by Melissa Tagg
“You’re a good dad, Logan,” she’d said. “Charlie’s lucky to have you.” No tease in her voice then.
“You’ve got a great family, Seth.”
“Don’t I know it.” He straightened. “Now, let’s look at the application. It’s going to feel overwhelming, but I promise you, it’ll impress the bank if you show up to that first meeting with the application complete and all the required attachments—”
The buzz of her phone on the desktop cut him off. The display lit up with a number she’d just called yesterday. Her attention perked. “Sorry, Seth, this is work-related.” Her first official lead on the Kendall Wilkins story—thanks to Logan’s notes. She’d found the name—Claire Wallace—scribbled in a margin, followed by a question mark.
“No prob. If you need a quiet spot . . .” He pointed to the doorway to the back stairway that led up to the apartment.
She nodded her thanks as she answered. “This is Amelia.”
“Hi, this is Claire Wallace. Just returning your call.”
“Yes, thanks so much for calling me back.” Amelia passed through the doorway and closed the door softly behind her, blinking to adjust to the dim space, lit only by a wedge of light from the apartment door at the top of the steps. “I just had a few questions for you about your time working at the bank.”
“You know I retired four years ago, don’t you?”
Amelia lowered onto a step, feet propped on the one below. Why hadn’t she grabbed a notebook or at least a piece of paper from Seth’s desk? “Yes, the bank manager let me know that. I’m actually calling because I’m following up on a story about Kendall Wilkins and that safe-deposit box.”
What should she make of Claire’s stretching pause?
Finally, the woman spoke. “Sorry, just checking my calendar to make sure of the year.” She chuckled. “We’re five years past Mr. Wilkins’s death. So I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Nobody ever solved the mystery of what was in his safe-deposit box. I know the odds are remote, but I’d like to figure it out.”
“What’s to figure out? He played a practical joke on a whole town. He was always a cranky-pants. It fits.”
“He also donated a mansion to the library, built half the buildings in town, provided college scholarships . . . and never asked for anything in return.” Had she let too much defensiveness into her tone?
“I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
“I just wondered if you might remember anything that could be helpful. Did he ever hint at what was in the box? Open it in front of you?”
“Trust me, I answered these questions years ago. No, he never hinted. I was never in the room when he opened it. Up until that last time he came by the bank, just a week or so before he died, it was as much a mystery to me as anyone else. But that’s bank policy—confidentiality.”
Amelia ran one hand over the stairway bannister above her. She’d known the call might not produce any leads. But she’d hoped . . .
Wait.
Her brain snagged on something Claire had said. “Up until that last time . . . just a week or so before he died . . .”
“Kendall had access to his deposit box just days before he died?”
“He’d stop by every now and then. And yes, I saw him the week before he passed. I remember thinking he didn’t look well. Wan and thin. Which made sense. He was pretty old by then. Amazing he was still out and about.”
“If that box was meant to be a joke on the town, why would he need access to it? What would he be doing with an empty box?”
“Maybe it was a last-minute decision. Maybe he removed whatever used to be in it that day, so it’d be empty when he passed.”
But according to the notes Logan had given her—color-coded and ridiculously, entertainingly organized—Kendall’s will had been revised for the last time three years before he died.
Maybe he had removed whatever was in the box that day. But not because he’d made some last-minute decision to trick the town. If so, he would’ve called his lawyer and changed the will.
“I’m not sure why you’re doing this story,” Claire added. “Or what hope there could possibly be of finding out anything after all this time. But if you’re intent on it, who you should really talk to is his nurse.”
“His nurse?”
“The one who took care of him those last couple years. She’s the one who’d drive him wherever he needed to go. The one who brought him to the bank that last time. She moved away several years ago, but with the Internet, anybody can find anybody these days, right?”
“Do you know her name?”
“Easy enough one to remember. Marney. Marney Billingsley.”
Amelia stood, grinning at the empty hallway, excitement-fueled energy coursing through her. Maybe the whole town had made up its mind about Kendall and his intentions years ago. But they were wrong.
Something was supposed to be in that box.
And Marney Billingsley, wherever she was, might have the answer.
Two weeks in Maple Valley felt like two months.
“So you’ll do it?” The sound of a football smacking as it landed in Colton Greene’s hands accompanied his words.
The sound of Charlie’s giggles as she ran toward them from the house filled the yard. Tiny pink buds peeked from the magnolia tree Mom and Dad had planted when they first moved here, and green had begun to take over the line of trees cordoning off the ravine.
Yes, this had been a good idea—to take the afternoon off after a morning at the office. Spend time with his friend and his daughter. Forget his overflowing inbox with emails from the LA office or the list of to-dos he’d made himself for the newspaper. Equipment to repair and a website to design and—
“Well?” Colton sent the football flying toward him, then bent over to tickle and chase Charlie while a gleaming sun showered the backyard in light. Near-spring warmth had long since lured away the last of the snow.
Not that Amelia wasn’t still hoping for one more whomping visit from winter. She’d made that clear enough when she decorated her desk with homemade paper snowflakes. The whole office had laughed at her.
