Twenty-nine

A nna braced herself. Moments shape one's life. Small moments woven together like fabric are used to shape our lives. Moments of impact—first love, loss of her mother, today—are part of the main design. She would stand tall, be brave. Shoulders back, head high, she stepped forward.

"I don't know if this is going to work. Atticus said he would meet, and then he changed his mind. I'm not sure why." Martha's left eye twitched. "It isn't like him, but he's been getting more and more agitated lately."

Anna's head jolted back. "We discussed this at Wyatt's house." She held her hands still by squeezing her fingers on one hand with the other. She did not blink, staring with resolve into Martha's eyes. "I'm here, and I expect to see my great-uncle. Convey that to him."

Martha and Wyatt gaped at her. Then the oddly frazzled Martha headed down the hallway, mumbling.

Wyatt's eyes narrowed, but he stepped closer, his hand on the small of Anna's back offering a show of support, a smidgen of strength. "You can do this."

She stiffened. He'd been against this. He probably still was. But she couldn't fight him now too. She unclenched her teeth, her face tight, her hands firm against her as she stood like she was standing watch at the gate. I am strong. I am strong. I am—

Martha's footsteps headed back their way. "He'll see you now."

It was as if they were at a doctor's appointment. "Well, here goes everything."

Martha marched ahead.

Anna and Wyatt followed down a dreary hallway. No wonderful scents from Bessie's kitchen and no laughter or noise. Just the lifeless elevator heavy with the odor of antiseptic and varnish, hoisting them. The cold stainless-steel doors bumped open, and Anna squared her shoulders.

Years ago, her mother stepped through these doors to be insulted and cast away. Today, Anna would find answers and right wrongs. Today, she was here for her mother.

Martha's hand now had a tremble.

Then an odd odor tinged the stagnate air, thick and heavy.

Martha continued to lead, marching them toward the study full of books and paintings. The floor moaned with every step closer to Atticus's private sanctum. A dingy light crept down the hall from the right.

Anna scrunched her nose, the scent growing stronger. She'd never experienced this smell before. Was it the smell of death?

"Martha, you come here right now!" Atticus shouted like a red fox from a high bluff, wild and savage.

Almost submissive in an all-black suit, her head down and shoulders slumped, Martha walked toward the room. She didn't look at them, but she probably cursed them for being here.

As Atticus started yelling, the words muddled behind the closed door, Anna continued to think of the red fox, angry, biting and clawing in a corner.

"Um." Wyatt shifted his feet, his hand still on the small of her back. "Should we return to the study or wait?"

She couldn't respond. Only shrugged.

Then he leaned closer, his breath warm on her neck. "How are you after what you've heard?"

She shook her head. Now wasn't the time to discuss that. It wasn't even the time to think of it. Now was the time to be strong for her mother.

I am strong. I am strong .

A door opened. Martha hurried back, her face flushed, her lips flat and twisted, but her chin high and steps brisk.

"He wasn't ready. He wants you to go back down and wait in the elevator lobby so he can meet you in the study again." The woman jammed her hands on her hips and stomped right up to Anna. "This isn't going to be what you want. I was wrong about everything, and this is a grave mistake. He's the most agitated I've ever seen him, and that's not a good thing. Just remember, I told you so. This one's not on me."

Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and walked so briskly Anna had to double step to keep up.

The elevator carried them back to the cold lobby, dinged, and released them through the open doors. As Martha reascended, they waited without speaking, not knowing what could be heard. Soon, the box clattered at the top, and then the cable returned for them.

"Mr. Urbacch will see you now. Follow me." A large man in pale-blue scrubs beckoned before the doors fully opened.

This was all part of Atticus's game, wasn't it? His house of mirrors so they wouldn't know what was real and what wasn't.

Wyatt's hand on her back, Anna stepped into the elevator, and it delivered them back to the familiar study with its dark wood and old books no one was allowed to read. Stagnant air seemed to suppress Atticus's strained breaths. Each one echoed through the room.

