Page 78 of Our Darkest Summer
“You’re not goingto sleep, are you?” I asked as Kinsley kept tossing and turning in the bed.
“Do I ever?” she exhaled, just when I found it. I pulled the worn cloth-bound book off the shelf and turned around.
“Then let me read to you.” I sat down on the mattress, handing the book to Kinsley. I watched her face drop, her eyes round as she turned to the first page, where Agatha Christie’s name was scrawled in ink, the curves of her handwriting frozen in time.
“Is this… real?”
“Real, and yours if you would like. It’s just going to waste sitting on that shelf.”
She stiffened, her eyes searching my face. God, how I loved her attention on me.
“I couldn’t,” she shook her head, and I sighed.
“Well, it’s a gift. So it’s not really up to you. It would be rude not to accept it.” I smiled.
She sucked in her bottom lip, then glanced down at the book again. “How do you even have this?”
I shrugged, trying to hide how amusing I found her shock. “You’re missing the point, Sage. Will you let me read to you or not?”
Kinsley huffed out a breath and turned to her side, sinking into the mattress. I settled beside her, resting my back against the headboard, and opening the book on my lap.The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The old pages rustled under my fingers.
“The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as ‘The Styles Case’ has now somewhat subsided.” My voice was low, but the silence seemed louder.
Kinsley’s arm curled around my thigh, and she pulled herself closer, the tip of her nose brushing against the fabric of my sweatpants. I stilled, watching her for a split moment, before turning back to the book.
“Is that it?” she murmured without opening her eyes.
I huffed. “It was due to John Cavendish, the eldest son of the late Mrs. Inglethorp’s first husband, that I found myself at Styles.”
I kept reading, the words rolled off my tongue at an even pace, but after a while, I knew she wasn’t listening. The warmth of her body pressed into mine, the way her fingers twitched slightly as if holding onto the moment. It was grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.
I reached the next passage, and my voice lowered instinctively. “Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”
I paused, glancing down.
Kinsley’s breathing had softened, the lines of her face relaxed, free of the weight she carried when she was awake.
My fingers twitched at my side, aching to trace the delicate curve of her jaw, but I held still. She needed rest, peace.
Carefully, I closed the book and rested my head against the wall, listening to her breathing. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel alone.
???
I woke early.
For a while, I just watched Kinsley, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing settle something in me. Then, I slid out of bed to let her sleep.
I passed my brother’s room on the way downstairs, where he was—predictably—still asleep. The living room was dim and the early morning fog rolled off the lake, curling around the trees like it was alive. I glanced toward the porch, where the assigned officer sat slumped in his chair, half-asleep.Useless.
Officer Greg, who I met in the police station’s restroom, and Chief Miller’s second-in-command, Officer Maeve Diaz, showed up at the house after Kinsley was fast asleep. Apparently, Connor had told Kevin the fate of his parrot, and they came to check out thescene. They examined the message on the mirror, scouted the property, and found nothing. No surprise there. I didn’t bother telling them anything else that happened since we got here. They wouldn’t have done anything useful with the information anyway.
I moved to the couch, where I had left my laptop, and flipped it open. After we found the mask at the edge of the woods, I set my dash-cam on the cactus that sat on the stool. I wasn’t expecting much, but I had a blurry, grainy clip of someone moving through the house, in a Greek theater mask.
Nothing new. I shut the laptop and headed into the kitchen. I grabbed some eggs from the fridge, rolled my shoulders, then reached for the bag of flour from the upper cabinet. Kinsleywould wake up soon. And if I knew anything about her, she would forget to eat.
I chopped up some paprika, tomato, and greens. Omelets were her favorite. I spent weeks perfecting the way she liked it. Light, but not too light, and just enough seasoning to balance with the perfect ratio of vegetables and cheese. I overheard her telling her mom once, in passing, and I stored it away with every other piece of useful information.
I cracked the eggs into the pan, then whisked the flour into the milk. Pancakes for the side. That might even lure my brother out of his self-imposed hibernation.
