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I back away, leaving him another victim of a senseless crime. “Good girl,” a voice whispers from the darkness.
My body goes rigid, hearing the familiar words Kragen said to me so many times. Did he find me? I sniff the air, expecting to be met with the scent of sulfur. Instead, I’m met with the now familiar smell of the city.
“You’re imagining things, Elsie,” I say aloud. “That’sa common saying,” I try to reassure myself. Either way, I’m not going to wait around to find out. I turn, heading to the river edge, leaving the still alive body naked and alone. Usually, I’m more careful. With the combination of discovering the journal and being too hungry, I was reckless.
The fresh air of the river calms the turmoil slightly. I spend the rest of the night walking around the city and replaying Thorne’s journal in my mind.
TEN
a visitor
“Elsie, dear. Breakfast is ready,”Ms. Francis announces from the other side of the honeymoon suite door. “I hope you like waffles.”
“My favorite,” I lie. “I’ll be right down.” I listen as she knocks on the other guests’ doors before heading back down the stairs.
After returning to the room, I’ve been curled into a corner, stuck deep in my self-pity, my fingers running mindlessly over the leather-bound journal. Through the years I’ve often wondered if the feelings and emotions I have toward Thorne are nothing more than “puppy love.” Thorne was the only man to ever talk to me—the only man to show me attention. Maybe the naive, sickly, demon-possessed girl fell for the first man with a pulse who looked at her.
As I touch the leather that Thorne held in his hands,I know that’s not the case. It was more than a schoolgirl crush. He felt it, too.
The sound of a door closing in the room next to me draws me back to the present. I carefully place the journal under my pillow and make sure there isn’t any blood on my chin before exiting the room and heading downstairs.
“Good morning,” I greet my only connection to Thorne. Ms. Francis is sitting at the table we shared yesterday with a plate in front of her and a full one on the opposite side.
“Good morning, Elsie. I took the liberty of making you a plate. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, thank you.” I quickly begin moving the food around on my plate, focusing on holding back the sadness that I carried with me this morning.
“Both guests are checking out this morning, so it may be just the two of us for a few days. I hope that doesn’t bother you,” Ms. Francis says, taking a bite of eggs. She smiles, showing a dimple on the side of her cheek, and for a brief moment, I see a hint of her ancestor.
“Of course not. But please don’t feel like you have to make meals for me. I’ll just grab something in town.”
“Hosh posh,” she scolds. “You’re a paying guest, and all of my paying guests receive meals. It’s part of the service.”
“You’re too kind.”
She laughs deeply. “There are some who woulddisagree.” I manage to move the food around enough that it appears I ate part of the breakfast.
While Francis performs the business aspect of checking the rest of the guests out, I clean the remaining food from the meal, taking the dishes into the kitchen.
Knowing the history of Charleston and the homes from the area, I know this room isn’t original to the home. Still, my mind plays images of Thorne moving around the room…sitting at the small table next to the fireplace, picking up his son, and bouncing him on his knee.
Overwhelming sadness fills me at the thought of where our lives turned. At least he had a family and hopefully, a chance at happiness. Filling the sink with warm water, I mindlessly wash the dishes. It doesn’t take long before the kitchen is clean, and the evidence of breakfast is put away.
“Did you do all of this?” Ms. Francis asks from behind me.
I turn, facing the elderly woman. “I did. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Never. Thank you.”
“I thought maybe you could give me a history lesson on your family and the home.”
She props her hands on her hips with a smile. “Well, since you took my job away, that sounds perfect. I need to clean the empty roomsfirst.”
“I’ll help you,” I interrupt. “We can talk while we work.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she retorts.
“You didn’t. I’m volunteering. Consider it an exchange for your knowledge.” I pull off the apron I’m wearing and prop my hands on my hips, copying her stance.
