“Hardly killed,” Christen shot back over her shoulder with a smile. “You trust me, love. I know you do.”
Christen was right. Annalise did trust her, but sneaking through the back alley of a row of historical brick buildings had not been on their BFF bucket list. The night air was cool. Crickets chirruped as if to cheer them on, and a frog hopped across the alleyway. Annalise’s foot almost landed on it. She jumped to the side, avoiding the inevitable splat that would have followed.
Christen hurried through the darkness like a woman on a mission.
“Where are we going?” Annalise dodged a bucket of cigarette butts at the back door of one of the buildings.
“You’ll find out,” Christen said.
She wove around a metal dumpster to the back door of the newspaper. Reaching out, Christen tugged on the doorknob. “It’s locked.”
“Ya think?” Annalise sidled up to her, cellphone out with the flashlight turned on. Christen had taken a dive off the deep end. “Seriously, what is going on?” This skulking about back alleyways between old brick buildings was ridiculous.
Christen cast her an apologetic look. “If I told you, you wouldn’t have come.” Christen rattled the doorknob again. Her dark sweatshirt made her almost blend into the shadows.
“Why wouldn’t I have come?” Annalise pushed for more than a vague answer.
Christen released the doorknob and turned. Her eyes were bright behind her glasses as Annalise lifted her phone’s flashlight. “It involves Garrett.” She held up a hand as Annalise opened her mouth. “I know, I know. The other day with him weirded you out, and I get that. But avoiding him won’t bring you resolution. He asked me to bring you here.”
“In the dead of night?” Annalise said.
“Seriously! Point that light somewhere else.” Christen pushed the phone aside so it wasn’t shining in her eyes. “And stop being so stubborn. Between you and Brent, you’re so jaded you can’t see what a stand-up guy Garrett is.”
“I’ve never heard that term applied to Garrett Greenwood.”
“Well”—Christen’s voice dropped its sharp edge—“people can change. You of all people should know that.”
Annalise shook her head. There it was. The call to offer grace. But wasn’t forgiving and accepting Garrett’s presence in her life playing with fire all over again?
Christen moved from the back door to a stairway that led down to the building’s basement. She twisted the doorknob of the basement door. Victory lit up her face as she looked up at Annalise. “Ah-ha! It’s unlocked!”
“No!” Annalise looked over her shoulder down the dark alley, half expecting Brent to flood it with headlights from his patrol car and arrest them for breaking and entering.
Christen waved Annalise in. “C’mon!” She stepped into the basement beneath the newspaper offices. Annalise released a sigh of exasperation.
Christen’s head popped out of the doorway. Her glasses framed huge eyes. “C’mon!” she repeated before disappearing again.
Annalise aimed her phone’s flashlight down the steps. The last time she’d succumbed to impulse and peer pressure she’d wound up on a plane to Connecticut to have a baby. Rolling her eyes, she heaved another sigh and bounded down the steps, her orange leather Naturalizer shoes silent on the concrete.
She poked her head inside. A light bobbed at the far end of the room. The thick smells of damp cement and mold toyed with her nose. Bank boxes were stacked against the walls just inside the door. Annalise shone the light down at her feet and noticed patches of wet flooring with cracks running through the aged foundation.
“Helps if you two turn on a light.”
Annalise screamed. She swung her arm around and behind her. “Garrett?” Her voice squeaked as light flooded the basement. “Tyler?” She hated the way her voice rose another octave. Tyler stood at the metal light box mounted just inside the door. Garrett was beside him, holding a carryout cup of coffee from McDonald’s. Any other time Annalise would feel like lecturing him about cheap coffee. But not now. Not when she’d just experienced another fright—an unnecessary one at that.
Christen scurried from the back of the room, excitement etched in her face. “Oh! You made it!” she said to the men.
Annalise crossed her arms and looked between the three of them. Christen looked marginally guilty, with Garrett looking oblivious to any internal struggle Annalise might be having. And Tyler, he appeared to be irritated.
“Why are we here?” Annalise chose to level her question on Garrett. The memory of being in her bedroom, the feel of his lips on her forehead, made her want to run. She couldn’t—couldn’t—soften toward him. It was survival. He was dangerous.
