Chapter
Six
Corbin woke from a dream of Willow into darkness.
No. He didn’t want consciousness. He wanted to go back to that. To her.
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. They’d been in a warm pool together at night. The lights set into the pool’s sides below the water’s surface glowed. Willow had been smiling as she’d swam toward him.
He’d wrapped her slender body in his arms, and there’d been no pain in his shoulder.
“I love you,” he’d said.
“I love you,” she’d said.
When he’d kissed her, adoration and desire had flooded him. So had a sense of rightness.
And none of it had been real. Not one second of it.
Desperately, he willed himself to return to the dream. Why couldn’t he? He’d give a thousand dollars to return.
Two thousand.
Five.
It wasn’t working. His contentment turned to stone.
Corbin rolled onto his back and let his hands fall above his head—only to have his shoulder remind him that his right arm couldn’t fall above his head anymore. He returned his right arm to the mattress and tunneled his left hand into his hair, then gripped.
He’d dreamed of Willow a handful of times over the years. Since he’d taken Charlotte to meet Willow, he’d been dreaming of her almost nightly.
In his dreams, Willow wasn’t defensive. She was laughing and soft. In his dreams, he was consumed with love for her and overwhelmed by his good fortune. In the real world, Willow didn’t love him or even like him. She wasn’t his. She hadn’t been in his arms in a long, long time.
In the real world, his shoulder had been shattered. His playing days were done. And he was alone.
Corbin tossed his pillow aside and groaned as he rose to sit on the edge of his bed.
Willow had a hold on him he didn’t understand. Even when they’d been together and he’d been in love with her, he’d been able to concentrate on other things. In those days, he’d experienced nothing but darkness when he slept.
But this time around, something had changed. Maybe his life was too empty? Could that be why thoughts of her filled his head when he was awake and when he slept?
All he knew for sure was that it was depressing as all get out to begin each day switching from dreams of her into reality.
Because of his promise to help Charlotte with her harebrained plan to find Josephine, he’d be seeing Willow often. He had no idea whether seeing her was the best thing for him or the worst. Being in the same room with Willow tied him in a knot because it reminded him of everything he’d lost. Being in the same room with Willow also had the power to make him feel like himself again . . . and nothing else he’d come across since January had that power.
Only her.
Why? Why her?
Willow glared at him while pretending to be polite, tensed every time he spoke, and looked away each time their eyes met. Which was probably for the best since he didn’t want anything to do with her anyway.
A memory of how she’d smiled at him in the dream just now filled his head.
And his weather-beaten heart tightened with longing.
Just how many ounces would a slice of Britt’s decadent cake add to my weight? Willow wondered. And where, precisely, would those ounces adhere themselves?
If only women could specify where they wanted the ounces to go. If she could specify, she’d definitely request that the ounces from Britt’s cake go straight to her chest.
It was Thursday night, and Britt had just set out the finale of her three-course tour de force onto the center of Bradfordwood’s formal dining room table. Britt’s tall cake sat atop a white porcelain stand, its layers cloaked in seamlessly smooth chocolate ganache. Three slim sparkler candles protruded from the cake’s top at artful angles.
“It’s beautiful, Britt,” Nora said.
“Since Zander’s the man of the hour,” Britt said, “I made his favorite.”
“The top and bottom layer are dark chocolate cake,” Zander told the group. “But the center layer is cheesecake flavored with orange zest. Then Britt covers the whole thing with chocolate buttercream and then ganache. It’s ridiculously good.”
“Why, thank you,” Britt answered. “You’re right as usual, Zander. It is ridiculously good.”
“It’s rude to compliment yourself,” Grandma scolded.
Britt lit the sparklers, and they all sang, “Congratulations to you,” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Britt snapped pictures of Zander with his cake while the sparklers fizzed and shot sparks.
A smile curled Zander’s serious lips. Willow couldn’t tell if the smile was for the cake or for Britt. Britt, no doubt. He was looking straight past the tiny fireworks display to Willow’s youngest sister.
Inwardly, Willow sighed. Zander had become Britt’s best friend when he and Britt were both in the ninth grade. In those days, Zander had been as defiant and suspicious as he’d been dependable and smart.
Willow had understood many things about Zander the very first time she’d met him. His clothing told her that his family didn’t have much money. His posture communicated pride. His blue eyes spoke of the furtiveness kids inherit when they haven’t always been safe and haven’t always been treated well. Most of all, she’d seen in Zander’s every gesture, word, and expression that he loved Britt.