But then, later in the day, he’d seen Mae tack a snowflake of her own on the bulletin board when Amelia wasn’t looking.
“Your dad’s smiling.” Colton swung Charlie into his arms. “That must mean a yes.”
Logan caught the sailing football, the tie he still wore batting against his shirt. “Yes to what exactly? All you said was, ‘Wanna do me a favor?’”
Charlie had hold of Colton’s jersey now, her little legs pumping as she tailed him on his way to catch the football. Colton caught it with the ease of the practiced quarterback he was. “The question is, will you help with my fundraiser for the Parker House? It’s coming up in a few weeks, and I’m in over my head.”
Colton had just launched the nonprofit earlier this year—an effort to provide shelter and care for older teens aging out of the foster care system. The Parker House he’d opened in Maple Valley was first of what he hoped would be many.
Man, Iowa had been good for Colton. Kate was good for him.
Actually, Colton would say finding his way back to God was good for him.
“But I’m not an event planner, Greene. Besides, you want to talk about in over your head? I’m trying to bring an antiquated newspaper into the twenty-first century. I met with Freddie’s old accountant this week and accidentally swallowed my gum when he showed me the numbers.” He crouched and tossed the football with a light enough touch that Charlie could catch it. “Not to mention, I’ve got Amelia arguing with me constantly. I suggest the tiniest changes for headlines or articles or ad placement and she feels compelled to remind me I may be the owner, but she’s the editor.”
“You like it and you know it.”
“I put up with it.”
“You enjoy it.”
“Whatever.” He could argue all he wanted, but Colton wasn’t an idiot. Two weeks of spending his Mond
ay-through-Fridays at a slower pace, the smell of newsprint and ink sticking to his clothes, sparring with Amelia, it wasn’t all bad.
Amelia wasn’t all bad.
In another time and another place, he might’ve been interested in her in another way.
But not here and now, when he had a daughter who came first and a life fifteen hundred miles away and a presidential candidate knocking on his door. At least he hoped Hadley was still knocking. Theo had called yesterday in a panic about the fact that they still hadn’t heard anything.
But more than any of that was the fact that he still planned to eventually sell the News. And it’d break Amelia’s heart when he did.
His phone dinged, and he pulled it from his pocket. A text from Amelia.
Got a new lead on the KW story. Be impressed!
“Colt, take his phone away,” Dad’s voice called from the deck. “You said you were taking a break this morning, son.”
“Not work, Dad.” Not exactly. The Wilkins story was Amelia’s thing. He was just . . . playing along. Although, if she had a real lead . . .
I’ll believe it when I see it. Hear it. Whatever.
He was baiting her. For no other reason than it was fun. And he could see her in his head, annoyance narrowing her eyes. He watched his phone, waiting for her reply. Until . . .
A crack and a cry tore through the yard.
His phone slipped through his fingers as he whipped around in time to see Colton bending over near a broken branch leaning into a bulky trunk. Charlie . . .
His phone hit a muddy patch.
“She wanted to climb the tree,” Colton said as Logan hurried over, pushed in to see Charlie standing, shaking, a gash over her right eye. “The branch snapped.”
He dropped to his knees. “It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s got you.” Her tears wet his own cheek as he held her close.
“I don’t think she’s hurt too bad. I think she’s more scared—”
“What were you thinking?” The words snapped from him, biting. “She could’ve broken an arm or leg.”
She’s okay.
No, she had a head injury. She was bleeding. He needed to look at that cut over her eye, but she’d buried herself against his neck.
“Daddy.”
He inhaled so sharply at the shaken, whispered word muffled by his jacket, he could feel the cold air hit his lungs. Charlie . . .
He pulled back just enough to see her face. She’d said it, hadn’t she? He wasn’t hearing things?
“Daddy.” She said it again, this time through a sniffle and a sob as she swiped her hand under her nose.
“Logan, I was watching her.” Colton’s football-player frame shadowed him. “I turned away just for a second to find the ball. But I saw her hit the ground, and it wasn’t hard. I’m sorry, but—”
He interrupted Colton by standing, pulling Charlie with him, arms tight. He kissed her cheek. “Should we go inside and check out your forehead?”
He heard Colton’s footsteps behind him, felt the tension lingering from his whipped words. Uncalled for, but the panic . . .
He took the deck steps two at a time, saw that Dad had gone inside, leaving the patio doors open. He toed off his shoes on the rug inside and hauled Charlie to the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. Dad was already running a rag under water, which he handed over as Kate walked into the room. “What happened?”
Colton explained to Kate while Logan dabbed the cloth over Charlie’s forehead. He pulled it away in time to see another clump of blood push through her broken skin. With his other hand, he grasped one of Charlie’s hands, and her fingers immediately tightened around his thumb. “Do I need to take her to the ER? What if she needs stitches?”
Kate leaned closer. “It doesn’t seem that big of a gash.”
“Walker, I am really sorry.” Colton smoothed Charlie’s hair, and her still-tear-streaked cheeks bunched with her smile.
