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CHAPTER NINETEEN

B rooklynn carried plates, silverware, and napkins to the family room, where Ford was crouched in front of the fireplace, lighting a flame.

Despite the day’s sunshine, the house was chilly. Worried someone would peek inside and see her, Ford had kept all the blinds and curtains closed. Nice for safety, but he’d never turned on the heat. By the time the sun went down, it was downright cold.

She set the things on the coffee table. “Another fire?”

“Just thought we should burn the wood I hauled up last night so I don’t have to take it back down.”

He settled where he’d sat the night before, opened the pizza box on the coffee table, and shifted a piece onto a plate, which he handed to her.

“Thanks.” She nibbled a bite, savoring the salty meats, crisp veggies, and spicy sauce. Her stomach had been growling for hours. She hadn’t realized how much energy it took to solve a mystery.

Ford finished his first bite. “Good pizza.”

“The best in town." She sipped her water to wash down the bite. "You must have some great stories. Tell me about other mysteries you’ve investigated. Have you solved any?”

He took his time swallowing and wiping his mouth. “Nope.”

She waited for more, but apparently, he had nothing to add. “Whoa. Don’t overwhelm me with information.”

His lips did that twitching thing. “This is the most interesting mystery I’ve studied so far.”

“How do you decide which mysteries to write about?”

“I focus on mysteries that occurred in old houses. And I look for mysteries that happened in the late twentieth century or the early twenty-first.”

“Always murders?”

“Not…officially.”

“Meaning?” When he said nothing, she asked, “Can you give me an example?” Sometimes, making conversation with Ford was akin to getting the perfect shot. It took patience and determination and a whole lot of luck.

She could just give up, but like the perfect shot, when she managed to get him to talk, it was incredibly satisfying.

He set one ankle over his opposite knee. “Back in the late eighties, a two-year-old girl was snatched out of her second-story bedroom from an old plantation house in Georgia.”

“That’s awful.” She couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child that way. “Do you know who did it?”

He rubbed his lips together. “Nothing definitive, but the girl’s mother was an alcoholic, and neighbors reported their suspicions that she was abusive. They heard her screaming sometimes. There were even a few police reports, though nothing ever came of them.

“My theory—and that of others looking at the mystery—is that the mother killed the child, possibly by accident.”

That was even more distasteful than the idea that somebody had snatched her.

“Rather than confess,” Ford said, “she hid her daughter’s body and claimed she’d been kidnapped.

The mom’s brother was the sheriff. Maybe he knew she did it and wanted to protect her.

Maybe he couldn’t imagine his baby sister doing something so terrible.

Either way, he investigated her claim of kidnapping and never entertained any other theories. ”

“So she got away with it?”

“If she was guilty, then yes. Even though she wasn’t arrested or convicted, can you imagine trying to live with that?”

Brooklynn couldn’t, but there were people who would kill a child without blinking an eye. Alyssa and Callan—and his daughter, Peri—had come against just that kind of person.

“The woman and her brother inherited the house from her grandparents. It was empty for years while she was in college. She got pregnant and came home with a baby. She never told anyone who the father was.

“When she reported the little girl missing, she named the baby’s father, claiming he must’ve taken her.

But she only had a nickname, didn’t know how old the man was, and didn’t know where he lived.

Also, she’d always claimed she never told the father she carried his child.

Even if he’d found out somehow, why kidnap her?

Why not try to get custody legally? That theory had more holes than a sieve, in my opinion.

Especially when the father was never located. ”

“More reason to believe she did it. She still claims innocence?”

He looked toward the windows, though the twilight evening was hidden behind curtains. “She committed suicide a couple years after the girl’s supposed kidnapping. Her suicide note read, I can’t live with it anymore. I’m sorry .”

“Oh, a confession?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she couldn’t live with not knowing where her daughter was, but that seems wrong. Wouldn’t a mother always hope she’d find her baby?”

“Maybe she wasn’t emotionally capable of handling it.”

“I think she did it, but there’s no way to know. The girl’s body was never found. She could still be out there.”

“How awful for the family to never get that closure. Did you meet the brother? What does he think?”

Another shrug. “He’s hard to get a read on.” His answer showed no enthusiasm or curiosity.

For someone who investigated unsolved mysteries, he didn’t seem to care that much.

Except she knew he cared about this house’s secrets.

“Tell me about another one.”

“I’m tired of thinking about mysteries tonight.”

Obviously, Ford wasn’t in the mood to talk. “You want to watch TV?”

He’d finished his fourth slice of pizza and wiped his hands. “You’re a big fan.”

“When I was a kid, we weren’t allowed to watch much, and when we did, Mom monitored the programs carefully.

We watched a lot of reruns because she said most of the current programs were filthy.

