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Madeline Martin, owner of The Next Chapter Bookshop, a small independent store in a small rural town far enough from New York City to be almost nowhere. I should not be succeeding at this venture, but against all odds I do okay.
“That’s right,” I say, reaching for his hand. He takes it in a firm but respectful handshake. Not one of those male grips that have something to prove. Confident but gentle. “Mr. Granger. I’m a huge fan.”
“Harley, please. My dad, Mr. Granger, is the John Henderson reader.” He lifts the wrapped book and tucks it under his arm, mindful of my bow.
“Harley.” I clear my throat. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m not just here to buy a book.”
“Oh?”
“I came to talk to you.”
My skin starts to tingle. And part of me already knows what this is about. Before I can stop myself, my hand flies to the scar, faint now, that runs from beneath the middle of my right eye, to the right corner of my mouth. I force my hand back down and stuff it in my pocket.
“I’m writing about Evan Handy,” he says.
The aftermath of trauma, of victimhood, is part of the national dialogue now. We all know its insidious effects, how the body keeps score, how the tentacles of suffering reach far into our future, roping us always back into the past. How a few bars of a song, or a ringing phone, or the sound of a chair scraping over a hardwood floor—or whatever that personal trigger might be—can bring us back to a moment in time we wish we could forget.
But people talk less about shame. That whispering wraith that breathes in your ear about how you deserved what happened to you and didn’t deserve to survive it. It can wrap around you, pushing air from your lungs, stealing your voice, draining the light from the sky.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I don’t have anything to say.”
Harley Granger holds my gaze a second, gives a careful nod. There’s empathy etched into the corners of his eyes. He hands me another card, this one with his name, number, and email printed and embossed. But I don’t reach for it.
“I get it,” he says. “We all have things we’d rather forget. Give me a call if you change your mind. I bought the old Wallace place. I’m fixing it up. I’ll be there indefinitely.”
I almost laugh out loud. The place—it’s a wreck—has stood empty for years. It’s one of those places where the local teenagers hang out now, get high, lose their virginity, stay overnight on a dare.
Of course, it’s the perfect place for someone like Harley Granger, true crime writer, podcaster, self-styled cold-case detective.
“I won’t change my mind,” I say. I take a deep breath, calming my jangled nerves.
“I hear that a lot,” he says, then turns and walks toward the door. He stops and looks back. “The past is alive.”
I recognize this from his first book, something he’s often quoted as saying. It’s odd when people reference themselves, isn’t it? And it’s more than an echo of the famous lines from Faulkner’sRequiem for a Nun.
When I stay silent, he offers me me a salute. I follow him to the door, unlock it, and hold it open. I remember myself. Bookshop owner, not just triggered trauma survivor.
“Will you do a book signing?” I ask, shedding my victim hat, and putting on my sales hat.
Compartmentalization is one of my superpowers.
“Of course,” he says. “You know where to find me.”
I push my luck. “Quick selfie? For Insta?”
We all know how to do this now. He leans in close, and I hold my phone out, careful to get his wrapped package in the shot. I pick up the scent of pine, feel his stubble briefly against my cheek.
“Nice one.” I hold it up so he can see it, and he offers a half smile and approving nod.
“I’ll see you again, Maddie.”
No one calls me that. But I don’t mind it.
The bell jingles and he’s gone. I lock the door, stand watching until I hear the rumble of an engine. A gleaming, black, restored 1965 black Mustang drifts past the window like a shark and is then swallowed by the night. My throat is sandpaper dry.
Even though my hand is shaking a little, I post quickly. Clarendon is my go-to filter. We both look happy, the red of his package popping nicely against the holiday decorations in the storefront behind us. There’s no hint in the image that I’m triggered.
