22

BRIDGER

APRIL 14, 2013

Yesterday at breakfast Alora cleared her plate and went back for seconds. This morning, she’s pushing her food around with a fork.

Something happened to her last night. She won’t say what, and that’s irritating the hell out of me.

I close my eyes and think back to the party. The sea of faces swimming before me began to blur together after a while. Any one of them could be Alora’s future killer. But if I had to bet on it, I’d pick Trevor. And I bet he’s the reason she’s so quiet now. I just wish there was something I could do to make her feel better.

Grace sweeps into the dining room with a pitcher of orange juice. As she refills glasses, she frowns at Alora. “Sweetie, do you feel all right?”

“I’m fine,” Alora says in a flat voice. “I just didn’t get much sleep.”

She does look tired. But I know a leave-me-alone excuse when I hear one.

“Maybe you should try meditating,” the crazy woman, Mrs. Jamison, says. “That works wonders, doesn’t it, Charles?”

“Oh, yes. It relaxes the body and the mind.” Charles checks his watch and pats his wife’s hand. “Are you finished, dear? If we’re going to leave on time this afternoon, we should get started.”

By “get started,” they mean scour the property again for ghosts. That’s what they did all day yesterday and late into the night, according to Grace. I want to roll my eyes so bad.

Grace keeps her face blank as she says, “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you. The spirits are restless today. I can feel it in my bones,” Mrs. Jamison says.

After they depart, Mr. Palmer says, “I should be going too.”

“I thought you were staying until the end of the day.” Grace puts the orange juice pitcher down and props one hand on her hip.

“I need to head out earlier than I thought I would.” He rakes his fingers through his hair as he stands. “Although I do hate leaving such wonderful company.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay longer. Especially since I barely saw you yesterday,” Grace says.

“No, I really need to get going.”

“Do you need help with your luggage?”

“No.” Mr. Palmer’s voice is sharp and reverberates throughout the room. Then he smiles. “I’m sorry. I mean I can handle it.”

“Oh, okay. At least let me walk you out.”

Mr. Palmer seems uncomfortable, his smile forced. He nods at me before heading to the foyer. Grace follows.

When they’re out of earshot, Alora lets out a sigh. “I’m glad he’s leaving.”

“Why?” While Mr. Palmer does have an oddness about him, he doesn’t appear overly strange. I’ve barely seen him around since I got here.

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe it’s because I’m sick of seeing Aunt Grace acting like a teenager around him.”

“Or maybe you just don’t like his glasses.” I try to make the comment sound like a joke, but I’m serious. People in the past relied on glasses. In my time they’re practically unheard of, except for those idiotic Purists.

For the first time since last night, Alora cracks a grin. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. They’re the dorkiest things I’ve ever seen.”

Now that Alora has stopped looking like the world is about to end, I want her to stay that way. Even though I’m dying to find out what upset her in the first place. “So, what are you going to do today?”

“I really need to study for this test I have to make up tomorrow,” she says, her eyebrows raising.

“Okay, so why do I get the feeling you have something else in mind?”

Alora glances at the foyer, where Grace is still talking to Mr. Palmer. She whispers, “Because I do.”

I whisper back, “And what would that be?”

“I’ve been calling the numbers for every John Miller around Atlanta I can find, but it would help if I knew exactly where he used to live.”

I think for a moment and grin, realizing what she has in mind. “You want to go back to the attic.”

“Yes, but Aunt Grace will be here all day and she won’t let me up there.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Alora bites her lip. “Can you distract her for a while? Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes so I can sneak up there again.”

A half hour later, I’m still sitting in the dining room with Grace and the ghost hunters.

Alora went upstairs right after Mr. Palmer left. Her excuse was that she wanted to take a nap. When Grace came back to clean up the dining room, I asked her if she had time to tell me about the history of the inn. Grace was surprised, but she agreed. The Jamisons came through soon after and joined us.

Grace is in the middle of a tale about a Civil War soldier who was supposedly buried on the property when I spot Alora on the stairs. She waves for me to join her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, interrupting Grace. “I forgot that I’m supposed to . . . call someone right now.”

“Really?” Grace asks.