” Brooklynn felt a smile at the memory. “Of course, we thought that was ridiculous, but looking back, she had a point.

“Once I grew up,” she said, “I cared less about TV. Who had time for it? But I live alone now, and the evenings can be long.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter. “You probably spend your evenings reading Shakespeare and…biographies of dead people.”

Oh, my. Was that a real smile? His very handsome face transformed, making him absolutely gorgeous.

If she could, she’d spend the rest of her life trying to coax that smile out of him.

Okay, maybe not the rest of her life . Talk about hyperbole.

“Not Shakespeare,” he said. “All that poetry and thees and thous. But biographies are fascinating.”

“Aha! I knew it.”

He looked away, still smiling. Maybe a little embarrassed, which made him even more attractive. How was that even possible?

“Okay,” she said, “favorite biography of all time.”

“Impossible. There are too many to choose from.” He named a few people she’d never heard of. He must’ve noticed her confusion because he sighed. “Ever heard of John Adams?”

“He makes beer, right? No, wait. That’s Sam.”

Ford’s jaw dropped.

“I’m kidding.” She laughed, waving off his shock. “Of course I know who he is. Founding Father, second president of the United States.”

“There’s a great biography of him. Sort of long, but?—”

“Oh, I know which one you mean. There was a miniseries about him based on a book.”

Forbes chuckled, an actual genuine chuckle—with a grin and sound and everything.

She did her very best not to react.

“I’m guessing the book is better than the movie,” he said.

“We can watch it, and you can tell me. Though it’s probably five or six hours long.”

His eyes widened as if the thought of watching that much television was abhorrent. “Let’s pick something…uh…”

“Shorter?”

“Whatever you want.”

She found the remote and turned on the TV—a modern flatscreen that had to have been recently purchased. “If you don’t watch TV, why do you have this? Or was it already here?”

“The owner provided it. I watch the news sometimes, mostly to keep me company in the evenings.” His head dipped side to side. “It does get quiet being alone all the time.”

They were similar in that, anyway.

She turned the TV on, and a twenty-four-hour news channel was showing video of some tragedy. Car accident, plane crash, forest fire? She didn’t watch long enough to find out, scrolling the guide until she paused on an old Cary Grant movie that was just starting, one of her favorites.

“Ever seen it?”

He read the title and perked up. “It’s about a builder?”

“Not exactly, but it’s funny.” She started the movie— Mr. Blandings Builds his Dream House— and hoped Ford would enjoy it.

They both settled back, and somehow as the movie progressed, they inched closer to one another until their shoulders were touching.

Ford’s attention never strayed from the screen. Everything he did, he did completely, even this.

Where she could be flighty and spontaneous, he was organized and intense.

She’d seen the black-and-white movie more times than she could count, which explained why she spent more time observing the man beside her than the comedy.

In all the time she’d spent with Ford, he’d never let his guard down. There was something about the movie, the fireplace, the whole…situation, that seemed to encourage him to relax. He wasn’t scowling or even frowning. The worry lines etched in his forehead smoothed out.

She’d already been attracted to him. Now she felt drawn to him in a way she’d never felt toward another man.

He was mysterious and closed off, just like this house.

And like the house, stately and dignified, but beneath that veneer, the man had secrets she was compelled to uncover.

If only he wouldn’t work so hard to hide them.

They were nearly finished with the movie when his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, then shifted away from her as if surprised to realize she was there. He stood abruptly. “I need to take this.”

And apparently, he needed privacy, because he stepped into the hall and closed the door.

She paused the movie, stood and stretched, then added another log to the fire. Not that she was cold, but the flames were so friendly.

He returned a few minutes later, and his walls were back up. If anything, his worry lines were etched deeper.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“That was the manager at Marie Ballentine’s retirement community. I’m her closest family, so I’m her emergency contact. She was taken to the emergency room yesterday after a fall. She’s home now. They wanted to make sure I’d been notified.”

“Is she all right?”

“She was released a couple of hours ago and took a taxi back to her place. That’s why they reached out to me.

They figured I’d have been there if I’d known.

Which I would have.” His lips pressed tightly closed, frustration wafting off him.

He swallowed, looking beyond Brooklynn. “I need to go see her tomorrow, but I can’t leave you here on your own. ”

“I’m sure it would be fine.”

“Are you? Because maybe those guys who chased you are just waiting for me to leave so they can search the place again.”

They hadn’t given up on finding her here. And she didn’t relish having to hide in some spider-infested hole until Ford came back.

Or calling the police and dealing with Lenny.

“You’ll have to come with me,” he said.

“Out there is more dangerous than in here.”

“Out there, I can protect you. If I leave you here, anything could happen.” By the way his expression darkened, she guessed he was not happy with the arrangement. “You’ll have to come with me. There’s no other way.”