Letters to Elle

12 | Spilling Secrets Spills Blood

                        TWELVE

                        SPILLING SECRETS SPILLS BLOOD

                                    ♡ ♡ ♡

Instead of going home after Marnie and I go our separate ways, I walk over to the cemetery where Elle’s buried. I find myself hoping that Cara isn’t there this time so that I can talk to Elle on my own. I don’t want to have to keep all my words lodged deep inside my body, worried that the person standing next to me will question what I say. By being there myself, I can talk to Elle freely.

            Maybe she’s even there, waiting for me to come and talk to her. To tell her what I’ve learned about her case, which is virtually nothing. I feel bad about not being able to bring much information for her, but I’ve tried my best. There’s only so much that I can do. I’m one person. I doubt Jake will believe me if I tell him that I think Elle’s alive. He’ll think that I’m crazy or something.

            He hasn’t brought up Elle since the time we opened the box. It must’ve freaked him out to see all those items linking Elle to that night’s crime scene.

            When I get to the cemetery, nobody’s there, which isn’t a surprise. Did I really think that Elle would be here waiting for me? If she was going to approach me, she would’ve done it a long time ago, I think.

            I kick up rocks as I walk along the path leading toward the heart of the cemetery, which is the general location where Elle’s headstone is.

            I’m missing something in this whole ordeal, and it’s not anything having to do with the party. I can just feel that there’s this puzzle piece in the grand scheme of things that keeps managing to escape me every time I look.

            I’m scrolling through the pictures on my phone when I come across the picture I took at Elle’s house of her bookshelf and the way that the spines were organized in such an odd way.

            As if something—or someone—is speaking to me, it hits me that this is the missing piece. Or at least part of it.

            If I can figure out why Elle had organized her shelf in this particular manner, then I’ll be able to get a clue about what’s going on.

            I’m looking at the picture, trying to find some deeper meaning, when I’m starting to think that there’s nothing here at all and Elle’s mom just mixed up the books one day. Even though that’s very unlike Elle’s mom, maybe it was her.

            Then I remember today’s lesson is English literature. We were talking about mystery books, and Mr. Hobbs, our English lit teacher, the codes that the people in the books used to communicate with each other. There would be a random sentence or sentences, but then within that sentence or sentences the first letter in each word, written out, would spell out a code.

            With the new idea planted into my brain, I scramble to get a pen and a piece of paper. I drop my bag to the ground and rifle through its contents, searching voraciously for what I need.

            When I find the paper, I waste no time scribbling down the titles that Elle has stacked on her shelves.

            The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

            Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

            Eragon by Christopher Paolini