Chapter 23

23

I woke to find myself in a bed that was unfamiliar, and it wasn't mine. The bedside lamp was still on, and as I sat up, my eyes came to rest on a handmade patchwork quilt.

Where am I?

And how did I get here?

I moved the quilt to the side and stood, noticing I was still dressed in the same pajamas I'd put on before I'd retired to bed. Tiptoeing to the bedroom door, I pulled it open. It creaked as I did so, and I poked my head out, peering into the hallway.

I saw no one at first.

But I heard a sound—humming.

I followed the noise to a sitting room filled with books. A woman was inside, sitting in front of an antique wooden desk. She was hunched over it, writing. As her face came into view, everything became clear.

I was in Cordelia's house.

And I was dreaming.

I approached Cordelia's desk and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, can we talk?"

She swished a hand through the air. "Not now. Come back later."

"I can't. It isn't how it works."

She huffed a hearty sigh and set the pen on top of the paper. "I suppose if it must be now, I can spare a few minutes. What's on your mind?"

"You're writing a letter."

"I am."

"To whom?"

"I'd like to say it's to my sister, though she'll never receive it, not this one."

"Then why write it?"

"It occurs to me my soul is not at rest. I should have driven to her house when I had the chance. I should have forced her to see me. I didn't because I don't have the backbone she's always had. So I decided to write one last letter, for my own peace of mind."

"What's in the letter?" I asked.

Cordelia smiled and said, "I'm telling her everything I would have said had I worked up the nerve to see her face to face."

"What do you hope the letter will achieve now?"

"I believe it will allow me to move on and not be stuck here, in a purgatory of sorts. I'm ready to be rid of this place, to be reunited with Milton. The sooner, the better."

"So you know you're … that you are …"

"Spit it out, dear. I'm dead."

"You were murdered in the library. Do you know who killed you?"

"If I gave you the answers you seek, it would take all the fun out of you figuring it out for yourself, now wouldn't it?"

I supposed it was the reason my questions were never answered in dreams of this kind, and I doubted they ever would be.

"Have you any suspects?" she asked.

"I've started questioning people. Do you have any advice for me?"

"Advice can be tricky once you've left one place for another. Let me see … I suppose I don't have any advice. I was scared, you know, at the end. It's true what they say about your life flashing before you before you die. Except my visions were of every fond memory Milton and I ever shared together. It was beautiful, and it alleviated my fear."

"Why were you keeping an eye on your neighbors before you died?"

"Someone needs to look out for those who can't look out for themselves."

"Are you referring to Rosalyn or Kayla?"

"You tell me. Was it Rosalyn, or Kayla, or someone else—someone you haven't considered yet?"

"Did you see something you shouldn't have? Is it the reason you're dead?"

"I've seen lots of things in my day. I guess I got a little tired of it in the end—sitting back, doing nothing. It's what's wrong with society, and I played a part. We see things, and we turn away because we think we're weak. We think we're better off letting someone else step in or not doing a single thing. It wasn't right of me, not right at all."

"What did you see, Cordelia? What secrets were you hiding?"

She turned away from me, yawning as she said, "You're keeping me, you know. Keeping me from my Marlon. You don't need my help to find the answers you seek. Trust yourself. You'll find your way."

"Wait, please. Can I have a minute, just one more minute?"

As the words left my lips, she started to fade.

"Don't go," I said. "Not yet."

"I must. I'll leave you with this … Things aren't black or white. People have a reason for the choices they make sometimes. You'd do well to remember that."