Ethan nodded, though not convincingly. “He does. But both things can’t be true, can they? People rewrite history, Ashlyn. They clean up their messes, often by dumping them over someone else’s fence. I’m pretty sure that’s what we’ve been reading. Two people trying to tidy up an ugly breakup.”
Ashlyn tipped her head back, watching the clouds overhead shred in the wind. Perhaps Ethan was right. Perhaps they were both to blame and hoped to exonerate themselves by rewriting the narrative. Over time, they may even have come to believe their own version of events. A lie, repeated often enough, eventually became the truth. Daniel taught her that. And yet the discrepancies between Belle’s and Hemi’s versions continued to niggle.
She looked at Ethan squarely, not ready to concede his point. “Does Hemi strike you as the kind of guy who’d go back on his word out of spite?”
Ethan propped his elbows on the railing and looked out over the harbor. “Under normal circumstances, no. But Goldie waved a fistful of cash at precisely the right moment, and Hemi—a.k.a. Steven Schwab—appears to have accepted her offer.”
It was true, though Ashlyn hated to admit it. Hemi had both means and motive, and the evidence suggesting he and Steven Schwab were one and the same was hard to deny. “I called Ruth a few days ago and asked her to try to find the actual story. Unfortunately, there isn’t much out there from the Review. The paper shut down in 1946, but maybe the piece is still floating around on microfilm somewhere.”
“And then what? Say we find the story. What have we proven? Come to that, why do we need to prove anything? The truth is we’re never going to know for sure who did what to whom, and it doesn’t matter. Whether we learn the truth or not, nothing changes. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think it’s time to admit we’re running out of road.”
Ashlyn answered with a grudging nod. “I just can’t help feeling we’ve missed something. They loved each other. Enough to throw away everything in order to be together. And then something went wrong. Something that shouldn’t have. You don’t find it strange that they’re both so bitter, both convinced that they were the real victim?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Have you ever known a couple who split up where both parties didn’t think they were the real victim? If you ask me, it’s a whitewash job on both their parts.”
“I don’t believe that,” Ashlyn shot back. “I don’t believe they were trying to create an alternate version of history. They believed every word they wrote.”
“Just wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true, Ashlyn.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. But this isn’t me just wanting it to be true, Ethan. It is true. I’m certain of it.”
Ethan cocked an eye at her. “You’re certain?”
Ashlyn bit her lip, checking an impulse to blurt out that yes, she was certain. And why she was certain. He didn’t understand. But then, how could he? Unless she told him everything.
Ethan was watching her, waiting for a response. “Ashlyn?”
She reached for her beer and took a long pull. Was she actually considering this? Revealing a secret she’d never felt safe enough to share with Daniel, simply to make her point? Risking whatever it was that might be starting between them?
“Can I tell you something?” she said quietly. “Something that’s going to sound a little weird? Okay, a lot weird.”
Ethan straightened, as if sensing the conversation was about to change. “Sure.”
“I have this thing. This . . . gift. There’s a name for it—psychometry. Most people think it’s made-up, but it’s real. At least for me.” She paused for another sip of beer before continuing. “I can . . . feel things. Echoes, I call them.”
He was frowning now, clearly perplexed. “Echoes?”
“They’re what’s left behind when we touch something. You. Me. We all leave echoes. And we leave them on the things we touch, like a residue. The stronger our feelings when we touch an object, the stronger the echoes. And I can read them, with my hands, with all of me, I suppose. At least that’s how it feels.”
She went quiet then, holding her breath as she attempted to glean his reaction. She could see him trying to work it out in his head, weighing what he’d just heard against the academic side of his nature.
Finally, a furrow appeared between his brows. “You’re saying everything you touch gives off these . . . echoes?”
Ashlyn released the breath she’d been holding. A question was good. “Not everything, no. At least not for me. For me, it’s just books.”
“Books.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her, blank-faced as he tried to digest what he’d been told. “And you just happen to own a bookstore.”
“Go figure, right?”
“How did . . . When . . .” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to ask. What must that be like? All day. Every day. Surrounded by books that are talking to you. How do you hear yourself think?”
Ashlyn couldn’t help smiling at his description. “It isn’t like that. It’s not words; it’s emotion, feelings that come through like tiny vibrations. But it only happens when I touch a book. I can feel what the owner felt when they were reading it—or in this case, when the authors were writing them. That’s why I’m certain there was something else going on with Hemi and Belle. Because I feel it when I touch the books. The same betrayal and loss from both of them. The same certainty that they’d been betrayed by the other.”
Ethan shook his head, clearly struggling to comprehend. “I’m sorry. I’m still trying to get my head around this. You’re saying you can read Belle’s emotions—and Hemi’s—with your fingers. All these years later. How is that even possible?”
Ashlyn shrugged. “I don’t know. It just is. But these books are different from anything I’ve ever come across. The feelings on both sides are so strong—and so similar. They’re just flipped, like mirror images. I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I am obsessing a little, but this isn’t some romantic fantasy I’m indulging. I feel it in my bones. There was a reason they both believed they’d been betrayed by the other. I felt it the first time I touched the books, and I still feel it.”
To her relief, Ethan gave no sign that he found any of this implausible, though he did take several moments to process. “Have you always been able to do it?” he asked finally.
“It started when I was twelve. At first I thought everyone could do it. Then I did some reading about it.” She looked down at the beer bottle in her hand, scraping at the soggy label with her thumbnail. “Turns out I’m a bit of a freak.”
“Or maybe you’re just more tuned in than most people.”
She scrunched one eye as she looked at him. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“Oh, I think it’s totally weird. I also think it’s amazing.”
Ashlyn found her throat suddenly choked with tears. “Thank you.”
“For calling you weird?”