Free Forevermore by Cindy Miles

in. What better place to research Logan?
    Leaving Mom at the section of new parenting books, I cross the small, plaid-covered atrium and make my way to the reference desk. The scent of old leather and older paper permeates the place. I like it. A young librarian wearing a brown sweater and a yellow-and-orange plaid scarf sits staring at her computer screen.
    “Can I help you?” she asks, her you sounding more like yooh — an accent that’s almost familiar to me by now.
    “I’m trying to find some information about someone from around here who died about two hundred years ago,” I whisper. “It might have been an accident … or a murder.”
    The librarian points over her shoulder. “It’d be in Glenmorrag history books.” She inclines her head. “Just in that wee section over there. Not that hefty, I fear. You can also try the census books. They’re in that room, with the computer. Let me know if you need any help.”
    “Thanks,” I respond, and I head off to investigate.
    I scan the small amount of books on the shelves about Glenmorrag history, but none seems that helpful. Then I check a few of the census books in the 1700s and 1800s range. In the one dated 1750–1850, I happen upon Logan’s name.
    My heart leaps. Logan Munro, born to Mirrah Munro, in the year of our God and Savior, eighteen hundred and thirty-three.
    That’s all it says. Still, it’s a start.

     
    After we return from town, Mom goes to her room for a nap, and I’m eager to bring my strings back to the rectory. I won’t let Logan, or anything, frighten me away. With my favorite hat pulled to my ears, and my hair in a long, loose braid, I head out to compose.
    The rectory is, as usual, dreary and shadowy. I set up in the farthest alcove — the one with the most light shining through. I tune up, and begin. The whole while, the vision of a ghostly boy in high boots and a billowy white shirt haunts my thoughts. My anger at him, and his bewildering anger at me, drive my bow faster.
    Before I know it, dusk starts to creep in, and although the sun isn’t out enough for there to be a sunset, the sky turns several amazing shades of purple. I stop playing and gaze up, my violin resting on my lap.
    All at once, a cold sensation creeps over me, and a shiver shakes my body. I know — know — someone watches me. My heart pounds.
    Not ten feet away, leaning against the stone wall of the rectory, with arms crossed over his chest, is Logan Munro. And he doesn’t look so angry anymore.
    This time, I don’t blink. I don’t scrub my eyes to make sure I’m not imagining things — I know I’m not. I simply keep my gaze on Logan.
    He doesn’t look away, either. He’s illuminated enough so I can see the faultless cut of his jaw, his pale, smooth skin, and that dark wavy hair. I can barely draw a breath as Logan walks slowly in my direction.
    “I guess you dunna frighten verra easy, Ivy Calhoun,” he says.
    I force myself to clear my throat. “Uh, no,” I respond, surprised he knows my full name. I guess he’s been hovering around, listening in. “I don’t. Even when you try to choke me in the middle of the night.”
    Logan keeps his gaze locked on mine, frowning. “I did no such thing.”
    Now I’m confused. “You weren’t in my room last night? Choking me until I couldn’t breathe?”
    His frown deepens. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”
    “Because you want to scare me away. You want me gone. What did I ever do to you?”
    Logan’s eyes soften, and his intense gaze makes my insides seize. “ ’Tisna anythin’ you did to me. Far from it.” He shakes his head. “ ’Tis this place. Or somethin’ that resides within. As I’ve said before, Glenmorrag’s no’ safe. There’s somethin’ here … unholy. I sense it. And it’s gettin’ stronger, if it was trying to harm you last night. ’Twas not me, lass. I swear it.”
    Logan has moved closer still. He now stands mereinches away, and I can actually feel his energy