Garrett gave her a knowing smile, sad but understanding. He directed his attention to Tyler and didn’t answer her question. “Thanks for letting us come tonight.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Tyler blew out a sigh. “But I didn’t exactly want to come down here. Not after what happened.”
“What happened?” Annalise looked between Garrett and Tyler.
Tyler raised an eyebrow toward Garrett. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Tell me what?” Annalise demanded. The dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t about to go away. Annalise realized she was turning into the perpetual pessimist. For good reason.
Tyler gave a small smile. “Figures.” His expression was so frank, so unguarded, Annalise knew immediately she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I received another anonymous submission today.”
Annalise chilled. Her skin prickled beneath her sweatshirt.
Tyler continued. “There weren’t any more pictures of your baby.” Then he had the audacity to pause. Annalise wanted to put a chokehold on him. If he was enjoying dragging this out for sensation’s sake, she was going to—
“It claimed Garrett was the father.” Tyler shrugged. “Of course, I’d figured that out, but whoever sent it probably didn’t know I would.”
That threw a damper on Christen whose expression dropped. She must have thought this clandestine gathering was something to help Garrett and Annalise reconcile. In Tyler’s moldy newspaper basement? Not likely.
Annalise swept her attention to Garrett. He didn’t seem surprised at all. “You knew about this? The submission?”
“I called him.” Tyler smirked. “I needed to check my sources.”
“And you admitted it?” Annalise couldn’t hide the tears in her voice. Of course he had. It was an easy deduction. She hadn’t had a meaningful relationship since.
“I’m tired of hiding it. I’m not ashamed of our baby, Q.”
Not ashamed.
Those words were both healing and scarring at the same time. He was twelve years too late to not be ashamed. But, she’d also waited twelve years to hear him claim Gia as his.
Annalise looked at Tyler. “Well, are you going to print it?” She exchanged a quick glance with Christen, who mouthed Sorry! I had no idea!
“It is an interesting story,” Tyler said.
“It’s slander!” Annalise blurted.
“She’ll sue!” Christen inserted.
“Hold up.” Garrett stepped between them. Christen half hid behind his shoulder. He leveled a strong look on Tyler. “You’re better than that, Tyler. Besides, you know that would be a dumb move.”
“Okay, so what’s the whole cryptic meet us in the basement of the newspaper bit then? Some attempt to talk me out of it?” Tyler jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jacket.
“Not really.” Garrett took out his phone and flipped through some photos before turning the screen toward Tyler. “This.”
Tyler’s eyes skimmed it. He blinked. “Where’d you get that?”
“It’s at the police station right now for evidence. Annalise’s house was broken into a few nights ago.” Garrett’s words were laced with insinuation.
Tyler held up his hands. “I did not break into her house.”
“He’s not saying you did
,” Christen jumped in. Her hands swept the air as if to remind Tyler where they stood. “But that obituary is of your ancestor. Which means Paul Darrow is somehow tied to all this ruckus, and that means you’re tied to it as well.”
Garrett nodded. “Paul Darrow, your great-grandfather, used to be part owner of this paper.”
“Part owner? No.” Tyler frowned. “He owned it. It’s been in the family for years.”
Garrett shook his head. “Not in 1907.”
Annalise’s head shot up. How did he know that?
Christen moved to her side, and Annalise felt her friend’s hand slip around hers. She leaned into Annalise and whispered in her ear, “Let Garrett do this. For you.”
Garrett was still speaking. “Gloria and I did some research on Gossamer Grove as it related to events that occurred here in 1907. We found out this newspaper was sixty percent in the ownership of a man named Mitch Sheffield.”
“Sheffield?” Annalise interrupted. Libby. Libby Sheffield. The woman in the photograph she’d assumed was Libby. The watch. The time stopped at 8:36.
“That’s crazy.” Tyler shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Apparently, your ancestor had some problems with money.” Garrett let the words hang.
“Okay.” Tyler tapped his foot and sighed. “So, where are you going with this?”
