Eleri drove the older car down I-95. Though it had been well-maintained, she noticed now that it had a bit of a rattle from age. It rolled well over smooth highways and bumpy sideroads. As long as it didn’t leave her stranded on the side of the road, it would be enough.
And if it did? Well, then she simply wouldn’t make it. No one was expecting her, anyway.
She tried to focus on mundane things, putting off her end goal. She’d not replied to any of Donovan’s voicemails or texts. In her own mind, this was because she wasn't quite ready to communicate. But when she wasn't lying to herself, she knew she'd open the door to copping out. If she arrived and found Donovan missing, she would turn around and head back home. She could say she tried without having to actually try.
Eleri wasn't ready to leave the safety of Bell Point Farm and her solitude. Not yet. She was only on the road because Donovan needed her.
When she had first holed up, she'd been recovering from her shock and what had happened in the Caribbean. It had taken several days to form any kind of plan. When she had an idea, the first thing she had to do was get a grip on what her newly emerging skills might be.
Starting with what she already knew, Eleri focused on applying her FBI training toward this wild, new aspect of her life. In the Bureau, an agent would only hold her gun if she intended to shoot someone. The very act of pulling the gun was a commitment to end a life, if necessary. Most people thought it was just the initial threat. They were wrong.
When she pulled her gun, she laid her finger alongside the trigger guard. This was standard training, and so that if the agent accidentally flinched, no one died. Though they were ready to kill, there was to be no bullet flying into someone unintentionally. Eleri now needed those same kinds of procedures in place for her own powers.
So far, she hadn't quite come up with them.
After several days of sitting on the couch and watching the fields on her property sway in the wind, she had switched to a flurry of activity. She scoured the house. She opened every dresser drawer of every guestroom and checked every item in every closet. When that was done—and turned up nothing of value—she went back into the closets and hallways and thumped on the walls, looking for trap doors and secret passages.
She climbed to the top floor and unscrewed the trap door that led her into the attic. It had been added as an afterthought, and not part of the original design. In fact, the cut piece of plywood had been painted to match the ceiling inside the closet it was hidden in, but otherwise was unpolished. The edges were rough, and the screws used to hold it utilitarian at best.
The attic access had probably been added to bring Bell Point Farm up to some long-ago code. It certainly didn't meet today's standards. When she'd finally gotten into the attic, she expected layers of insulation and exposed beams.
What she saw instead were troves of family history. Eleri had barely poked her head up and through the hole she’d opened, and she was stunned. She had stood on a shelf in the closet—right under the access, which had seemed easier than getting a ladder—but she now would have to haul herself up and through the narrow opening.
This was definitely not up to code.
She felt too stunned to keep going and had fallen back, landing on the shelf with a thump. It was only luck that kept her from toppling to the floor.
The second time, with a better idea what she was facing and the dusty musty air she would be breathing, Eleri made a more concerted effort and pulled herself through the attic floor.
Clearly, someone had been up here at some point in the not-too-distant past. From the way things were arranged, it appeared this spot was not the main access point. Still, her hope hadn’t been to find attic access. It was to find history.
And she was standing in the middle of it.
Everything from steamer trunks to old 1940s and 50s suitcases surrounded her. Some things were in cardboard boxes. As she scanned the dark space, she saw at least three different handwritings marking what was contained.
Unsure what to do, she’d simply beelined first for the steamer trunk, wondering what treasures it might hold. She found old clothing, but it was difficult to tell if this was the clothing that her great-great-something grandmother had put up because she didn't like it or because these were her favorites.
The short stature and tiny waistlines of the dresses held Eleri's attention until her stomach grumbled, and she realized she wasn't doing what she’d intended. Making sure she emptied the trunk so she didn’t miss anything, she then replaced everything without looking. Once it was back in the box, she slid the latch into place and left it relatively undisturbed, except for the fact that it was now dust-free.
She’d lowered herself back down into the main house and cleaned up enough to feel comfortable eating. After feeding herself some lunch, she’d climbed right back up.
This time, she went with a fully formed plan. She was still ignoring the voicemails that came in frequently from Donovan's phone. On her third trip up, she'd been smart enough to bring her own phone in case something happened up here, in case she needed to call somebody to come and rescue her.
But she hadn't needed anyone.
On the second day, she’d found the main access in the closet of the master bedroom. That made the whole process much easier. And on the third day, she'd discovered the large, leather-bound book. It had been a tough call. Should she keep hunting or stop and examine the stunning piece of Hale family history that she'd found?
She'd begun alternating her tasks. Hunt in the morning, work in the afternoon. Or at least, that's what she told herself.
Donovan's messages had grown increasingly uneasy. Then, with the last one, he’d said Bodhi Banerjee had been at his house.
His long lost brother. The one who was now working for Miranda Corp. The one who somehow had known all along that Donovan existed, when Donovan believed his own mother to be dead and gone years earlier. That might have been the one thing that could get Eleri to climb out of the attic and into the car.
Now, driving down the freeway, she had a suitcase in the back seat in which she’d packed her clothes, her shoes, and anything she might need. In the passenger footwell was the small bag that held her badge and gun—things she wouldn’t leave home without. And on the seat beside her was the fabric-wrapped, leather-bound volume that held family secrets for generations.