CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

“Why will he write that to us—to me?” Harold said, looking at the dark smears that crisscrossed the poorly torn sheet of paper that was clutched in Trisha's fingers. It stunk of engine oil; the kind that had seen better days in the engines of vehicles.

Their gazes fell ahead of them as though they hadn't heard Harold and onto the asphalt which was beginning to darken as a chunk of white cloud slid beneath the sun for seconds before coming out on the other side, as radiant and hot as before. 

None of them had a theory to answer what Harold had asked hence, they had shifted their attention to two snowy gulls that flew after the other with occasional hoots into the bluish clouds.

“Do you think Chloe knows about this?” Wilkes said suddenly. “She might tell us something.”

“I doubt it. Wasn't she asking us what poem we were talking about half an hour —”

“Guys!” Trisha said loudly, breaking off Harold and Girard