Fifteen

A nna had always been timid. Hiding in her mother's shadow, she struggled for strength. But her mother was no longer her protector, and she'd watched life's hardships in silence for long enough. It was now time to find her voice. She squared her shoulders.

"I came all this way for answers. Let's skip to the part where you tell me who wrote the letter and why I am here. You're the one who asked me to come. ‘Come to the mountains, Anastasia,' you said. Tell me why."

Martha was still. Her face pensive. She glanced down, wrung her hands, and avoided Anna's glare. "I found the letter."

"Found the letter?" Heat flashed through Anna. "What do you mean? Where?"

"This may be more than you want to know, but you must understand why I contacted you and the urgency." She smoothed her dyed-blonde bob behind her ears, her stare direct in her pallid face. "Atticus had been so erratic. He has a reputation for being eccentric, and that fits. But people don't know him. They didn't see him like I did. When he was healthy, he had good qualities. This might not make sense now."

Anna leaned forward and touched the woman's arm after her voice softened and trailed off. She needed Martha to keep her focus. "Tell me why you wanted me here. What's this all about?"

"Atticus has always been complicated, but he wasn't always the way he is now, you understand?" Martha waved both hands in front of her, the pearls bouncing again. "I don't know why he was like he was about Sabina and your mother. How could he sever relationships like that? He was so bitter. Maybe it was something with his father. He despised him. Most people speak kindly of your great-grandfather. Atticus inherited all his bad traits and none of his good ones. Peter always tried to love his family. He wasn't mean. He was stern—old-fashioned, as they call it now."

She paused and twisted her grip around her pearls as if she were strangling them. "Well, anyway, even before he got ill, something was suddenly off. I almost thought he was searching for something and unsettled. His health was fine, but something else was wrong. Then, after Greta passed away—"

"Who is Greta?"

Darkness crept into the room.

"Greta was one of Atticus's friends, probably his only friend. Well, after she died, he turned cold and bitter. He seemed to give up. Almost despondent. Cruel. His health went downhill. He became unpredictable."

Martha had drifted again. She could've been part of a This Is Your Life episode for Atticus.

Anna gripped the chair, the wooden armrest pinching the skin beneath her knuckles.

Martha's left eye was twitching, and her body bobbed with a slight rocking. "I began getting his things in order in case something happened. Going through one of the rooms, I came across a box tucked back in a closet. Alongside some letters, pictures, and other keepsakes, I found an envelope with your name on it. I recognized your name, mostly from household gossip, so—"

"Wait." Anna held up a hand. Her throat felt dry. Who in Idaho would address an envelope to her? "The envelope had my name on it?"

"Yes. Something was inside, but it was sealed. I opened it. I read it twice because it didn't make sense. I didn't look at anything else in the envelope. I was already worried about reading the letter. Atticus is private and can have a temper, and I'd crossed the line." Her head lowered, her grip released the pearls, and her gaze focused again on her trembling hands. "The letter was so sad, so remorseful. It almost explained everything. He was sorry for how he treated you. Sorry for how he treated your mother. It didn't sound like him, but explained his emotions—so brokenhearted and regretful ."

The book-clad walls seemed to lean in, listening for new stories to tell. The smells drifting from the tray seemed cloying now. Sickening. Anna shifted on her hard leather chair, her knees urging her to jump up and pace, her stomach threatening to do the same.

"I didn't do anything with the letter, just kept thinking and wondering. Atticus was getting worse, so I saw no downside to taking some kind of action. I had to do something. I always ‘fixed things' for him. I thought I could help him if you knew how sorry he was. Then you'd come, and maybe he'd get back to his old self while there was still time. Go to his Maker in peace. That was my reasoning."

Martha submerged her face in her hands, her blonde bob sliding forward to shield her cheeks. "So, I did what I always do. I took action. I called you and used some of the words from the letter. You didn't react, so I called again. I became obsessed, driven. I wanted Atticus back to how he was. Maybe you were the key. I thought the letter itself might persuade you when you didn't respond. That it would help you understand."

"How did you find me? Get my number?" Anna pressed cold fingers to her head. Something like a vise tightened against her skull.

"Your number and address were in the box with the envelope."

