The Wish Collector
Page 62

Clara nodded slowly, thinking of what Fabienne had said the last time she was in this shop. If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. For the soldier man.
Clara hadn’t been able to figure out why Angelina would linger for a man who’d broken her heart, a man who’d hurt her so terribly she’d taken her own life.
But suppose what Fabienne had told her was true? In the afterlife, the veil had been lifted. The truth made clear. Angelina understood that John didn’t lie to her, that she was tricked.
Then a curse was placed upon him so he couldn’t be with her in the afterlife and so they wandered aimlessly, blind to the presence of the other.
And yet, perhaps they were able to feel each other as she’d felt Jonah through that thick layer of stone, forever separated, John by a curse, and Angelina because she refused to leave her beloved to wander alone.
It was all so . . . fantastical. Such conjecture, something that could never be proven. And yet, a great sadness overwhelmed Clara. Even if it couldn’t be proven, the idea alone filled her with aching grief. What if she was right? What a heartbreaking tragedy made even worse.
Clara glanced at Fabienne. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am.”
Fabienne nodded. “If you come back in a month or so, this will be a coffee shop. The neighborhood’s getting better thanks to the Brass Angels. Crime is down. People feel safer. Businesses are opening again.” She shrugged. “I never was much for fortune telling, truth be told. But damn if I can’t brew a fine cup of coffee, and I can bake like nobody’s business. It feels like the right path for me.”
Clara grinned. “I will be back. Thank you again.” She started to turn, then remembered something and turned back to Fabienne. “The theater where I’m performing is looking to hire a coffee shop to provide coffee and baked goods for the upcoming shows.” Clara shrugged. “You could hand out business cards. Could be a good way to start advertising while making some money at the same time. If you’re interested.”
Fabienne didn’t say anything for a moment, but something had lit in her eyes. “That’d be great. Who should I call?”
Clara dug in her purse quickly, pulling out an old receipt and a pen, scrawling Madame Fournier’s cell number on it, along with her own name. “Tell her I gave you her name. She’ll point you in the right direction.”
“I will.” She paused. “Thank you very much.”
Clara smiled on a nod, letting herself out of the shop. She checked her phone and sighed when she saw there had been no missed calls. The Uber driver she’d paid to wait outside was across the street and she jogged over to the car, hopping inside with a breathless thanks and giving him Jonah’s address.
Enough is enough, Jonah Chamberlain, she decided.
Clara knocked at the wooden side gate for a good ten minutes once she’d arrived, and, still receiving no answer, she stood back, her brow furrowing as she considered the barrier. It was high, but she was strong. If she held on with her arms, she could pull her body up and over. She had something to prove in the way of fences, anyway, she thought, grimacing at the reminder of the last time she’d attempted to climb one.
A few minutes later she was standing on the other side, brushing her hands off. She allowed herself a moment of victory before she headed toward the house, knocking on the front door, but again, receiving no answer. Crap.
For a moment, Clara stood uncertainly in the low light of the porch, before heading around the side of the house and peering into the darkness beyond.
Maybe you like monsters. Is that it, Clara?
She stepped out of the light, into the shadows, calling his name as she ventured forward.
She could smell pine, hear the leaves crunching beneath her feet as though each one was an explosion of sound, and she knew she was amongst the trees. But she was quickly disoriented, fear settling in her chest. He wasn’t here, and she wasn’t going to know how to get back.
She fumbled in her pocket, pulling her cell phone out and turning on the flashlight to its lowest setting.
Her heartbeat slowed, calm descending along with the security of the light. She walked farther into the trees, keeping the light pointed down but able to make out the path between the cabins now, the path Jonah himself must have kept clean of debris as he ran the course day after day as he’d told her.
“Put the light away.”
Clara gasped, lowered the flashlight, and then turned it off.
Darkness settled around her. She heard his footsteps coming toward her and her pulse quickened. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said as his hand brushed hers. “No one answered at your gate.”
“Myrtle is helping her niece with something across town, and Cecil sleeps like the dead. How’d you get in?” That voice. God, it was like an aphrodisiac. He pulled her along and she followed.
“I . . . I . . .”
“You scaled my fence?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.” He didn’t sound displeased, just sort of . . . weary, and Clara felt confused and uneasy about his mood. The last time they’d spoken, his voice, the things he’d said, had been full of warmth. Full of love.
“Jonah? What’s wrong?”
She heard a door opening and then he was telling her to step up and she did, stumbling slightly, but recognizing the old wood smell of the cabin they’d been in before, the way the dim shaft of light flowed through the small, grimy window.
Clara felt for the wall and leaned against it, needing to orient herself with something solid. She heard Jonah pacing in front of her, heard his exhale of breath.
“It was all a setup.”
“What? What was a setup?”
“The case. My role. Everything. And worst of all, my brother knew. At least . . . some of it. He knew and didn’t tell me.”
Clara heard the despair in his voice. She wanted to reach for him but was afraid he’d draw away. And so she remained standing, and she listened as he told her about Amanda Kershaw’s phone, and the sex club, Chandler Knowles, and the words scrawled on Justin Chamberlain’s legal pads, the words that had pierced Jonah’s heart, if Clara was right about what she heard in his voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice choked with emotion for him, with the blow that had obviously knocked him for a terrible loop, and no wonder. No wonder.
All of these years, he’d tortured himself, and it’d all been a lie. A sick, dirty lie meant to cover other men’s evil deeds.
“Jonah, it’s not your fault.”
He laughed, but it sounded more as though he were choking. “Isn’t it though? Isn’t it my fault that I was so damn full of myself that I couldn’t see I was being used? What a fucking patsy. They must have laughed at me. God, they must have seen me as the biggest joke of all. Wasn’t it my fault that my own brother couldn’t trust me enough to shed light on the things he suspected?”
Clara paused, trying to organize her thoughts. All of this was coming as such a shock, and she hadn’t even had a moment to think. Jonah had though. Here in the dark as he’d grieved and hidden and suffered all over again under the weight of things that were not his to carry.
“What will you do?” He had some proof . . . the phone, the club, though it sounded as if those girls were there willingly even if they had been coerced, their weaknesses exploited. Anyone who would have corroborated what he now knew was dead, or very close to it.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe nothing.”
She didn’t know what to say to make this better. She stepped away from the wall, reaching for him, but he moved away, into the center of the cabin or so it seemed. She was disoriented again, emotionally overwhelmed by the need to comfort, to soothe.
“Jonah?”
“You should go, Clara.”
“Go? Jonah, you don’t have to bear this alone. I’m here to help you through it. I know it must be devastating. I do. But we can . . . we can work through it together. If you’ll let me.”
“There’s no future for us.”
“What? Why? Jonah, I know you’re hurting, but you’ve made so many strides. This doesn’t have to change how far you’ve come, how far—”