Willow understood something about her bravehearted little sister that Britt herself may not have fully grasped. Namely, that Britt had been extraordinarily fortunate to have received every advantage in life. Two biological parents who were dedicated to each other and to her. A great education. The careful fostering of her culinary talent. Time overseas to hone her craft. Money enough to open her own chocolate shop.
Zander, on the other hand, had been offered few advantages. He’d had to carve his future himself, like an artist chiseling a sculpture from granite.
In Zander and Britt’s friendship, Zander was the underdog. Willow couldn’t help but root for the underdog, for the hardscrabble boy who’d grown into a lean, austerely handsome man with dark hair and intricate tattoos running down both arms.
For a few years now, Willow had been not-so-patiently waiting for Britt to wake up and notice the true depth and breadth of the gift she’d been given in Zander. Willow couldn’t do anything to force a happily-ever-after on them, however. If, by some miracle, Britt hadn’t comprehended the fact that Zander loved her, Willow wouldn’t be the one to spill Zander’s secret and potentially hurt his chances.
The song and the sparklers snuffed out.
Britt lifted her glass. “To Zander and the publishing contract he’s been offered for his brilliant book!”
They all clinked glasses and congratulated Zander. When Britt said his book was brilliant, she was only guessing, because Zander hadn’t actually let any of them read his book. They only knew that he’d titled it Geniuses, that it was a psychological thriller, and that it starred two geniuses—one of whom was a serial killer and one of whom was brought in by the FBI to find the killer. According to Britt’s insider information, the manuscript had sold via an auction that Zander’s agent had arranged between three interested publishers.
Grandma leaned toward Willow as Britt sliced the cake. “That looks entirely too rich.”
“It looks entirely too amazing. Just eat a little.”
“A three-course meal of soup, black cod and vegetables, and now cake,” Grandma said. “So expensive. There are people in this world who are starving. Tsk.” The air from the vent stirred the fur of Grandma’s mink coat, aka Old Musty.
Grandma Margaret Burke, as usual, had donned pearl earrings, brushed her white hair into a tidy coil, and set her lips in a disapproving curve.
“How’s your Sunday school class going?” Willow asked.
“Not well. I have to correct the children in my class almost constantly on their spelling and their grammar.”
“Ah.”
“No Sunday school teacher should be expected to educate a young person, except in the things of the Spirit. It’s terrible what’s happened to public education in America. I can hardly sleep at night, for tossing and turning over it.”
It seemed to Willow that the kids she met were exactly as bright and well spoken as they’d been in past generations. Maybe more so.
“We should all be tossing and turning over it,” Grandma added.
“Mmm.”
“The children in my class aren’t well educated and, what’s more, don’t seem very grateful for my Christian leadership.”
“No?” Willow asked with faux surprise. Poor kids.
“Kissing leadership?” Valentina asked Grandma. The forehead of Bradfordwood’s Russian housekeeper dimpled with confusion.
“Goodness, no! Christian leadership.”
“Ah! Good miss. Kissing good.”
“Kissing is good,” Clint, Bradfordwood’s groundskeeper and the inn’s one-man cleaning crew, agreed.
Clint was in his late fifties. Since his early twenties, he’d made a career of being an unsuccessful and unfamous actor. Since unsuccess and unfame didn’t pay very well, he’d supported himself during his decades in Hollywood by shirtlessly juggling silver rings at a knock-off, less good version of Cirque de Soleil.
Willow suspected he’d christened himself Clint Fletcher during his juggling days under the misassumption that women would find the name sexy.
Now that Clint lived in Washington and had grown a mite too old for shirtlessness, he paid his bills with his income from Bradfordwood while continuing to pursue every form of acting work Mason County provided.
He had long brown hair. Thin and straight, it didn’t end in a horizontal line but instead came to a tapering point. He was never without his cowboy hat with the peacock feather in the front, tight Levis, and cowboy boots. He favored leather vests without anything underneath, except in truly cold weather.
“Two people can share the root essence of themselves through a kiss more fully than through the spoken word,” Clint said. “Contact of lips is a metaphysical language all its own, you know?”
“No, I most certainly do not know,” Grandma said sternly. “That’s a load of balderdash, Clint Fletcher.”
“Balder what?” Valentina asked.