Standing, I say, “Yes. It’s about my father.”

“Well, okay.” Grace looks at the Jamisons. “Do y’all want to hear the rest?”

At their enthusiastic encouragement, Grace continues with the story while I slip out. “That was smooth,” Alora says when I get to the top of the stairs.

“Hey, it worked.”

From the way Alora is beaming, I can tell she found something. “What did you get?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

She leads me to her bedroom and locks the door behind us. I inhale the scent of something floral. It’s the same smell that always lingers on Alora. And I can’t stop staring at everything. It’s so purple.

Vika would have hated it.

I close my eyes and tell myself to get a grip. Alora and Vika are two different people who live, or lived, in two different centuries. Of course they’re different.

Alora grabs a blue book off her desk and takes it to her bed. I hurry over and sit next to her.

We study the cover first. It’s a marbleized blue with a silver eagle and the words THESE ARE THE DAYS . . . 1988 stamped on the front. The spine crackles as Alora opens it, and a musty smell filters out as she flips through the pages.

“This is Dad’s senior yearbook.” She flips back to the front. The first pages are covered with notes and signatures of students who went to school with her father. She finds what she’s looking for on the first printed page—the name of her father’s hometown.

Larkspring, Georgia.

The place her aunt wouldn’t even tell her about.

Alora hands the book to me. She then goes to her desk and activates the laptop.

After a minute, she types something. “That’s all I needed. I keep getting too many hits for John Miller, but this will help me narrow it down.”

I could probably find the information way faster than she will with her computer, but I can’t exactly whip out my DataLink in front of her. I join her at the desk.

When Alora gets a hit, she lets out a triumphant whoop and takes out her phone. “He lives in Covington now, just outside of Atlanta,” she says as she dials the number displayed on the laptop screen. The transformation from gloomy Alora is nice. I find myself smiling with her and my pulse races.

I tell myself it’s because we’re closer to finding answers.

Her eyes grow wide after a few seconds. “Hi, is this John Miller?”

I listen as she asks questions and answers some in return, growing more excited. While she’s talking, I wonder if she has something in here that could help me figure out her past. I take in everything. The neatly made bed, dresser with girl stuff sprinkled across the top, her desk. The desk has the laptop and the stack of yearbooks. There’s also something else, a deep purple book. It’s blank on the front. I wonder if it’s a journal.

“Wow,” Alora says in a breathy voice. I turn back around. She’s still holding her phone. Her cheeks are pink.

“I take it that was the right guy?”

“Yep. Oh my God, I can’t believe I found him.”

Without warning, she jumps up and throws her arms around me. I can’t move. All I can concentrate on is her body pressed against mine. I’m aware of every curve and every contour. Vika was the last person to touch me like this.

Alora pulls away, looking up at me. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. Everything.

“No,” I whisper.

Neither one of us can look away. I’m caught up in searching the details of her face. The concerned look in her eyes. The tilt of her nose. The curve of her lips. I can’t stop staring at those lips.

A pounding sound shatters the moment.

We break apart, our heads snapping toward the door.

“Alora, what’s going on?” Grace asks in a sharp tone.

Alora’s eyes slide to the yearbook. “Hide it,” she hisses while closing the laptop. I grab the yearbook and shove it under her bed while she pulls a large textbook out of a bag and places it on the desk.

“Ready?” she whispers.

I nod.

Grace’s brows are drawn together when Alora opens the door. Her face rapidly evolves from concern to confusion to anger. “What are you two doing in here?”

“Bridger was helping me study.”

Grace turns her attention on me. “I thought you said you had to call someone about your father.”

I feel myself blushing. This is going from bad to worse. It’s like I’m getting interrogated by my mother. But I can’t blame Grace. A guy who’s new in town caught alone in her niece’s locked bedroom doesn’t look good.

Alora interrupts before I have to tell another lie. “He was finished and I needed someone to quiz me. He told me you were busy with the Jamisons downstairs. And you know I need to pass this test. So . . .”

Grace’s face relaxes some, but she still doesn’t look convinced. “Fine. But I don’t know why y’all locked the door. That’s not necessary for studying.”