“Don’t,” I finally managed.
“He was my brother, and even though he left here when I was just Owen’s age, I remember that he wasn’t always a nice guy. He’d lose his temper and become somebody else. He was always sorry later, but that rarely made it better. He had lots of girlfriends like Sandy Beach, girls who were probably used to rough treatment at home and didn’t find getting knocked around to be something they didn’t think they deserved.
“But you’re not like them. I thought maybe he’d changed when he met you. But every time I make an unexpected movement, you jump. And your eyes.” He shook his head. “It’s like the light goes out in them.”
I stood, feeling faint. “I don’t feel well. I’m going inside. Tell Owen to take his shower and I’ll have his ice cream ready when he’s done.”
Gibbes stood, too. “Whatever he did to you, you didn’t deserve it. You’re a strong, smart, and beautiful woman, Merritt. I don’t want to believe that he ever made you feel less than what you are.”
“Don’t,” I said again, stepping away from him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
Something clanged on the ground, and we looked down and saw the lid of my firefly jar, which in my agitation I must have twisted off. I looked back at the jar in time to see the last firefly lifting into the air, its body glowing brightly, then fading again like a wave good-bye as it disappeared into the branches of the oak tree.
Without a word I turned toward the house and entered the kitchen. I placed the empty jar on the table, accidentally knocking a file folder that had been perched on the edge onto the linoleum floor, a single sheet escaping and coming to rest next to the folder. I bent to retrieve the folder and paper, glancing at the page as I attempted to stick it back inside. I couldn’t figure out what I was looking at until I saw the header at the top of the typewritten page.
Northeast Airlines Flight 629, July 25, 1955. List of Passengers.
The purple text was from an old carbon-copy machine, the letters faded to a pale lilac.
I was about to close the folder and return it to the counter when my attention was caught by a single name about halfway down the list: Henry P. Holden, Bangor, Maine.
The fluorescent light above the kitchen sink began to flicker as I stared at the name, the intermittent buzzing matching the tempo of the blood that throbbed in my temples. I closed my eyes for a moment and almost felt Cal’s breath on the back of my neck as I recalled his words. A backdraft is an explosive event caused by a fire, resulting from rapid reintroduction of oxygen to combustion in an oxygen-depleted environment.
The door opened and Owen ran into the kitchen, followed by Gibbes at a more sedate pace. “I won! I won! I’m going to take the fastest shower ever and I’ll be down for my ice cream. I’ll let you have some, Merritt. And you can have some, too, Dr. Heyward,” he added as an afterthought as he raced through the kitchen door and headed toward the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” Gibbes asked, shutting the door behind him.
I held out the paper toward him, my finger pointing to the name.
“Henry P. Holden,” he read before lifting his eyes to mine again. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
I nodded. My tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth, and it took me two tries to speak. “I’m not sure. I mean, this has to be a coincidence, right?”
“What does?” he asked, his eyes wary.
I swallowed. “Holden was my mother’s maiden name. Henry Patrick was her father. Either this is a very strange coincidence, or Henry P. Holden could be my grandfather.”
We stood facing each other for a long time without speaking, listening as Owen turned on the shower upstairs, the water pipes creaking and groaning in the walls of the old house, but not loud enough to block out the memory of Cal’s words. There’s no such thing as accidents.
chapter 24
EDITH
JANUARY 1989
Edith led Gibbes by the hand down the church steps of Saint Helena’s and into the ancient churchyard, following his mother’s coffin. The old tombstones, some dating back more than two hundred years, leaned together conspiratorially. Gibbes was just two and a half months shy of his sixth birthday but looked like a little man in his black suit and tie, his sandy-colored hair a welcome shot of light against all the black.