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CHAPTER TWENTY

L ate Wednesday morning, Aspen followed the map on her navigation system toward a retirement community in Hooksett, just north of Manchester. She’d managed to locate the people who used to own her house and had decided to pay them a visit. Though she had donated most of the things in the attic to the thrift store, she’d held on to the photographs. Maybe they would appreciate having them back.

At the library the day before, she’d messaged Garrett about his aunt trying to reach him regarding his uncle. He’d responded with…

How do you know this?

Met your aunt at the library. She and my mother were best friends.

She’d waited while the three little dots on her screen danced. It took him a few moments to formulate his reply.

Dean told me this morning. I didn’t think to ask him at the time if he’d mind if I told you. After our talk, I planned to ask, but he had that doctor’s appointment.

That could be true. Probably was true. Garrett had no reason to lie to her.

She was still frustrated to have learned it from Deborah instead of him. It would have saved her a lot of time.

Not that the time had been wasted. Seeing her parents’ yearbook, their faces as young people, happy people…

She wished Garrett had told her, but she understood his loyalty to his aunt and uncle.

A few moments later, the dots started dancing again, and it was a long time before five words came through.

I’m sorry, Aspen. Forgive me?

She stared at the screen, sighing. Garrett was on her side and had been ever since she’d arrived in Coventry. She had enough enemies. She certainly didn’t need to start suspecting her friends. She’d texted, Forgiven.

They hadn’t talked the night before—he’d gone to see Dean and Deborah before she returned home. But they’d messaged each other a few other times during the day, and all was well between them.

Now she parked outside a single-story building with white siding and green awnings over the windows. Before she got out of her car, she prayed for wisdom and insight. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. These people had owned the house at the time of Aspen’s mother’s disappearance. The house had changed hands between then and when Dad had bought it, but maybe they’d remember him. Maybe her mother or father had had some connection to the house at the time.

Or, maybe this was a wild goose chase.

Aspen had needed to get out of Coventry, a drive to clear her head, and this had seemed the perfect excuse.

She’d sent the yearbook pictures of her parents to the drugstore to have prints made. With those and the snapshots from the attic, she trudged through the parking lot to the door. She was directed down a hallway where older folks, some in wheelchairs, others in armchairs with walkers at their sides, sat chatting.

Finally, she reached the proper door and knocked. When a man called out, “Come in,” she pushed it open and stepped inside. It could have been a luxury studio apartment with the pale walls, dark and ornate crown molding, pretty curtains, and an area rug that looked both old and expensive over hardwood floors. Hospital beds ruined the effect.

“Hi. I’m Aspen Kincaid. Your wife and I spoke on the phone?”

She’d called the day before and tried to ask her questions, but the woman who answered had seemed confused. She told Aspen she didn’t do well with phones and couldn’t she spare a minute to come by and see them?

The man was seated on a chair beside one of the beds. His bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?” He turned to the bed. “Polly, did you talk to someone on the phone yesterday?”

The head of the bed rose, and a woman came into view. She had white frizzy hair that was matted on one side. She peered at Aspen with brown eyes. “Do I know you?”

Aspen took a step closer. “We’ve never met.”

The man stood and crossed the room. If Aspen had expected him to be feeble, she’d have been wrong. He seemed healthy and strong as he extended his hand. “Ron Barnett. This is Polly, my wife.”

She shook the man’s hand and nodded to the woman. “Thank you both for seeing me.”

He ambled back to his chair, then gestured to one against the wall. “Pull that one up closer so Polly can hear you.”

Aspen did. “I live in a house you used to own up in Coventry.”

The man grinned. “I loved that place. Our family made memories there for, what was it, Polly? Twenty years?”

Mrs. Barnett said nothing. Her head was tilted to one side, and she wore a gentle smile.

Aspen took the snapshots she’d found out of her purse and handed them to him. “I was going through the attic and found these.”

He took his time flipping through them, leaning close to his wife so she could see. They remarked on the kids, tossing out names and ages, places they’d gone and things they’d done.

The woman was alert and aware for a few moments before she seemed to slip away again, wearing that kind but vacant expression.

Mr. Barnett clutched the photos to his chest. “Thank you.” He eyed his wife and shook his head. “She doesn’t come back to me very often these days. Whenever she does, it’s a gift.”

Aspen felt her eyes tingling. This was what marriage should look like. This was the for-better-or-for-worse kind of marriage she wanted. This man, who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself, was here because his wife needed him, and he wanted to be at her side. Simple as that.

Would her father have loved her mother this way, if things had been different? Could her mother have loved him back?

Mr. Barnett set the photos on the other bed. “Was that why you came, to give us those photos? Or was there something else?”

“I was wondering if you remembered either of these people.” She took out the pictures she’d had made and handed them over.

He peered at her father’s first. “Who are they?”

“My parents. That’s Michael Kincaid.”

He studied the image a long time. “He doesn’t look familiar.” He looked up. “Should he?”

“He lived in Coventry when you did.”

“It was a vacation home for us. We didn’t know many of the locals.”

After handing the photograph to the woman—she gave no reaction to it—he focused on the photo of her mother.

This time, Aspen caught a flicker of recognition.

It was a long moment before he spoke. “This is the woman who…” He looked up, held Aspen’s gaze a long time. “This is your mother?”

She nodded.

“Do you know the story about the lumber company?”

“Yes. But, before my father died, he said something that made me think there was a connection to your house. He’d bought it, which was odd enough.”

“Why would that be odd? It’s a great house.”

“Because we lived in Hawaii.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Oh, I see. And he didn’t tell you why?”

“No. He was hit by a car. I only had a few moments to speak to him before they intubated him. He didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The man peered at the picture again. “The explosion happened in the spring. We’d been there that month, mostly because we needed to check in with the contractor, but he was an older guy. And that was before the explosion. And your parents would’ve been kids at that point, right?”

“They were twenty.”

“I can’t imagine how they could have been connected to us.” He held the photos out to Aspen. “I wish I could help.”

She took them, trying to keep disappointment from showing on her face, and stood. “I’m sorry to have intruded.”

He pushed to his feet. “We love having company. You know it’s bad when you eagerly anticipate a visit to the proctologist.” He laughed at that, shooting a look at his wife.

She still wore that mild, empty expression.

Despite Aspen’s chuckle, the man deflated a little. “Anyway, it was no bother. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Aspen made her way past the people in the hallway and out into the cold morning air.

There had to be some reason why Dad had bought that house, but Aspen was beginning to think she’d never figure out what it was.