The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

25. Scorched Pathways

Scorched Pathways

Saturday, Present

T he golden numbers floating in front of me become a chant inside my head. 8-3-1. I want them to mean something more than just a marking for a door. I rattle them around in my brain, moving and turning them like the missing piece of a puzzle I’ve gone into blind. But if they have anything more to give, their secrets are well kept.

Not for the first time since arriving do I stick my good hand out and rest it on the handle. Still locked. I sigh at the wasted minutes I’m stuck in this hall and pray the nosey bell girl from downstairs doesn’t wander up to find me here. The pain in my jaw and wrist have been dulled by the pain relievers, but the thrum of them can be felt all the same. I curse Oliver again for being late.

We drove separately. Him, still angry with me. Me, still bruised and battered by more than just the physical altercation. Last night couldn’t be considered one of our better days. The lingering sound of his voice telling me I’m not a Poe melds and morphs between Issac’s cold calculation, and then Oliver’s distraught plea at finding his work destroyed by the one he made it for, had kept me up, spinning emotional blankets to be suffocated with.

Only the tiny rip of paper tucked into my pocket and the prickling sensation that I was getting close to something forced me to get dressed and drive over here. It is the only thing fueling me forward and moving toward whatever waits for me behind door 831 instead of hopping on the next flight home. Though my guilt is what led me to confess my plans to Oliver.

The rustle of someone behind me has me twirling, only to find Oliver strutting up. He gets a few feet from me, and I can already smell the booze. His smile is casually cruel, as if last night it wasn’t passionately pursuing mine. As if we are nothing at all. He looks from me to the door expectantly.

“It’s locked,” I say, even though the way he’s looking at me now makes me feel foolish for it.

His eyebrows arch as he sits back on his heels, a condescending acknowledgement that makes my nails bite into my palms at my side. He stands there for a moment longer, locked onto my face, before he reaches into his pocket, producing a key.

“You have a key?” I ask dumbly. I shouldn’t be surprised. Oliver has never been kept out of anywhere, even when I am.

He scoffs, “Of course,” like it is his God given right.

And maybe it is. I’m unfamiliar with the way his entitlement feels when used so blatantly against me, making me want to believe any way his mouth tilts. He holds the door open, motioning me inside. I put the smell of whiskey, and the odd tension coiling in my stomach when my arm accidentally brushes Oliver’s to the back of my mind. I’m here to find one thing, and I won’t find it in the man behind me.

Inside, everything is a blinding white. Windows adorn the living space at the end of the entrance, allowing even the murky meddling’s of light from the overcast day to illuminate the furnishings. Small ornate busts sit on top of stacked coffee table books. Colorful abstract paintings are nestled between each window’s frame. Fiery red trim bleeds into maroon, giving the space the only amount of color to be seen consistently throughout. It reminds me of blood.

“Paxton lived here,” I say aloud.

I’m not really asking, the statement one of disbelief more than argument. The longer I look, the more I find pieces of him, pieces he wasn’t allowed at Dellbrook. You can see his exuberance in the accruements that are delicately placed. The bright colors of someone who wants to be seen. It felt lighter, conforming to beauty instead of being beautiful despite it.

“Hardly,” Oliver responds, disgust evident. “He stayed here. A place to piss off Madeline, no doubt. Dellbrook was home. You know that. ”

But when I look at Oliver, I see the shell breaking against the shore. He’s becoming more unsure of himself with each new item he picks up and puts back. Paxton and Oliver always shared distaste for what was expected of them, of the confines of their name. Oliver was under no assumption that Paxton ever fit within them to begin with, but the distance between them was growing wider in this room. He’s seeing firsthand the consequence of time lost and probably feeling a little like I am. Like maybe in the end, we didn’t know him enough.

I can’t take how much we’re losing for the sake of getting answers anymore. I’m a gambler on my last hand, and if I don’t move past the way Oliver’s eyes are downcast right now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to play the game. The survival parts of me take hold. The ones that lack empathy, that drive me forward when all is lost. They convince my legs to take me to the door that’s tucked just past the kitchen and open it.

And then they tell me to panic.

There, shuffling through the bedside drawers, is Roger. He freezes at my intrusion before lunging into action.

“Eve, wait,” he says, desperate, reaching for me.

But I don’t. I’m already scrambling down the hall to where Oliver waits, unwilling to be caught twice alone with a man who has no business being where he is. The thrum of my jaw and the wrap of my wrist are a good reminder of that. Once Oliver is in sight, I round to confront him.

