7

Jeremiah arrived back at the ranger station, exhausted. It had been a wild goose chase, or to put it more aptly, a wild beast chase, with nothing to show for it. The town was still on lock down, and would be until the rest of the search teams returned.

Bowie flopped down onto the verandah and sighed contently. Jeremiah knelt beside him, checking him over. Aside from a scratch or two the husky seemed unharmed. Jeremiah reached for the first aid kit and gently swabbed them with antiseptic wipes. “Good boy, you did well out there.”

Bowie licked his hands.

“Yes, I love you, too. I need you to stay out here,” Jeremiah told him. “Meredith isn’t comfortable around you right now. That may change, it may not, but we’re not going to inflame the situation.” He slid his key into the side entrance leading to the office and unlocked it, but the door wouldn’t budge. He shook it, but it must be bolted top and bottom. “Meredith?” he called.

There was no answer. What could have happened for her to bolt the door?

He ran around the side of the building to the other door and tried that one. That too was bolted. “Meredith,” he yelled. Still no answer. Fear spiked. Was someone in there with her? Running back to the side, he peered into the lounge window. Meredith sat on the couch, shaking, her head buried in her hands.

Breaking one of the small glass panels, he reached in and opened the window. He climbed inside. With three long strides he reached Meredith’s side. She held the file from the office in her hands.

She was sobbing.

“Meredith?” he asked rhetorically. He sat beside her

She clung to him, scrunching his jacket in her fingers. The paper clipping floated to the floor.

“I’ve got you.” He ran his hands over Meredith’s back, comforting her.

Finally, her sobs eased and she raised her tear stained face to him. “Why do you have this in your office and pictures of Grannie’s house on your wall?”

He handed her the box of tissues. “You were never meant to see it.”

“Why not?” She blew her nose and wiped the tears from her face. Pointing to the clipping he knew so well, Meredith stabbed at the photo. “That’s me, and that’s Annabelle, my parents and Gretchen. But Annabelle isn’t dead and neither am I.”

“What do you remember?” he asked gently.

She sucked in a deep breath. “I know my parents and Gretchen died. Grannie told me that, but I don’t know how. But him?” She pointed at the boy. “Him, I don’t remember.”

He prayed quickly for guidance as to what to say. If her memory returned, it had to be on its own. It couldn’t be forced as that would do more harm than good. “Sometimes our minds block out traumatic events, until a trigger happens, and the memories are unlocked. It could be a phrase, a smell, a piece of—”

“—music,” she whispered. She sat up, pulling from his arms. “Wolfe said my Dad played the violin. He left his here for me to play if I wanted to. I can remember someone playing carols by a Christmas tree and a fire, but…” She broke off, her face contorting.

“Hold on.” Confusion and worry filled him. “Go back a minute. When did you see Wolfe?”

“He came by to check on me when he heard the bells. You know, we met him at the ball, and he was in the boarding house yesterday. He has really strange eyes, blue, almost silver. He seemed to be on first name terms with you.”

Fear flashed briefly before he controlled it. “I told you not to unlock the door for anyone.”

“I didn’t. I looked up and he was standing in the room. He said the door was left unlocked, and after the bells rang he came to check on me. I told him to leave, and he did. Eventually.”

“I did lock up. Every single door. Wolfe must have taken my spare keys.” Jeremiah snatched the radio. “Arthur?”

“You again?” Arthur chuckled. “Which part of go home, take a break, don’t you get, Jeremiah?”

“I need a locksmith and a glazier up here. We need every lock in the building replaced, with only two sets of keys this time.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Jeremiah put the radio down and took Meredith’s hand. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s just a bit creepy, but he did leave when I asked.”

He tucked her hair behind her ears and brushed the last traces of tears away with his fingertips. “You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re changing the subject.”

He caressed her cheek. “Yes, I am for the moment. Because you need to calm down.” He kissed her gently. She resisted for a moment, then as he was about to pull back, melted into his arms, responding. Her hands slid up his back and through his hair, while his fingers learned the contours of her neck and hairline.

Finally he broke off and pressed his lips to her forehead. He moved to the Christmas tree and turned on the lights, needing the space for a moment. He could still feel her, taste her.

When he did turn, Meredith sat on the couch where he’d left her, her fingers pressed against her lips, her eyes wide, fixed on him.

This was so not in his job description. His was to watch and protect, not to fall in love. But he had. He had to get this conversation back on track and see what she remembered. If this house of cards was about to come tumbling down around her, he’d be there to pick up the pieces.

He sat beside her and picked up the clipping from the floor. He pointed to the picture. “You said that’s you.”

“It is me. But it makes no sense. According to the article my father killed my mother and all the children before burning the cottage. It says I was there, but I don’t remember. Besides, Annabelle and I aren’t dead…” She broke off and shoved her hands through her hair. “You said music unlocks memories. That piece of music in Brussels triggered something. It did every time I played it. ”

He ran a hand down her arm. “The question is, do you want to remember?”

“I have to. I only remember a few bits here and there. This says I had an older brother. I don’t remember him. There’s a whole chunk of my life missing.”

She pointed to the article. “It says here that Dad was found crouching over the bodies of Mum and Gretchen covered in blood. The little girls, who must have been me and Annabelle, were in the closet. It says we died.” She pushed up her leggings. “I have this scar. Grannie always said I fell off a bike when I was seven, but this one always struck me as more of a bite than a fall.”

She pushed up her sleeve, showing the circular mark just visible. “I know the child in the photo is me. Grannie must have old school photos somewhere to prove it.”

Jeremiah winced. Seeing the traces of old wounds made the reality hit home. “I believe you. Play the piece from Brussels,” he said quietly. “See if it helps you remember.”

Meredith took the violin from the case Wolfe had left and tuned it. She tightened the bow. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. Who wrote it?”

“Sergei Prokofiev.” Meredith closed her eyes and moved the bow over the strings.

Jeremiah leaned back as she played. He knew the piece well. Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf.”