“Do you know how Paul Darrow died?” Christen interjected. She seemed to know what Garrett had in mind, though Annalise had to admit she was as confused as Tyler.
Tyler shot Christen an incredulous look. “No. That was over a century ago.” He backed up and leaned against a tall wooden filing cabinet. Antique-looking. He crossed his arms. “C’mon. Lay it out straight for me. What are you getting at?”
Garrett took a long drag from his coffee, then set it on top of a banker’s box. “There’s a series of obituaries that have surfaced. One of them was in Eugene Hayes’s trailer.”
“That one you showed me?” Tyler asked Annalise. “For Harrison Greenwood?”
She nodded, but then bit her tongue, letting Garrett take the lead.
“We found another one online, for a Dorothy Hayes,” Garrett continued. “That one was printed by this paper. It had the same masthead.”
“It didn’t include any Edgar Allan Poe poetry either,” Christen added.
“Hmm . . . that’s odd.” Tyler’s interest seemed piqued. “Dorothy Hayes? Was she related to Eugene Hayes?”
Annalise nodded. “His grandmother probably.”
“Huh.” Tyler shrugged. “Okay. So her obit was printed by us.”
“The third obit is your ancestor’s. Paul Darrow,” Garrett concluded, as if Tyler should get it.
“In the vein of Harrison Greenwood’s,” Christen said. “All creepy Poe-like.”
Tyler gave them all a blank look. “Still not following.”
“Paul Darrow owned the paper, right?” Garrett asked.
“Yeah,” Tyler answered.
“He owned it well after 1907.” Garrett made a point to emphasize his words. “After he was supposed to have died, according to the obit.”
Tyler’s eyebrows winged upward as realization dawned. “Oh . . .” He raked his fingers through his hair.
Annalise was finally connecting the dots as well. “If the only person of the three obituaries who actually lived past 1907 was Paul, then—”
Christen snapped her fingers. “Then Tyler’s how-many-times great-grandfather was hiding something.”
“Swell,” Tyler groused. He palmed the wall, bracing himself against it. “My great-great-grandfather, what, wrote weird obituaries? You can’t prove he wrote them. Dorothy Hayes’s obit doesn’t imply anything either. The woman died. Happens all the time.”
Garrett leaned into the doorjamb as if prepared to hang out in the dank basement all night. “Well, Dorothy Hayes and Harrison Greenwood both died within days of each other. Paul Darrow has an obit but didn’t die until decades later. According to Dorothy’s obit, she died from drowning in the pond just outside the town.”
“Gossamer Pond.” Tyler nodded, as though following Garrett’s line of thinking thus far.
Garrett went on. “The obit for Harrison Greenwood that was printed by your paper claims he committed suicide. But the other obit that Eugene Hayes had implies he was murdered. Why two obituaries, one published, one not? What if Paul Darrow had something to hide so he printed Harrison’s obit and skewed it as a suicide?”
“A cover-up!” Christen snapped her fingers again.
“You’re insinuating my great-great-grandfather murdered your great-great-grandfather?” Tyler narrowed his eyes at Garrett, then at Annalise. “You’ve both lost your minds. If Paul killed anyone, why would he write obituaries he never printed? What would be the point?”
“Don’t you think we should find out?” Garrett pressed.
Annalise sank onto a crate. Her knees were quivering. If she had her way, she’d yank Garrett’s coffee from his hand, cold or not, and guzzle it right now.
“Is that why you wanted to meet here? In the newspaper’s basement?” Tyler kicked at a box. “You think somehow we’re going to figure out what happened with our grandparents? No one is concerned whether Paul Darrow from 1907 committed murder or printed falsified information. No one cares who wrote those weird obituaries.”
Garrett shrugged. “Someone cares. Annalise has been attacked, her house broken into twice. The police are tracing a few leads, but so far we’ve got nothing. If Eugene was this fascinated with history, something back then still affects today. Gloria said Eugene used to dig around in this basement. I’d say odds are good this is where he found my great-great-grandfather’s obituary and maybe where Paul Darrow’s came from.”