Clint blushed, looked uncertain, then appeared to give himself a silent pep talk. “Kissing and dancing are both rhythmic conversations of the body. Beyond consciousness. Beyond intuition. They’re conversations between the blue fire in one entity and the blue fire in another.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about! Blue fire?” Grandma’s mouth pruned. “I do know that I don’t approve of dancing. It says in Ezekiel that we’ll have to bear the consequences of lewdness, and much of what passes for dancing these days is lewd. It can lead to all manner of immoral urges.”
“Oatmeal?” Valentina asked.
“Immoral,” Willow said.
“I’ll get some oatmeal at store for you, miss,” Valentina assured Grandma. “Good for your tummy.”
“Cake, please!” Willow extended her hand to accept the plate of cake Britt handed her.
At the far end of the table, Nora and her boyfriend, John, bent their heads toward each other. Nora was saying something, and John was chewing cake and watching Nora with warm amusement in his eyes.
Willow sampled her own bite of cake. Dark chocolate melded with orange and cheesecake flavors. It was to die for. Fortunately for her, she was naturally thin and had never had to starve herself in order to model. That didn’t mean she could eat anything and everything she wanted, however.
The ounces she’d gain from this cake? Worth it. They could go straight to her tummy for all she cared. She forked off another bite, watching Nora and John, trying to tune out the speech Grandma was laying on Valentina about the evils of dancing.
John had inspired a remarkable change in Nora. Under the lamp of his devotion, Nora had begun to see herself in a new light. She was perhaps finally recognizing in herself the qualities her friends and family had always seen: her kindness, her trustworthiness, her attractiveness. Nora had become more beautiful than even Willow had thought possible because she brimmed with burnished joy.
Nora was loved by a wonderful man. And it showed.
Jealousy curled inside Willow. She immediately squashed it like the poisonous snake that it was.
Unfortunately, ever since John and Nora had become an established couple, Willow had been forced to squash stabs of jealousy each time she was with the two of them. There was just so much dizzying affection between them. It was palpable. It was also something Willow wanted so very, very much for herself that she sometimes found it difficult to be in their presence.
She wished it wasn’t so. She hated the miserable, slinking feeling of jealousy. Moreover, she knew it was awful of her to begrudge Nora anything. She should be nothing but happy for Nora. And she was! It’s just that she was a little jealous, too. She’d been praying against her jealousy, asking the Lord to remove it from her heart.
John leaned over and whispered something in Nora’s ear. The sight caused Willow to miss Corbin with a sudden sharp pang. It was the old Corbin she missed, the one who’d seemed to love her. . . . No, that wasn’t entirely right. It was the new Corbin she missed, too. The handsome, joking lady’s man she absolutely could not trust.
She refused to miss the new Corbin! Or the old. Goodness, if she let her guard down enough to miss him, even a little, she’d blink and find her whole life in shambles.
Hand trembling slightly, she took a sip of iced tea. She’d seen him and Charlotte for their second Operation Find Josephine meeting at the inn earlier today. They’d spent time researching missing persons cases that had been solved decades later in order to understand the methods that had worked in those cases. They’d learned that age-progression portraits were often an important tool, and Corbin had offered to pay to have one commissioned.
He’d been generous and great with Charlotte and intelligent and funny . . . and the entire meeting had been a brutal test of her fortitude. By the time he’d gone, she’d felt as exhausted as if she’d run for miles. Empty and deflated somehow, too.
She refocused on the conversation at the table in time to hear Britt say, “Tristan and I are going hiking tomorrow.” Tristan, Britt’s boyfriend-of-the-month, was a drummer in a Christian rock band on the weekends, a graphic designer on the weekdays, artsy all the time, and a lover of hiking and the environment.
Truth be told, Willow didn’t like Tristan very much. Her sentiments had nothing to do with Tristan and everything to do with her loyalty to Zander.
“Where are you going hiking?” John asked.
Britt went into detail about the hike, then rhapsodized for a while about Tristan.
Zander’s face turned into a defensive mask. His defensive mask looked pleasant enough at first glance, but it was entirely too still and controlled. The great liability of Zander’s role as Britt’s best friend was having to watch one man after another enter Britt’s life and claim her affection.
I’m so sorry, Willow wanted to say to Zander. She fisted her linen napkin in her lap. This party was for Zander! They were all supposed to be making him feel happy. Conversation about Tristan wasn’t allowed!
“So, Zander,” Willow asked when a pause in the conversation gave her an opportunity. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with the money you’ll be receiving as an advance from your publisher?”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on Willow. “I’m going to quit my job and leave Washington.”
“What?” Britt squawked.
“I’d like to travel,” Zander said. “I’ve never had the time or the funds for it. But now I do.”
