Two

W yatt Stone leaned against the door to brace himself, his fingers wrapped around the custom gold handle shaped in the letter G , the metal cold under his touch. The door glided open without a whisper. Her faint scent remained, but that wasn't all. His eyes widened. He dug his fingers into his jacket pocket for his phone and checked the date. Four months since the funeral, Greta Alan's black sweater still hung, waiting, on the rack. Her unique green mug with custom gold designs still on the counter. Ghost stories never bothered him as a child, but something about this office—

He inhaled a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. Look for the file. In and out.

But memories triggered by the sweater, the mug, this office replayed. Easing into the familiar leather chair, he imagined Greta Alan, chairman and founder of Alan Corporation, sitting across the mahogany desk during his first and only interview. Her almost perfectly shaped face. Hair blonde from highlights cut into short layers. One layer fell in defiance over her right brow. Tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes—physical evidence of her endurance as she plowed through her life. Large gold hoops swayed from her ears. Gold jacket, custom stitched, intensified by the color of her hair. Sculpted long nose centered between high cheekbones, her eyes—lifeless and cold. Underneath it all, he sensed a hurricane, waiting for an opportunity. Her manner warmed during the interview, but her eyes remained icy and steeled. She hired him on the spot. Legal counsel for Alan Corporation. He reported to work the next day, pinching himself over his good fortune.

Days turned into years, Greta, sitting behind this same desk, wearing a rare smile, sliding a business card his way—Wyatt Stone, Chief Legal Officer. The magnitude of the moment still warmed him.

But the room darkened with his next thoughts, the pivotal day…

He hadn't seen her for weeks. She'd been out for an extended time. Unusual would be an understatement. There were rumors, but he didn't listen to gossip. She would tell him what he needed to know. When his mind entertained doubts, he'd refocused and kept her interests protected. That he could do—that he would do—for her.

She'd summoned him to her office, cryptic and vague. He arrived, coffee mug in hand, and found the desk in front of her office abandoned. Shrugging, he tapped on the closed door.

No answer.

He turned to leave.

"Who is it?" a muffled voice called out.

"It's Wyatt."

"Come in. I've been expecting you."

Biting the inside of his lip while his stomach tumbled, he eased into his familiar seat, the woman in front of him unknown. Pale, thin, frail. He held his mug close and focused on a large swallow.

"I asked you to meet me this morning because we need to go over a few things. My schedule will change without notice. I need confidence that you are clear on my plans and I can trust you will carry them out as I tell you."

"Of course."

"I haven't gotten where I am today by skirting issues or wallowing like a spoiled child, so I'm not going to soften anything or play a silly guessing game . "

When he didn't reply, she approved with a confident nod.

"I'm ill—cancer. I'm dying, but I think they're trying to speed it up, kill me early with their cure. It's clouding my mind, making me feel—well, I need to take care of things while I am clearheaded. You understand."

It wasn't a question. A nasty taste filled his mouth.

"The diner in Texas. The one between Houston and Austin. I want to buy it, and I want to buy it now. We discussed gathering research and financials. I don't have time for that. I'm dying, and I can help that girl out—Atticus's great-niece, Anastasia. Wasn't that her name?"

He nodded, stunned into silence.

Something didn't feel right about the suddenness, the randomness out of character. Maybe the cancer treatments had taken a toll ahead of schedule. Did it matter? If this made her happy, she had the funds for it. She couldn't take it with her, and it might help Anna or create an opportunity for him to reconnect. Wincing at his callous thoughts, he pushed past them to the magnitude of her words.

He met her tired, cold eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

Pressing her shoulders straight, she spoke in a stern tone. "Do what you do. Find the owner. Make an offer. Draw up papers I can sign. We won't squabble on this one. I'm counting on this moving, on the owner being eager for a chance to cash out with no haggling and a hefty profit."

His shoulders tensed. "Let me make some calls and gather the information, go over the details, and discuss this further."

"Discuss? Discuss what? We just discussed it. This isn't some conglomerate we're trying to acquire. I expect this to be done. Today. Everything else waits."

He could almost feel the heat radiating from her—her face turning from white to red. Frail bones covered by corpse-like skin gripped the arm of her chair. She leaned forward, her fierce eyes narrowing, burning through him like fire.

"I can read you, Wyatt. You're not hearing me. You think I've lost it or something. I haven't. I knew I wanted to do this after your call from Texas. If you're honest, you want this too. But regardless of what you want, I have the money. I have the power, and what I say goes. Don't bring me a stack of papers or excuses. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." His head ached, his conflict between personal and professional emotions thrumming. Resisting the urge to rub it, he twisted his hands on his lap.

She grimaced in pain and forced herself back into the cushion.

He'd better be compassionate. She'd given him his first shot at success. She was ill, dying , and needed his help.

"That's it. I'll work on who we will send to monitor and manage the diner once everything is in place. Be prepared for another trip to Texas—soon."

She held a forest green mug in her hand. The handle, trim, her initials, a mountain all painted in gold. She tilted it up—slurping without apology—eyes steeled, peering at him over the glittering rim.…

Tap, tap, tap.

He startled to the present, his focus darting from the green mug to the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Stone. Can I help you find something?"

Nerine, Greta's assistant of many years, stood back, leaning her tall frame against the open door—half in, half out. Did this office, an unexpected museum, stir her memories as well?

"I'm looking for the file on the Texas acquisition, the diner. Cindy couldn't locate it. I wondered if it might be here since Greta took such a personal interest in it." He pressed his palm across his brow. "This office—it's untouched, like she'll walk through the door snapping orders after her meetings."