He sat facing them, perched on a red Victorian leather throne with dark trim and mahogany arms. The modified high-back chair was centered along the wall, his IV and medical equipment behind. He wore a navy velvet jacket and a white button-up shirt. A customized red ascot was tucked in his collar, probably hiding the probes and wires for his monitors, and gel held his coarse white hair away from his face.

He'd commanded respect during his imperial life, and his demeanor reflected that arrogance. With his head slightly turned up, his cold fox eyes fixed on her.

As the sight repulsed her, her skin rose in defiant bumps.

Two small tan chairs cowered toward him. No doubt so staged with purpose, but she played along and took one, Wyatt the other. She'd traveled far, not just in miles, and she hadn't come to participate in juvenile mind games.

"You're Anna?"

"Yes, I'm Lila's daughter and your sister, Sabina's granddaughter." She shouldn't provoke him, but she wasn't her usual self. Something dark stirred inside. Maybe she, too, was playing games. Maybe she should stop.

"Why are you here?" He didn't flinch, apparently still strong and comfortable in this setting.

"I received a call—multiple calls—to come here. I also received a letter and some cash." Now he flinched. So he knew about the letter.

"I didn't write a letter. Why would I write a letter to you ? I'll tell you what I told your mother. There's nothing for you here. Nothing! Your grandfather was worthless. Sabina married him to spite her father. She married someone she never loved just in spite. I don't know anything about any cash." He flashed a vile look in Martha's direction. "There was no money for your mother, and there's no money for you."

Wyatt started to stand up, jaw forward, fists clenched.

Anna touched his arm, easing him back down. "I'm here to find out about the letter. Who wanted forgiveness, and why?"

Silence. Atticus jutted his jaw forward, but a blue vein pulsed behind the nearly translucent skin at his right temple.

"The letter expressed great remorse. It mentioned my mother and me. Who would want to send such a letter, and again, why?" She scooted to the edge of her chair, lowering her voice. A part of her hoped Atticus would lean forward to hear her. Would meet her on common ground. "Then there's the locket. Was that Sabina's? Who's the woman in the picture? And what about my mother's visit here when I was a child? Why'd she leave broken?"

Atticus glared at her, unfazed. Then he waved a hand with a royal command. "Stop rambling, you ridiculous child." Head cocked, he eyed Wyatt. "Why are you here, boy?"

"I'm here with Anna as her friend, not as her attorney."

Atticus made an obnoxious sound. "You think I don't know you were neighbors? Don't you have a job?" He lunged forward. "You work for me . I own forty percent of Alan Corporation."

"Atticus, who wrote the letter addressed to Anna?"

"You're all so gullible." Atticus snorted. "All the relevant questions are there to be asked, and this is the one you continue to focus on? There's so much you don't know. So much no one knows. I know. Greta knew. You all walk around thinking you know what to ask. ‘Why did my mother come?' ‘Who wrote the letter?'" Juvenile and sarcastic, he mocked a whine, then frowned. "Actually, why Lila came may be one of the more relevant questions, now that I think of it."

Anna pressed a hand to her swirling stomach. She had prepared for this. Was this deliberate provocation the medicine, his illness, or him?

Didn't matter. She faced an unfiltered version of someone who didn't care what happened when he went to meet his Maker. He wasn't looking for forgiveness or to make amends. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, like the Great Wilderness Fire burning down everything and everyone in his path.

No wonder her mother was so adamant. They had no family. No one. No mere blood relationship could bind them together. This was not family, at least not the kind anyone would want or the kind in a feel-good movie.

No, this wasn't what she was seeking at all. What was she seeking?

"What would you like us to know about you, Atticus, that we don't already know?" Maybe she could turn the tables by sounding meek and interested. She detested this man, but he wanted to prove he was in charge even now. She could use that.

"What do I want you to know about me? Well, I was told I have days, not weeks, months, or years. Days! Why shouldn't you know it all?"

Her heart thudded, warning her she wasn't ready. No! I am strong. I am strong.

She dug her fingernails into her palms and waited as he cocked his head and eyed her the way a red fox would a wounded bird.

