Chapter 12

 

Mathematics made sense to Annalise. She appreciated that two plus two always equaled four. There were no variables, no curve balls, no being blindsided by a random number winging its way into the equation. People often said she should have been an accountant, but if she hadn’t gone into business for herself, she would have chosen to be a librarian. Not for the books either. It was the Dewey Decimal System that inspired her. It was orderly.

Too bad life didn’t take a lesson from it.

“I don’t understand.” Annalise ran her fingers through her wavy hair, sending red flyaway strands tickling her eyes. She smoothed them back and shot Brent and Christen a glance. Christen probably reflected what Annalise herself looked like. Pale, stunned, and more than a little confused.

The lawyer exchanged looks with Brent but addressed Annalise. “Eugene Hayes has no family listed in his will. His full estate has been left to you.”

Annalise shook her head. “I heard you the first time. I just—I just don’t understand why a stranger would plaster the walls of his trailer with my photographs and then leave me his belongings.”

Brent frowned. “How did you know about the photographs on the walls?”

Annalise stilled. Oh boy. She’d blown her trespassing. “Umm . . .”

“Never mind.” Christen waved off her husband, ever the cop. “I’m with Annalise. This is verging on ludicrous. Was the old man a stalker?” She twisted in her wooden chair in the police station conference room and faced her husband. “Was Annalise in danger from him? Is she still in danger?”

“Whoa, whoa.” The lawyer held up his hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Annalise leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. This after-work meeting with the lawyer was not at all what she’d expected. It was blindsiding.

“I agree.” She needed to reel in the conversation, capture the facts, and somehow process it all through a logical lens. Not this emotionally enhanced fear of a dead man and his obsessive legacy. Annalise pushed off the wall.

“Why me?” she asked.

The lawyer shook his head and rearranged the papers in front of him on the table. “Mr. Hayes didn’t specify. Only that his entire estate—which isn’t much, I might add—is to be left to Annalise Quintessa Forsythe.”

“When was the will composed?” Brent interjected. Annalise was thankful he was here, that Christen was here, that she wasn’t alone.

“A few months ago.”

“And his previous will?” Brent pressed.

The lawyer shrugged. “It doesn’t appear he had one. No living relatives. No next of kin. Nothing. He created the will through an online agency.”

“But should she be afraid?” Christen speared her husband with a look that stated she’d commit crimes on Annalise’s behalf if necessary.

Brent shook his head. “Chris, you’re not helping.”

“Eugene Hayes is dead, and Annalise says his trailer is a veritable shrine to her. You don’t find that the least bit weird? For crying out loud, you’re a cop.” Christen slugged Brent’s arm, but there was also a hint of a tender, teasing smile that touched her lips.

Annalise let Christen fight her battle. Her brain was spinning in circles with no clear beginning or end.

“Listen.” Brent shifted in his chair. He was about ready to go on duty, his police uniform evidence of the fact. “It was determined Mr. Hayes’s COD was natural causes. His heart.”

“But everything about him is suspicious, honey,” Christen said. “His trailer was wallpapered with Annalise’s face.”

“Which you’ve stated at least two times already, and which the info about the pictures on the wall was never released to the public.” Brent gave Annalise a look that told her she should be brought up on trespassing charges—if she didn’t own the property. “Don’t be a conspiracy theorist. He might have been an old man with a weird obsession with Annalise because of the food pantry.”

But the squint of Brent’s eyes told Annalise his words were merely glossing over his own doubts and suspicions. Their eyes met. Annalise held her old friend’s gaze until he dropped his.

Annalise directed her attention to the lawyer. “So, the trailer is mine now?”

The lawyer nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And the half acre it sits on.”

“That was all Eugene Hayes owned?”

The lawyer folded his hands and met Annalise’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but he didn’t have anything of real monetary value outside of the tiny piece of land. Even that isn’t worth much.”

“No, of course not.” Annalise noted the key that the lawyer extended to her. It lay in the palm of his hand, and she reached out to take it. “I can go back, then—I mean, I can go to the trailer?” She directed her attention back to Brent.

His brow furrowed. He studied her face for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “You can. But I’d advise caution.”

“Why?” she asked. If he knew something—anything—that he wasn’t telling her about the man’s death, he needed to bring her in on it. Now.

“It’s never smart to go to secluded places on your own.”

“Case closed?” she challenged.

Brent stretched his neck from side to side, and she heard it crack. He gave her an imploring look. “The case is closed on Eugene’s death. Yes.” His words were laden with meaning.

“Thank you.” Annalise stuffed the key in her pocket. She slung her purse over her shoulder and offered the room’s occupants a hesitant smile. “I’ll see you later.”

“Annalise, wait!”

Christen’s cry and the clap-clap of her tennis shoes against the linoleum floor followed Annalise. Outside the conference room, Annalise hooked her thumb around her purse’s shoulder strap and waited.

