Not Quite Mine

by Lyla Payne

  Jenna’s watching the whole exchange with bright eyes that sparkle with interest. She makes an innocent face when I shake my head at her.

  “Brian, sit down. I think we can both agree that it’s best to leave what happened in the past.”

  “Because that’s what archivists and historians are so good at?” Jenna quips. “Leaving the past alone?”

  “Jenna, this is Brian. He gives historical and ghost tours in Charleston. Brian, Jenna is the preservationist at Drayton Hall.”

  His tears recede as he follows my command to sit and reaches out to shake Jenna’s hand. “Wow, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about your work. It’s pretty amazing.”

  “Thank you.” Jenna’s cheeks go a little pink even though she must be used to compliments like that at this point in her career. She’s basically a prodigy.

  Ginny shows up to drop off Jenna’s burger, which means Brian actually gets to order a drink without having to wait, even if we are committing a cardinal offense of dining—all showing up and ordering at different times.

  From my limited experience with Ginny, she doesn’t actually have a good mood, so it probably doesn’t matter. We’re going to get the same attitude in all scenarios.

  “I was just telling Jenna what I know about Henry.”

  Brian reaches around the back of his chair and pulls his messenger bag into his lap. He hugs it like it’s a small child he’s afraid might slip. “I brought you what I have.”

  “Is it more than what’s on the Internet?”

  He nods. “Yes. I’ve found some letters that I haven’t been able to verify through secondary sources. Also some documents that back up at least some of the claims about him being left behind by the English, being taken in by the Spanish, and then being picked up again by the Carolina.”

  “Ship manifests?” Jenna asks, sitting straight up in her chair. She looks like a dog that thinks it might be about to be fed table scraps and doesn’t want to miss its chance.

  Brian nods. “I have manifests from the original expedition, as well as from the Carolina when it docked at Charles Towne in 1670.”

  “And Saint Augustine?” The thrill of potential discovery spikes my blood with far more efficacy than the bourbon. “What do you have from there?”

  “A letter from the governor back to Spain. It reports that they’ve replaced a doctor that died from yellow fever with an Englishman who has proven his salt.”

  “Can I see?”

  He nods and opens the flap of his bag, flipping through a few things before pulling out a single sheet. It’s a copy, obviously, but it’s in the original handwriting.

  I skim it, frowning in concentration as my years of Spanish struggle to come back to me. “It doesn’t mention the doctor’s name.”

  “No. But the chances of there being more than one around the same time are pretty small.”

  “Maybe, but it’s possible the story of Henry Woodward was compiled from the stories of a couple of different men,” Jenna suggests, sucking on an ice cube. “That’s pretty common, to conflate historical actors to better relay a story.”

  Brian shakes his head. “Possible, but with all of the other evidence, unlikely.”

  “Such as?” Jenna prods.

  Right now I’m happier than ever that I invited her here. Both Brian and I are too close to Henry to see the situation as clearly as she could.

  “Well, let’s start with the fact that there would have been hardly any Englishmen in the colonies at that point, at least not close enough to hoof it to Florida looking for help. When you include the fact that he was a doctor and what he said happened to him—that he was living among the natives—and the chances become almost minuscule that it was someone else.”

  I frown, trying to push the rusty, analytical part of my brain into action. “But we’re still missing corroboration of the part of Henry’s story where he lived with the natives, right?”

  “Not necessarily. The manifest of the original ship shows him missing from the voyage home, but lists two native guests that accompanied them.” He shrugs. “I haven’t been able to track down any letters or diaries from anyone on that first expedition, but they must have existed. They were scouting for the crown. They wouldn’t have set out or returned without confirmation from England, which means there must have been correspondence.”

  “So either it’s been lost or you just haven’t been able to find it,” I say, the wheels turning in my brain.

  “Archives are more your area.” Brian attempts a smile, but there’s too much guilt soaking it, and his expression turns into more of a grimace. “I thought maybe we could, I don’t know…”

  “What?” I can’t help but challenge his assumption that I owe him a damn thing after everything he’s put me and my family through, but at the same time, the professional courtesy that had been ground into me during grad school keeps rearing its head.

  He did all of this work. He’s dedicated years to gathering information on one man. What kind of bitch would I be if I took it and claimed it as my own? He might have tried to kill me, but we’re academics—if I take credit for his work, I’d be almost as bad in the minds of most of our peers.

  “Pool our expertise,” he finishes lamely.

  The look on Jenna’s face says she has about a million questions about our obvious history. Now isn’t the time to share the answers. Once I do, she might be pissed at me for including her in this evening, but based on the fact that she loves a good mystery as much as I do, I doubt it.

  “I’m working on an article on Henry that I planned to submit to a few journals once it’s done. If I use any of your findings, I promise to credit you.”

  I feel like it’s a nice offer, but Brian doesn’t look too thrilled. No doubt he wants author credit, and to help me write the thing, but that would mean spending more time together. He doesn’t fight me, though, as he puts the letter back into his bag and hands the whole thing to me by the strap.

  Frustration pools in my stomach as I thumb through the rest of his research. It’s all interesting, and maybe it will help me publish a fuller, at least partially verified accounting of Henry Woodward’s life, but will it help me help Henry?

