Page 29 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Feydin

T he injunction felt like a death sentence as I watched Dazy slump against the doorframe. Her shoulders curved inward, and she stared at the official papers with the same expression I'd seen on wounded animals. Still breathing, but defeated.

“We find out why Helga made the choice she did,” I'd said, but even as the words left my mouth, panic clawed at my chest. Two weeks until the court hearing. Two weeks to find evidence that might not exist.

Two weeks before we might lose all we’d built here.

Dazy moved through the rest of the day like she was walking underwater. She'd start to reach for a gardening tool, then remember the injunction and pull her hand back. She'd glance toward the flower beds we'd been working on, then look away quickly, as if the sight pained her.

I followed her around the estate like a lost pup, desperate to offer comfort but unsure how. When she sat heavily on the front steps and put her head in her hands, I lowered myself beside her and wrapped my wing around her back.

“I keep thinking about all the things I wanted to do,” she said without looking up. “The herb garden by the kitchen. A pond with water lilies. Walking paths through the woods.”

“You still might?—”

“No.” Her voice was flat. “I won't. Rebecca's going to win, and I'll have to leave, and all those dreams will disappear.”

The hopelessness in her tone made my wings twitch. This was wrong. My mate shouldn't sound like this, shouldn't look so small and helpless. But what could I do? I was a gargoyle who'd been asleep for years, not a miracle worker.

That night, I lay awake staring at the cottage ceiling while Dazy slept fitfully beside me. She'd moved into the gatekeeper's cottage without discussion after dinner, as if she couldn't bear to spend another night in the main house knowing it might soon belong to someone else.

Every time she whimpered in her sleep, my chest tightened. I wanted to wake her, to pull her against me and promise her everything would be fine, but I couldn't make promises I might not be able to keep.

Instead, I slipped out of bed and returned to the main house.

If there were answers to be found, I'd track them down. I owed Dazy that much.

We'd already searched through filing cabinets, desk drawers, and the library. The basement, kitchen, dining room, and both parlors. But old houses like this one often had secrets. Hidden compartments, spaces where important things could be tucked away and forgotten.

I took the stairs and entered one of the spare bedrooms, carefully searching, even underneath the bed. Nothing. And nothing in the other spare bedroom

Inside Helga's bedroom, I ran my hands along the walls, tapping for hollow sounds but nothing sounded odd. I moved to the closet, checking behind dusty, hanging clothes and feeling along the back wall. Still nothing.

The dresser next. I pulled out each drawer, looking for false bottoms or hidden compartments. Empty.

Frustration gnawed at me as I stared around the room. There had to be something. Helga had lived here for decades, had cared deeply about this place. She wouldn't have made such a significant decision without a good reason.

My gaze fell on the portrait hanging above the bed, one of a woman I didn't recognize, probably some long-dead relative. It was the kind of ornate frame that might conceal…

I flew up to examine it more closely. The frame was thick, heavy, mounted with sturdy brackets. When I pressed against one corner, it creaked.

A hidden hinge.

My pulse quickened as I carefully eased the portrait away from the wall. Behind it, set into the plaster, I found a small safe with an old-fashioned combination lock.

“Hells,” I breathed.

What would Helga have used for the combination? I tried her birthday, but that didn’t work. The year she'd inherited the estate. Still didn’t open.

Think. What mattered most to Helga?

I tried the year she'd first started the gardens.

The lock clicked open.

Inside, I found documents, photographs, and a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. My hands shook as I lifted them out. Rebecca Hartwell had been written in the return address corner.

Each had been opened. This could prove that Helga was aware her daughter was alive and where she could find her, yet she hadn’t approached her, not even once, according to Rebecca.

I untied the ribbon with careful fingers and tugged the first letter from the top envelope, one dated twenty-eight years ago.

Dear Mother,

I've been thinking about you every day since I found your name on my adoption papers. I know you probably had your reasons for giving me up, and I'm not angry. I just want to know you. I want to understand where I came from.

I have a good life. My adoptive parents love me, and I've done well for myself. I'm not looking for money or anything like that. I just want to meet you. To hear your voice. To know if I have your eyes or your smile.

Please write back. Please give me a chance .

Your daughter, Rebecca

I opened the next one, dated six months later.

Dear Mother,

I haven't heard back from my first letter, but I'm hoping it got lost in the mail. I'm sending pictures this time, in case you want to see how I turned out. The one of me graduating college might make you proud.

I’m a good person. You’re my mother! You really should give me a chance.

I've been researching our family history. Did you know we're related to the Morrisons who built the first mill in Harmony Glen? I found records going back to the 1800s. If you’d bother to reply to my letters, we could talk about it together.

Rebecca

My throat tightened as I read through letter after letter.

Rebecca's tone quickly shifted from hopeful to desperate to bitter as years passed without a response.

She'd tried everything, from letters, to phone calls, to driving to Harmony Glen to walk past the estate, though she'd never approached the house.

The final letter was dated twenty years ago.

Helga,

I've stopped calling you Mother because it's clear you don't want to be one to me. I’ve spent too many years trying to reach you, and you've never once responded. Not even to tell me to leave you alone.

That makes me angry. I deserve so much better than what you gave me. Gave me? You gave birth to me, but then you threw me away .

Well, I don’t need you. You can live your life without knowing what a successful person I’ve become despite your rejection. I have money, influence, connections. I don't need you in my life.