“Roger, what are you doing here?” I spit.

“Eve, are you okay? Your arm…” Roger says.

He tries to take another step towards me, and I feel the brush of Oliver at my back. He stops dead in his tracks, forehead condensing when he sees Oliver. His face steels as he must realize this isn’t a friendly finding and decides to answer.

“I was invited. Paxton left something for me. Told me it was here, along with a key,” he says. Though it isn’t to me. His eyes are solely focused on Oliver.

“Liar. Get out,” Oliver snarls. He snakes an arm around me, a man possessed by alcohol and crushed sensibilities. We may be hurting each other, but the outside world will never be given the privilege. It’s the Poe way.

But I am not a Poe .

The thought slams into me over and over, pummeling the safety Oliver brings. I step out of Oliver’s arm, and I know it’s the wrong move based on the smile Roger gives.

“I was invited, and I’m not going anywhere. My key is on the table behind you if you’d like to verify,” Roger says.

The snotty tone of triumph makes me want to step back into Oliver, but by the dead air I feel behind me, I’m sure that ship has sailed. Besides, I’m teaching us all a lesson we need to learn.

“Don’t sound too smug, Roger. I don’t believe you, even with the key. What could Paxton possibly give you? You told me yourself that you hadn’t heard from him since the trip, and you had one job. Well, you did it. I thought you’d be on a plane home by now.”

I’m direct and callous. Unwilling to let him see the rift between Oliver and me, as if it puts me with him. This time, I’m taking my own side in the war.

“I want to see the letter,” Oliver chimes in. Roger stands defiantly until I hold out my hand expectantly. He looks at my palm and sighs.

“Fine,” he walks past me, pulling a folded envelope from his jean pocket, and puts it in Oliver’s hand, without letting go. “But I need your word that this stays between us. Paxton didn’t want it getting out.”

He looks at me, and my ears burn. Oliver just nods and the letter is released. His eyes scan the page and I try to decipher the words by the escalation of his eye’s movements, to no avail. I cannot fathom what Paxton would need to say to Roger that Oliver could know, but not me. I am famished by the need to find out. Oliver finishes reading and looks up, the letter still perched for reading in his hands.

“And you think it’s you?” he asks Roger.

“I do,” Roger responds.

Minutes of silence tick by, making me want to scream. Oliver looks between the note and Roger again and again. I look between all three. And Roger just stands, patient and proud, without worrying about what might come. The silence I’ve worked to master as a weapon is being used against me, and I can hardly take it for another second.

“I don’t agree, but I can’t deny what’s written here. Not that it’s Paxton’s choice or that I think you’re right. I can help you look, but you’ll leave the key with me and after today, whether you find it or not, we’re done. Got it?” Oliver demands .

He’s still holding tight to his mask, letting nothing slip in the tick of his jaw or the taste of his words. A man I could read better than any language has changed alphabets, and I’m left scattered, looking for translations.

Roger is all but happy to agree. “Of course.”

Both men spread out, Roger moving back toward the room and Oliver to the bookshelf, as if I have ceased to exist.

“Excuse me,” I say, voice pitching higher the more words I get out. “Are either of you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“No,” they both chorus back.

I’m astonished. Furious. Needy with the want to know. But even my curiosity has its limits, and I am unwilling to bend for either Oliver or Roger right here, right now, so I succumb to their nonsense. I know that nothing I do would bring me closer to answers anyway and only embarrass me further in each of their eyes.

“Okay. Well, will you at least tell me what we’re looking for so I can help?” I ask.

“NO!” they respond.

I like it far less when they’re on the same page than when they’re at each other’s throats.

“Fine. Then both of you can rot,” I yell. “I’m leaving.”

Everything else be damned. I’m tired and sore and bruised. I won’t be led through the shadows anymore. Not for Roger. Not for Oliver. Not even for Paxton. I move to the door, intent on leaving, but feel the soft heat of a hand gripping my good arm. Oliver turns me to him, leaning down that only I can hear, and I startle at his closeness. His anger at me still burns bright, but he sets it aside for the task at hand.

“Eve, you cannot leave alone.” He eyes over toward Roger, begging me to see the bigger picture. If Roger is here, who knows who else could be lurking?

He may not want me to stay to help, but he doesn’t want me to leave. He doesn’t trust what happened last night won’t happen again and, at the very least, he still cares enough not to want that. Chills take over my arms as I think about the possibilities. I nod in understanding. As much as I hate it, I know he’s right. He releases me, going back to his search, satisfied I’ll listen.

