CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rachel sat on the carpeted bottom step in the front hall of 38 Great Pulteney Street. The ledger entry worried her that perhaps she’d find no adequate resolution to Polidori’s life, merely gaps and open questions, leading to a final chapter of nothing but heartbreak. Empty of answers. Despite what she’d studied in the books, and the thesis, and the letters and ledger entries, she could not reconcile he’d just died broken and alone in the room at the top of the stairs.
A visitation from God, the coroner’s report had read.
In the bed she now shared.
Do you suppose what isn’t written is more powerful than what is?
How she hoped something had been written. Somewhere in this house. In his desk, or locked in the basement safe. Even something hinted at in the words carved
