Haunting Adeline

Chapter 38

The Manipulator

A ll the information Daya and I have gathered so far is splayed out on the island before us. I twist my lips as I mull over what we know for the millionth time, while Daya twists the ring in her nose ‘round and ‘round. She’s waiting on a call back to get the DNA results for the blood on the watch.

“You know, we still never found out who sent me the envelope with all those pictures and the note,” I mumble.

“I know,” Daya says, dropping her hand and pursing her lips. “That’s so odd. I have no idea who it could’ve been.”

Just as I open my mouth, Daya's phone rings. She picks it up so fast, you'd think it was sitting on a burning stove.

"Hello?" she answers, clicking the button to put it on speaker.

"Yes, Daya Pierson?" a woman’s voice asks.

"This is her," she responds, anxiety making her eyes pinball around the room. She chews her bottom lip, the tiny gap between her front teeth on display, while I abuse mine just the same.

"Yeah, I got the results back pertaining to the sample you sent in.” She pauses, and it feels like when a rollercoaster crests the top of the hill. And just for a single second, you're suspended in time before you go crashing back to the ground. “We did get a match. Genevieve Parsons.”

Brown eyes clash with green in a symphony of shock and excitement. Daya clears her throat.

"Perfect, thank you, Gloria. I appreciate it."

"No problem," she chirps before the line disco

"Holy fuck."

Before I can fully process the information, Daya reaches over to her bag and pulls out a thick manilla envelope.

“I had some testing and research of my own done. I went ahead and found a sample of Frank’s handwriting in a police report and the note we found and sent it in to an analyst. Now just to make you aware, graphology isn’t always taken seriously in the name of science, but there have been cases where it held up in court. Regardless, I think it’ll be good evidence to have.”

My eyes widen with excitement. “Really? Let me see.”

She holds up a finger, signaling for me to wait. “Also, remember how the serial number was illegible on the watch?” When I nod, she continues. “I have a friend that’s pretty good at deciphering shit like that, and he thinks he got a match. This, Addie, is where the real evidence is. If we confirm it’s Frank’s watch that had Gigi’s blood all over it, and if the handwriting is a match, that’s sufficient evidence to prove that Frank was the murderer.”

“And?”

She bites her lip. “I wanted to wait to open the email with you. So, you ready?”

I nod my head eagerly, impatience ballooning in my chest.

She opens the envelope first and slides out the results. Laying them flat on the island, we both nearly bonk heads in our pursuit to read them.

…concerning the two samples provided, it has been determined that the handwriting…

“Oh my God. It’s a match!” I squeal, almost breathless from excitement.

Daya grins, giddy with her own excitement.

“Okay, now for the real test.” She slides her laptop closer, her email already pulled up. She clicks on an unopened message.

Daya,

I checked into the serial number like you asked. It was pretty fucking difficult, whoever scratched that number did it pretty good. But not well enough to get past me. The serial number was tracked down to a buyer by the name of Frank Seinburg. Hope this helps.

James

“Oh my god!” I shout, nearly jumping out of the seat with excitement.

“Holy shit,” Daya breathes, her expression full of shock and awe. “He did it. It was fucking Frank.”

"He was in love with her, and he must've found out about Ronaldo and killed her in a fit of anger," I conclude, nearly stumbling over my words.

Daya whips around, grabbing the bottle of Grey Goose sitting on the counter. "This calls for a celebratory shot. We can finally bring justice to Gigi. Even if Frank is dead, at least the world will know that he was a piece of shit.”

I grin, a weird mix of emotion clogging my throat. I'm thrilled that we solved her case. But I'm also sad. And I'm struggling to pin down why exactly. This murder investigation consumed a large part of my life for the past several months. And letting it go almost feels like losing a small piece of myself.

"We still don't know who hid the watch," I muse before taking the shot. My face screws up from the taste. I don't care what anyone says. Alcohol tastes like shit when it's not mixed with something. I will die on that hill.

But I do relish in the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, fire blooming and warming me from the inside out.

I scoot the shot glass back to her, signaling another.

Daya glances at me, and what looks like shame is clouded in her sage eyes.

"What?" I ask flatly.

She points towards my refilled shot glass before shooting hers back. I follow suit. This time it feels like this shot is to gain courage. For what, apparently only Daya knows.