He didn’t have to look around to hear Kate’s silent question. But she only rubbed one hand over Charlie’s arm. “How about I take you to the bathroom and find a Band-Aid? I think we might have some pink ones.” Colton left with them.
Leaving Logan to stare at the granite countertop, wet rag still in hand. And Dad, who faced him from the other side of the island.
“I should’ve been watching her more closely.”
“Son, kids get hurt. I can’t count the number of times your mother and I ended up in the ER with one of you. If it wasn’t Kate with a concussion after dozing off in the hammock and tipping out, it was Beckett breaking his arm in a basketball game or Raegan falling off her bike.” Dad rounded the counter. “Although come to think of it, you tended to escape those kinds of accidents.”
Because he was the careful one. The responsible one.
He glanced down at the stained rag in his hand.
Yeah. Right. Charlie had spent too many days with a nanny back in LA. He’d waited too long to get her into speech therapy. And there’d been too many scares—that fire, today’s accident . . .
Hearing her voice had been a gift, but it shouldn’t take something like this to prompt it.
“I was a jerk to Colton.”
“He’ll forgive you.”
He met his father’s eyes. “Dad, what am I doing here?”
“Logan—”
But whatever Dad was going to say was cut off by the doorbell’s chime. Frustration beat through him. Rick and Helen, here to pick up Charlie for an afternoon trip to the park. And they’d see her hurt.
So not what he needed right now. Not considering the weird vibe he’d gotten from them ever since coming home. But he didn’t have time to dissect it now. He hurried through the living room, calling for Kate and Charlie as he did.
It was only Rick standing on the porch when he opened the door. “Hey, Rick. Charlie’s almost ready to go.”
His father-in-law’s reddish hair had faded to a yellowy white in the past years. He wore a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a half grin that seemed trapped in the lower half of his face. “Morning, Logan.”
Plastic small talk filled the seconds until Kate arrived with Charlie in tow. When had it become this way with his in-laws? So stilted. Uncomfortable.
“There you are, Charlotte.” Rick looked past Logan, his smile dissolving as Charlie ran up to them. There was no missing the hot pink Band-Aid on her forehead. “What happened?”
“Little incident climbing a tree,” Dad answered from behind.
“She was a climbing a tree? She’s three.”
Rick looked from Charlie to Logan back to Charlie. But he only sighed and picked up the backpack Logan had packed earlier this morning. “Helen’s waiting in the car.”
Logan bent down, zipped Charlie’s coat, kissed her Band-Aid.
“She’s okay, Rick,” Dad added. “Logan made sure of that.”
Rick reached for Charlie.
Logan followed him out the door, leaving Dad on the porch. He waved at Helen through the windshield, stood in the driveway as Rick settled Charlie in a toddler car seat in back.
“We have our first speech therapy appointment late next week,” he offered. An attempt at smoothing rough waters. “And she said ‘Daddy’ a couple of times today.”
“That’s progress? And you’re just now getting an appointment scheduled?”
“I called the therapist’s office before we even made the trip home, Rick. This was the soonest we could get in.”
“You better hope for quick results. Especially since you only plan to be here a month.”
Was he imagining the accusation huddled in Rick’s words? “There are therapists in LA, too.”
Rick barely acknowledged the response—offering only a slight shrug before opening his car door and sliding inside. Logan watched as Rick said something to Helen. Even from here, he picked up on Helen’s stiff reaction.
A minute later, as Rick’s tires bounced over potholes left by the snowplow’s frequent winter work, Dad came up to Logan’s side.
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“Something’s not right.” He felt his father’s gaze.
“She’s just fine, son. Give it a couple weeks and you won’t even see where she got hurt.”
“Not that. Emma’s parents. I don’t know what I’ve done to earn their disapproval, but clearly something’s brewing.”
“You’re a wonderful dad, Logan. You’re doing your best. That’s all anyone asks or expects.”
He tried to breathe in Dad’s assurances. Believe them.
But they couldn’t find space to settle, not with the unease expanding like a balloon inside him, arguing in taunting whispers that his best might not be good enough.
Logan had been the one to send the SOS text message asking Amelia to meet him here. So where was he?
The thrum of an overzealous bass pulsed like the throbbing headache that’d nagged her all afternoon—ever since she’d taken a second look at those loan papers Seth had pulled together for her. The band squashed into the little stage at the corner of the restaurant floor, cleared of its front tables, didn’t so much sing as screech.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Owen appeared at the table near the back she’d managed to nab.
“Wasn’t planning to.” Open mic night at The Red Door had become a monthly thing. She’d been a few times, but had instead planned to spend tonight scouring the Internet until she located Marney Billingsley.
And then Logan had texted—something about needing help with a project he hadn’t asked for.
And within ten minutes she’d changed out of pajama pants into leggings and a jean skirt with a black-and-white-striped top. She’d left her hair in its usual messy bun but taken time to swipe on some eye shadow and mascara.
Told herself the whole time it was the event she was prepping for—not the man. Did lying to herself count as a sin?
Owen dropped into the only other chair at the table. “You should’ve called. You didn’t have to come alone.”
She had to strain to be heard above the music. If it could be called music. “Actually I’m meeting someone.”