Christen hurried up to her, her glasses askew on her face. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go home, get some sleep tonight, and then go to Eugene’s trailer in the morning. I’m going to find out what he knew about me, who he was to me, if anything, and what it all has to do with Harrison Greenwood and 1907.” Annalise heard the decisiveness in her voice. She sounded way more confident than she felt.

“What if you can’t find anything?” Christen’s voice dropped, resonating the nervous energy Annalise was trying to suppress.

“I’ll find something.” Annalise’s mind raced to the picture of the campfire at Garrett’s house. “I’ll dig until I do.”

“What about your job? The food pantry? Your proposal for the shelter?” Christen argued.

Annalise adjusted her purse and leveled a determined gaze on her friend. “None of it will mean anything once this hits the Daily Democrat. The destitute old man not only collected photographs of me but left me his home? That’s irony in and of itself. Tyler will twist that into a desperate last effort by a dying man to give the pilfering benefactress one last stab. Not only did I do nothing for him, but he died of neglect and abandonment right under my nose. I can bid farewell to any supporters who may still back the food pantry and my proposal. I can’t let Tyler or anyone else twist anything more than they already have.”

Christen rested a comforting hand on Annalise’s arm. Her expression softened, searching Annalise’s face. “What more could they uncover about you?”

Her words might have intended to be rhetorical and reassuring, but they weren’t.

Annalise blinked. This was why she needed to research this alone. “Tyler will make up a story from practically anything.”

Annalise hit the garage door opener as she exited the garage, playing with her keys in the dark to identify her house key. She hiked up the brick walk to the front porch, the height of the Victorian house casting a gothic shadow over the yard.

“Lawyers,” Annalise muttered. She really felt like dropping an extensive line of cusswords right now. Her purse slipped off her shoulder, and she yanked it back on, dropping her keys on the bottom porch step. A curse slipped out.

She needed to get herself under control. She was a mess. Snatching the keys from the step, Annalise hurried onto the porch and opened the screen door. Her life was spiraling completely out of control, like Dorothy’s tornado on The Wizard of . . .

Annalise halted, her key poised to insert into the doorknob, but the door was already ajar. The opening of a few inches revealed the blackness of the interior of her home. She always left the light on in the foyer. Always. Not to mention she’d double-checked the door was locked before she left.

Tendrils of fear curled around her, and Annalise’s heart increased its pace. She looked over her shoulder and did a quick survey of the yard, the bushes, and the shadows. Nothing. But the distinct feeling, that unnerving prick in her gut, made her speed up her mental assessment of what steps she’d taken before she left the house and compare that to how it looked now.

The door hadn’t been pried open, and there was no sign of damage. Annalise distinctly recalled flicking on the entryway light switch and tugging the door shut with a firm latch that morning before work. It was her habit. Every morning. She was predictable, like Garrett said, and her habits rarely shifted.

She stepped back and let the screen door slam shut. Fumbling in her purse, Annalise found her phone. Was this a 911 scenario? Annalise backed away from the door. There wasn’t any sign of anyone being inside now. It was pitch-black. Outside too. The moon was a sorry excuse for a light source tonight.

Annalise jogged back down the steps and the walk toward her garage. She stopped. What if someone had been in the garage when she pulled in? What if they were skulking behind the garbage can? She spun on her heel. This feeling of being watched, studied, surveyed was enhanced by the vision of Eugene Hayes’s wall covered with her photographs.

Without a second thought, Annalise hurdled over the low bushes and sprinted into Garrett’s yard and onto his porch. The much more modest house boasted a porch light—turned on even!—and a doorbell that begged to be rung. Annalise rammed her index finger against it while eyeing her house, as if some hulking figure might emerge from the inside.

Garrett’s door opened. He looked like he’d just woken up, but then he always did. His hands were covered in chalk dust.

“Q.” He stared at her. She’d caught him off guard this time. All was fair in love and war.

Annalise pushed past him into the living room.

Garrett shut the door, a confused expression plastered on his face. “What’s going on?”

Annalise tossed her purse onto his couch and hugged her arms across her body. “I think someone broke into my house.”

“What?” Garrett’s brows went up quizzically, and he crossed the room to the kitchen window to glance outside toward her porch.

Annalise explained the open door that had greeted her on her arrival home. The dark interior with the entryway light no longer on.

Garrett rubbed his chalky hands down his tattered shorts, leaving white splotches against the black. “Let’s call the cops.” He reached for his cellphone.

Annalise leaned against the back of the couch, waiting. So maybe she wouldn’t have been overreacting to call the police? She should have done that rather than engage Garrett’s assistance. He’d think her helpless or that she needed him.

He ended the call. “Cops are on their way. We need to stay put until they get here.” Garrett motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat. I was just in the basement on my salmon ladder. I need to go shut off the light.”

“Your salmon ladder?” Annalise inquired, if only to distract herself.

“Yeah. Ever watch American Ninja Warrior?”

“No.”

“Arrow?”

“Huh?” Annalise wasn’t following.

“Never mind.” He shook his head. “It’s a ladder I use to build upper body strength.”

“Oh.” Annalise had no idea what he meant.

