Page 51 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
Her great-aunt, impaled on a loose floorboard.
Tillie Grey, drowned in a bathtub.
Like the others, the case had been closed, the death marked accidental. Unlike the others, Tillie’s folder had a little more weight to it. Someone had actually investigated Tillie’s death, with both Violet and Regina listed as possible suspects—the only two people in the house when it had happened. There were no markings on Tillie’s body to suggest anyone had held her down, and Violet and Regina claimed to have been together in another room when the drowning occurred. On the final page of notes, a single line:Thirteen years to the day after the deaths of Helen and Christopher Caldwell. The first time the town pieced together what had happened, the reality of what the Caldwells faced.
Florence handed the folder to Owen and picked up the final case in the box: her great-grandparents, pinned by the limbs of an old maple tree then crushed beneath its weight.
She lifted the black-and-white photo. The bodies were barely visible beneath the fallen leaves, the blood a dark shadow. Honeysuckle vines wrapped around the car.
The report was short, an attempt to understand what had caused Christopher Caldwell to lose control of the wheel. The car had been so damaged by the falling tree, there was little to be gleaned from it. The windshield, shattered. The roof, caved in. The brake fluid reservoir, pierced by one of the branches.
There were statements from each of the sisters. Together, they told the same story. The Caldwells had gone for a weekend trip with the Greys. They’d returned early after an argument between their father and Tillie’s. Christopher Caldwell had been driving fast, complaining how the entire vacation had been a ruse, another attempt to get them to sell their shop. Though Helen had tried to calm him down, tried to convince him to pull over and let her take the wheel, Christopher had refused. They’d gone around the curve to Honeysuckle House too fast, and instead of slowing and turning up the drive, they’d careened into the yard, colliding with the tree. When questioned about how they escaped the car, the girls said the house rescued them, pulling them free with its vines.
After she read each page, Florence snapped a photo then handed the report to Owen. By the time they finished, she let out a long groan, planted her hands on the table, and dropped her forehead to meet them.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “The way I learned the story, the tree fell on the car. But this report makes it sound like the car hit the treefirst.”
“Why is that a problem?” Owen asked.
“The curse takes someone every thirteen years, and it always does it at Honeysuckle House. But if the car lost controlbeforeit was on our property, then it couldn’t be the curse, could it?” She tapped her fingers against the table. “I hoped we might find something thatwould point to why the deaths happened, how the curse started. But out of all of these, this one actually reads like an accident report.”
Owen reached for one of the pages and set it in front of them. “Except for this,” he said as he pointed to the paper. “They tried to find why the car lost control, but it was inconclusive. There wasn’t any brake fluid in the reservoir.”
Florence shook her head. “That’s because of the tree.”
“It says itmighthave been caused by the tree,” Owen said. He picked up the page and read, “Brake fluid reservoir was empty at time of investigation. Tree pierced the reservoir, but it’s impossible to determine amount of fluid prior to accident.”
“You think someone tampered with the brake fluid?” Florence asked.
“I’m not sure what I think,” Owen said. “But it seems like someone else may have had that thought. Why else would they feel like it was important to include the argument with my family?”
Florence tapped the tip of her finger against her nose as she connected the pieces of Owen’s theory. She flipped through the report and pulled up the transcript of an interview with William Grey. “They even talked with your great-grandfather because he wanted my great-grandparents’ shop.”
“If the police couldn’t determine when the brake fluid was emptied, then it could’ve happened before they crashed into the tree,” Owen whispered.
They sat in silence as the realization hit them: Florence’s great-grandparents may not have been killed by the curse at all. They may very well have been killed by Owen’s family.
Owen dropped his head into his hands. “I wanted the truth,” he said, “but I didn’t want this.”
Florence reached out a hand toward him, almost rested it on his back, but stopped herself. “Do you really think it’s possible? Would your great-grandfather have done something like that?”
He glanced up at her. “I never knew him.”
“Let’s say this theoryisright,” Florence said. “How would a murder lead to the curse? I could understand it if maybe it wasyourfamilythat was cursed, but if they really did kill my great-grandparents, they got away with it.”
“Tillie died,” Owen reminded her.
“Because a Caldwell loved her,” Florence said. “There has to be more to it—something we’re not seeing.”
“I know you gave up your magic,” Owen said. “But maybe it’s time for you to pick up your tarot deck again.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Violet, 1960
Though Violet tried to put her worry aside, her unease only deepened. She held Tillie close, her chest pressed against Tillie’s back, trying to let the soft sound of Tillie’s breath and the slow beating of her heart lull her to sleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