"He had my number and address?" Her stomach spun like she was on a roller coaster and just dropped hundreds of feet. "What did he say about the letter when you asked?"

"I tried to speak to him about it, but he wouldn't hear it. I interpreted his reaction to mean it was all too hard for him. I never told him I read it. I wasn't that brave. I just said I came across it when I was organizing. He went off the rails, yelling and acting up. All his medical alarms started going off, and I couldn't discuss it with him again."

A steady buzz hummed in her ears, making her dizzy. Steadying herself, she focused on something—a stain on her pants. She wet her finger, rubbed, wet it again, rubbed again until it disappeared. She had accomplished something—she was calm, the buzzing silent.

Martha raised her head, her amber eyes red and watery now. "I don't know who wrote the letter now. I assumed he had. He was the only option. Who else could it be? It was here at the house. The writer needed closure and was sorry. When the doctor said he just had days, I had to get you here before anything happened to him. That's why he wrote it—to make amends."

Anna sprang to her feet, her arms hugging her hollow middle. She lurched a step closer, looming over this meddlesome woman. "You brought me to this dark house to see someone who never tried to contact us when my mother was alive?"

She traveled all this way to find her suspicions were right—a sinister prank.

What a cruel hoax.

"Why was I harmed at the diner that day? Why would someone knock me down and put me in the hospital?"

Martha shrugged as if giving up. "I hired someone who had worked for Atticus in the past. I got the number from his private contact lists. Atticus used him when he needed something delivered or things taken care of out of town."

"The man who attacked me worked for you and Atticus?"

"I hired him. I told you that. He was supposed to put the letter in your purse. That was all. I imagined that if you saw the letter and read it—well, you now know what I thought would happen." She waved beside her head, sending her pearls swaying like a pendulum. "But he panicked. I don't know why. He was supposed to be a professional. Then I heard you were hurt."

Anna dropped back into her chair. This place was dark enough without her angry shadow looming over Martha.

Martha buried her face in her hands again, rocking back and forth in her chair. "Something came over me. I was obsessed, delusional, somehow thinking I could make Atticus better. I contacted the man and told him I was coming, I wanted the envelope back, I'd pay him in full, but he should have no more contact with you. He wasn't happy. I took the first flight available. Then I called you again. I put everything, including the money, in a fresh envelope and typed a new label with your name on it."

Anna squirmed as if she were swimming in quicksand. Who was this woman? She was obsessed and irrational. And right now, she was all Anna had.

"Did the man you hired break into my house?"

"I don't know, but I paid him in full as if he'd completed the job. He had the envelope in his possession at one time, so he had no need to steal it back." Martha raised her head, smoothed down her hair, and drew in a steadying breath. "That might have been someone else. When I returned to the house, the man's name was no longer in any of Atticus's records. I don't know why I checked, but I did."

Anna ground her fingers against the chair's ornately carved armrests. "You hired someone to put the envelope in my purse. Someone you didn't know. Someone who worked for my great-uncle." When Martha opened her mouth, Anna held up a hand to forestall any interruption. "A great-uncle I never heard of. One who never helped when my mother was ill or struggling financially. One who lived in this grand house where at least four people work in the kitchen while we struggled to have food on the table. Are. You. Kidding me?"

Martha didn't answer. Just peered at her with tired amber eyes.

So Anna eased out of the chair and edged around her toward the door. "How did I get from the hotel to the house? Someone put something in my drink because I don't remember anything for hours. What happened?"

Martha's face was an odd color, and her eyes looked crazed. "I fear I do know the answer to that one. It was Devlin."

Devlin? "Who is Devlin?"

"Greta's son. He's not related to Atticus, but he might inherit everything. You deserve your inheritance, and he's not even family."

"What are you talking about?" Anna's hands went clammy, and the room swayed. She gripped the back of the chair she'd sat in. Her sweaty fingers slipped against the hard leather. "Did Devlin put something in my drink?"

"He must've distracted the young lady carrying your drinks. When I saw him at the restaurant, I knew something wasn't right and I had to get you out of there. Shortly after we got in the car, you slumped over as if you'd fallen asleep. I wasn't sure what to do. Then Devlin called and told me he'd have someone waiting to help me get you into the house. By then, it was too late. I started all this by contacting you about the letter, but Atticus must have gotten involved somehow."

