Page 85 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Trent finished his recounting of what had happened. “The fire department arrived by the time I got the dryer pushed back so I could unlock and open the door. They tried to keep me back, but I went down and saw the pallet boards you’d pried up. Then I found you, and ... well, we got the heck out of there as soon as I pulled you out.”
“I don’t remember...”
“You wouldn’t.” His expression darkened. “You were passed out. I thought maybe from oxygen loss, but they think it was probably a mixture of that and panic.”
“I was stuck in a crawl space,” Molly said, defending herself weakly.
“No one blames you,” Trent reassured her.
“We’ve lost everything, haven’t we?” The enormity of what had happened hadn’t fully sunk in yet.
Trent shifted on the bed so he could look directly at her. “Listen, Molls. I don’t care about that. It’s all just stuff.” He took her hands. “You’re alive. That’s what matters. Nothing else.”
Molly felt the warmth from his fingers saturate her hands. She noticed his forearm was bandaged. She reached out and touched it. “You burned yourself?”
“I’m fine.” Trent ignored it and gave her hands a little shake. “Who did this to you?”
Molly met his eyes, which were laden with controlled fury and worry that created lines in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t.
I watched her die.
The memory of the words that had been hissed behind the door stung her, and Molly’s eyes widened. She’d thought it was a ghost at first. A ghost admitting to watching decades’ worth of death. Maybe even the Withers sisters’ murders in 1910. That whole historical serial-killer thing seemed eons away now and so unimportant.
“As soon as the doctor releases you, the police are going to question you to get your account of things.” Trent hadn’t let go of her hands. “If you know anything—anyone—or why—” Trent squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, apparently willing away his anger. When he opened his eyes, Molly could see a war being waged inside him. He stroked her hand. “First January—now you. Something’s going on, Molls, withmyfamily.”
“I know,” she nodded. She could agree with Trent on that. It was why she’d been looking at old newspapers per Gemma’s account of January’s ancestral research into the serial killer of 1910. It was why she’d been scrounging through Sid’s so-called killer kit they’d found in the chicken coop. And it was why she’d questioned the contents of the journal she’d found this morning behind the nesting box...
Molly bolted upright, startling Trent, who reared back at her sudden movement.
“The journal!” Molly fixed her eyes on Trent. “I found a journal in the chicken coop!” Why it still felt so important made no sense to her. Moon phases, grain prices, and weather reports had nothing to do with her house being set ablaze and someone trying to kill her.
“What are you talking about?” Trent pressed.
Molly allowed him to push her back onto the pillows, but her body was tense. She could feel the tension in every muscle. “This morning I found a journal. From 1910. Some farmer’s notes about his crops and stuff.”
“And that’s important because?” Trent urged, obviously wondering where Molly was going with this.
She drew in a steadying breath. “I don’t know if it’s important, but January was researching the Cornfield Ripper of 1910.”
“Yeah. January had asked me some stuff about our mutual great-grandfather—well, for her it was great-great, but anyway—George Wasziak.”
“And?”
“And nothing, Molls,” Trent said with a shrug of his shoulders. “January seemed to think he was somehow involved. But no one ever talked much about him. He was just a name on a family tree. I don’t know why she was so fixated on him. And then she mentioned your great-grandfather, Jasper Bridgers, but she made him sound like a nice guy. But then why he was even part of it, I don’t know ... but everyone in Kilbourn is connected somehow, you know?” Trent shook his head. “It was like January was looking for a juicy story that wasn’t there.”
“And yet someone killed her,” Molly finished.
Trent met her eyes. His were troubled. “Yeah.” He fidgeted with the edge of the blanket that covered Molly. She watched his callused fingertips play with the seam. He appeared toargue with himself, then opt for complete transparency. “She called me the afternoon before she was killed. She was going on about the Wasziaks being secretive. About a history of family violence—I couldn’t make sense of it. And then she brought up something about a missing woman from 1982. I just let it go. Stories. That’s all they were.”
The year 1982 echoed in Molly’s head as Trent spoke. She’d just seen that year. She’d seen it somewhere...
“The paper,” Molly whispered.
“What?” Trent tipped his head in confusion.
“The paper in the kit was from 1982,” she said. Her breaths came quicker now. “Who was the missing woman from 1982?”
“I don’t know,” Trent answered. “January didn’t say.”
