Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Cleo owned most of the furniture in the condo we shared in West Seattle. The only thing I had was a king-size bed. Because being able to sleep spread-eagle is important. Since moving here, I’d been sitting on the floor in the living room and storing my clothes in either a suitcase or the built-in closet, which was all hanging space. And with the last of Susan’s boxes relocated to the basement, the house was next to empty. A jarring change from just a month ago.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Sure enough, the smile had fallen off my face. I stuck my head into the front bedroom. Everything seemed bigger—the room, the windows. While this was what I wanted, it was a strange journey to undertake. “It doesn’t look like Aunt Susan’s house anymore.”
“That’s because it’s not her house, it’s yours,” he said. “And that’s not being disrespectful, it’s just stating a fact.”
“Yeah.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wide curved entryway into the dining room. In silence, he watched me wander around like I was lost.
“I still have plenty of pictures and mementos.”
He nodded.
“You know, even she hated that wallpaper and carpet,” I said. “She just...didn’t like change. It was like it was too big of an idea for her to grasp. There were too many things that could go wrong. So she kept adding stuff instead.”
“The attic and basement are full of her things. The bathroom and kitchen are still pretty much original. You haven’t changed everything.”
Grief was a bitch. Just when you thought you had a handle on it, the sudden lack of that person in your life slapped you upside the head all over again. “I need a beer. Do you want one?”
“Please.”
“What comes next?”
“Prep the walls so they’re ready to paint, and refinish the floor.”
Out of the grocery bags, I retrieved two cans of Dawn Patrol Pale Ale and passed him one. My inner peace returned with my second swallow. Everything was fine. There was no need for anyone to be freaking out. Change was both good and natural, etcetera. And I would keep telling myself that until I believed it.
Which was about when my phone rang. I rushed over to my purse, setting my beer on the floor.
“It’s the forensic document examiner,” I said, putting the call on speaker. “Hello?”
“This is Nisha Singh. About the certificate you sent me...”
“Yes?”
“I had a quick look when it arrived yesterday and it’s...very unusual,” she said. Which definitely won understatement of the year. “At first, I thought it was a joke.”
Lars and I exchanged glances. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“I have other jobs ahead of yours, but I couldn’t resist taking a closer look,” she continued. “Whoever created the document appeared to have done a good job of simulating the effects of age on paper. I was curious to know how they did it. So I put it under the microscope then tried looking at it with different light sources, and ran some other tests.”
“It is fake, isn’t it?”
The woman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “After a thorough examination, I’ve decided I’m unable to write a report on the document. I won’t be charging you for my time.”
“Wait,” I said. “Why?”
“While I cannot disprove the document’s authenticity, I also cannot confirm it given the details it contains.”
My mouth gaped. “You’re saying it’s real.”
“I’m saying I cannot help you, Miss Bowen,” she said. “I’ve been in this business for almost thirty years and my reputation is important to me. Your property will be returned to you by messenger tomorrow morning. Goodbye.”
And the call ended.
* * *
My ass met the floor with a thump. Which hurt. As for Lars, who’d heard the conversation, he just kept staring off at nothing. Half a can of beer later, I still didn’t know what to say. This was beyond unexpected. While my imagination might have been somewhat charmed by the idea of receiving missives from the future, this was something else entirely.
“We’ll find another expert,” Lars finally said.
“O-okay.”
“Because she’s clearly on drugs or something.”
“Really?” I asked. “She sounded pretty sober to me.”
“Then she’s lying.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know.” His laughter held a definite edge. “All I know is that it cannot be real. That’s impossible.”
“‘Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”
His forehead furrowed. “What?”
“It’s a quote from Alice in Wonderland,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Did you know Lewis Carroll wrote books on mathematical logic?”
Even more furrows appeared. He’d be running out of forehead space soon.
“Never mind. Beer isn’t strong enough for this occasion.”
Hot on my heels, the man ranted on, “Be realistic, there’s no damn way it can be real. Otherwise, how the hell else would you explain it?”
“I can’t.”
A bottle of silver tequila, a bag of limes, some salt, and two shot glasses later, things felt much more under control. Or spiraling out of control. Sometimes it was hard to tell those two apart. I poured out the drinks and passed one to Lars.