“Oh, c’mon!” Tyler gave Garrett a look of disbelief, as if what Garrett was proposing was outlandish.
Garrett didn’t respond. It was as if he’d used up all his words. He took a long draw from his coffee. Tyler stared at him, but Annalise could tell he was battling through the logic versus theory of the argument. Christen took a seat on the crate next to Annalise. They waited.
Finally, Tyler let out a sigh. “Fine.”
“So you’ll help us? You’ll let us look through your records here?” Annalise surveyed the room. The rafters were thick wooden beams with blankets of cobwebs between them. She didn’t look forward to rummaging through old papers and documents to solve a century-old mystery.
Tyler threw his hand in the air. “Have at it! If you want to dig up the past, well it’s right here. Dust and all.”
“Help us find out what happened,” Garrett urged the newspaperman.
Tyler raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have much interest in digging through all this.”
Garrett chuckled, and Annalise envied him as he took another drink of his coffee. “Keep telling yourself that, Darrow.”
Annalise hid a small smile. Garrett was counting on Tyler’s natural curiosity.
Tyler gave a tight nod. “Let’s start with finding out exactly who this Mitch Sheffield is.”
Annalise followed Tyler, Garrett, and Christen as they made their way to the northwest corner of the basement. To the old filing cabinets there. To antique stories that threatened to disclose a sordid tale Gossamer Grove had kept hidden for years.
Chapter 32
Libby
Libby hurried down the street, away from Paul, away from the basement, away from the newspaper. It was at least a minute before she realized townsfolk were passing her walking fast, a few slapping reins over their horses’ backs, urging carriages forward. She looked across the street. The Methodist church with its white steeple rose up among a grove of trees. A few people hurried from that side of the road, jogging across, pointing and fixating on something she had yet to see.
Trapped between returning to the alleyway or pressing forward, Libby stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Immobile. Her dress fluttered in a breeze that wafted the scent of crab-apple blossoms through the air.
The clouds, white and puffy, floated lazily overhead in the vibrant blue sky. But around her, tension boiled.
A shoulder slammed into her, stunning her for a moment as she cried out, reaching for her arm. Her wound throbbed, and she shot a pained glare at a teenage boy who raced by her, his shoes clomping on the cement walk, his hand slapping the brick of the two-story building on her left.
Libby sidestepped another passerby and leaned against a lamppost. Wincing, she checked the blouse of her dress with a tentative touch to see if she was bleeding in case her wound had reopened. Seeing no blood, she looked up as a hand gripped her elbow.
Elijah’s dark eyes were haunted. Exposed. They tore into Libby with such fervor, such pain, that she sensed the world around them fade.
“What is it?” she asked. She laid a hand on Elijah’s upper arm. The coarseness of his wool jacket reminded her that what seemed gentle, what seemed warm and inviting, still scratched and stung.
Elijah glanced at her hand. His face pale, he locked eyes with her. “My father. Aunt Dorothy.”
“Yes?” Libby prodded. Elijah took her by the elbow and ushered her through the growing crowd. They moved back toward the alley, dodging people. “What’s going on?” Libby stumbled, trying to keep up with Elijah.
They left the sidewalk, stepping into the alleyway. Once again the sun was darkened by the shade of the building and the overhang of trees.
“I visited Uncle Ralph in jail. I had to understand why he would start a riot at the tent meeting, why he would—” Elijah stopped and cleared his throat—“stab you. Or rather, try to stab Jacobus Corbin.”
“And?” Libby asked breathlessly, the sound of Jacobus’s name doing odd things to her attempt at calm.
Elijah bent, his face almost nose to nose with her, his eyes drilling into hers with a type of accusation and admission all rolled into one. “He told me that not only did my father and my aunt Dorothy—my mother’s sister—have an affair ten years ago, but my cousin Lawrence is not my cousin, Libby. He’s my half brother!”
Libby blinked. Stunned. She’d not imagined that boy at the funeral was Elijah’s little brother. “Oh, Elijah, I’m so sorry. No, not sorry. I mean, it’s wonderful you have a little brother, but—well, the circumstances are horrible.”
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 24