Deceit

THIRTY

When I reported back to work at the Littleton Journal, Hinch was at the hospital with his wife.

Norma appeared to have been crying.

“It’s touch and go,” she said.

Nate didn’t look all that happy himself. He’d received a Dear John letter from Rina-or, more accurately, a Dear John text message, modern times being what they are-and was sulking at his desk in the back.

The overall mood was somber and restrained.

Hinch had left me the usual number of local stories that needed to be written up. I zipped through them like a driver focused solely on his end destination, following the street signs by rote. The Littleton Street Fair was kicking off next week. The Lone Star Rodeo, featuring a women’s bronco-busting tournament, was coming to town. A meeting of the California Historical Society was going to be held at the Littleton Library.

I finished in record time. I patted Nate the Skate on the back and told him to hang in there. I brought Norma a cup of coffee and told her to keep the faith.

Then I disappeared into the microfilm.

I was falling down a rabbit hole and I wanted to see where I’d land.

I was going forward by going back.

To the place I’d visited before when I’d first been hired, when I perused the local history like a traveler scanning the guidebook of a forthcoming destination. When I nosed around town and asked people for their memories. No matter where I seemed to go-up and down the PCH, twenty miles outside town, or through the looking glass-I kept coming back to it.

It had been waiting for me all along.

1954.

The Aurora Dam Flood.

The death of Littleton Flats.