”
“You wanted to take Scarlett to see a movie.” Addison thought back to the conversation he’d had with Scarlett in the car. “American Graffiti was playing at the drive in. She said she couldn’t go. She was staying the night at Belle Manor.”
“Told a lot of people that too.”
“Scarlett got upset with you because you offered Sara a second scoop of ice cream if you could steal Scarlett away to watch the movie.”
He seemed intrigued now. Addison could tell. But it still wasn’t enough.
“I’m sure you’ve talked to at least a few people about everything I just told you,” she said, “but what about when you asked Scarlett what had gotten into her and told her she was acting kind of crazy? She apologized and said she had lost something, but she didn’t tell you what she’d lost.”
Theo staggered toward her. “How did you ...? How ...? There’s no way. You couldn’t know the rest of our conversation. No one knows I told her she was acting crazy.”
“Theo,” Addison said, “I think you should let me in.”