I decide to do a search of my own. After all, I came here to find something, anything, that might lead to the next clue. Careful to keep in Oliver’s eyesight, while still weary of Roger and his part in all of this, I start to snoop on the other end of the bookshelf. While Oliver is focused on the assortment of art pieces, boxes, and potential hidden nooks, I set my sights on the books.

I brush my fingers along their spines, reading each before selecting one off the shelf to thumb through, using my bandaged wrist as a hold for their covers. Most of these are newer volumes, the classics and antiques kept at Dellbrook. Still, I’m able to find old favorites, even if they are reprints. The Scarlet Letter. Leaves of Grass. Mark, the Match Boy. I smile at them all, remembering his quotes from each that he’d try to use to play into Oliver's and mine’s games.

Then, out of the memories, tucked at the end of a shelf, a smaller hard back spine sits. I don’t know how or why it catches my eye; all I know is that once it does, a firm block of certainty sits in the bowl of my stomach, pinning me to the present. I float the pad of my pointer down each word, careful not to trigger the mirage. Walden; or Life in the Woods.

Thoreau was a favorite of Paxton’s, someone who was forced upon me from the moment he finished anything of his. He admired his quiet peacefulness, whose spine still stood straight in the face of injustice. A man whose memory was built on simple living. How nice it would be, to be descended from a man who expected nothing , Paxton would say. However, once Madeline saw the notes and markings in his copy of Walden , the book and its author had been banned from Dellbrook altogether.

I pull the book down, delicate in my opening of its cover, knowing the pains Paxton must have gone through to keep this single copy of his youth. There, on the title page, ten-year-old Paxton’s name is carefully written, so unlike the scratch he would come to use. The scrape of memories threatens to tear at my throat, making the bobbing of my swallows painful. Just a little more, I ask my heart.

And as if Paxton himself has rewarded me, a fragment of paper slips from the binding toward the middle. I turn to the page and pull it out completely. The papers are folded, stapled together, making a thin packet. Each is adorned with letterhead from what I would assume to be a lawyer’s office. I open it up further, scanning the printed-out pages for anything that’s familiar, only to see my name highlighted several times. I scurry to read, to gain a better understanding of what I’m seeing when another familiar name pops up.

“Did you find something, Eve?” I hear Oliver ask behind me .

I hurry to fold the paper back up, cursing my clumsy left hand, my gut telling me to keep this to myself for now. I try to hide it in my pocket and produce Walden to Oliver instead.

“Walden. It looks like Paxton had been disobeying Madeline for quite a long time,” I say with a smile, wanting to tie Oliver back to me with the reminder of a wonderful memory.

It doesn’t work. The frown he’s showing only deepens further as he looks at the pocket I’m sure is being charred from the inside out by its secrets.

“What about you?” I ask, staring at the small box in his hands.

He looks at me a moment longer before pocketing the box and sliding his palms down his slacks.

“Nope. Nothing,” he says flat-faced.

Liar , I want to scream just as he did to Roger. I want to tell him I don’t remember him ever being such a hypocrite. But then again, neither was I. I decide to let it go. For now. The choice feels sticky, even in my mind. Used gum long stuck to the bottom of a desk.

We continue to search the place for another hour, all of us coming up empty, besides the secrets in Oliver and I’s pockets. I don’t allow any of the attempts Roger is making to corner me to talk. I don’t answer his questions about my bruises and arm. Even with the hell that’s vacationing between Oliver and me, I still prefer it to the unanswered pleas and feelings of forgery with Roger. The less he knows, the safer I feel.

“I can’t believe it’s not here. He said it would be here,” Roger says as we all end up back in the living area.

“What can I say? My brother was an enigma,” Oliver responds, pulling the flask from his pocket and taking a swig.

He’s back to leaning, like the first night in Dellbrook, but this time it doesn’t feel romantic. It feels contrived. Too easy for all that’s happened. My guess is that the show isn’t for me though. It’s for Roger, whose unease of the youngest Poe is palpable.

“We must have missed it. We should keep looking…” Roger says, turning to start back at the beginning.

Oliver jolts to attention, his hand clamping down on Roger’s shoulder with purpose.

“I don’t think so. I’ve humored you. Let you rummage through my dead brother’s things like you were at a garage sale. But now I’m done, and so are you.” Oliver’s tone is laced with smoke, making alarm bells in my head ring.

Roger is well built, but Oliver is several inches taller and in just as good of shape, if not better trained. Madeline made sure both boys were well versed in combat sports, always requiring they take at least one as an extracurricular. Not to mention the determination that is now propelling him forward.

