Page 98 of Demise

“Steph,” I answer as I take a step.

He nods. “Everything okay?”

I don’t answer for a moment, my mind running wild with thoughts and questions before I look up to him.

“Do you think my mom was a witch?”

Ronan’s face doesn’t react for a few seconds before he responds brusquely.

“No.”

I wait for him to elaborate but when he doesn’t, I lean forward.

“Noooo?”

“Why do you think she was?” he asks.

“Something Horris Hutchinson said last night. He made it seem like everyone thinks she’s one. Like people expected me to bleed black at mine and Asher’s ceremony.” I say with a scrunched up nose.

Ronan is careful with his words as he nods.

“There were some who…had theories. My father was crazed back then, intent that we had more witches among us. For years, he had women slaughtered for just looking a little off. The hysteria from the trials didn’t die in 1693, it evolved.”

“So, your father was the one who killed my mother?”

His head moves back and forth. “I’m not sure. That’s who I suspected when it happened, but then again, he never did his own dirty work. It’s more likely he sent an eliminator after her.”

“Like Vincent’s parents?” I ask.

He gives me a pained wince and nods.

What’s worse? The idea of your father, father-in-law, or boyfriend’s parents being responsible for your mother’s death? I’ll give you a spoiler, all of them fucking suck.

“Why are you so sure that my mom wasn’t a witch?” I ask, pushing again.

“Her maiden name isn’t in the book,” he says simply.

“Book? What book?”

His jaw sets like he realizes he said something he shouldn’t have. I watch as he seems to have an internal battle with himself before he speaks.

“Thomas Putnam’s journal.”

“He had a journal? And you’ve read it?”

He nods. “I have. The first entry was written in 1682, and the last page was in 1699, a few days before his death.”

“He kept the same journal for almost twenty years?” I ask.

He nods. “It wasn’t like a daily entry or anything. Only his innermost thoughts. It’s a family treasure. Christopher keeps it practically stitched to his hand, much like my father did. When we were young, and my father would go to the country club or something, Christopher and I would break into his office and read it. I was a lot younger, so it bored me, but Christopher became obsessed with it, much like my father and his father before him. I wouldn’t doubt that he has the entire thing committed to memory.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

Ronan looks out over the backyard before gesturing to the house. I move inside with him and once the door is shut, he begins speaking again.

“Most of the entries are personal, speaking about his family, an unnamed woman he was in love with, things like that. However, when his daughter Ann was essentially responsible for the trials in 1692, he rarely wrote about anything but that.”

“Like what?” I ask, oddly curious and desperate for more information.

---