Page 162 of Taken Away

His expression softened.

“That’s not a question I can answer for ye, love.”

“No,” she said honestly.

Then:

“But I need to.”

A slow smile touched his mouth.

“Ah,” he said. “There’s the Blackwood in ye.”

Aubrey stared at him.

“You think so?”

He snorted softly.

“I’ve known both of ye. Trust me. I think so.”

He tipped an imaginary hat.

“Go do your job, O’Rourke.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Mabel’s House

Aubrey

By the time Aubrey realized she was sitting on the floorboards, her legs had gone numb.

The antique cedar chest sat open in front of her, its heavy brass hinges creaking softly when she’d lifted the lid. Mabel’s room still smelled of aged cedar and faintly of lavender soap. Dust motes drifted through the late-afternoon light, turning the stark space soft and hazy—more like a memory she was visiting than a reality she was living.

Dozens of cards lay scattered across her shins. Stacks of yellowed envelopes, split rubber bands, and the neat, looping handwriting she now knew by heart.

Her mother’s handwriting.

RETURN TO SENDER. STOP MAILING HER. NOT INTERESTED.

The words stole the air from her lungs. But they weren’t what had undone her. Not really.

It was the card clutched in her hand.

Her fourteenth birthday.

The front illustration was simple—a faded watercolor cake with too many candles. Inside, Mabel’s script crowded the linen page, straight, careful, and inexplicably familiar:

Aubrey,

Fourteen is a big year. High school is coming, and I know that can feel scary and strange and lonely sometimes. If things ever feel too heavy or too complicated, I want you to know something very clearly: You are not alone.

If you ever need to talk—about school, about friends, about anything at all—I am right here. You can call me anytime.

Beneath that, a handwritten phone number.