Page 85 of Writing On The Wall

“Oh, well, we heard this was a great spot for stargazing,” she says, gesturing with a circular motion to the dimly lit parking lot where we’re loitering. “You wouldn’t think so with all the light pollution, but word is, this is the place to be. Yup.” She swings her arms awkwardly while her eyes survey the area.

Ross’s friend gives him a head tilt to the car, seemingly in a hurry to get somewhere. “We gotta go.”

Ivy’s brother climbs into the passenger seat and tosses me the bent piece of wire. He tries to appear casual, but his body is rigid with tension. Forcing a chuckle, he shakes his head. “Whatever you think I have, it’s not here. I don’t stash things in my car anymore, Vee.”

She jumps forward, her hand reaching out as the car starts, urgency in her voice. “But you found something that day you were in my house. What was it?”

He rolls the window down, his voice stretching over the breeze as the car pulls away. “Pop had hiding places, too.”

“Well, that was unhelpful,” she whines as she watches the retreating vehicle.

“Come on, Nancy Drew,” I begin, sliding my arm around her waist again and leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “It’s time to go home.”

As I drive us to Ivy’s place, I can’t shake the awareness of how differently things could have turned out. My heart slowly settles into a steadier rhythm, but Ivy’s mind is still racing as she rattles off every possible meaning behind Ross’s cryptic words.

I park her car and she runs into her house, opening drawers and searching desperately. “It has to be here somewhere!”

“Hey, look at me for a second, will you?” I smile, turning her shoulders toward me. “It’s almost three in the morning. You need sleep. And whatever Ross found, it’s hidden well enough that your Gran and her tenants probably haven’t found it, even after all these years. Go to bed. We’ll look for it tomorrow.”

Her eyes finally rest on mine as she rubs her forehead. “You’re right. Okay. Sleep. I need sleep.”

I kiss her goodnight and collapse onto her uncomfortable sofa. I could ask to use the spare inflatable mattress, but even walking into her room feels like too much temptation right now. My control and logic are already hanging by a thread. I must have been out of my mind to let her rope me into this with so little questioning.

But I’m realizing there is very little I wouldn’t do for her.

CHAPTER FORTY

IVY

You know what’s worse than back sweat? Boob sweat—because there’s no way to dab anything away without drawing attention to the location of the unfortunate perspiration. And I currently can’t seem to calm my nervous system enough to stop this humiliating response, not only because I’m sitting in C.J.’s office, but also because I’m about to rip off a very big Band-Aid.

Mother of pearl, I think I just audibly gulped.

Calm the heck down, Marsh.

“What did you wanna talk about, honey?” C.J. asks, placing a large stack of papers and a coffee cup on her desk as she takes a seat.

I nearly melt every time she talks to me in that matronly tone. I know it’s just who she is, but I tell myself it’s because I’m her favorite. It’s all part of my little make-believe world, one I’m praying I won’t be setting up in flames in the next two minutes.

Here goes nothin’.

“C.J…I need to tell you something. I probably should’ve told you before you hired me…”

“Go on,” she says encouragingly. “But if you murdered someone…at least tell me they deserved it.”

I sigh. “No murders…yet.”

“Dang it. I’ve always wanted to be an accomplice in burying a body. Oh well, out with it, then.”

“Okay…” I take another shaky breath before I word vomit my lifelong struggles to C.J. I tell her about everything—hiding my learning disabilities from my parents, overcompensating to be the uncomplicated child, putting in extra hours of work just to get by. She doesn’t fidget or show any emotion in her face as I continue, which only seems to fuel me on. My words begin falling out haphazardly, like a bag of scrabble letters being turned upside down. I can’t bring myself to make eye contact, instead focusing on various objects around her office as I continue rambling. I’m barely coherent by the time I conclude, at least managing to throw in a disclaimer at the end. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you during my interview. And I understand if—if you need to reevaluate my position here.”

When I finally meet her eyes, I see a familiar warmth. Her face softens with kindness, calming my stampeding heart.

“Ivy June, how long has this been twistin’ you up inside?”

“Since you hired me. Well, technically, most of my life, but…”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry you’ve had to struggle with this. Does it in any way affect your students ability to learn?”

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