"First, you mean nothing to me. Nothing! You're not blood to me. I don't know you. I don't want to know you."

Anna flinched. Okay, maybe she wasn't prepared, but she'd let this lunatic talk. He had no power over her. He was nothing to her .

"Your grandmother liked to blame everyone else for the consequences of what she started. Selfish and immature, she manipulated others to satisfy her whims, leaving a trail of heartache. To escape her dull and loveless life with your grandfather, she'd ride her horse, Ruby. During one such adventure, she found an enormous gold stash in an abandoned mine."

Wyatt let out a whistle. "Seems those joyrides paid off."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Atticus eyed him. Then he rubbed his hands together and started up again. "She called it the Magnificent Mine, but she didn't tell your grandfather for fear she'd have to share or do something practical. She wasn't even sure who it belonged to, although it was probably left by a miner or miners. Someone who either escaped during the Great Wilderness Fire and couldn't find the gold later or was killed in the fire. So she plotted and planned. Then she met Jon Alan."

Atticus hooted and slapped his thigh, though the feeble action merely emphasized the man's frailty. "Whew, were they ever a perfect match! He was ambitious and greedy, like her. She was beautiful, fun, and exciting. They improved her plan—that master plan. She craved to be free of the demands of a small child, free to do as she pleased. Her father, your great-grandfather, never allowed her any freedom. He never gave her a penny because she married Flynn. She couldn't forgive him for that. Then he gave Sabina nothing when he died, while he gave his son everything. Even I considered it low. Atticus was no different from their father. She blamed him for influencing their father to disinherit her."

Anna held her breath and fought the urge to look at Wyatt. Why was Atticus speaking about himself in the third person?

"Then Atticus followed their father's footsteps and tried to destroy her. He taunted her about her lost inheritance. Then he couldn't handle the irreversible rift. He became reclusive, grew a beard, and disappeared from public life while still trying to sabotage her."

Wyatt reached across the space between them. His hand grasped her cold one, and his warmth seeped into hers and eased the chills that started tracking up her spine.

"Jon decided to make Sabina disappear." Atticus pressed a hand to his chest, gasping. Pain contorted his face. "Sabina disappeared. Several months later, Greta appeared. Greta looked very different from Sabina. Money can do that for you."

"So you're saying Greta was—"

"Don't interrupt me!" Atticus glared at her.

So Anna ducked her head pretending to be properly cowed. But was it possible? She clenched her teeth and gripped Wyatt's hand so tight her fingers hurt. All those years her mother struggled, all that time, Mother's mother had been… alive ?

Atticus cleared his throat. "Jon and Greta publicly fell in love and married. Then Atticus blamed Sabina's disappearance on Flynn. He was such an easy target."

How this decrepit man beamed, rejoicing in darkness and deception. Anna couldn't look at him for fear she'd turn to stone. With her stomach churning in reverse, she needed a break, but she couldn't allow him to stop. Whatever this was, she needed to hear it. It was their last chance.

"Since Atticus had been a recluse, no one remembered or paid attention to what he looked like. I lured him to his destruction by saying I'd found his sister, she'd found an immense treasure, and she yearned to see him. He was irrational when it came to Sabina. I met him along with a ‘little helper,' who shall we say ‘helped' Sabina rid herself of him. We shot him and stuffed him into an old prospect hole filled with snow runoff. It was a fitting burial. Later, someone found him. But we'd changed clothes, added a ring, made the man in the hole appear to be Jon Alan.

"When his grieving wife, Greta, whom everyone knew and respected, identified the body of her missing husband, who would question it? No reason. They assumed it was Jon. There was water in the hole, so by the time they found him, he didn't look quite the same. Now, Jon became Atticus. Sabina, now Greta, had her revenge. Jon had a fortune—a fortune Greta couldn't otherwise claim since she was no longer Sabina."

Anna remembered the names the Great Bisaan and the Magnificent Magsman from her mother's stories during their journey to Idaho. Did her mother know something about this? Was any part of it true, or was this just another play in his game?

