Resonance by Erica O’Rourke

Consort’s big cleaving.”
    â€œNot Lattimer. Monty. What’s he after?”
    â€œForgiveness,” I said, making air quotes.
    His brow furrowed. “Monty’s crazy, but he’s not stupid. You’re never going to forgive him, and he knows it. What’s he really after?”
    â€œSame thing as ever. Rose.”
    â€œRose is dead,” he replied. “There’s no way she could have lasted in the Echoes for this long. Even if she had, Train World . . .”
    Was gone, along with everyone in it.
    He broke off and ducked his head. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be,” I said, and turned the mug of cocoa around and around. Not telling Eliot the truth left me feeling wormy and small. “How was class?”
    â€œWho cares? How was Monty?”
    â€œHis usual awful self,” I said. “I lost my temper and bailed. Lattimer was thrilled.”
    â€œWhat did he say? Monty, I mean.”
    I snorted. “He kept going on about stories, which is Monty-speak for lies.”
    Eliot nudged his glasses up. “Maybe not. What exactly did he say?”
    â€œHe called me slapdash.” The accusation stung, hours later.
    â€œHe insulted you? Doesn’t sound like him. And it’s a crap way to earn forgiveness.”
    â€œHe doesn’t care if I forgive him. He wants to mess with my head. It’s his only form of entertainment.”
    â€œThere’s got to be a reason,” he said. “We just don’t see it yet. What else did he say?”
    Anger blurred my memory. “He talked about stories, I guess. He said they were more than words on a page. And he called me sloppy.” You’ll have no one to blame but yourself. . . .
    â€œ Words on a page,” Eliot repeated. He spun the stool in a circle as he thought.
    â€œYou’re going to make yourself dizzy.” I put out a hand to stop him, and he grabbed my wrist.
    â€œHe wasn’t insulting you, Del.” He lifted my hand with his, pointing to the bookshelves in the living room, filled with neat lines of matching leather-bound books. “He was telling you where to look for clues.”
    â€œThe journals? You think he left me a message in their journals?”
    Eliot nodded, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of a fresh puzzle. “Better make popcorn.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    An hour later the popcorn was gone. I rummaged through the pantry looking for more snacks. Eliot sat at the kitchen island surrounded by haphazard piles of leather-bound journals and a mess of papers, his face bathed in the blue glow of his screen.
    â€œRose took nearly two hundred Walks in the six months before she disappeared.” He groaned and took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. “At least the data sample’s sufficiently large.”
    â€œDo you really think there’s a pattern?”
    â€œThere’s always a pattern,” he said, resuming his usual hunt-and-peck. I tossed a bag of Oreos on the table—another sign that life hadn’t returned to normal. Three months ago my mother would have taken a flamethrower to any processed snacks that crossed the threshold of our kitchen. But baking had fallen by the wayside, and now our pantry looked like any other family’s. I kind of liked it.
    Careful not to scatter crumbs, I ran my finger over the pages of my grandmother’s journal. Traditionally, Walkers kept journals as a record of their personal Walks, but Rose’s felt more like a scrapbook. Scattered among handwritten reports were recipes, notes about patients, brief snippets of songs, even photographs. Mom had told me Monty was the more free-spirited of my grandparents, but if this book was any indication, Rose was the definition of eclectic.
    Now that I knew where she’d gone, Rose herself had become the true mystery. The woman in these pages didn’t seem like a rebel. She was a healer.