The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

7. Tidal Sunsets

Tidal Sunsets

Wednesday, Present

M y room, although faint, still smells of bergamot and vanilla from the expensive candle I received on my 18th birthday. It sits on the ledge of the thin window opposite my bed, its dark golden glass catching the globed overhead light. My eyes trace the ravens etched around its edges, watching them take flight around its lip. The sound of chimes from my bag sitting next to me on the floor startles me out of my trance. How long have I been standing here, I wonder before shuffling through it to find my phone, expecting the voice on the other end.

“Hey, babe,” Roger husks out. I can just picture him, wiping his sweaty ash blonde hair from his face as he walks down the street to his second-story apartment from our gym. Even musky with red tipped cheeks, he somehow manages to be handsome. “How are you holding up?”

The look on Oliver’s face before I ran out of the Nest flashes through me, making me wish, not for the first time, that I’d never come. Roger doesn’t know about Oliver and Paxton, at least not about why I left. Of course, he knows who they are and that I’m here, but one look at his patient face, willing and waiting to listen, I couldn’t get into the details of our fallout when I’m still trying to forget it myself .

I’m sure he assumes, even if most of his assumptions are wrong, but he’d never stop me from coming back. No matter how much my silence wounds him. We bonded over our broken families, and he holds that, even broken, they are ours. And whether or not I liked it, this house was my home. These people, mine. I owed them my presence, if not my loyalty.

“I miss my library,” I say, and he laughs, as I intend him to.

“I know, baby. If you were anyone else, I’d be worried that the first thing you miss is work.” His voice is throaty and playful before turning serious. “But you’ll be home soon. And I promise we can spend the first date night back curled up in the stacks. You just got to get through this. Say your goodbyes and I’ll be right here to be your first hello.”

Roger understands little of my past, only ever learning curated parts I’ve provided, but he has always known my restlessness and still has given me the space to move. From the first day we met, when I had just started at the university library as a part-time assistant in school, he understood when I needed sunlight and fresh air, or old books and dark corners. When I wanted to be pushed or left alone. His patience is the only thing that allowed me to hope.

Somehow, he knew parts of me I thought were too sporadic and misunderstood. It’s why when he asked me out three years into our friendship, I said yes. It felt like the first open and honest relationship of my life, with no axes over our heads. Even when I couldn’t spill my secrets. Even if I was still broken and lost, unsure if I still believed in love.

“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper, fresh tears filling my voice.

“Hey, now. It’s ok. Shhh. You deserve everything good in the world, E. Everything. I wish I could be there right now. I can tell how hard this is on you…”

His words of endearment and promises go on, but my attention shifts to the quiet knock, and then my door handle rustling open. I’m quick to wipe clean any sign of homesickness or self-degradation before Oliver walks in, mouth open, ready to say something. My mind scrambles as I cut Roger off.

“Ro, someone just knocked. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry,” my words come out rushed and quiet. Roger ignores it all.

“Ok, babe. I love you,” he says at a normal volume, but I can feel the words vibrating through the room.

“Ditto,” I croak before I hang up and stare at Oliver’s narrowed brows .

He casually moves to the other side of the room, picking up the candle, whose wick is already burned low. I sense the judgments he’s harboring. The questions he will never ask because he knows I’ll never answer. If only he knew how desperate I once was to give him every secret I held. Maybe there wouldn’t be six feet and a lifetime of regret between us. His whole chest expands as his eyes drift closed, head tilting in memory.

“I do admire your ability to seem like you’re giving something when in reality you’re giving nothing away at all,” he says. “It’s almost comforting that you’re keeping yourself locked away, not allowing just anyone into your heart. I was worried for a moment on the stairs that you’d become an entirely different person.”

His eyes still haven’t opened, the candle of ravens still butted up against his nose.

I scoff. “I have changed, Oliver. I’ll have you know I’m in a very happy, and healthy, relationship with an amazing man who knows what I want.”

In this room, this moment, where every piece of me is so entangled with the Poes, every word I speak sounds like a lie that rips at my demand for honesty.

A soft laugh escapes him. “And yet, you cannot say I love you back. Or at all, I’d bet. Everyone always thinks they know what you want, Eve. That has never been your issue.” He removes the candle from his face to look out the window before continuing. “Your issue is that no one has ever got you to go after what you really need. It’s that strong spirit and hard head. Always running in the wrong directions simply out of defiance.”

Fury rises to my cheeks, blood running hotter and thicker than a tropical storm on the Carolina coast. Tiny fists of determination beat a rhythm through me, telling me to prove him wrong. Begging me to make a point, call Roger back, and say words I’m not sure I mean just to see Oliver’s face fall.

“Enough, Oliver. I can’t play these games with you anymore tonight. I’m exhausted and, frankly, missing more than just my bed. So, whatever you’ve come here to say, just say it, or leave,” I spit.

He hums, stuck between digging in and letting go. Thankfully, he relents.

“Paxton, somehow, knew what was going to happen. Or at the very least, he feared it. Prepared for it. He left me a letter,” he reveals.

