The Dolls(15)

According to the paper, Glory was a well-liked, straight-A student who lived in Carrefour her whole life. Her mom is quoted as saying, “There was absolutely no indication that something like this could happen.” Peregrine and Chloe are both quoted too, with Peregrine describing Glory as, “a true, trustworthy friend,” and Chloe saying—apparently through sobs, according to the reporter—that she’ll always blame herself for not protecting her friend.

Protecting her? Seems like a bizarre way to talk about a suicide.

Glory’s body, the paper says, was found in a wooded area along Cyprès Avenue on the north side of town by a possum hunter from the Périphérie who was trolling the woods before dawn. The police were called right away, but it was too late. The medical examiner estimated the time of death between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. the night before.

Just a few hours after I’d met her.

“It’s definitely a suicide, although the manner of death was highly unusual,” the chief of police, Randall Sangerman, has told the paper. “No prints on the body or on the knife, except for her own. Our department sends its deepest sympathies to her parents.”

I search the rest of the newspaper, but there’s nothing else about Glory, nothing that puts me any closer to understanding why she’d take her own life.

Confused, I pull out the slide and insert the first one from fourteen years ago, the one from the day after my mother’s death. I take a steadying breath, adjust the viewfinder, and begin to read.

Sandrine Cheval, 28, died when her car slammed into a tree along the bayou on Route 786, on the outskirts of the Périphérie, near the town wall. “Death occurred when a shard from the windshield sliced open the carotid artery in her neck,” the medical examiner told the reporter. “Ms. Cheval likely died almost instantaneously.” The newspaper promises more information in its next issue.

I sit back, the breath knocked out of me. I’ve never heard the detail about her neck being cut open. It makes me profoundly sad, and I sit there for a moment wondering what could have been going through her mind in those final seconds before she died so horrifically.

I clear my throat before focusing and loading the next slide. The front-page headline screams, “Carrefour Mom’s Death Ruled a Suicide.” The police chief at the time told the paper, “Based on the lack of brake marks on the road, the speed at which she was traveling, the fact that Ms. Cheval had to have turned the wheel very sharply at the last minute, and the lack of any intoxicants in her system, we’ve concluded that Ms. Cheval’s death wasn’t an accident but rather a self-inflicted incident.” The article concludes by saying that Sandrine Cheval is survived by a younger sister, Beatrice, and a daughter, Eveny, age three.

I look at the screen for a long time through eyes blurred with tears. I’ve heard bits and pieces about my mother’s car crash from Aunt Bea, but it never seems to add up. Seeing it in black and white makes it even more confusing. My mother was happy and loving, with a whole life in front of her. Why would someone like that deliberately drive her car into a tree?

I switch the screen off, and stand up. It’s irrational to search for answers that don’t exist.

I shake my head, grab the microfiche slides and walk out to the librarian’s desk.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks.

“Not exactly,” I tell her. “But thanks for your help.” Her eyes look sad, and I can feel her watching me as I walk out the front door.

I’m in a fog, puzzling over the new details of my mom’s death, as I head back out onto Main Street. I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t notice the guy rounding the corner of the library building until I run straight into him.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim. “I wasn’t looking. . . .” I’m about to ask if he’s okay, but my breath catches as I look up and realize that the solid, muscular chest I’ve just collided with belongs to the guy from the cemetery, the guy with the blue eyes. Caleb Shaw.

“It was my fault too.” He reaches out with both hands to steady me. “You okay?”

His voice is deep and warm, just like I imagined it would be. I blush as I look down and realize the hairs on my arms are all standing on end. “Uh-huh,” I finally say.

He looks unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Uh-huh,” I manage to repeat. Brilliant conversational skills, Eveny.

He stares at me for a minute, and at the same time we both realize that his hands are still on my arms, holding me upright. He pulls away like he’s been burned. “Well, I’m just headed into the library to check out a few books,” he says.