Garrett disappeared for a minute. On his return, he was pulling a sweatshirt over his head. His eyes were soft as he addressed her. “Let’s head outside. The police will be here any second.”

Annalise nodded and followed him outside. A cop car pulled up as they exited Garrett’s house, and Brent stepped out along with his partner.

Thankfully, Brent happened to be on duty tonight and was the one who came. Welcome to Smalltown, USA, population four thousand—where everyone knew everyone, and the police force was just a handful of people.

“Annalise, what the heck?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I got home and the door was open. I thought maybe I was just a bit too jumpy after tonight.”

“After tonight?” Garrett interjected.

“So you went to Garrett?” Brent asked in disbelief at the same time.

Both men eyed each other. Annalise shifted on her feet. This was awkward. Brent gave her a look that said What were you thinking? And Garrett’s shoulders stiffened.

Annalise waved her hand toward the house, frightened, tired, and exasperated all at the same time. “Can you just see if I’m going to be murdered tonight or if I can go into my house?”

Brent shot Garrett one last big-brother glare and then addressed his partner. “Check the perimeter. I’ll check inside.”

He approached the front door. In a few moments, lights popped on inside.

“What happened tonight?” Garrett asked, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the lights turning on in the second story.

He wasn’t going to let it go, was he? Annalise sighed through her nose. “Eugene Hayes happened.”

Garrett had no reaction. Another light popped on in what would be the upstairs bathroom. “So, he’s not going away, even though he’s dead?”

“Nope.” Annalise watched Brent’s silhouette move past the window.

“What now?”

Annalise gave Garrett a sideways look. In the darkness of the night, his features were still strong, still attractive, and still so much trouble. “I inherited his property. He left it all to me.”

Garrett’s frown made him turn his head and stare at her. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re safe to come in!” Brent hollered from the front door, and Annalise pushed past Garrett. She nodded her thanks to Brent’s partner, who returned to the police cruiser.

“I don’t see anything that screams intruder.” Brent assessed the house as Annalise entered. She hung her purse on the antique hall tree and eyed the entryway. Nothing off here.

“Do you see anything missing?” Brent followed her into the front parlor that doubled as her study. Annalise surveyed the room. Garrett entered behind them, silent.

“Everything looks fine here.” Annalise moved past them, and they continued to check each room. Nothing. No damage, no vandalism, just . . . nothing. Annalise almost wished someone had poured sour milk all over the furniture and graffitied the walls. The nothing was more terrifying than if it had been something.

The three of them hiked up the stairwell and paused outside of Annalise’s bedroom. She glanced at Garrett. Brent edged between them and again raised an eyebrow at Annalise. She ignored it and entered her room.

Her queen bed was undisturbed, the comforter in hues of greens and grays still pulled neatly in its place with the pile of solid-colored pillows carefully arranged just as she’d left them that morning. The curtains were pulled back and the shade pulled up. She remembered doing that first thing when she woke up, to see the sunrise and—if she were honest—to stare down at Garrett’s bedroom window, and remember. Just for a moment.

She turned toward the men. Brent was alert and on guard, his stance stiff, and Annalise wondered if it was because of Garrett or because of the potential intruder. Garrett was impassive, his hands still in his pockets, and his eyes lidded and unreadable.

“Everything looks fine.” Annalise wondered how she would ever sleep tonight. Both eyes would be open. Had Brent checked under the bed? She took a step away from it and eyed the dark chasm that lurked below the bed frame. An intruder brought a whole new meaning to the idea of a bogeyman under the bed. She glanced at her dresser, trying to recall if her pepper spray was still in her underwear drawer.

An empty spot on top of the dresser snagged her attention. Annalise stared, her chest weighted down with horror. She rushed past Brent and Garrett to the dresser.

“No.” Her whisper was much louder than she’d intended. She palmed the top of the dresser. Her earrings, her journal, her box of Kleenex. All still there. The jewelry tree with various necklaces dangling from it, the bookmark Christen had given her for Christmas, and next to it a glaring absence. The intruder, for there had been one, might as well have come inside and stabbed a knife through Annalise’s pillow.

“What is it?” Brent’s question echoed through her subconscious as she stared at the empty place.

She didn’t answer—couldn’t answer.

“Annalise?” Brent again. Insistent. His tone indicated that he knew she’d noticed something awry.

Annalise touched the empty void on the dresser.

“Annalise!”

She snapped out of her stupor and turned to Brent. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone? What’s missing?” Brent urged.

Annalise looked beyond him and locked eyes with Garrett. His brows were pulled deep in question, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as if silently coaching her to tell them.

“They took it.”

Garrett stepped toward her. “Took what, Q?”

His voice pulled at her. His eyes reminded Annalise of every moment, every look, every everything. She remembered the first and the last, she remembered the smiles and then the tears. Worst of all she remembered the tearing apart when her soul was torn into shreds.

“It’s gone,” she choked out, drilling her gaze into the man who had once meant everything to her. “They took the only one I had. They took the picture of our baby.”