  I sigh and settle the bag over the back of my own chair. Brian’s drink arrives, and the three of us sit together in silence for a few minutes. My mind wanders over everything Brian told us.

  “Let me ask you something. Have you come across anything personal written about Henry? Was he married? Did he have a sweetheart? Was his advocacy for the Native Americans passionate, or did he consider it a job and nothing more? Who was he back in England?”

  The last question would be the easiest to find an answer to, and it surprises me that I hadn’t thought of it until now. I’ve been so wrapped up in trying to find out more about his life since he left that I hadn’t considered going back to the beginning.

  Brian shakes his head. “Hardly anything. The only remotely personal thing I found was the mention of a woman—or a girl at the time—named Elizabeth Myles. She was one of the five people to attend his memorial service back in England after his family learned of his death.”

  The information intrigues me. “Who was she? Family?”

  He shakes his head. “No, not family. No one knows, really. I hadn’t thought to trace her, to be honest, because it doesn’t relate to my interest in him, which is verifying his contributions to the New World.”

  I nod. “I know. I haven’t really gone through records back in England, either, but it might be a lead I should check out. For Henry.”

  Brian casts a glance around Pete’s, somehow seeming both spooked and full of longing. “Is he here?”

  “Henry? No. He doesn’t like other people. But he’s around.” I catch Jenna’s eye, and she grins at me. Goofy girl thinks talking about my ghosts is fun. “He gets excited when he sees me working on his article.”

  “Maybe he’s just a narcissist,” Jenna pipes up, raising her empty glass and rattling the
ice cubes toward Pete.

  I want to tell her that’s a good way to get a saliva mixer in her bourbon, but her words snag in my brain. “You know what, maybe you have something there.”

  Skepticism colors Brian’s face, and there’s no doubt a defense of his favorite historical figure is hot on its heels. “No, that doesn’t sound like Henry. He never asked for any recognition.”

  “And they never gave him any,” I point out, sensing that maybe we really are onto something, at least when it comes to why Henry has been hanging around but not giving me any real direction. “What if he just wants what anyone would want?”

  They both look at me, their faces blank.

  “To be remembered,” I supply, impatient for feedback on my idea. “Like, he led this amazing life and no one knows about it. He seems to love the fact that I’m writing an article, but he’s never pointed me toward anything specific that he wants done. What if that’s it?”

  Brian sits back in his chair, thoughtful now. “I mean, it would make sense, I guess. I find it hard to believe a ghost would stick around all these years just for that, but…” There’s something like understanding in his gaze as he trails off, then rubs his chin like a professor in the movies does to communicate he’s deep in Serious Thought.

  “But…?” Jenna prods this time.

  “I’ve been enamored with Henry’s story ever since I first caught wind of it. It’s almost… It’s an obsession, and there have been times in my life where it’s made me do things I can’t explain.” The glance he shoots at me is full of regret, and we both know at least one thing he’s referring to. “Almost like something was pushing me.”

  It sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me, an excuse for his bad behavior. In reality, I think Brian’s obsession stems from a lack of confidence and the fact that he’s never lived up to any of his father’s expectations. Being the first to verify and share Henry’s full story would be a coup, at least in the academic community, and that dream is what’s been driving him all this time.

  That said…I don’t know. Maybe Henry’s gotten into Brian’s head the way he’s gotten into my room but the poor tour guide doesn’t have the capacity to see him. If Henry wants his story told that badly, it’s possible I’m not the first historian he’s tried to get to tell it.

  Possible, I remind myself. Not likely. Don’t be so quick to give Brian the out he wants for trying to kill you.

  “Thanks for all of this,” I tell him. “I’m going to keep looking, especially into this Elizabeth woman and Henry’s origins in England. I’ll keep you updated as far as publication.”

  I drop twenty-five dollars on the table, enough to cover my bill and Jenna’s, too, and hop off my stool. Now that I’ve gotten what I came here for, there’s no reason to stay. I don’t want to shoot the shit with Brian. That might give him the idea that I buy into the idea that we’re peers or that he has any right to demand anything at all from me.

  “Let’s go,” I say, giving Jenna a pointed look. It takes her too long to get back into her winter gear, and impatient nerves dance in my belly the whole time.

  I avoid Brian’s hurt gaze, shifting my weight from foot to foot until Jenna finishes and I can hustle her out into the cold.

  “What was that all about?” she demands when we’re back out on the street.

  “Where did you park?” I ask, not answering. Not feeling safe all of a sudden.

  “Right here on the street.”

  “Can you give me a ride home?”

  She nods, not arguing or asking any more questions as she picks up on my thrumming nerves. Once we’re inside her car and she’s got the heat cranked up, I answer her.

  “Brian’s a creep. I need his help but I don’t trust him, so just watch your rearview on the way to my house, okay?”

  She pales a bit, the first time I’ve seen the reality of all of my close calls make a real impact on her, and we pull away from Pete’s in nervous silence. I watch behind us, too, but no other cars are on the Heron Creek streets. We get to the house Amelia and I share without any incident and sit idling in the driveway.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, finally daring to breathe. “I didn’t… I’m sorry if I put you in any kind of danger by asking you to come tonight.”