’Atta boy, Zander.
“What?” Britt said again. “When did you decide this?”
“I don’t know.” He hefted a shoulder. “Today?”
“Today?” Britt asked.
Just now. He’d decided it just now, while Britt was going on and on about Tristan.
“I’ve been thinking through the ways I could spend the advance since I found out I was going to be offered this contract,” Zander said. “I’ve decided traveling is the way to go. There are a lot of places I’d like to see, and writing is portable. I can take my laptop and work on my new manuscript when the mood strikes.”
“Where do you think you’ll go?” Nora asked. “What’s at the top of your list?”
Britt appeared dazed. There weren’t many secrets between Zander and Britt. The fact that Zander had told a table full of people about his decision before he’d talked it through with Britt had probably blindsided her youngest sister.
“Europe,” Zander said. “England, Ireland, Switzerland.”
“France isn’t to be missed,” Willow said. “Neither is Spain.”
“Okay.” Zander’s lips twitched into a smile. “Duly noted.”
“What about Australia?” Nora asked.
“Sounds good.”
“The Pacific Islands,” Willow said.
“Will do.”
“I’d love to go to China and Japan,” Clint said. “The people there are all really awakened to karma.”
“Karma is nonsense,” Grandma said. “So is”—she made quote marks with her fingers—“‘the universe.’ Every time I hear people talking about the universe and what it’s given them or what it wants for them, I’m outraged. There’s no such thing as the universe. There is no karma. There’s only God.”
“More cake?” Britt asked before Grandma could get her engines revving. “Or coffee? Would anyone like coffee?”
Oh dear. Willow was in deep trouble, and she hadn’t even seen Corbin yet.
She turned off her ignition and sat, taking in the details of Corbin’s barn. House. Barnhouse.
This was a setback. Because she really, really loved his barnhouse.
Charlotte had asked if they could hold this Operation Find Josephine meeting at Corbin’s house on Tuesday morning instead of at the inn in the afternoon because Charlotte and her two younger brothers were enjoying a few days off for fall break. Her family had plans to spend the rest of the day on Bainbridge Island.
Willow had told Charlotte yes. But now that she’d arrived at Corbin’s, the dangers of interacting with him on his home turf were suddenly revealing themselves. She was a woman who loved homes, who craved everything that home meant. She hadn’t set foot outside her car, and already his home was seducing her the way cream seduced cats.
At ten fifteen on this cool, early October morning, swirls of pearly mist clung to the base of the structure and its surrounding trees. It looked like a place conjured out of dreams—her dreams—and served to her on a mystical platter.
The structure formed the letter L. An old-fashioned barn built in the classic shape formed one line of the L. The other line of the L was rectangular and two stories tall. Weathered, vertically-set wooden boards covered the exterior of both wings. Brown-red paint framed the windows. At least two charming porches tucked into the building at different points.
It whispered to her, this house. It spoke of history, style, and spaces that waited for children.
Get your mitts off Corbin’s house, Willow!
Corbin’s Navigator sat next to a Mercedes sedan on the driveway. She hadn’t realized Corbin had two cars with him in Washington. She saw no sign of Jill’s car, likely because Jill had either already dropped Charlotte off or because Corbin had picked Charlotte up from her house this morning.
Still, she didn’t want to risk arriving before Charlotte, so she waited until 10:20, five minutes past their scheduled start time, to make sure she’d be the last to arrive.
As mist does, it vanished as she neared, unveiling the stone pathway leading to the door.
Corbin answered her knock wearing tan carpenter’s pants and a white T-shirt beneath a navy zippered sweat shirt. He met her eyes and for a pulse she couldn’t find words. His chest looked especially broad in that sweat shirt. Which actually had nothing to do with his sweat shirt. The man had a broad chest. Was—wasn’t he supposed to say something first?
He finally did. “Are you auditioning for the part of Little Red Riding Hood?”
Willow knotted the belt of her strawberry red wool coat. “If I am, then you know what that makes you, right?”
Corbin studied her, amusement creasing the skin beside his eyes. “The wolf.”
“How appropriate.”
“The wolf’s my favorite character in that story.”
“The wolf dies in the end.”
“But he got in some good meals along the way.”
“Before he died.”
He held back the door for her to enter.
The threshold led into the barn section of the house, which stood empty.
“Can I take your coat?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Afraid I’ll steal it?”
“No,” she said tautly. “Being near you makes me cold.”
He laughed.
