The Echo of Old Books(18)
Ashlyn regarded him with surprise. She’d never known him to have a mercenary streak, but he wasn’t wrong. She did need this one. “All right. Name your price.”
“It’s yours . . . ,” he said, pausing for effect, “for a box of cocoa bombs from Seacoast Sweets. And don’t try to haggle. That price is firm.”
Ashlyn broke into a grin. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I think they’re already closed, though. Can I send them tomorrow? I promise I’m good for it.”
“Fine. But remember, I know where you live.”
“Also . . . I need one more favor.”
Kevin responded with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re becoming a problem child.”
“I know. But this is easy. The guy. The one who brought in the boxes. I was hoping you might have a number for him. I’m not going to harass him or anything. I just want to ask him a few questions.”
Kevin’s face went blank. “Afraid I can’t help you there. All I know is his father died a few months back and he’s been cleaning out the old man’s house. Brought in some pretty choice stuff, too, including some great old vinyl I’ll probably end up keeping for myself.”
“Didn’t you have to write him a check for all that choice stuff?”
“Normally I would, but the guy wouldn’t take a nickel. Said he didn’t want to think of it all sitting in a heap at the dump. Wasn’t here fifteen minutes, and that’s both trips combined.”
“Don’t you have to keep records, like a pawnshop?”
“Nah. That’s in case someone’s trying to fence stolen property—jewelry, stereos, that sort of thing. No one’s going to jail for an old Partridge Family album. For a while, I scribbled names and addresses in one of those old composition books, but eventually, I got lazy and quit. Weird stuff does happen, though. Relatives show up demanding Grandma’s stuff back after you’ve shelled out money for it. It can get messy. Come to think of it, maybe I should buy a new composition book. That doesn’t help you now, though. Sorry.”
Ashlyn waved off the apology. “Never mind. It was a long shot. I’ll just keep sleuthing.”
“You think they might actually be worth something?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve just never run across anything like . . . whatever this is. I’m not very far into the first book, but what I’ve read so far feels so personal. Like it was written for an audience of one.”
“Like a letter?”
“A really long letter. Or a journal, maybe. But why go to the trouble of having something like that professionally bound?”
Kevin shrugged and gave his head a scratch. “If there’s one thing running this store has taught me, it’s that there’s no end to the emotional weight people attach to their stuff. Who knows? Maybe the answer is in the second book.”
“Maybe.” Ashlyn slid her tote up onto her shoulder. “Guess I better get reading.”
Ashlyn could feel the new book burning a hole in her tote as she made the brisk two-block walk back to the shop. A sequel or a prequel? An unconnected stand-alone? She had no idea which yet, but she intended to find out. Key in hand, she tore up the stairs to her apartment, not even bothering to kick off her shoes before dropping into her reading chair and flipping on the lamp.
There could be no doubt that the books were meant to resemble one another, but side by side, the differences between them were more evident. A slightly waxier leather had been used to bind Forever, and Other Lies, and the bands on the spine were cleaner and sharper.
She picked up Forever, and Other Lies, holding it flat against her palm. Like its mate, it showed little sign of wear. And like its mate, it was strangely quiet. No echoes of any kind—at least while closed.
Breath held, she turned back the cover, braced for the waves of searing anguish she’d come to expect from Regretting Belle. At first, there was nothing, but after a moment, she became aware of a faint humming in the tips of her fingers. It was a cool, shivery sensation, quite different from what she’d been bracing for. She forced herself to remain still, letting the sensation build, a curious blend of numbness and pins and needles prickling up her arm like a slow-spreading frost, curling around her ribs and along her throat. Top note . . . heart note . . . base note.
Accusation. Betrayal. Heartbreak.
Ashlyn exhaled sharply as the intensity increased. This was nothing like Regretting Belle, which had nearly burned her fingers with its festering hostility and pent-up pain. In fact, this was the exact opposite. It was cold and cutting, like a January wind, and strangely . . . bloodless.
It was an odd way to describe anger, which usually registered as hot and sharp, like a slap. But there was no heat here, only a blue-white conflagration that felt like fire but wasn’t. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t anger she was picking up. It was despair. A void so deep, so achingly familiar, it made her throat clench.
The echoes were feminine.
Ashlyn stared at the open book, trying to wrap her head around what she appeared to be holding—and who had almost certainly written it. She held her breath as she turned to the title page. And there it was. A single line of slanted script.
How??? After everything—you can ask that of me?
The word me was underlined, not once but twice, and there was an angry blot of ink marring the question mark. Instinctively, she opened Regretting Belle and read the inscriptions together. A question and a response.