Page 157 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Okay, she just caught me off-guard.” His voice softened. “You seem so certain the explosion wasn’t an accident. I’m not so sure, Becca. You don’t have a shred of evidence.”

Defensive hackles raised along Becca’s back. Jake was a man of science who would scoff at the way she felt things. “I know it in my heart,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to let them get away with it.”

“I think it’s just the way you’re dealing with Mom and Dad’s deaths. No one rigged the boat to blow. It was an accident.”

Becca thought her brother’s emphatic announcement was his way of convincing himself. She kept that opinion to herself. No sense in setting him off even more.

“Gram will recognize you,” Wynne said.

It was Becca’s main fear. “I applied as Becca Lynn and left off my last name altogether. I was ten the last time I saw her, and everyone was still calling me Becky. Besides, when I asked about the household, Max mentioned she was away on a trip to Europe. I’ve got four weeks to find out who killed them.”

“Max and Laura had a little girl, didn’t they?” Wynne’s voice was thoughtful.

“Molly. She’s five. She would have been only two when Laura died.”

“There was some question that maybe Max had killed her, wasn’t there? I don’t like this, Becca.” Wynne sounded worried.

Becca could picture her older sister clearly. She was likely sitting with both legs under her and twisting her long black hair around a finger. She missed Wynne with a sudden pang. The funeral a month ago had been a kaleidoscope of pain and disbelief where mourners and family moved through the landscape in a blur of pats and hugs. There had been no real time to grieve together.

No one from the island had come. The thought made her press her lips together and scowl. Gram had outlived all three sons. The least Gram could have done was bid her last son farewell.

The lump in her throat grew until she wasn’t sure she could speak. Becca sipped her licorice tea, cold now with a gray scum on top. The call waiting beeped, and she glanced at it. “I have to go. Max is calling me back. I’ll let you know when I get to Windigo Manor.”

She clicked the button and answered the new call. “Becca Lynn.”

“When can you come?” Max Duncan’s deep voice asked.

“Immediately,” she answered. As she made arrangements to be picked up at the boat dock, she wondered what she was getting herself in for. But she had to try.

Max Duncan lacedhis fingers together and leaned back in his chair. He was bored, no doubt about it. And just when he was beginning to think he might start writing again, a woman called to see if he was looking for an assistant. If God cared about him, he would have assumed God had orchestrated it.

No sense going there though. Laura’s death had clearly shown him God didn’t care about him. The realization brought an ache he thought he’d gotten over long ago.

He should move to the mainland, try to get on with his life. He’d been paralyzed since Laura’s death and had allowed Lake Superior to exercise its cold charm in keeping him here.

If he’d relocated when Laura wanted to, she’d still be alive. He pushed the thought away. At least he was getting back to his writing. That was a first step.

He dropped the portable phone back onto his desk. The woman had said she’d come. She’d been evasive about how she’d heard he might be interested in an assistant—or even how she heard he lived out here—but he wasn’t in a position to turn down badly needed help.

Maybe with her help, he could get this book jump-started. The front door slammed, and his daughter Molly flew into the room. Her face wet with tears, she hurtled into his arms.

“Whoa, what’s wrong, sweetheart?” He cradled her as her wet cheek soaked the front of his shirt.

“The kids in town are nasty!” She pulled away and scrubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Audrey was whispering with Becky, and I heard them say you killed Mommy. Why would they be so hateful?”

His daughter’s precocious vocabulary and manner never failed to amaze him. Though only five, she talked and acted like a ten-year-old. He sometimes wondered if he was depriving her of a normal childhood by forcing her to grow up among adults. He had heard the rumors—all of them. They failed to move him any longer, but he hated to see his daughter hurt.

“They’re just words, Molly. Hold your head up high. We’re still outsiders here, and people like to talk. They’ll get tired of it if they see it doesn’t bother you.”

His daughter considered his words. “You mean they’re just doing it to see me cry?”

“Yep.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know. So don’t let them get to you.”

She scrambled off his lap. “I won’t. I love you, Daddy.”