She endeavored not to notice how blatantly handsome he was. Oh, how she wished that he’d returned to Dallas for rehab. Seeing him was like a dagger slicing against tender skin. Every time.
His dogs ran forward to greet her, tails wagging. She bent and rubbed each of their heads in turn. “Hi, Max.” The boxers were brothers from the same litter. “Hi, Duke.” They’d been friendly, loyal, rambunctious two-year-olds when she and Corbin had dated. She traveled too much to have a dog of her own, but she’d adored Max and Duke, and they’d always returned the favor.
“You’re a lot happier to see them than you were me,” Corbin observed.
“True.” The dogs gave her panting, canine grins, then trotted at her heels as she followed Corbin. Portions of the barn’s tall interior walls, which boasted numerous windows, awaited drywall and paint. An old stone fireplace climbed the full height of the wall that connected the barn to the rest of the floor plan. Corbin led her past the fireplace into a hallway. They passed an office and a dining room.
“Where’s Charlotte?” Willow asked.
“She’s running late.”
Her gait faltered.
“You’re not going to run back to your car, are you, Little Red Riding Hood?”
Should she? She came to a stop.
“I promise not to bite.” Corbin continued around a doorway and out of sight. “Unless you want me to.”
She didn’t move.
Corbin stuck his head back into the hallway. “Are you scared of me?” he asked hopefully, as if the possibility flattered him.
Her pride prevented her from admitting that yes, yes, she was. “No,” she said succinctly and continued into the kitchen. It smelled mildly like fresh paint and strongly like coffee. White walls. Gray concrete countertops. A backsplash of glistening white subway tile. Expensive appliances. Brand-new unpainted cabinetry.
Four huge panels of glass, the middle two of which were doors, took up most of the exterior wall. They overlooked yet another patio shaded by a rustic wooden portico.
The interior of Corbin’s kitchen lacked much. It lacked a breakfast table, chairs, and every type of decorative touch that Willow excelled at providing. This house, this room, was begging for her attention.
Mitts off!
Corbin indicated the vintage metal stools that waited at the kitchen’s island. Willow hooked the heel of one black boot over the stool’s rung, crossed her legs, and did her best to project casual ease. She’d gained plenty of experience at conveying moods thanks to modeling. She could only hope that experience would pay dividends.
Max and Duke sat on their haunches, watching her with dark eyes.
“Coffee?” Corbin asked.
“Yes, please.”
He poured her coffee into a ceramic mug, then went to the refrigerator and extracted the exact brand of vanilla creamer she’d used when they were dating and still used faithfully to this day.
Tenderness pricked her, a warm, deep nick. He’d remembered.
“Have you had anything to eat?” He slid her coffee to her, then filled a glass with ice water and passed that over, too.
“Not much,” she admitted. The prospect of seeing him had rendered her too jumpy to eat a full breakfast this morning.
He glanced at her with an expression that gently chided her for not eating breakfast. He believed food was fuel. “KIND bar?” he asked, opening a cupboard.
“Sure.”
“You like the fruit and nut flavor, right?”
“Right.” She accepted the bar and unwrapped it. “What year was this house built?”
“The barn was built in 1885.”
“This is exactly the sort of building Nora used to acquire for Merryweather Historical Village. You’re lucky she didn’t get to it first.”
“Very lucky.” Though he didn’t look the least bit threatened at the idea of a property competition between him and Willow’s librarian sister.
Her granola bar tasted salty and nutty and wonderful. “How did you find this house?”
He refilled his own coffee mug. “I came to Shore Pine to look at property before my second shoulder surgery. I wanted to rent something near Wallace Rehabilitation Center for a couple of months. This was on the market at the time.”
“The rental market?”
“Yeah. Parts of the house had been badly renovated. Other parts hadn’t been renovated it all. But when I saw it, I liked it.” He shrugged. “So I called the owner and I asked if I could buy it from them.”
“And the owner agreed.”
“I offered a price that was hard to refuse. I moved in before the surgery, and I’ve been working on the house as much as my shoulder has allowed me to since then.”
She sipped his delicious coffee, wishing she’d discovered this house when it was on the market. She’d have snapped it up and spent many happy years filling it with housewares. Instead, this craveable house had gone to the dark side.
From his position directly across the island from her, Corbin was communicating the brand of casual ease she’d been straining for. He crossed his arms. “Being alone with me breaks one of your ground rules, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Which is why you hesitated back in the hallway.”
“Ground rules are meant to be followed.”