He’s pushing Roger toward the door with a fight that’s always been reserved for Paxton alone. Roger at first resists, but when he looks to me for help, I can only shake my head. Stop. Just go. I plead with my eyes. Oliver is a fraction of the man he was only days ago and with the threads of his existence unraveling, I don’t want to witness what happens when they fray.

Roger must see there’s no winning the hand he’s been dealt because he stops and lets Oliver herd him to the door with little more than gruff words and huffs. I don’t mind Roger’s frustration. Good. I hope you feel helpless, too , I think. They make it all the way out into the hall before Oliver turns back to find me still inside.

“Coming?” he asks.

The word feels like an olive branch he’s lending me, one to pull me back into the comfort of us. So many parts of me are desperate to grab hold. To suffer together, instead of being tortured apart. But there’s history and words and secrets that keep my feet planted. Accusations and healing that my mind can’t make itself up on. I know that if I lose my ground now, we may never find our way, and my heart just can’t let that hope die here in repetitive cycles.

But, God, how it breaks when I shake my head no and see Oliver’s betrayal marked in the lines of his face.

“Fine. Stay. I will not doubt the love untold, which not my worth nor want has bought, which wooed me young, and woos me old, and to this evening hath me brought. ” Oliver spits the Thoreau quote like a curse.

The pain of yesterday comes flooding through me, morphing into rage.

“ There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion, even by the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. ” I say in return.

The Poe quote slips from my lips as if I’ve turned my very breath into a hurricane. I want him to remember this isn’t my doing. I didn’t ask to be here. Didn’t want this pain. For him or for me. He can blame me, curse me, use the entirety of the past to shoot at me like bullets, but it changes nothing. And I cannot sit any longer in the carnage of our war.

Apparently, neither can he. At the last of my words, he’s hauling Roger off down the hall, even at his protests .

“Hey—Wait a minute. I need to talk to her…” Roger is saying, but Oliver has checked out.

“You can talk to her later. Right now, we’re leaving. Both of us,” I can hear Oliver growl. “Ten minutes. Keep your phone on,” Oliver spits to me before they’re gone down the stairs.

“Go,” I call out to them both. “I won’t be much longer.”

It’s a consolation left without knowing if they heard. All I can hope is that they won’t kill each other in the parking lot by leaving them alone.

I walk back into Paxton’s apartment, poking around aimlessly, until the overwhelming sense of wrongness of it all hits me. None of these things feel like the Paxton I knew. They hold a certain air of who I assume he wanted to be, but nothing is quite right. It makes me want to grab and smash and destroy. Erase this era of silence between us so I can help him furnish a place that was him .

I imagine us visiting this renovated historic building together. How it overlooked what used to be a church but has been turned into a hipster community center. Something so sacrilegious and mainstream that we would have instantly been in love. I picture picking out this apartment and talking about paint colors and decorations. I imagine him showing me Walden with a look of pride that would make me bark out in laughter.

And then my daydream betrays me, allowing Oliver through the door, dead flowers in an ornate vase that he adjusts on the kitchen island saying, a piece of Dellbrook for you, brother, before marching over and kissing me full on the mouth. The thought of it all crushes my lungs and sends me into a spiral where I cannot catch air. I hurry to escape, needing to leave more than the confines of the four walls of this home.

I dash out, hearing the faint click of the automatic door locking behind me, before I’m running to catch the stairs, too panicked to want to sit in an elevator for even a flight. At the end of the hall, on the right side opposite the staircase, a door opens. Ally walks out in a skintight black dress, sky high pumps, and a blazer that costs more than my car.

She glances once to me, smirking, but does nothing more. As if we are strangers. I watch her say a few parting words to someone in the doorframe before skipping down the steps. I toss up my hand, unsure if I even want her attention right now, but knowing I don’t want her to catch Oliver downstairs. I prepare to call out, but my voice stops at the base of my throat as a small, unmovable woman pops out from the door .

She looks at me, throws her arms across her chest, gesturing me inside with a nod, and waits like I’m an expected guest. I school the shock of seeing Ally coming out of her home, dripping in expense. I let go of the fact that her apartment is mere feet from Paxton’s. Squelch the fear that quite possibly I am facing a murderer. Instead, I square my shoulders and continue walking toward her. One way or another, this ends now.

“Emily, we need to talk,” I say, tone more confident than I feel.

She sighs, humor and relief clear.

“Come in.”