Page 99 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Molly
“This is where I found the journal.” Molly crouched next to the nesting box that was still hanging precariously from the wall. Sid leaned in to look, as did Gemma.
“Did you look behind the other boxes?” Gemma asked the obvious question, and Molly shook her head.
“No. I didn’t have a chance to, because of the fire.” Molly straightened.
“And you said the Clapton brothers owned this property after the Withers family sold it to them?” Gemma was getting all the records straight in her mind, and Molly couldn’t blame her. It was a typical small-town farming community. One property ran adjacent to another, families intermarried, and history became a conglomeration of the past and the present.
“Gladys said they did,” Molly affirmed. “And Trent told me last night that no one lived in the house for quite a few years. I guess they bought the property for the acreage, not the buildings.”
“So they sold it to you guys because Trent works for them?” Sid was attempting to fill in the blanks.
Molly shook her head. “Not really. The Clapton brothers had listed the farmhouse with a real-estate agent, along with a five-acre parcel.”
“Then it was almost forty years since anyone lived in the farmhouse before you bought it?” Gemma inquired.
“There was a renter once, back in the nineties. They did a little renovation but it didn’t last as a rental,” Molly explained, thankful she’d asked Trent clarifying questions last night when they’d gone to bed in Sid’s spare room.
Gemma raised a well-groomed eyebrow. “An empty farmhouse in 1982. Sounds like a perfect habitat for a killer.”
Sid lifted her metal detector from where she’d leaned it against the coop’s wall. “Time to look for clues,” she announced. She patted the detector lovingly and smiled. “This is my baby. You both can look behind the nesting boxes.”
Molly wasn’t keen on ripping the nesting boxes from the wall, but at least they were the unused boxes and not the ones near the end of the coop where the chickens were already making their eggs in the straw-filled compartments.
Sid began sweeping her detector over the coop’s floor. It was beeping incessantly, and she bent multiple times to pick up nails and toss them into a bucket. “This is going to take forever if this place is filled with old nails.”
Molly led Gemma to the attic, where she showed her the crate of items that resembled a serial killer’s kit. Gemma handled each item, then eyed the newsprint lining the bottom of the crate. She pulled it out and scanned it.
“I see nothing in particular about Tamera Nichols,” Gemma said, “other than the year the paper was printed—1982.”
Molly nodded her agreement.
Gemma placed the paper back in the crate. “You know, people get really into this serial-killer stuff.” She glanced at Molly. “I saw cereal bowls for sale online, and at the bottom of the bowls were the different faces of killers. Throw pillows with their mug shots on them too.”
Molly curled her lip. “People shouldn’t glorify them like that. It’s disgusting.”
Molly noticed Gemma’s expression change to one of grief, a dark cloud passing over her eyes.
“Gemma?” Molly ventured.
“What?” Gemma looked up, her blue eyes sharp again.
“I’m sorry about January.” She’d never really expressed that to Gemma. Or to Gemma’s parents, Brandon and Tiffany, or Uncle Roger. “I really am,” she added. No one should have to experience the violent death of a loved one, knowing their life had been stolen from them. Drained against their will. Murder was a theft that way, and no amount of punishment could make up for the loss.
Gemma nudged the crate with her shoe. “You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t your fault January was killed.” Her voice was tight. She was hiding tears. Molly could tell because she’d made a practice of it over the past few years.
“I know it’s not my fault. Still, I’m sorry you have to experience it. I’m sorry on behalf of the person whoshouldhave remorse for what they did.”
Gemma put her hands on her hips, sniffed, swiped at her eye, and shook her head. “We move on.” The frankness of the statement stung Molly. She stared at Gemma for a long moment before deciding to challenge her.
“How?”
Gemma looked up, eyes wide with honesty even though there was a thin sheen in them. “You have to move on, Molly. There’s nothing else to do.”
Maybe that was the truth. But she didn’t have to like it.
Gemma reached up to run her fingers along one of the exposed beams of the roof. “Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting.” She dropped her hand, wiping a cobweb onto her shorts. “It means living with their memory until God reunites us. It means finding a resolution to their death so you can keep on living. January would want that from me. Life.She always said she’d live forever because death wouldn’t be able to catch up to her. I guess it’s my turn now, huh? To outrun death?”