“I know that’s what you were thinking when you made up the rules. But all I could think then and now is how much I want to break them. All of them. So far I’ve only broken two, which is pretty disappointing. I’m off my game.”
“You’re off your rocker. The rules stand.” She finished her KIND bar.
His attention trailed down to her chin, then back to her eyes. “Charlotte’s not here, so—”
“It would be best if someone would notify me in the future if Charlotte’s running late.”
“I don’t have your phone number. Want to give it to me? So I can notify you?”
“No.”
“Like I was saying, Charlotte’s not here. So this seems like a good time to talk about what happened between you and me.”
Her posture went rigid. “There’s no reason to talk about it.”
“I think there is.”
“Nope.”
“Because it seems to me that you’re carrying a lot of . . . hostility.”
“That’s because I am carrying a lot of hostility. I don’t want to discuss it further.” She hated even thinking about the final days of their relationship, when she’d been so embarrassingly exposed and anxious.
“Your plan is to keep on giving me the cold shoulder every time we meet to discuss Josephine’s case?” he asked.
“Every. Time.”
He peered out the kitchen’s wall of glass, his gaze appearing to trace the contours of his property. The murky light flowing into the room tipped every point along his profile. Masculine nose. Soft lips. Hard chin.
Corbin wasn’t the Mustangs’ quarterback anymore. A new player had taken over the role he’d held for so long. That circumstance had no doubt changed many things for Corbin, but it would never change the physical grace and command with which he carried himself. You could take the quarterback out of the game, but you could never take the game out of the quarterback.
He turned his head and looked at her. She could sense the dangerous beast called chemistry that still lurked between them. It was stirring. Its head was rising up from slumber and the beast was blinking at her with glowing eyes.
She braced, refusing to respond to his look in any way because she was afraid of what even a seemingly harmless response could lead to. She had no interest in being his friend . . . or . . . anything else.
“Hello?” Charlotte’s voice carried from the front of the house.
“Come on back,” Corbin called. “We’re in the kitchen.”
Charlotte bustled in, looking harried. The dogs sprang to their feet to greet her. “Sorry I’m so late. Liam and Brady were wrestling, and Brady hit his ankle on a chair. He cried and cried and everyone thought it might be broken, and then my dad gave him a popsicle and now he’s fine.” She shook her head and climbed onto the stool next to Willow’s.
“KIND bar?” Corbin asked her.
“No, thank you.” She opened her notebook. “I’ve been excited to hear what you found out about the bones near the Pacific Dogwood Trail.”
“Well, first of all, let me just say that the Shore Pine police officers are a great group,” Corbin said.
“Who like football?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes. That, and donuts. They were happy to hook me up with information.” He poured Charlotte a glass of milk and set it before her. “After the bones were discovered by hikers, they were taken to a pathology lab. Like Melinda said, the pathologist determined that they were historic. So they were sent to a college laboratory.”
“Are they still there?” Charlotte asked.
“No. They sat there for twenty-eight years. Then, when the lab was reorganized and renovated, the college sent the remains back to the county. In 2012, the county sent them to the lab at the University of North Texas Health Science Center.”
Charlotte scratched her jaw. “So does that mean the bones have been . . . studied or whatever? For their DNA?”
“Yes. They were entered into the nationwide database, but no matches have been found. They’re still unidentified.”
“Are the bones really, really old? Like the pathology . . . or whatever guy said?” Charlotte asked.
“No. He got it wrong.”
“So it’s possible that they could have belonged to Josephine?”
“It’s possible.”
Charlotte’s eyes rounded. She slanted toward Willow. “Grandma went to the station and gave her DNA last week.”
“Which means,” Willow said, “that we should find out soon if Melinda’s DNA matches the bones discovered near the hiking trail.”
“We’re digging up the past,” Charlotte said.
In more ways than one, Willow thought, her focus returning as if pulled unwillingly by a magnet . . . to Corbin.
Shore Pine Gazette, April 12, 1987:
One decade ago on this day, Josephine Blake disappeared from the streets of Shore Pine without a trace. Despite an extensive search by local authorities and the involvement of the American Coalition for the Discovery of Missing Persons, Josephine has never been found.
Three years ago Josephine’s husband, Alan Blake, filed a petition to have Josephine declared “dead in absentia.” Mr. Blake has subsequently remarried, and he and his wife are the parents of one young son. “I still think about Josephine every day,” Mr. Blake said when contacted for a statement by this publication. “I pray that we’ll one day know what happened to her.”