"So, I uh, Frank’s note wasn’t the only one I sent in," Daya starts, hesitation prominent in her expression. Her hand lifts to fiddle with her nose ring, but she catches herself and twists her fingers together instead.

"Okay," I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. She's being weird. And not the kind of weird that involves us taking our pants off and dancing to I'm a Barbie Girl at three o'clock in the morning while drinking boxed wine.

That’s only happened once, but we both woke up the next morning with regrets.

She sucks in a deep breath, and I'm tempted to tell her that we're sharing the same oxygen—she's not going to find any particles in there that will give her superpowers and make her brave. I'd know, because I want to run and hide from whatever she's about to say.

She picks up the manilla envelope and slides out two more pieces of paper. Shooting one last glance my way, she sets down the documents and we both read them over.

One says it’s a match, and another says no match.

“What am I looking at?”

“The handwriting in the confession note matches your Nana's handwriting," she rushes out so quickly, it takes several beats before I comprehend what she said.

"What?"

That's all I'm capable of uttering. She groans and pours another shot.

“This is for the confession note and a sample of your Nana’s and John’s handwriting.”

“Okay, wait," I say, splaying my hands out. "You had suspicions about my Nana being the one to cover up the murder?”

Her lips tighten into a hard line. "Yes."

I shake my head, at a loss for words. “Why?”

She throws her hands up. "Because it would've had to be someone that lived in this house, Addie. It was either John or your Nana. And your grandmother was attached to the attic, was she not?"

"Where did you even get a hold of things with their handwriting on it?"

"You put aside some old documents she had written on. I took pictures. And well, John was a bit more complicated, but I managed to scrounge up a will he had written on.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were doing this?”

She sighs. "Because I knew you'd have a bad reaction to it. I wanted to be sure of my suspicions before I ruined your day."

Blowing out a breath, I nod.

"You’re right," I concede. "It makes sense.” It sounds like I'm trying to convince myself. Probably because I am.

She stays quiet, giving me space to process the fact that my Nana helped cover up her mother's murder.

“She was forced to,” I say finally, glancing over Nana’s confession lying on the island, the note I had found in the attic after seeing what I think was Gigi’s apparition. I don’t move to pick it up, but I remember the words well. The quick scrawl on a piece of paper containing words of a young girl forced to cover up her own mother’s murder.

“Your Nana was what, sixteen when Gigi was murdered? Frank obviously threatened her, and she felt she had no choice. He was a detective, for God’s sake, of course, she would’ve believed him.”

I nod, a frown marring my features. The fear Nana must’ve felt. And the absolute sickening feeling knowing she was helping Gigi’s murderer.

Jesus.

I can’t even begin to imagine how she must’ve felt.

“That’s probably why she spent so much time up there—why she stayed in this house. She was probably punishing herself. Forcing herself to stay in a house with such terrible memories as penance for helping cover it up, even if it wasn’t her choice. I mean, who knows what was going through her head. God, Daya, she was always so damn bright and happy. But on the inside… she must’ve felt such dark things.”

Sympathy etches into the lines around Daya’s frown. “She lived a long, happy life. I’m sure of that. Especially because she had you.”

The alcohol has started to kick in, creating a pleasant buzz in my head. It makes the revelation a little bit more bearable. But not enough to deter the stabbing pain in my chest.

I’m heartbroken for Nana. She lived until she was ninety-one years old. Seventy-five years carrying that weight on her shoulders.

I wonder if Grandpa ever knew. He was a quiet man that loved Nana fiercely. I’d like to think he did and shouldered some of the weight for her.

A memory sparks of about two years ago, a year before she had passed. Nana sitting in Gigi’s chair, staring out the window at the rain.

I was in town visiting her, and she looked so sad.

“What’s wrong, Nana? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m fine. Nana’s just tired.”

“Why don’t you lay down and rest?”

A small, sad smile graced her lips. “Not that kind of tired, my love. But you’re right. I’ll go lay down for a bit.”

Another memory replaces that one of when I was about twelve years old. I was coloring at the kitchen island when I had asked her a seemingly i

“Nana, if you won a million dollars, what would you buy?”

“No money in the world could buy me what I truly want,” Nana says, a teasing grin on her face.

“Well, what do you want?”

Her smile drops, just for a second, too quick for my twelve-year-old brain to think much of it.

“Peace, baby. All I want is peace.”

I go to bed that night just a little drunk and even sadder.

I miss Zade.

He’s off doing something dangerous tonight—some di