Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Jack: Really. So if I tried to talk to you at home or sit with you, you’d allow it?
Me: Wouldn’t you have to email my father first and ask if he’d allow it?
Me: What, no response?
Me: That’s what I thought, Jack.
46
Jack: I hate this. I miss you.
Nate: I miss you.
Nate: Can’t stop thinking about you, Abbey.
Nate: Are you just going to keep leaving me on read?
Me: If you keep texting things like that, then yeah. My heart can’t take it.
Nate: I’m sorry. I’ll stop.
MARCH
47
FEBRUARY SLIPPED THROUGH MY FINGERS. MARCH SNUCK UP ON me while my back was turned. Then before I know it, spring break is a week away, stalking me through the tall grass. I wanted to have my Tulley paper done before the break, and it mostly is. I just wish I had a resolution for Josephine. A proper ending other than “Who the hell knows what happened next?”
But I’m at a dead end.
Amelia and I are peer editing for each other, and she’d lamented about Josephine’s unknown fate in the margins of my paper when she sent it back last night. Her research tome on the killer prostitute gang was brilliant, of course. Mine still feels unfinished.
Fortunately, on Monday morning, I receive two encouraging emails.
The first is from the clerk at the Northern Star Line, now called Global Cruise Initiatives. His name is Steve, and he was supposed to be hunting any relevant documents connected to the Victoria. It’s been months with no word from him, so I assumed that was another dead end. But he surprises me, writing to say he’s attached some digital copies of the original passenger manifest as well as documents pertaining to insurance payouts for survivors of the disaster. The latter isn’t too helpful, given that it’s confirmed William Tulley died on the ship, but the former would go great in my appendix.
The second development comes from Ruby Farnham. Her email pops up as I’m meeting Celeste outside a tiny diner near her campus. We’re squeezing in a quick lunch today between classes.
“Hello, darling,” she greets me.
As we walk inside, I attempt to read the email and remove my coat at the same time.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re an atrocious multitasker?” Celeste inquires politely after I wind up tangled in my sleeve with my phone lost somewhere in the bowels of my coat.
I manage to fish it out and grin at her. “Sorry. I was eager to read this email.”
“I can tell. Who is it from?”
“Ruby Farnham. Josephine’s grandniece.”
After we slide into the cramped booth, I give the email a quick skim, but it’s not as earth-shattering as I’d hoped. No smoking gun that says which Tulley brother Josephine picked or what her fate was. Rather, Ruby’s cousin in Leeds has dug around in her own attic and is now in possession of her own box of family history.
“Her cousin digitized all the family documents and is willing to email me everything to sift through,” I tell Celeste.
“That’s kind of her.”
“It is.” I tuck the phone in my bag. I’ll respond later.
Our server brings over two glasses and a jug of water, filling them up while we give the menus a quick perusal. The harried man takes our orders, then hurries off.
“So. How’s it going at the flat?” Celeste lifts a brow at me. “Lee told me you could cut the tension with a knife.”
“If you knew how it was going, then why’d you ask?” I grumble.
“Oh dear. Then it’s true? You and Jack are still on the outs?”
“Sort of. We’re not avoiding each other anymore. We talk at breakfast, dinner. But it’s not the same.”
“Look…Abbey,” she starts in a voice eerily reminiscent of her twin’s, the one Lee uses when I have PMS. “He’s not a bad bloke. Jackie, that is.”
“I know he’s not.” My throat squeezes shut.
“Lee said he and Jack chatted over a pint the other day. Jackie told him about his family’s financial troubles, how much his mum has struggled— ”
“I get it,” I interrupt, aggravation prickling at me. “Celeste, I’m not mad he took the money—well, I’m a little mad about it. But what really eats me up inside is the pretending.”
“The pretending?”
“He pretended to be my friend.” I hate how small my voice sounds. How pathetic. “I thought he was acting protective because he truly cared about me. Especially at the beginning. I thought it was cute the way he didn’t want me hooking up with his friend or whatever. I thought it meant he was developing feelings for me.”
Her face softens. “Oh, luv. Yes. I can see how that would feel demoralizing.”
“Yes. That’s the perfect word for it.”
“But you’re wrong,” she finishes, shrugging.
I narrow my eyes at her. “How so?”
“Of course he wasn’t pretending. Everybody could see Jack was besotted with you.”
My heart trips over itself. “You’re only saying that so I forgive him and stop making things awkward in the group.”