Will sat on the porch steps of the hotel and watched as Zacari's father's car pulled up. He wondered what conclusion he'd driven her to by forcing Gloria's death upon her. It was too much, he cursed himself. He'd been frustrated, and now she would probably be too scared to ever speak with him again. And he couldn't blame her.
But he remembered things now. Memories he'd thought were gone forever, or hadn't realized were forever gone had emerged, as bright as dogwood in spring. Which was his mother's favorite shade of pink, those dogwood flowers. And if her voice were a color, it would be that exact shade, the range and tenor of it a melody filling will with possibility. The emptiness in him was at with details blooming inside him. The Cellar Door Journal – that's the name he and Winston had decided upon, and the place smelled like mildew when it rained and coffee when it didn't, and it smelled like home. His father's glasses, wiry and crooked on the long slop of his nose that he'd reluctantly accepted when he turned forty-eight. And of course, how could Will have forgotten the fountain-ink blue of Charlie's eyes? Details reborn into images more beautiful than they'd been in life. Well, maybe not more beautiful, but certainly more precious.
Will straightened his bow tie. He had to at least try to talk to Zacari. Compose himself, reason with her. He took comfort in the fact that it was his camera she had. Even if both him and Baker were tied to it. Zacari isn't bad, he told himself. Just misinformed. Gloria had been too.
Zacari and her father climbed the steps. Will reached out to her but stopped. The time wasn't quite right. Lela wagged her tail in his direction.
"Good dog," he said.
YOU ARE READING
The Crescent
ParanormalIn 1939, young journalist Will Drachman is murdered during a visit to Dr. Norman Baker's alleged Cancer Curing Hospital. To move on, Will needs his body properly buried. But there's one problem - he has no idea where it is. Fast forward seventy-eigh...
