Kaine snatched the crowbar from the floor, hooked it on the next floorboard, and tugged. A small chunk gave way. She snarled, leveled the bar at the floor, and lunged with a primal yell. Grant would probably come running now. Too bad she wasn’t here at Foster Hill House alone and Danny’s killer had come to confront her. She had a crowbar and was in the mood to use it on his face.
Two of the planks caved in as if made of styrofoam instead of wood. Another swipe with the crowbar demolished more. Surprised at how easily they cracked and the hollow beneath, Kaine took another hooking throw. The floor now had a hole the size of a small lockbox. The cavity she’d opened gaped at her with a century’s worth of dust inside. She let the crowbar hang at her side, breathing heavily from the three angry swipes at the floor. She blinked, wiping dust from her eyes and second-guessing her suicidal mission to contract sarcoidosis.
Tossing the crowbar to the floor, Kaine slid the work light over so it could light up the gap. The floor’s framing bordered the sides of the cavity. These floorboards had cracked so easily in comparison to the others she’d pried up earlier. Kaine reached down and pulled back the remnants of the boards that were still attached. She crouched to get a better look.
A bundle lay between the joists, wrapped in aged cotton material that was eaten away by bugs and time. Frowning, she reached in and carefully lifted it, hoping it wouldn’t disintegrate from her touch. It didn’t. The calico cloth was faded and worn, but dry. Her frustration ebbed away as she peeled back the layers of material.
Her eyes widened.
“No way.”
Kaine ran her hand gently over the printed text on the sheaf of loose pages in her lap. The pages had been torn from their original binding and stacked. At the top of the musty typescript was the title Great Expectations, and in the margins, a woman’s intricate penmanship. Her fingers tingled with the knowledge she was holding a page that matched the one she’d found in the library downstairs. She’d discovered more notes from the nameless, haunted soul.
Kaine focused on the top header of one of the pages: Save me, oh God. Deliver me.
These had to be the writings of Gabriella. They had to be!
The handwriting offered a familiar sentiment, echoing with her soul. She traced the letters with her index finger, her heart reaching through time and linking desperate hands with the writer.
I will not survive.
Chapter 25
Jvy
Ivy slogged through the mud. Her visit with Maggie at the widow’s house had been pleasant, and her conscience eased a bit from using the poor girl the other day on her jaunt to the orphanage. Maggie was still timid, but she seemed at home in her great-aunt’s house, and Ivy was pleased she’d coaxed a smile from her more than once. Now, Ivy hurried across the road from the mercantile, dodging a wagon. She hopped onto the boardwalk, a slop of mud falling off her shoe. Ivy started at a black gloved hand that wrapped around her wrist. Foggerty stared at her through black eyes. His slouched hat covered his forehead and brushed his bushy eyebrows. He squeezed Ivy’s arm.
“Time you leave the dead to rest, wouldn’t you say?”
“Pardon me?” Ivy tugged her arm away. The odd looks, the sidestepping, Ivy knew that Joel had been right. Since the paper published her claims that Gabriella’s baby could still be alive, the entire town viewed her with even deeper curiosity than before. It didn’t help that the paper insinuated she talked to the dead.
Mr. Foggerty’s bony shoulders raised in a shrug. Ivy backed away a step. The old trapper unnerved her with his sharp gaze.
“A passin’ fancy is one thing, but this witchery of claiming you see a dead child? Did ya see it in the afterlife?” He appeared far too curious, as if ghosts and spirits intrigued rather than frightened him.
“No!” Ivy adjusted her grip on her purse and eyed the man with suspicion. “I never claimed to see the baby.” She stiffened. The rumors were becoming exaggerated. “I only—”
“The town knows all about your death journal. But your toyin’ with the souls of the dead?”
“How do you know the baby is dead?” Ivy demanded. Either Mr. Foggerty was a nosy and bored old man or he knew more than he was saying.
He stared at her. “Stands to reason, don’t it?”
Ivy spun on her heel and crossed the street to the boardwalk on the opposite side. She glanced over her shoulder, but Mr. Foggerty was rambling down the road, muttering to himself. The man’s assumption that the baby was dead only increased Ivy’s determination. While she wasn’t foolish enough to place herself in harm’s way again, she would make sure the sheriff and Joel were held accountable—to find justice for Gabriella and to rescue her infant.
Ivy redirected her path toward the jailhouse. Didn’t they at least owe her the courtesy of an update on the search? No. Ivy knew Joel believed they owed her nothing.
Ivy approached the jail, normally empty save for a drunk or two. She was reaching for the door when she heard voices filtering through the partially open window next to it.
“. . . I want to kill him.”
Joel’s hard voice stunned Ivy. She peeked through the window, careful not to let the men see her. Joel was slouched in a chair, elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Settle down, Cunningham.” The sheriff sat opposite him, behind his desk. “We don’t need you personalizing this and becoming irrational.”
“I don’t like the fact Ivy was attacked at Foster Hill House, and then he followed her again at the orphanage. He’s obviously made a connection that she recognizes him, or he’s toying with her for some sadistic reason—maybe the same as why he killed Gabriella? And this baby has Ivy all out of sorts.”
Sheriff Dunst shrugged. “It has me out of sorts too. There’s been nothing to go on. If you hadn’t found that cradle at the house, I’d say the baby wasn’t a part of the equation and it was left wherever that girl came from. But the cradle with its obvious recent use definitely moves me.”
Ivy watched Sheriff Dunst shove back in his chair, the legs scraping against the wood floor. “Talk. I need coffee.” He stood and crossed the room to the potbelly stove and lifted the coffeepot. “Want any?”
Joel nodded. Ivy swallowed. She could use some as well, but she wasn’t ready to interrupt the conversation, however awful it was that she was eavesdropping. Joel hadn’t been forthcoming with her, and she wanted to know where the investigation was leading them.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Joel propped his hands behind his head. “The girl was killed and her body hidden at the base of Foster Hill House. Ivy was attacked inside. She claims to have seen a book with scribblings in it she attributes to Gabriella.”