“Why would a compulsive gambler who planned his life around race schedules and casino hours keep betting on a losing horse?”
“Compulsivedoesn’t mean he was good at it. Didn’t you say he lost all your family’s money?”
“Yeah, but not because he didn’t know how to play. He just never knew when to walk away. Horse racing is unpredictable, sure, but when a horse never wins a single race? Those are some tough odds to overcome. Only a complete fool would make that bet more than a handful of times.”
“Maybe it was his way of… I don’t know. Connecting with you, even after he fucked everything up.”
She gets to her feet, pacing before the fire. “No. He only took me to the races that one time. He didn’t even talk about it after that, really. I would just find the stubs lying around—that’s how I knew who he’d bet on. Shoot the Messenger, every time.” She stops pacing and glances up at me, her eyes bright. “What if he was trying to tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she says, already heading for the door. “But maybe we can figure it out. Be right back.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WESTLYN
I return to the library a few minutes later with another basket full of muffins I pilfered from the kitchen—apple cinnamon, this time—and a framed photo I dug out of one of the boxes Jude brought back from my bedroom in Brooklyn.
It had lived on my dresser all through my childhood—first in the front, where I’d see it every time I put away my clothes or got ready for the day. Over time, it slowly migrated to the back, pushed aside to make room for a new Tarot deck or a handful of rocks I found in the park or some cute little trinket Jean-Pierre brought me—his way of saying hello after a prolonged absence.
Eventually, I stopped noticing it—it was just part of the background of my childhood, like the Elmo stickers on my mirror or the lines on the closet wall where I tried to mark my own height with a pencil.
Even when I unpacked the boxes and set up my new room here at Blackmoor Manor, I barely paid it any mind—just stuck it in the discard box with a few other things from my childhood I no longer needed, and shoved it into the closet.
“This is him,” I say now, showing Rook the photo—me, my father, and Shoot the Messenger.
Rook grins. “I’m quite sure I’ve never seen anything so adorable.”
“He’s pretty cute.” I laugh. “It’s the freckles, right? I told you. That’s why I picked him.”
He nudges my shoulder. “I was talking about the chubby little angel sitting on her father’s shoulders.”
“Oh, yes. Chubby little angel, that’s me.”
“You had that silver-and-raven hair even then.”
“Just like my mom.” I smile, my throat tightening with a familiar knot. “I’ve got her eyes, too.”
“She must’ve been beautiful.”
“Yeah.” I stare at the photo for another moment—my huge, chubby-cheeked grin as I gazed adoringly at that horse. My father, his hands around my ankles, holding me in place. The horse standing next to us, not really caring one way or the other. “I don’t even remember who took the photo. I just remember thinking my dad must be some sort of king, what with how many people he knew at the track. How they just let us back there like some kind of VIP guests.”
There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the photo itself, but when I flip it over and pop it out of the frame, my heart leaps into my throat.
“Jackpot,” I breathe. “No pun intended.”
There’s a flat, nondescript silver key taped inside the frame. And on the back of the photo, a message in my dad’s sloppy scrawl.
Passing the key to Rook, I read the note. “Edgewater Raceway. Westlyn, Dad, and Shoot the Messenger.”
“That’s it?” Rook asks.
“Yep. Just the—wait.” I bring the photo closer, tilting it toward the light. “There’s more! It’s in pencil, sort of underneath the ink.
“Can you make it out? We can put it under the microscope.”
“No, I think I can read it. It says, ‘Be good for Renni.’”
