Where The Mind Breaks

Chapter 4: The Weight Of A Memory

The rain was the only thing that moved. It fell in a steady, hushed whisper, blurring the world. The dark figure stood like a statue at Elias's grave, a hole of deeper blackness in the night. Nel pressed himself against the cold marble angel, the ledger digging into his ribs like a accusation. Every beat of his heart was a thunderclap in his ears. He was sure the figure could hear it.

Move. Please, just move.

As if hearing his silent plea, the figure turned away from the grave and began to walk, not towards the gate, but along the tree line, a slow, prowling pace. It was checking the perimeter. It was hunting.

This was his only chance.

Nel broke from behind the angel, staying low, weaving through the forest of headstones. He didn't head for the main gate. He aimed for the far southern wall, where an ancient oak had sent a thick branch sprawling over the top. It was a route he and Jason had used as teenagers to sneak out after dark.

The wet grass silenced his footsteps, but every rustle of his jacket, every ragged breath, felt deafening. He risked a glance back. The figure had stopped again, its hooded head tilted. It had heard something.

He pushed harder, his lungs burning. The oak tree was there, its bark slick with rain. He scrambled up, his fingers slipping on the wet bark, the heavy ledger throwing him off balance. He hauled himself onto the thick branch, crawling across it like an animal, and dropped over the other side, landing in a muddy ditch with a jarring thud.

He didn't pause. He was up and running, cutting through backyards and alleys, the sleeping houses like blind, unhelpful witnesses. He didn't stop until he was fumbling with the key to his room at the Everfell Inn, his hands shaking so badly he could barely fit it into the lock.

He slammed the door shut, bolted it, and leaned against it, gasping for air. Water dripped from his hair and clothes, forming a puddle on the floor. The room was freezing, but he was sweating.

He pulled the ledger from inside his jacket. It was cold and damp, the plastic wrapping smeared with mud. He laid it on the small, rickety desk as if it were a live bomb.

For a long time, he just stared at it. This was it. The truth about the Weeping. The truth about Hedge Demmys. The truth about what happened to Vivi. The weight of it was immense, a physical pressure on his chest. He was terrified to open it. What if it held nothing? What if it held something worse than he could imagine?

He peeled back the plastic. The smell of old paper, mildew, and something else...a faint, coppery tang...rose from the pages. The cover was unmarked. He opened it.

The handwriting was not Hedge Demmys's. It was a tight, precise script, made with a fountain pen. The ink, in places, had indeed bled and bloomed into grotesque, Rorschach-like shapes. The ink of the drowned.

The entries were dates, going back forty years. They were not records of lumber or profits. They were records of payments. And names.

Payment to Chief Miller: $5,000. For "discretion" regarding the lakefront property dispute.*

*Payment to Dr.Sam: $10,000. For revised autopsy report for Frank Petty.

Payment to Mayor Henley: $15,000. For zoning variance.

Page after page of it. A meticulously documented history of corruption, a ledger of souls bought and paid for by the Demmys family. The town wasn't just run by them, it was owned by them. Golda was right.

His eyes scanned the dates, looking for the period of the Weeping. He found it. The two-month span was a flurry of activity, a storm of payments that made his blood run cold.

Payment to J. Caine: $2,000. For "site security."*

*Payment to A.Finch: $1,500. For "transport."

Payment to "The Cleaner": $7,500. For "five disposals."

Five disposals. The five missing people. It was right there, in cold, hard ink. They hadn't vanished. They had been disposed of.

He felt sick. He turned the page, his vision blurring. He had to find Vivi's name. He had to know.

And then he saw it. An entry dated one week before Vivi vanished.

Payment to L. Tait: $10,000. For "ongoing silence."

L. Tait. Lawrence Tait. His father.

The room spun. Nel gripped the edge of the desk, his knees buckling. He couldn't breathe. It felt like a fist had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart into a pulp.

No. It can't be.

His father. The quiet, broken man who had drunk himself into an early grave after Vivi disappeared, consumed by a grief Nel had always shared. The man who had never once blamed him, not out loud.

$10,000 for ongoing silence.

Silence about what? What did his father know? Had he known about the "disposals"? Had he known what was going to happen? The payment was dated before she was taken. It wasn't a payoff for her disappearance. It was a retainer. For his silence in advance.

The memory of the man in the woods, the blurry face he could never quite grasp, flashed before his eyes. Could it have been...? No. He refused to let the thought form. It was too monstrous.

A soft knock on his door.

Nel jolted upright, his heart leaping into his throat. He stared at the door, frozen.

"Nel? You in there?" It was a woman's voice. Soft, unfamiliar.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"I saw you come back," the voice continued. "You're all wet. I thought you might want some coffee. My name is Silvera. I'm in the room next door."

He remained silent, his eyes fixed on the door. Was it a trick? Was she with the person from the cemetery?

He heard a faint sigh. "I was a friend of Golda's," she said, her voice dropping lower. "She told me you might come. She told me to give you something if you did."

Slowly, carefully, Nel slid the ledger off the desk and shoved it under the bed. He wiped his face, trying to compose himself. He walked to the door and put his eye to the peephole.

A woman stood there, her dark hair damp with rain. She had sharp, intelligent features and eyes that looked tired. She held two steaming paper cups. She looked alone.

Every instinct, every one of Golda's warnings, screamed at him not to open the door. Trust no one.

But she had Golda's name. And she was holding coffee. A tiny, human gesture in a town that felt increasingly inhuman.

His hand, slick with sweat and rain, hovered over the bolt.

He had just uncovered a secret that shattered the foundation of his past. His own father was implicated. The killer from the cemetery was still out there. And now a stranger was at his door, offering a kindness.

He was standing on the edge of a precipice. Opening this door could be the biggest mistake of his life.

Or it could be the only thing that would save it.

His fingers found the cold metal of the bolt.