Page 48 of Capturing You

Were there hidden nooks he and Rosie had never found in places they’d never thought to look?

Forbes stood in the center of Dad’s office and turned in a slow circle.

When he was a kid, unless Dad was behind his big desk, this room had been locked.

It wasn’t until Forbes was an adult that he realized how strange that was. What was Dad trying to keep from them?

Or perhaps, shield them from?

Maybe this office hadn’t given up all its secrets. Little though Forbes wanted to prove his suspicions about Dad correct, he needed to know what happened that night.

Even if the truth hurt—and Forbes had no doubt it would crush him—he needed to know. He needed to bring their murderers to justice.

If this room contained a secret, Forbes needed to find it.

* * *

Forbes spentan hour searching the walls, then the desk, for secret compartments. He found nothing.

When his phone dinged with a text, he was glad for the reprieve and snatched his phone off the desk.

It was from Tim.

The delivery driver is there.

Giving the text a thumbs-up, Forbes headed for the foyer, where he accepted the box Tim had sent and then climbed the central staircase. He hadn’t seen Brooklynn since lunch and assumed she was watching television or reading.

The sound of music increased as he approached the family room. He stopped in the doorway to assess the situation.

Brooklynn wasn’t watching TV. The music came from a record turning on Mom’s old player, a big band tune that stirred a vivid memory.

Mom and Dad had been taking ballroom dancing lessons, and they’d put on the music to practice. What started as a stilted waltz ended in a cheek-to-cheek slow turn. Dad’s expression had been filled with love.

Mom’s reflected pure joy.

Forbes had stood in the entry, watching, unwilling to interrupt the moment. Even as a little boy, he’d understood the beauty of it.

The image was so fresh and unexpected that it took his breath away.

He forced his eyes open, worried Brooklynn had seen.

But the space was empty. A light shone through the door of the connected office, a room he hadn’t set foot in since he’d returned to the house.

He crossed to the open doorway, taking in each memory like a jab to his flesh.

Mom’s narrow antique writing desk. A wall of white bookshelves that held not the most beautiful books or the most expensive, but the ones she liked the best.

In front of the windows, there were two armchairs Mom had recovered in white fabric with black…drawings of some kind. She’d told him once the pattern had some fancy French name, but he couldn’t remember. A footstool—recovered in black-and-white check—was in front of the chairs.

The desk held nothing but a can of Pledge and a rag.

He inhaled, but his mother’s scent was gone. All he smelled was lemon and…Brooklynn.

She was seated on one of the chairs poring over an oversized book in her lap.

“What are you doing?” His voice was loud and echoed off the walls.

She startled, eyes wide when she looked up. “You scared me.”