She scratched her nails across her scalp. Wait. Greta Sabina—Great Bisaan. Magnificent Magsman/Swindler. Were the names her mother used in her stories a clues? One name an anagram for Anna's grandmother's names and the other a reference to Jon Alan, a magnificent con man and a swindler?

Atticus sat up straight, gloating over their reaction as if he didn't intend to leave the earth without everyone knowing how treacherous and clever he was.

"I took over Atticus's role, and we waited to see if that worked. People follow a strong leader. When you have money and power, no one dares to question you.

"When Greta changed her looks, she no longer resembled Sabina. All she had to do was stay clear of Flynn and Lila. We sold all the gold. Then Sabina started to get soft. She had Devlin and got distracted. I didn't expect or desire a child."

Anna moved her free hand to grasp the top of Wyatt's needing something to hold onto. Could she believe this man? If she could, if she did… "Then Devlin's my"—what?—"my uncle?"

Atticus—or was he Jon?—glared at Peter's portrait. "Then she decided I should give your mother and grandfather money from Sabina's inheritance. Sabina didn't have an inheritance. She wouldn't listen. She tried to say we owed them something."

He snorted. "Not a chance. I went over there and told your grandfather to get it together. He lost his strength after Sabina disappeared. But he couldn't get himself together. He didn't know how. Greta kept getting more and more unreasonable. It was supposed to be just her and me. That was the deal. It's not on me. It wasn't my fault. She broke the deal."

The room was dark, the stench stronger, and the air thicker. Choking on the staleness of it all, feeling like her chair was spinning, Anna pressed her feet hard against the floor to ground herself. Time to bring him back to reality. "Did you write the letter?"

He lurched. "What's your obsession with the letter?"

She flinched. A shiver tormented her arms and legs. She steeled her eyes.

"The letter doesn't matter, a mere symptom of an illness. The illness is the concern, not the symptom. It was her obsession for amends, some banal penance. I don't know why she was so driven to write it and fixated on getting it to you. When she heard Lila was dead, she hungered for forgiveness. She was still so immature, still had some unrealistic idea you don't have consequences for your actions and everything is okay if you say ‘I'm sorry.'"

"My grandmother wr–wrote the letter?" Her whole body was shaking now. Heat built behind her eyes. But she dared not believe him. Did she? Could she?

"DNA." Wyatt whispered so low perhaps Atticus couldn't hear him.

Yes! There were tests. Such wild tales could be proved or disproved.

Atticus cocked his head. The veins pulsed at his temples, adding a visual accompaniment to the hoarse rattle of his breath. "But she wasn't realistic. There's no going back on the choices you make. Just as there was no forcing me into something that wasn't part of the agreement. The letter doesn't matter unless you want to know that she was sorry. She was sorry, but what did that do for you?"

Everything. If it was true.

"Why did Anna's mother drive up from Texas?" Wyatt asked.

"Oh, now you're trying to be clever, aren't you?" Atticus/Jon's shoulders rocked forward in the delight of the chaos. His face hardened and his voice deepened. "You'll find no good answers here, Wyatt. Somehow, Greta got Lila to question her father's death and her boyfriend's—oh, yes, I later learned—husband's disappearance."

He flashed a devilish grin.

"Did they think I wouldn't know?" Evil delight danced in his eyes.

Pressure on her chest threatened to choke her. Anna sucked in shallow breaths.

"Did you kill Anna's grandfather?" Wyatt asked, attorney-mode calm.

"I didn't have to do anything to him after I spoke with him. He was weak. Couldn't take the pressure."

"And Anna's father?"

"Well… that's a mite more complicated. That boy was smart. And too curious for his own good, he figured out things others couldn't. Let's just say I paid for him to disappear."

Anna's skin was itching. She needed a shower and a scream session under soothing hot water.

I am strong. I am strong. I am strong?

Maybe not, but this was for her mother. She'd deserved better, but at least, she'd never be part of this man's life. Man? No beast, serpent.

Anna raised her chin and kept her voice steady. "Did you have someone break into my house to get the letter?"