He’s staring at me now, eyes clear, sobering up from his earlier binge.

“Can I see it?” I ask, desperate to start this morbid game, even against my better judgment, knowing I’ve got a ticket home on Sunday I’m determined not to miss.

“In time. I’ve hidden the physical copy of it for now. I don’t want someone to find it, especially with all these people moving in and out of the house for the next few days. I’m positive there’s more I’m not seeing and although I’ve made copies, well, you know Paxton.”

His shoulders shrug and I nod in understanding. For all Paxton’s schemes, there could be a thousand clues hidden in the seams of the paper besides his words… or none at all. He was a devil at puzzles, bettering both of us individually. But when Oliver and I worked together, there was little we didn’t figure out. Which is exactly why Oliver is here. He needs me, regardless of the conflict he may feel. My best guess is that he has already tried to solve this without me.

“How long have you had it?” I ask. A sheepish grin slides into place, and I know I’m right.

“Two weeks. It came in the mail just after he passed,” he says.

Bastard . I know I have no right to be angry, but that doesn’t stop the heat of it from pooling in my gut, the thick rope of being left out refusing to be cut down by the years we’ve been apart. He didn’t even try to include me until it was obvious he may never solve it on his own. My arrival was simply too much of an opportunity to surpass. If I had not come, would he have reached out to me at all?

Fragmented pieces of my heart I had long ago thought dead, fracture some more. No matter how many times I tell myself I am lucky for not being part of this family, for not being his, whenever I am confronted with proof, it is like pouring gasoline on a raging fire. It makes me want to cry and scream. Still, my expression does not waver. At least I have learned to control that much. I splay my fingers along the comforter on my bed, then let my legs cross to sit on top of it.

“If you’ve had it so long, why are you telling me? You must be close to solving it—you’ve got your top suspects and everything. Surely, you can gather all you need to give to the police and solve the mystery. Madeline will be over the moon to see her Oliver live and breathe the Poe name so wholly while bringing justice to your brother. You must be dying with delight at the prospect,” I taunt .

The pettiness that sits in my chest like a toddler is beneath the woman I want to be. Still, I can’t stop the delight when his brows furrow, and I know he’s moments away from admitting he needs me. I may be here out of obligation, defiance, and curiosity, but I would be lying if I didn’t say I was also staying to inflict a little pain, especially now that I knew I could. I hide the excitement when he shakes his head, putting the candle down to cross his arms, biceps flexing as he does. A deep sigh escapes him.

“You damn well know that isn’t the case,” he growls. “Paxton made it so I wouldn’t… that I couldn’t do it alone. I can’t even start it without you. Pax made sure I needed you, Eve. Even though it pains us both.”

The flirting, sad, drunk Oliver from earlier is gone. A mirage in the wake of our inevitable first meeting after everything. In his stead, the serious, hurt one stands. The one with accusatory eyes. The one who is desperate and hates himself for it. My elation cools with the change in the tide of my fickle heart.

“Oliver, enough. You know I’m going to help.” I let the excitement of the puzzle override my pain. Already slipping into old habits I swore to myself I’d outgrown. “What has he done? What’s the first clue?” I ask, eager to know the lengths his brother has gone. I hate the way my voice betrays how readily I am to agree. How much I want to chase after the Poe boys, even now. Even when I know better. Thankfully, he sets us aside, too.

“The very top of the page is a bible verse. Genesis 2:18, ‘Then the Lord God said, It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make him a helper suitable for him.’ Obviously, that’s you, Eve. I tried to read through the rest, and I have some notes, but it was clear he put pieces in the clues I’ll never be able to find. And it looks like they’re all connected in order. He wants us to go on a scavenger hunt. The places are in all the clues in the letters, but each place holds a clue of its own.”

He metes out the information in vague bits, unwilling to tip his hand to me in full. A reassurance I won’t try to leave him behind like he’s done to me. Apparently, Oliver doesn’t trust me to stay anymore. Good, I think. Still, the facts he’s laid out still feel flimsy, forcing me to pick at them.

“How did he put together something so elaborate? If he was scared for his life, sure of what was to come, why didn’t he tell anyone? Why make it a game?” I ask, astounded.

Not that the letter is unbelievable, just its timing is too perfect. The plan, well laid. But, also, that was the Poes. Dramatic. Elaborate. Meticulous. Especially Pax. He was ready for anything. If Paxton died of natural causes, as Madeline says, Oliver doesn’t believe it. Which means there’s enough reason to doubt. Still, I needed to know why.

“Well… I… Maybe he did. Maybe he was interrupted while putting this together for other reasons and changed tactics. Maybe he knew it was coming and didn’t know what else to do. We’ll never know now, so we just need to focus on what he left behind. On what he can tell us now,” Oliver says. Frustration lances through me.

“What do you mean, maybe he did? Wouldn’t you know? If you want my help, you need to tell me everything,” I say. He sighs again, clearly at a loss, knowing the rest of the story must be told regardless of its end.

