It was February eighth—the day I almost told Mara.
The credits of an old movie rolled to the upbeat tune of a brassy orchestra number. Mara’s eyes drifted closed where she curled in her nest of blanket and pillows on the couch.
Guests were few and far between, especially since Christmastime. Could Mara see how much it worried me? I’d deleted two messages from the answering machine—warnings from the bank—already.
I watched her fight sleep, and I knew she deserved some warning about what was to come. I’d rehearsed the words all day.
I’m leaving in the morning, Mara. There’s someone I need to see. A . . . a family member. That is, if the information from the private investigator I’d hired was correct.
Information I’d paid for dearly with money that should’ve paid the mortgage.
I’d let it consume me, this need for answers. But every answer only led to more questions. Why would my parents have had a stolen painting? Is that why we ran? Were we . . . criminals? And where was the painting now?
I’d used the computer at the public library to find the investigator because the Everwood’s Wi-Fi had gone down again. I’d compensated him in cash because he insisted.
I wondered if I was chasing one dead end after another.
But on February sixth, he called me with a name and an address. And I’d held off the whim as long as I could.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, Mara. Take care of the Everwood for me, though, please. When I come back, we’ll figure out the rest—the money, the mortgage, the lack of reservations. I promise.
But instead of telling her, I’d let her sleep.
And in the morning, I was simply too keyed up and anxious to explain. Or perhaps worried that once I told her about my search, I’d have to admit the rest—that my need to solve a mystery had endangered the Everwood.
And if I tarried too long, she might tell me not to go. She’d noticed my fatigue of late. Just a day or two before, she’d witnessed a dizzy moment as I’d stood from the loveseat too quickly.
So all I did was extract a promise and take my leave and tell myself everything would be okay.
It wasn’t the house I expected.
Although, I’m not sure what I did expect. An imposing mansion with grand pillars? Or perhaps a glitzy downtown apartment. Something that hinted at wealthy, if criminal, roots.
But this was nothing of the sort. It was a quaint little cottage in the country. Yellow with white shutters and flowers lining the walkway to the front door. Just to be sure, I looked at the address on my scrap of paper again. I had to squint to read the words, my eyesight bothering me as it had off and on for a day or two—or maybe a week, come to think of it.
But I made out the words and, yes, I was in the right place. At the right house. Davis Saddler.
My limbs felt numb but surely I’d simply been in the car too long.
I’d imagined this meeting so very many ways. Smiles of joy. Frowns of contempt. Most likely, my common sense told me, it would be something in between. I’d thought once or twice that perhaps this Davis Saddler would be dangerous.
But I’d come too far to turn back.
All of this I thought as I walked that flower-lined path. Until the door opened.
And then I thought nothing at all.
I’m so sure I’ve heard this voice before. He speaks in low murmurs. There are other voices too, but his is the one I latch on to in my confusion.
It’s not George’s. Oh, no. If it were George’s, there would be dancing and laughing and no more of this wretched darkness. Though I can’t hear George, there are moments when I can feel him beckoning. There are moments I long to answer his call.
But what of Mara? What of the Everwood?
The voice speaks again, louder this time. Does he know Mara, I wonder? Does Mara know I’m here?
And where—Lord, help me—is here?