had no idea, but it seemed about right. “Kind of a good ol’ boy town.”
“Need me to get you in?” she was getting antsy.
“Maybe. Can I give your number as a contact?”
“Yeah, of course. Just don’t tell them I’m a woman.”
That got me laughing. “Not a woman. Got it. Jules... Evers?”
She snorted a laugh. “I needed that, Lily. All right, Jules Evers, signing out. Christ, that makes me sound like I’m in a Spider-man comic. Need anything else?”
“Nope,” I said. “Thanks again. You’re the best, Jolie.”
“Make me proud,” she said, and then hung up before I could respond.
Stepping toward the building, I felt a twinge in my stomach.
If I was going to be useful to Damon or to Jolie, or to anyone else, the first step was for me to trust that I could be useful. No doubting myself and figuring that I was just along for the ride. I had to make myself believe that I was necessary.
It’s funny how simple things like that can be the hardest to swallow.
Nodding inwardly to steel my nerves, I pushed open the incredibly heavy door with the shatter-proof wires running through the glass.
*
T he way to the records department was long and winding. From the front of the monolithic white building, I never imagined it’d be so big inside, but there I was, weaving my way through a labyrinth of halls and double doors until I was finally spit out into a very clean and stereotypically dour room lined with shelves.
“Hello?” An almost overly-proper looking man with circular framed glasses stood up from behind a desk. “Are you here for... the records?”
What, am I the first one ever?
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Lily Kyle, and I’ve heard some really interesting things about the town. My editor wanted me to check out the local folklore, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “Most people simply call me Carrell. Might I call you Lily?”
Something about this man was incredibly... wrong. It was like my brain started tingling when I looked at him. And then, when he shook my hand, every one of my suspicions came true. Carrell’s hand was a little warmer than it should have been, and about four times as clammy as it needed to be. I shook it as quickly as I could and pulled away, trying to downplay my revulsion.
“Yes,” I swallowed hard. “Sorry, of course. Lily is fine.”
And then there it was again. Something in my brain, like a neuron firing a little harder than normal, shot a chill down my back.
He twitched his nose.
“What can I help you with?” he asked. “Is there some particular thing you’re researching?”
“Not specifically,” I lied through my teeth. If he could tell he made no indication of it. “I normally do stories about folklore, crime, that sort of thing. Just, you know, keep it fresh.”
“Fresh?” he looked down the bridge of his slightly crooked nose at me.
He was a little like a vulture with a full head of hair. His shoulders were sort of slumped, but that could have easily been posture as much as age. Carrell didn’t look very old in the face, but his clothes – a three piece suit in the most inoffensive beige color possible – were from a different century.
“Oh, well what I mean is, I tend to write about old folktales. The kind that get buried and forgotten about.”
“We?”
“Sorry,” I said, pretending like I was flustered. “We meaning the New York Times . My editor is Jol—ah, Jules Evers. He likes things that are... what did he say? Oh, right, witchy. That time of year, I guess.”
“Hmm,” he said, examining the card I handed him, turning it over in his hands. I noticed that he was looking past it and straight at me as he did. “I see. What can I help you with?”
I briefly told him, in the vaguest terms possible, what I was after. Murders, old ones, where there were strange circumstances involved. His answer for me was a large, and very old – and very dusty – ledger book with a whole lot of
“Need me to get you in?” she was getting antsy.
“Maybe. Can I give your number as a contact?”
“Yeah, of course. Just don’t tell them I’m a woman.”
That got me laughing. “Not a woman. Got it. Jules... Evers?”
She snorted a laugh. “I needed that, Lily. All right, Jules Evers, signing out. Christ, that makes me sound like I’m in a Spider-man comic. Need anything else?”
“Nope,” I said. “Thanks again. You’re the best, Jolie.”
“Make me proud,” she said, and then hung up before I could respond.
Stepping toward the building, I felt a twinge in my stomach.
If I was going to be useful to Damon or to Jolie, or to anyone else, the first step was for me to trust that I could be useful. No doubting myself and figuring that I was just along for the ride. I had to make myself believe that I was necessary.
It’s funny how simple things like that can be the hardest to swallow.
Nodding inwardly to steel my nerves, I pushed open the incredibly heavy door with the shatter-proof wires running through the glass.
*
T he way to the records department was long and winding. From the front of the monolithic white building, I never imagined it’d be so big inside, but there I was, weaving my way through a labyrinth of halls and double doors until I was finally spit out into a very clean and stereotypically dour room lined with shelves.
“Hello?” An almost overly-proper looking man with circular framed glasses stood up from behind a desk. “Are you here for... the records?”
What, am I the first one ever?
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Lily Kyle, and I’ve heard some really interesting things about the town. My editor wanted me to check out the local folklore, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “Most people simply call me Carrell. Might I call you Lily?”
Something about this man was incredibly... wrong. It was like my brain started tingling when I looked at him. And then, when he shook my hand, every one of my suspicions came true. Carrell’s hand was a little warmer than it should have been, and about four times as clammy as it needed to be. I shook it as quickly as I could and pulled away, trying to downplay my revulsion.
“Yes,” I swallowed hard. “Sorry, of course. Lily is fine.”
And then there it was again. Something in my brain, like a neuron firing a little harder than normal, shot a chill down my back.
He twitched his nose.
“What can I help you with?” he asked. “Is there some particular thing you’re researching?”
“Not specifically,” I lied through my teeth. If he could tell he made no indication of it. “I normally do stories about folklore, crime, that sort of thing. Just, you know, keep it fresh.”
“Fresh?” he looked down the bridge of his slightly crooked nose at me.
He was a little like a vulture with a full head of hair. His shoulders were sort of slumped, but that could have easily been posture as much as age. Carrell didn’t look very old in the face, but his clothes – a three piece suit in the most inoffensive beige color possible – were from a different century.
“Oh, well what I mean is, I tend to write about old folktales. The kind that get buried and forgotten about.”
“We?”
“Sorry,” I said, pretending like I was flustered. “We meaning the New York Times . My editor is Jol—ah, Jules Evers. He likes things that are... what did he say? Oh, right, witchy. That time of year, I guess.”
“Hmm,” he said, examining the card I handed him, turning it over in his hands. I noticed that he was looking past it and straight at me as he did. “I see. What can I help you with?”
I briefly told him, in the vaguest terms possible, what I was after. Murders, old ones, where there were strange circumstances involved. His answer for me was a large, and very old – and very dusty – ledger book with a whole lot of
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