Professionally, I managed to limp on. A friend who edited the culture section of a national newspaper promised me regular work writing reviews, which paid the bills – barely. I lived frugally and saved all year for these holidays with Frankie.
But I was wounded. The slow death of my career. The breakdown of my marriage. The loss of my daughter.
Some days – most days, in fact – it felt like I had nothing to be proud of. Nothing to get out of bed for.
And I was sick of feeling that way.
I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but if a great story had just landed in my lap – or rather, I’d landed in its lap – maybe this was my chance to start again. I had often thought about relaunching myself as a different kind of journalist. Could this be my chance to do just that?
The first step would be to do some research beyond talking to David and Connie. Read more about the case. Chat to a few locals. Then, if it seemed like there really was an intriguing story here, pitch it to some editors.
I tried to keep my excitement in check, but it was hard. Because when you’ve been starved of hope for so long, it’s hard not to snatch at it when you see it dangled before you.
Penance felt like it had been evacuated because of an emergency, with one or two refuseniks hanging on, including a homeless man who sat at the foot of a statue on the west side of the street. He had a thick beard and a sun-scorched face, and was wearing combat trousers and a black T-shirt that hung off his skinny frame. I had a few dollars in my pocket, which I handed to him as I passed by. He looked shocked, like he wasn’t used to charity.
‘You from the camp?’ he said. ‘The Hollows?’
I guessed he meant Hollow Falls. ‘I’m staying there, yes.’
He nodded. ‘It won’t last long.’
I took a step towards him, shielding my eyes from the fierce sun. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Nothing around here lasts. Nothing good, anyway. This place has been cursed for a long time.’ He mumbled something else, the words getting lost in his beard. ‘Hey, you got any more money?’
‘Sorry.’
He mumbled something else.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
He regarded me suspiciously before telling me. ‘Wyatt,’ he said.
‘I’m Tom. Can you tell me where the police station is?’
He laughed. ‘Ain’t no police here no more. It’s all looked after by the county sheriff in Houlton.’
‘Where’s that?’
He smiled. ‘About ninety miles away. State police are based there too.’ He started to cough and said, ‘You sure you ain’t got any more of them dollars?’
I genuinely didn’t. He waved a hand like he wanted me to leave him be, so I crossed the street and found myself looking into the window of a bookstore. I was surprised that a town this small had one. The sign on the door said CLOSED but the lights were on, and according to the list of opening times in the window it was supposed to be open. Thinking the staff must have forgotten to flip the sign, I tried the handle anyway. The door opened. After the briefest hesitation, I went inside.
It was mercifully cool inside the shop. There was a decent selection of novels and children’s books, a mix of new and second-hand. There was no one behind the counter. I called out, ‘Hello?’ and, getting no response, wondered if I should leave.
But then something caught my eye: a section of shelving labelled LOCAL INTEREST. I decided to take a quick look. There was a book entitled Penance in Old Photographs, the cover of which showed the same Main Street I’d just walked down. It was far more bustling in this old sepia photo than it was now. There were books called Wood You Believe It: My Life as a Logger and That Crazy Johnston Family, the kind of vanity projects one often finds in local bookshops.
I was looking for a particular title: Jake Robineaux’s memoir. But there was no sign of it.
I was so busy browsing the shelves that, when a voice in my ear said, ‘Can I help you with anything?’， I jumped and fumbled the book I was holding.
For some reason, I had expected the proprietor to be a grey-haired man, the kind of person who’d run a curiosity shop full of monkeys’ paws and cute creatures that can’t be fed after midnight, but the person smiling at me was a woman in, I guessed, her mid-thirties. She wore fashionable glasses and equally fashionable clothes.
‘I don’t suppose you have A Night in the Woods by Jake Robineaux, do you?’
Her pleasant smile slipped away. ‘We don’t stock that.’