Nerine scratched her polished nails across her arm, leaving a white streak. She inched inside the room, but not far.

When she started to say something, he stood. "Why are her personal things still here? The black sweater she wore around the building." He pointed to the coatrack. "Her coffee mug."

The rosy color faded from her cheeks. She stepped back, standing still, framed by the doorway. "Mr. Alan said he doesn't want it changed. He allows the cleaning staff to come in, but he gave me strict instructions not to touch anything, move anything out of place, or box anything up."

"Devlin? Does he use this office?"

"No, his assistant calls, and I report to his office or the conference room when he needs something. She calls. I go. Ever since—" Her gaze swept around the room. "Well, you know."

Weird. But he didn't have time to think about it now. "Do you know where the file might be? Did she keep any files in her office?"

Nerine hesitated, then made brisk steps to the custom-built shelves close in the corner. She reached inside the frame beside a set of old books and stepped to the side, and the entire wall of shelves swung open. Behind the disguised door appeared a closet larger than his at home. Built-in file cabinets lined the walls around a table.

His head flew back. "Wow. I've been in this office countless times. I had no inkling this was here."

"Few people do. I worked with Greta for over ten years and didn't know about it until a month before she died." Sorrow swept across her face. "In the end, you realize you can't protect your secrets after you're gone. Someone will always know about them, one way or another."

"That's true, I guess." He rubbed his lips together, wetting them with his tongue. "Can you help me find the file?"

Her half-hearted shrug telegraphed her apprehension. He understood. The office gave off an odd undertone before a book of shelves opened like a spy novel. Now it was plain creepy. She opened a couple drawers before stopping and tapping the earpiece in her ear.

"Yes, sir. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Your office or the conference room?" She remained silent, listening. "Should I bring anything in addition to the Daynster Furniture files?"

Her attention returned to Wyatt. "I'm headed out. Mr. Alan's call has me worried. I don't think he wants anyone in here. He said not to move anything. He's very particular about this office." She rolled her shoulders. "So get what you need and get out. Greta trusted you, and you're the corporate attorney. I should be able to trust you in here."

It sounded more like a question than a statement, but he nodded. It worked either way.

Alone, he imagined Greta in this space, digging for something important, something worth hiding. What file rested in her capable hands last? He sneezed as invisible dust tickled his nose from the folders he flipped through. Each drawer contained a certain transaction or type of transaction. He didn't have time to figure it out. Most documents were from before his time here. Nerine was right. Nothing remained a secret after you're gone. He shuffled through more files and found a group for the diner near the back. After extracting the entire section, he turned off the light and headed to his office.

His assistant, Cindy, glanced over her computer monitor as he passed, her fingers clicking against the keyboard.

"No calls, please, unless they are important. That means Devlin or Rowan."

"Yes, sir."

When he settled behind his desk, the rich smell of fresh coffee matched the taste. He'd have to thank her.

He assessed the stack, ready to start with the oldest and work his way forward. Making the right choice here was important. One day, someone would sit at their desk and thumb through his files. Everything hidden will be laid bare. A shudder went deep into his bones. He wanted to be prepared for that day.

Greta insisted he manage every aspect of their interest in the diner from paperwork to finances. He dug into the file, persuading himself it was important to be thorough. He needed to do this. He had himself almost convinced. Until the present stepped into the past.

The first document, a deed conveying property in Boise County from First National Bank to Greta Alan, dated before the time his grandparents moved to the area. The legal description of the property indicated the property bordered his grandparents' place. Greta must've purchased the land after foreclosure. He shuffled through the papers. A Warranty Deed, dated after Anna was born, conveyed the property from Greta Alan to Lila Stanten, Anna's mother. Pressing back in the chair, he let the transaction sink in.

His grandparents, not prone to gossip, didn't discuss their neighbor's business. But on one rare occasion after Lila moved away, he heard them talking about the land and Lila. Wyatt had slipped close enough to listen.

"I know, luv," his grandfather had said. "What that family's gone through is pure tragedy. I'm not sure how Lila remained on the property after her father's sudden death. She was so young, under eighteen, and only worked part-time after school at the local grocery store. I guess she could've held back extra money when she worked more hours during the summer."

"We should've tried to help more," Grandmother had broken in. "It's hard to know what's meddling and what's helping sometimes, and we had our struggles."

Wyatt knew the struggles—his mother. But he wanted to remember the discussion about Lila and the property, not dwell on his past although it all intertwined and connected.

"I saw that boy, Nick, over there helping out, bringing things from time to time." Grandfather had tipped his coffee mug with a swallow. "Then Lila hired on full-time at the store after her graduation. She stayed on the property, in the small house, for a few more years."

Before taking Anna away.

"She was a strong girl, then a tough woman, to stay there like that. I figured that she'd move after the baby was born. Find somewhere better to live. But she stayed. I'm not sure why. Maybe fear—like the land held her strength, all she'd ever known. Or maybe she waited for that boy to become a man. I guess we'll never know. I often think of them, the hardships, the little sweet girl, Wyatt's childhood friend. I hope they found easier times wherever they went." Grandmother had sighed then. "We should have done more. It haunts me sometimes. Our missed opportunity to help them, to be better neighbors."

"You helped them, luv. I know what you did. The things you slipped over on that porch. You tried in your sweet way."

Did the deed explain why Atticus and Greta were so close? Did she protected Lila for Atticus while he maintained appearances, keeping his distance? Greta owned the property now. Somewhere, there was another deed. His imagination sparked. Still, he needed to slow down. Conjectures might drag him over the edge of a rocky cliff. But how did Lila manage to stay on the property, and what held her there while Anna was young?