"The letter means nothing. Why must you harp on that? That idiot Martha hired tried to blackmail me. Had the nerve to threaten me. Me? What a fool." He swayed with pride, his arrogance on full display. A shadow crossed his face, and he shook his head. "I sent the incompetent Clyde, who lost the blackmail note on the plane and called attention everywhere he went. Worthless. Worthless idiots couldn't do anything without specific instructions."

How many people had this man killed? How many lives had he ruined? Bile churned in her gut and soured her mouth. Her throat tightened, and her tongue thickened. Maybe she wasn't as strong as she imagined.

"Did Rowan have something to do with all this?" Wyatt asked.

Atticus stopped, head cocked to one side. "Rowan doesn't work for me. Well, not officially, but he could've been recommended by someone close to me to help me out."

"What does that mean?" Wyatt spread his hands out and taunted, "You said you weren't playing games now, you're revealing it all, putting it all out there, nothing to lose."

"Once I knew he was working for you, I paid him to work for me, my eyes, ears, and more."

Was the man half mad, or did he still have his mental faculties? "If the letter wasn't important, why would you care if someone tried to blackmail you?"

"Why, indeed. Why did that idiot that Martha hired think the letter could be used to blackmail me? Well, for one, I made Sabina disappear. Why would I benefit from everyone knowing that she was alive? That we tricked you all. That couldn't help my reputation. It might even cause speculation and have people ask more questions about Atticus and his money. What if everyone knew she became Greta, found gold belonging to some poor, unknown miner, and used it to start her business—the business that employs you, Wyatt." Atticus pointed at him, the gnarled finger shaking. "Or that Greta continued to apologize to Lila and Anna or implied we did something to Flynn. After all, we don't need to add things that aren't true. But now none of it matters. I'll be gone soon, so no reason not to brag. I ask you—Who else could have pulled off what we did?"

Anna swallowed hard. With her throat so dry, could she form words? "Why did you ask Devlin to drug me and bring me to your house?"

"Ah, you are still with us, young lady. I wondered if you'd gone catatonic. Devlin needed to know what you knew about the blackmail note and the items in the envelope. Greta told him everything when she was dying. Then that whelp became more sinister than I am when he learned about our accomplishments and the missing key—and you. The secret things that might hold him back from an empire."

Atticus sank back in his seat, his head against the headrest, his words now a whisper, his energy a wisp.

His eyes started moving without control. He winced and groaned, gasping for air.

When his eyes reddened, Anna pushed her chair back, waiting for flames to shoot from them and watching the top of his head for curled ram horns to appear. He mumbled something about Sabina. That he loved her? Then reached as if to touch something or someone.

Anna clutched her armrests. "Is he hallucinating?"

"Atticus?" Wyatt spun toward the doorway. "Where is that medical attendant?"

Medical alarms started going off. Martha had left the room. Why wasn't someone responding to the buzzer?

This went on for a few minutes.

A woman dressed in a white uniform entered the room, looked at Atticus, and started checking some monitors. She didn't say a word. She gave Atticus a shot of something.

Then he regained his strength.

Had Atticus—Jon?—ever wanted peace? He seemed determined to cause destruction, showing no compassion or kindness. Mother wouldn't have asked this man for money.

Anna pushed from her chair and stood over him, over this fading shadow that had loomed so large over their lives. "I hope I can forgive you. You'll go to your Maker and have to explain your actions, but it'll not be on my conscience or in my mind. You're now just a faded memory to me."

Atticus grimaced as he pushed the nurse away. "Don't worry about me. We had everyone fooled. Now it'll be just me and Sabina." He gripped the chair arms as he gasped for air ,and his lips contorted into a wicked smile that would make the devil himself take notice. "Did you find the key for your treasure, Anna?"

Then he slumped over.

Anna gasped, spinning to the nurse. "Is he gone?"

The nurse and the medical assistant rushed about taking his vitals and shook their heads. Wyatt gripped her elbow and ushered her from the room. Alarms still rang as she and Wyatt got into the elevator. The door's movement didn't stir her.