  “He didn’t seem… He seemed more goofy than anything.”

  I swallow, nodding slightly as I unbuckle my seat belt and grab Brian’s bag from the backseat. “Yeah. Yeah, I thought so, too.”

  Jenna doesn’t say anything as I get out of the car, shut the door behind me, and start up the path to the house. She waits in the driveway until I unlock the door and get inside safely, then drives away. I hope she has someone at home who is going to do the same thing for her.

  In the foyer, I feel my phone buzz in my coat pocket and stop to dig it out, remembering I never texted Beau back and he’s probably worried. Or asleep.

  It’s not from Beau. There’s a text on my screen from an unknown number, and a pit of worry yawns in my gut as I swipe it open to read.

  Stop asking questions about Ellen Hargrove. I don’t want you to end up like her.

  Chapter Eight

  The last thing I figured I’d be doing on Saturday morning was calling Dylan Travis to ask for a favor. I didn’t figure on calling him at all, after leaving the DNA kit thing in his court, but that text message had me up half the night.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Travis.”

  “Gracie.” He stops there, not asking what I want. It’s probably some cop technique, but I don’t have time to wait for him to develop manners.

  “I wondered if you’d do me a favor.” I bite my lip, reminding myself that I’ve got three good cards in my hand. One, he likes Amelia. Two, he thinks we could be family, and three, he doesn’t have anything else to do at the moment. “I got a…let’s call it a vaguely disturbing text message last night related to some ghost investigating I’m doing, and I’m worried about Amelia. I was wondering if you’d be willing to sort of, I don’t know. Keep an eye on her when she’s alone.”

  The pause on the other end of the line seems to go on forever. I wait him out, even though it’s cold and I’m standing in the wind down the block from the police station.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it’s about—the text. Or the case.”

  “Not right now, no. I honestly don’t think anything will come of it, but she’s been through enough.”

  “How am I going to know when to be on duty?”

  “I’ll text you ahead of time.” I pause, thinking. “I can pay you. Just let me know what hourly rate would be acceptable.”

  He snorts. “Please. You’re doing me a favor by taking the DNA test when it’s here, and besides, I still feel bad for lying to you. It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, Travis.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I hang up, unsure how to feel about him anymore. The text message scared me, and made me more determined to see this whole thing through, which is why I’ve set out for the police department before work. Even if Ellen has been understanding about this whole thing, it’s time to get moving. My own personal mysteries will have to take a backseat.

  Inside the police station, I find Will alone and tell him I want to know what’s in the Heron Creek file on Ellen Hargrove’s disappearance.

  He gives me a raised eyebrow and a defensive cross of his arms in response. “Why?”

  “Because I want to know?” I put on a winning smile.

  “No.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Will, you don’t have to show me the case file if that violates your precious code of ethics. I just need you to look at it and tell me if they interviewed anyone else—friends, relatives, whatever.” I give him my best angelic face, knowing full well that it stopped working on him before we turned sixteen.

  “Don’t give me that look, Gracie. You and I both know you’re not made of sugar and spice or anything nice.” He sighs when I don’t give up, batting my eyelashes. �
��You’re supposed to fill out a form.”

  “I don’t have time for that.” I pause and feel a wicked smile creep onto my lips. “Officer Dunleavy in Charleston gave me a whole file to look at and didn’t make me fill out anything.”

  Will snorts. “I’m guessing that A) Officer Dunleavy doesn’t know you very well, and B) he’s not married.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I huff. “Can you please just tell me if there’s anyone else who might have known Ellen Hargrove well enough to know why she would have run away, if she did run away?”

  I’m doing my best to act normal, like that text doesn’t still worry me. My guts were already knotted over seeing Brian again and then that…it shook me up. The list of people who know I’m looking into Ellen’s disappearance is pretty short, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out who might have sent it.

  I try to remember that I have Travis on my side now, and to feel good about that. The strangest part is, even after the lies, I trust him to keep Millie safe.

  Will glances around, even though we’ve been alone since the start of this conversation and no one has come in or out of the precinct. The Ryan twins are driving Strange Sal to rehab again since his wife wouldn’t bail him out and he’s been stinking up the cell in the back for a couple of days.

  “Fine. But if you don’t want to fill out the form then you’re not looking at anything, and you’re sure as shootin’ not taking it out of here, either.”

  I give him an overly enthusiastic salute. Will rolls his eyes but can’t hide how his lips are twitching into a smile as he turns and goes into the back. Heron Creek is sorely behind the times as far as electronic upgrades, and all of the case files, cold or otherwise, are stored in file cabinets and boxes in a storage room.

  My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps into my throat. My stomach hurts, thinking it could be another vague threat, but even so, if someone thinks some nasty words are going to stop me, they’re dead wrong.

  Guilt over the fact that I didn’t tell anyone but Travis, not even Amelia, about the text twinges anxiety in my gut. The excuse that I don’t want to worry anyone is wearing pretty thin, even to my own ears, and when this all comes to light, it’s going to hurt them more.