“Paxton and I haven’t spoken outside of pleasantries and the occasional run-in for years. He did start calling more in the last few months, but I ignored them.” He hangs his head in shame. “I’ve been busy with my publishing schedule and tours. And after everything that happened when you left, it just hasn’t been the same. I… there was no way to know that this was what he needed to talk about.” My heart thrums seeing the canyon Oliver’s guilt has laid in him.

His eyes dart to me and away, throat bobbing with his hard swallow. “He started leaving a ton of voicemails and texts, each getting more urgent and secretive. I thought he was playing games. He kept talking about business partners, and old friends, and reunions . None of it made sense. None of it sounded urgent.” He looks away, a small heat lighting up his throat. “The last message he left on my voicemail was that he wanted to talk about you .” Oliver’s fingers turn the face of his watch, causing a soft click to sound over and over as he speaks.

“So, naturally, you ignored it. Makes sense,” I snark. I should be sympathetic. This is your fault too, Eve. Instead, I let out a little more of my anger.

He stills, staring daggers at me.

"Don't be snide as if I'm the only one acting childish. You left home . And you’ve come back here, pretending to be different when I know the color of your soul, Evangeline Pierce. Paxton could’ve come to me. He knew where I was, and he knew I would’ve helped him anyway I could. We've all taken the coward’s way out, and everyone was doing just fine with it until now. You don't get to look down on me. Not anymore," he says, his eyes wild and filling with unshed tears.

Guilt claws at the vault of memories I've locked away, begging to be let loose to ravage me. Not anymore. His words ring through me. As if I ever did, I answer him inside my head, too gutless to open that wound today. I brick it up behind all the other things I cannot say. Instead, I look away, unable to face my past head on, and change the subject. My sorrow gives way to spite.

"What does Madeline say?" I ask, giving us both a new scapegoat to throw our fury at.

I’m unwilling to let him know Madeline warned me against this very thing not so many moments ago. That she, more than anything else, has welded me to stay. I want to know if Oliver has asked his mother what she thinks, and that it wasn’t Madeline poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. Oliver just laughs, a humorless sound coming from his lips.

" He died of natural causes, Oliver. You've got to let it go, darling. Paxton wouldn't want this ," his voice is raised in pitch, the long elegance of each vowel being over pronounced as he mimics Madeline. "As if she ever knew what Paxton wanted. But if it doesn't have to do with Alexander’s legacy, or the good of the family name, it isn't worth talking about. You know how she is," he finishes, resigned to the truth.

I nod my head in understanding. Madeline had come by her information honestly, it seems. And just as she had warned me off, so too had she warned Oliver. I knew before she had even sought me out she was a long shot, but occasionally, she would surprise me and do something completely out of character. I was hoping this would be one of those times. It wasn’t. And if there's no Madeline, then there's no Alexander, so I don’t bother asking about their father.

"Okay, well, I'm here. So, you've completed clue one. Now what?" I ask.

Oliver shakes his head. "That wasn't a clue, just a preemptive direction. The first clue can only be solved by you. I'll send you the photo so you can have some time if you need it."

Oliver pulls his phone from his pocket while he's talking to me. I hear the chimes of my text notifications go off, and I’m startled that he has my number. Before the anger of it can take hold, I click into the zoomed-in picture he’s sent, seeing only the first stanza in the shot.

Do you remember…

There was a cracked pier we were walking on, the entire scene pulled from some forgotten place where no one cares to repair, or clean, or change.

I breathe in, the air hissing through my teeth. I can feel Oliver’s eyes watching, a sharp excitement expanding the walls of the room like a balloon at my recognition. I ignore it, needing to consume the whole thing before jumping to conclusions. Oliver beats me to it, reading the next part aloud for both of us.

“ Remember, you turned to me, and you asked something the Poes have danced around for decades but needed you to say so plainly. Do you remember? I do.”

Oliver stops. The text runs out. A blank space where my words should be. Of course, Oliver never would have been able to solve this. He wasn’t there. A private moment meant just for Paxton and me. Tears fill my eyes, but I leave them unshed. This is a happy memory, all things considered. One I’d buried to hide from the pain of that same day. One of many that reminded me how much I loved Paxton Poe.

I look into Oliver’s waiting eyes. He doesn’t know what happens next, and it’s slicing him open with the need to know and the distinct desire not to. Ripping off scabs can either heal you or kill you. I have the sinking feeling that looking for Paxton’s killer will tell us which.

My throat bobs as I try to clear it and croak out the question we both need to hear. “I remember, Pax,” I whisper, eyes drifting down. “I had asked, ‘Do you think the dying see beauty in the decay? Do you think they see it in themselves?’ ”

Oliver’s eyebrows dance on his face, trying to put the pieces together. I’m sure he wants to know when and where this happened. He doesn’t understand the weight of the memory of the day Paxton and I took that walk. Instead of asking, he continues reading a piece of the letter that he didn’t send me.

“That’s right, Eve. And then you quietly built them a memorial of broken things; shells, rocks, wood… anything to honor the dying. Go there. Find the beauty.”