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Sam comes back into the room with a sandwich and a pile of potato chips on a plate. He hands it down to me and snags a chip as I take it out of his hand.
“Thanks, babe,” I say. “I probably should have eaten something before falling asleep. And that cinnamon roll was just enough sugar to make me shaky without anything else in mystomach.”
“I will take one for the team,” he says, grabbing the plate and taking a bite that wipes out half the roll. He looks at the roll as if it reminds him of something. “Do you think we should check on Xavier?”
“Oh, lord. Probably. I haven’t heard from him since he went into thegym.”
Sam puts the plate down and wipes his hand. “I’ve got it. If he’s decided to do some bench presses and dropped the bar on his neck, I don’t want you to have to be the one to findhim.”
I grimace. “Maybe not the best time to be saying something likethat.”
“Yeah. That wasn’t well thought out. I’ll save that one for later,” hesays.
I nod as he walks down the hallway toward the home gym he made out of one of the spare rooms at the back of the house. He still owns the house he grew up in and was living in when we got married. We haven’t decided what we’re going to do with it yet. We may start renting it out at some point. Or we’ll just hold onto it. I know how hard it is to let go of something like that. That’s where he has all the memories of his parents. All the holidays, the birthday parties, the pets, the game nights. It’s easy to feel like selling the house would be tossing all that away.
It would be strange for him to think of someone else living there, digging around in the yard that was once his mother’s favorite place to spend her mornings, changing the color of the walls his father painted. Someday that might change. Or maybe it won’t. It doesn’t matter either way. I remember how odd it was when I first moved into my grandparents’ house and encountered the signs of the families who had rented the property in the years since their deaths. My father had kept ownership of the house and arranged for the local property management company to maintain it and rent it out while we were living just outside of DC.
It didn’t occur to me that everything my grandparents owned was still there and that something had to be done with it. The management company took it all and put it in storage, replacing them with decorative pieces and furniture that was nothing like them. It was almost like walking into a completely unfamiliar place when I went back to the house for the first time.
“Everything alright in there?” I ask when Sam comesback.
“Yep. He’s lying upside down on the medicineball.”
“Is he stuck?”
“No. It’s on purpose. He’s either stretching his back or strengthening his abs,” Sam tells me.
“Are you unsure of which, or is he?” Iask.
“I thinkboth.”
“Fair enough.” I collect all my papers and get up. “I’m going to head into town and go to the library. I have enough time to get some research in before we head back to Cherry Hill.” I start walking toward the steps that lead up to the second floor, but I pause and turn back to Sam. “Are we leaving Xavier here or are we going to bring him with us?”
We look at each other for a few silent seconds. There really isn’t any need for us to say anything. Samnods.
“I’ll go get him. Do you want to eat before wego?”
“Yeah. Let’s meet at Angelo’s in two hours,” Isay.
“Perfect.”
I smile at him and jog up the stairs to change clothes before heading outside and getting in my car. The late summer heat and humidity is still too suffocating to roll down the windows, so I turn on the air conditioning and make my way to the library. I look forward to a few weeks from now when I can open up the windows in the house and in the car and breathe the crisp fall air. It’s my favorite time of year and I feel like this year more than most, I need it.
The librarian at the information desk directs me to the research room and asks for a list of what I’m looking for. When I tell her I’m researching Camp Hollow and what happened there in 1964 her face falls. Eyes that had been soft and friendly are now almost accusatory, like she can’t imagine why I would be interested in something like that.
“Horrible,” she mutters. “Horrible what happened there. And it’s all happeningagain.”
I haven’t watched the news yet today. I probably should have so I would know what the media was releasing, but I got too wrapped up in my own research to tune in and wait for the breaking story. By the way the librarian is acting, pulling her thin pink knitted cardigan tight around her narrow shoulders and clucking under her breath while she adjusts the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, I can only assume they aren’t pulling many punches when it comes to thedetails.
I can only hope they are showing enough dignity not to publicly name the victims, and that all of the families of the victims have been properly notified. Reporters and anchors are completely ruthless in looking for the next sensational story that will boost their ratings. Sharks, the lot ofthem.
“That’s actually why I’m here. I’m assisting with the investigation,” I tell her, trying to reassure her I’m not dressed here to revel in ghoulish fascination without coming right out and saying it. I hold out my hand to shake hers. “Agent EmmaGriffin.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh! Agent Griffin. With the FBI. Of course. I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognizeyou.”
“That’s quite alright,” I say.
“What can I do for you? What do you need to know?” sheasks.
