Page 40 of The Souls of Lost Lake
Wren had had enough. She spun on her heel to head back into the house, then stilled. There, on the doorstep, was her name.Arwen. Written in chalk. Even worse was the name below it.Ava. A lone object lay beside it. Wren bent and lifted it. The missing shoe to the doll inside the house. Holding the little shoe up to the light, Wren bit back a whimper of fear. It was old, cracked, and ... stained with blood.
17
Ava
“Who’s Emmaline?” Ava asked from her perch on the floor in Noah’s church office. She leaned against the wall, chewing on the end of a pencil and staring at the door, wishing she had enough personal gumption to just get up and walk out. But walk to where was the burning question, and avoiding Tempter’s Creek in its roiled-up condition was also critical.
Noah’s head jerked up from his study of the Bible. The old Book was splayed in front of him on his desk. Its pages were crisp and new. It looked like he hardly read it, truth be told.
“Where’d you hear that name?” It was apparent he wasn’t pleased with her question, but Ava met his stare with an innocent one of her own.
“Saw her letter on your desk.” She chewed the pencil a little harder underneath his critical eye.
“And you opened it and read it?”
Ava shrugged. “Figured it was there and somethin’ to do. You’re the one who left it out in the open.”
“Under the assumption that general etiquette protocol would be applied in the situation and...” Noah’s words fell flat and he bent his head, then flexed his neck.
“Not going to tell me who she is, then?”
Noah ran his hand under his nose, sniffing, agitated. He dropped his palm on his Bible. “No. I’m not.”
Ava nodded, bit down harder, and felt the pencil snap between her teeth. “You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” Might as well call it out and be done with it. People danced around the truth too much, and if the truth was there to be had, a person best claim it. There was enough question in life as it was.
Noah grimaced at her honesty but shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t. I don’t know what to do about any of this.”
“You get yourself into scrapes a lot, don’tcha, Preacher?” It was a simple observation she’d already found out by reading his body language. The man was as jumpy as a frog on a hot iron griddle.
“Why do you ask that?” he retorted, his dark eyes flashing.
Ava rolled the two pencil halves in her fingers. “Well, ’cause you’re in one and don’t seem to know how to get out. A person who doesn’t get into scrapes learned a long time ago how to get outta them—or avoid them.”
Noah studied her for a long moment. Ava squirmed. Finally he spoke. “You’re a deep thinker, aren’t you?”
“Me?” Her voice squeaked. She straightened against the wall from her spot on the floor, ignoring the chair that sat in front of Noah’s desk, empty and ready if she wanted it.
“Yes,” he answered.
Ava shook her head vehemently. “Don’t think so. I just observe. You know? A kid learns to do that when her parents are dead and she’s gotta look out for herself.”
“Mmm.” Noah nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to relax a bit. Maybe it was the distraction of focusing on her life instead of his. “And you don’t recall your family? At all?”
Now it was her turn to squirm. “Little pieces of them, I remember,” she answered, then blanched. Little pieces. Perhaps the wrong description considering what had supposedly happened to them.
“Why did you come to the church last night?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Ava knew Noah Pritchard hadbeen waiting to ask it since he’d found her there that morning. She debated on lying and giving some silly answer, but then one didn’t lie to a preacher, and certainly one didn’t lie in the Lord’s house. At least Ava Coons didn’t.
“Thought I’d see if’n I could find records here. ’Bout my parents. Who they were. Who might’ve known ’em.”
“Marriage records?” He raised his eyebrows.
Ava nodded. “Or baptism ones. For my brothers—for me. Can’t recall much, see, and I figure I better start before I get caught for somethin’ I didn’t do.”
Noah seemed to agree with her as he nodded slowly. “Yes.” He drew in a deep sigh. “They’ve yet to find Jipsy. Matthew Hubbard’s funeral is Saturday.”
“You’re doin’ the funeral?”