Anna paced to the window, then jerked sideways, oddly afraid someone might see her. She spun back to her companion. "Do you know how crazy this all sounds? Let me speak with my great-uncle. I want to know who wrote the letter and why they mentioned my mother. I didn't even know my great-uncle existed. Why would that be?"

How her head hurt. She walked to the table hosting the tray, grabbed the water glass, and downed its contents. But the pounding only increased, and the room kept spinning. She gripped the table's edges, keeping herself standing. Only one thing made sense. "If he was involved with my drinks or the man you hired…"

She had to know. Otherwise, how could she protect herself?

"It's not possible to meet with Atticus today. It's already early evening, you know. He's already medicated and resting. He won't wake up until the morning."

Evening? Anna swallowed hard. They'd left the hotel just after eight. Just how many hours had she been unconscious?

Martha's left eye was twitching faster. Her eye was closing, and her lips shut so tight they disappeared.

Anna avoided looking at Martha's eye as she waited. Then Martha relaxed as if a decision had taken unbearable pressure off her.

"Time is growing short. He's dying. You're his only living heir. The letter didn't match his nature, but the words searched for forgiveness. Your mother, now you, deserved to hear it from him and receive your rightful inheritance. Devlin will sell everything and destroy it. This is my opportunity to make a difference."

"Did Atticus ever want to see me? Does he know I'm here?"

"Not from me he doesn't. But I'll tell him in the morning. We know he wants to see you. His letter said as much."

" If he wrote it."

Martha pressed her lips into that invisible white line again, and Anna moved to stand over the woman's chair. She didn't fully understand Martha's motivation, and she wasn't going to stay here long enough to discover her hidden agenda. "I want to go back to my hotel room. Now!"

Blinking up at her, Martha waved a feeble hand. The pearls jerked side to side as if shaking their heads. "Everything you need is here. Go back up to the room and wait until morning when you can speak with Atticus."

"No." At least she managed a tone that said there'd be no negotiation. "I'm not staying here. I didn't agree to come to this wretched house in the first place."

She was going to be in charge whenever she was able. She may have limited resources, but she made her own choices.

Martha crossed her arms over her chest, bunching up her crisp blouse. "I don't have someone who can take you back right now, and you shouldn't take a cab. I always stay close to the house once Atticus is relaxing, just to make sure all is okay, even though there's a night nurse. There are unanswered questions about the break-in at your house. You need to be cautious right now. You'll not stay here just to be safe?"

Seriously? Who did the woman think she was kidding? Anna stretched her spine, standing taller. "No. I don't feel safe here." She firmed her voice. "You were at the airport in Houston when the man was injured. Did you know the man who was shot in the terminal—the man who sat right next to me before I boarded? Was he one of your employees?"

Martha paled, matching the color of her pearls. She twisted them so tight Anna flinched, expecting them to burst into every direction.

"I don't know what you mean. I didn't see anyone hurt at the airport."

"These incidents are adding up, aren't they?"

Martha's eyelids fluttered.

Anna's skin crawled.

"I'll find someone to take you to the hotel. Someone I trust. Will you wait here?"

Anna's taut muscles loosened a fraction. She'd not be held captive? "For now. But I'm not staying the night here. Know that."

Martha left the room as the women came to collect the trays.

The freckled one fiddled with her petite glasses. "Do you need anything else, miss?"

"The food was wonderful." Anna forced a smile. "Thank you. I don't need anything else."

Beyond an escape from this house. But she dared not say that.

Anna crossed to the bookshelves and skipped a finger along spines all the same color and size. The room seemed much darker than when she arrived. Was that her emotions, or was night falling? Who could tell with the thick drapes drawn? She picked one book up and put it back.

What had she done with her phone? She walked to the table. Was it still in the bedroom? Who would be calling her anyway?

Her heart sank. How could someone not expect anyone to call? Only Garrett Clarke, someone she still had a hard time calling by his first name, might call. When she returned to Texas, things were going to change. She owed it to her mother and herself. As much as she longed for a home and security and family, her mother was right—she had none.