"Did that just happen?" Anna slumped against the back wall and brought cold fingers to her throbbing temples. "Was that man Jon Alan or Atticus Urbacch? Was Greta Alan really my grandmother, Sabina?"

She was trembling.

Her mother's voice whispered, " Anna, we only have each other. There is no one else we can trust. They're all gone. "

"Did your mother know Atticus was Jon?" Wyatt's voice intruded. "Did she suspect Sabina was Greta?"

"I… don't think so." Then Anna remembered the stories. "Maybe she suspected."

Martha rushed into the elevator when the doors opened on the main floor. She eyed them, then stepped back out. "Let's go into the side study so the paramedics can use the elevator." She guided them along. "Are you okay?"

Anna's heart thundered in her ear. She inhaled to slow the pounding and rubbed her hand up and down her arm to feel something—anything.

Was she?

I am strong.

Yes, yes, she was!

She stopped in the main-level hall and took in air no longer scented with death. Or was that smell something evil? "Atticus claims he's Jon Alan. He isn't my great-uncle, rather he killed him."

"Whoa." Martha's steady steps faltered. She spun around to Anna. "I can almost see how it could be true if it weren't impossible. I mean it would be impossible, right?"

That "right" echoed in the hall. Or maybe it echoed in Anna's head. Oddly, she couldn't bring her voice to echo it. As if… as if she believed that man, whoever he was.

"He didn't have his original staff." Martha's voice dipped low. "They were all replaced. And there were some things he should've known about his past or his family but didn't. Yet, he knew a great deal."

Reeling, Anna couldn't think logically, but a part of her—an illogical part maybe—felt something. Felt a truth in his ugly words. Or did she just not want to believe her blood carried any connection to the corpse upstairs?

"Anna…" Martha's voice came low and slow. "He might be telling the truth. We should ask for DNA tests to determine if he was Atticus. You need to know. You were the only heir, it seems. Of course, who knows what secrets lurk?"

Anna held back what he said about Greta—Sabina? This was enough for now.

Wyatt's hand pressed to the small of her back, then rubbed gentle circles.

She wouldn't cry. It was such a stereotype.

Yet… this was too much.

Then the sobs came, and she couldn't catch her breath. She tried to stop the tears. That made it worse.

Wyatt wrapped his arms around her, and she nuzzled her head against his chest, her fingers curling around his shirt.

"So much in such a short time." Did that even make sense? Would they understand what she was trying to say?

She burrowed in closer. Wyatt was a professional who dealt with last-minute reveals all the time, and this had him stunned. So surely, he could understand her reaction. She let herself cry. For everyone. For her grandfather, for her father, for herself. But also, and most especially, for her mother. She bore it like a champion. She raised Anna while enduring, well, this. Deception, lies, murder, and unnecessary hardship. What a vile man that man—whoever he'd been—was. And what about Greta? Could that be true? Was she moved by the injustice of a brother not taking care of his sister's family, or was it as sinister as this dying man implied? Was she Sabina? Anna needed to see the picture in the locket. But not now.

"Wyatt, do you think Anna should go back to your house?"

At Martha's words, Wyatt eased Anna away from him, his hands gripping her shoulders as she wobbled. He quirked a grin. "I almost wish I could call Garrett to come help," he teased. " Almost. "

Anna tried to smile, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood.

"Yes, we need to leave." He released her shoulders and slid an arm around her waist, still supporting her physically and emotionally as he faced Martha. "I'm available if you need anything for the DNA request." He kept his arms wrapped around Anna and guided her down the dreary hallway to his truck and home.

Anna settled back in the heated truck seat. Her shakes lessening, the movement lolling her, she kept her eyes closed. They'd been on the road for over thirty minutes. She sat up. "We're not going to the cottage."

"I'm taking you to the cabin."

Her heart gave a leap. She reached a shaky hand across the console to grip his. "Thank you." For that. For so much she couldn't say. What would she have done without him today?

I am strong. I am strong.

Was that true? Was any of what happened today true? Would she ever know?