Page 61 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Cath, what’s going on? You’re acting odd.” He’s not stupid; he knows this is not a sudden illness. He scribbles down his number on a paper and hands it to me. “Call me later and let me know how you are.”

I rush through the garden and out the gate.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

I barely notice the houses, or anything at all, as I head down the hill, away from the village. I don’t know where I’m going, but this is countryside, not wilderness. There are paths everywhere. I’ll find my way, use my phone if I need to. At the bottom of the hill, I go through a stile and onto a footpath, which takes me across a pasture, pale green in the morning light. I dodge cow pats, pass through splotches of dandelions bobbing in the breeze. It was cowardly the way I ran off, but I wasn’t lying. I didn’t feel well.

The path takes me into the woods, where it’s cooler and damp. I keep my eyes down to watch for rocks and tree roots so I don’t trip. Walking like this requires a welcome kind of focus, which pushes everything else out. But then there’s my mother talking to me again.I said rush in, Cath, not run the other way.She had no idea how hard I’ve tried to resist her pattern. I’ll be damned if I’m going to fall into it now.

As the path slopes downward, the forest starts to thin. I catch glints of water as I descend until I’m on flat ground, at the edge of a broad green meadow. The path is barely visible in the tall grass. I let my fingers brush the tips as I walk toward the river. It’s widerthan I expected and shallow. The water is clear; tiny fish, jumpy and indecisive, dart this way and that above smooth, speckled rocks. It’s calming to walk along the river and follow its wide, gentle bends. But after one sharper arc, I stop. Way up high in front of me, crossing the valley from one peak to another, is an enormous stately bridge, supported by a row of high arches. It looks like an aqueduct or, more likely, a railroad bridge, the kind you see in action movies where a steam engine bullets out of a mountain tunnel to reveal men brawling on its roof, nearly pitching off the edge as the train crosses high above the river.

“It’s something, isn’t it?”

An elderly man in a fly-fishing vest and waders is sitting by the river’s edge, an open thermos beside him.

“It certainly is,” I say, looking up at the bridge.

The fisherman puts the top back on the thermos. He gets up and rambles toward me. “That’s the viaduct. Built in 1863 as part of the railway connecting London and Manchester.”

“It’s impressive.”

“Limestone. The highest of those arches is seventy feet.”

“It’s quite beautiful,” I say. “Very beautiful.”

“?‘The valley is gone, and the Gods with it; and now, every fool in Buxton can be in Bakewell in half an hour, and every fool in Bakewell at Buxton.’ That’s what John Ruskin said, he did. Called it good for nothing but an exchange of fools. And now there’s no more train. It stopped running in 1968. What might Ruskin say about that? A big structure cutting across this beautiful valley for cycling and walking. It’s called the Monsal Trail now. Lovely view of the valley from up there, I’ll give it that. You’re visiting from?”

“America. New York.”

“Crikey, that far?”

I take a photograph of the viaduct, but realize if I get myself in the picture it will give a better sense of how tall it is. I feel silly taking a selfie, so I ask the man to take a photo of me with the viaduct in the background.

“There you go, a nice souvenir for you to bring home.” He hands back the phone. “Tell your Yankee mates about our magical arches.”

“Pardon?”

He chuckles. “Not magic, I suppose. Engineering, but like you said, beautiful.”

I look up at the bridge. There are five arches. The river below is shallow and calm with a path running along it. On one side, trees grow right to the bank, their boughs bending over the water. On the other, a meadow and a trail. All that’s missing is a low, stone house with a single chimney.

I turn back to the fisherman, but he’s already on his way. I know it’s impossible, but I can’t help thinking about the story my mother used to tell me. The one with the old house and the path along the river to the bridge. A bridge with five tall arches that were a portal to adventure via the little train that ran above. This is crazy, but I feel like I’m in her story. This is exactly how I pictured all of it. I saw it this way because this is how my mother described it. But that’s impossible. I look back at the bridge, the river, the path snaking along it. What is happening? First I hear my mother in Dev’s garden, and now I’m seeing her stories? All of this defies logic. Is this part of grief, a swirl of emotion that has gotten me all mixed up? But I know this place, like I’ve mapped it out in a dream. I can’t pretend I don’t. It’s a story, but it’s real. Impossible to believe, impossible to dismiss.

I walk toward the viaduct. The closer I get, the higher it seems. When I’m directly beneath an arch, I lift up my arms, tip back my head, and close my eyes, just the way I imagined doing it when mymother spun the story. There is a gentle breeze, and I can feel the rumble as the little train approaches. I can hear the gears groan as the train stops above me and the doors slide open, ready for me to enter and go on a journey to a place where I am safe, where I am not seeking answers and not waiting for anyone, because everything I want to know and everyone I love is already there.

CHAPTER FORTY

Amity is rolling up a yoga mat in the living room when I walk in. Wyatt, still in his pajamas and robe, sits on the couch. He has the bleary face and rumpled hair of a just-roused toddler.

“Rough night last night?” I say, trying to sound normal.

“Don’t ask,” he says. “Who knew trivia was a drinking game?”

“You played trivia?”

Amity hands Wyatt her water bottle and says, “Drink.”

“How’d you do?” I ask.

---