Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

‘GO ON,' EVAN prompts.

Riley says, ‘The wineglass began to move. On its own, I swear. It wasn't like anyone was pushing it. We all had our fingertips on it just very lightly, and it spelled out hello .' She remembers it so clearly; it had made a strong impression on her. It was so scary and unexpected. ‘And Diana said, Thank you for coming. What is your name? And it spelled out Simon . It was a bit slow, but very clear. And Diana asked, How old are you? And he went to the numbers 1 and 2. So Diana said, You were twelve when you died? And he went to the word Yes .' Riley stops and studies Evan for his reaction. He's transfixed, but she can't tell what he makes of it. ‘Then Diana asked, Where did you live? And he spelled out Here. And she said, Here? In this house? And we all looked at one another, completely freaked out. But he said No . So she asked if he lived in Fairhill, and he answered Yes . He said his house wasn't there any more. Diana asked him what year he was born, and he said 1861. Then she asked him how he died.' She stops again, as Evan looks at her doubtfully.

‘You have to believe me, Evan. There was a boy, a spirit, no question about it.' She carries on. ‘It was the strangest thing I've ever experienced. He went quiet for a bit, and we thought he'd gone, but Diana asked him again how he died, and he spelled out Sick . And Diana was going to ask him more about it but then the wineglass just started flying around and around so fast in circles on the floor, as if he was angry and we were all terrified and took our fingers off the glass and it stopped.'

Evan's looking at her in disbelief. He says, ‘Sadie was manipulating the wineglass, manipulating both of you. You know what she's like.'

‘No.' She shakes her head vehemently. ‘I was there, you weren't! We all swore we weren't making the glass move, and then we all put our fingertips back on and tried to push it around, but it was obvious when someone was doing it. And we couldn't get it to go round and round in circles like that. It wasn't the same. It wasn't one of us that was answering. It wasn't Sadie. It was a spirit. I'm sure of it.' She takes another deep, trembling breath. ‘And now I wonder if Diana is here somewhere, like that boy Simon.' She adds, ‘And I wonder if she's as angry as he was.'

Evan clearly doesn't believe her, Riley thinks. He thinks she'd been duped. She regrets that she told him. She gets up suddenly and starts walking briskly away.

‘Wait, where are you going?' Evan calls after her. He begins to follow.

She doesn't answer. She's angry at him for not believing her, and she would prefer to be alone, but after that text last night from Diana's phone she's too afraid to be by herself, even in broad daylight. She stops and looks back over her shoulder and sees with relief that he is following her.

He catches up, but trails a few paces behind her, giving her some space. She walks to the United Church. It's almost noon, on a bright Monday, and the churchyard is deserted. She heads for the cemetery, the one they used to hang out in, but probably never will again. She wonders where Diana will be buried, and if she will bring flowers for her grave. But she can't bear to think about that.

She makes her way directly to the older section of the cemetery, the part she likes best, where the gravestones are ancient and pitted and sometimes covered in moss. Some are rather grand and beautiful, but many more are quite simple, the gravestones reflecting the wealth of the dead person's family. Others are stone plates set into the earth that have been walked on over the years and are hard to read. Some mark the deaths of multiple children at once. It's sad, but the deaths were all long ago and feel removed from real life. Not like the newer part of the cemetery, where they will soon be digging a grave for Diana.

Riley has done the math. If Simon was born in 1861 and was twelve years old, he must have died in 1873.

‘I know what you're doing,' Evan says beside her.

‘Then help me look,' she says.

They walk slowly up and down the rows, reading each headstone carefully. But there is no Simon, born in 1861 and buried in 1873. There is no Simon at all, and no one with those exact dates.

Evan stands beside her. She can sense that he wants to say I told you so , but he refrains and she is grateful, at least, for that.

Ellen is grimly silent as she works in the bakery, moving like an automaton through the kitchen, putting rolls in the oven, taking them out again, hardly aware of what she's doing. Her phone chimes, and she ignores it. The other girls in the kitchen aren't speaking either. They must have heard the news. They all know her fiancé has been questioned; the reporters have caught him coming out of the police station. They think he's some kind of pervert, and that the police might suspect him of killing Diana. Ellen wants to scream and tear off her apron and run away.

She vacillates constantly. Sometimes she thinks Brad is being wrongly accused, that things will all work out somehow, and she will have her old life back – with her optimism, her beautiful wedding, and the cute house waiting for them on December first. But most of the time she thinks that Brad must have done something he shouldn't have. They wouldn't make it up. Why would they? But – you do hear stories of people making false claims that destroy lives. People lie. Girls can do terrible things. She remembers a story in the news recently – a teenage girl murdered a homeless person in cold blood, for no reason at all … Maybe Brad is a victim. It's certainly possible. And so she goes, back and forth, driving herself mad.

If only she'd been with him the night that Diana was killed. If only they would catch the real killer, so all this would go away. Because Ellen doesn't believe for a second that Brad murdered Diana. He didn't do it, so they won't be able to find any evidence that he did. But she's afraid that he might have been inappropriate with Diana and this other girl. Maybe Brad is the liar.

Apart from everything else, it's personally humiliating. She thought he loved her, that he desired her, that she was everything to him – or at least enough for him. But maybe not. And the fact that she could make such a mistake, that she didn't detect this perversion in him – how can she trust her own judgement any more? The very thought of it turns her stomach. Brad possibly leering at teenage girls, wanting them, touching them. It's disgusting. She doubts everything. And her parents – how can she face her parents after all this?

But how will he ever prove that he didn't do it? He can't, that's the thing. He might be able to win in court, if it comes to that, but he will never be able to completely convince her that he didn't do something to those girls.

She knows she can't marry him if she's uncertain. If there's any chance that he molested these girls, it's over. And she will have to cancel the dream wedding and give up the cute house that she's been redecorating in her mind, as well as the bright future they'd been planning together.