But I want you to know that when you die, it won’t be over. I'm going to claim everything you possess. The estate, the family history, all of it. You won’t be able to stop me.

A woman who no longer claims to be your daughter, Rebecca

My hands clenched around the paper. This wasn't the desperate plea of a loving daughter. This was a threat.

But why hadn't Helga responded? Why had she kept the letters but never answered them?

I found my answer in a doctor's report tucked behind the letters. A diagnosis of early-onset dementia, dated twenty-three years ago. Progressive memory loss, difficulty with communication, eventual need for full-time care.

Helga had been sick when Rebecca first started writing. By the time the letters became threatening, she probably hadn't been capable of understanding their full meaning.

She hadn't ignored her daughter out of cruelty. She'd been literally unable to respond.

I gathered all the documents and letters, my pulse surging up into my throat.

This changed everything. A judge would see that Rebecca's letters grew increasingly hostile over time, culminating in what amounted to a threat against Helga's estate.

They'd also see medical evidence that Helga had been suffering from dementia during the latter part of Rebecca's attempts at contact.

It painted a very different picture than the one Rebecca's lawyers had presented.

I flew back to the cottage, my wings beating hard against the night air. Dazy was still asleep, curled on her side with one hand stretched across the space where I'd been lying.

“Dazy.” I shook her shoulder gently. “Wake up. I found them.”

She sat up slowly, blinking in confusion. “Found what?”

“Rebecca's letters. All of them. And medical records dating Helga’s dementia diagnosis.”

Her eyes went wide. “Where did you find them?”

“In a safe hidden behind a portrait in Helga's room.” I spread the documents across the bed. “Read this.”

I watched her face as she skimmed through the letters, saw hope kindle in her eyes as she understood what they meant.

“She threatened Helga,” Dazy whispered. “In the last letter. She said she'd claim the estate when Helga died.”

“And Helga couldn't respond to any of them. This doesn’t tell us why initially, but she hadn’t been diagnosed then, and she still didn’t respond.

Later, she probably didn’t reply because she was showing signs of dementia.

” I pointed to the medical records. “She clearly didn’t want contact with her daughter when she was of sound mind. ”

“Will this be enough? ”

“It should be. A judge will see that Rebecca's claims of being a loving daughter seeking connection don't match the evidence. These letters show someone who became increasingly hostile when she didn't get what she wanted.”

The courthouse was an imposing brick building that made my wings itch. Dazy sat beside me at the plaintiff's table, wearing a pretty dress and gripping my hand hard enough to pinch.

Rebecca sat across the aisle with her team of expensive lawyers, looking confident and polished in a dark blue suit. She'd barely glanced in our direction since we'd arrived.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Harrison.”

We stood as the judge entered, a stern woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“This is a hearing regarding the contested will of Helga Morrison,” Judge Harrison said after she’d settled behind the bench. “I've reviewed the initial filings from both parties. Mr. Kingsley, you may present your client's case.”

Rebecca's lawyer stood. “Your Honor, this is a simple matter of a biological daughter claiming her rightful inheritance. Ms. Hartwell has provided DNA evidence confirming her relationship to the deceased.”

He presented the same evidence we'd seen before— birth certificate, DNA results, adoption papers. But he conveniently left out the threatening tone of Rebecca's letters I’d presented to the court the morning after I found them.

“Ms. Morrison clearly intended to leave her estate to her biological daughter but was prevented from updating her will due to her declining mental state,” the lawyer concluded.

Judge Harrison made notes, then looked toward our table. “Mr. Budiere?”

I stood. “Your Honor, I believe the evidence I presented a few weeks ago significantly impacts this case. Rebecca’s own letters to the deceased tell a very different story than the one opposing counsel has presented.”

The judge examined each letter carefully, her expression growing more serious as she read. When she reached the final letter, her eyebrows rose. “Mr. Kingsley, did you actually read these letters?”

“Of course, Your Honor, but I'm not sure what?—”

“These letters show an escalating pattern of hostility when Rebecca’s attempts at contact were not reciprocated.”

Rebecca's face had gone pale. She whispered to her lawyer, who looked increasingly uncomfortable.

“Furthermore,” I said, “the medical records show that Ms. Morrison was diagnosed with early-onset dementia twenty-three years ago, after most of these letters were written. She had the opportunity to respond but didn’t.

I believe that shows her state of mind related to the daughter she gave up for adoption. ”

Judge Harrison studied the documents for a bit longer.

Finally, she looked up. “This case raises complex questions about intent, capacity, and family obligations. I'm going to take these documents under advisement and issue a written ruling in the next few days.”

She stood, and we all rose as she left the courtroom.

“We’ll hear within a few days,” Dazy said as we walked to the parking lot. “Do you think we have a chance?”

“I think we presented the truth. That has to count for something.”

Back at the estate, Dazy went to her former bedroom and started folding her clothing, placing each item into boxes.

“What are you doing?”

She didn't look up from the sweater she was folding. “If we lose, I'll need to be ready to move out quickly.”

“Dazy—”

“I can't take much. Most of the furniture belongs with the house.” Her voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in her shoulders. “I'll need to find an apartment somewhere. Maybe back near where I used to work. I could beg, and if they have some hours available, they might hire me.”

The thought of her returning to a life that didn't include me, made my chest feel hollow. “You don't have to go far. ”

She finally looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Helga deeded the cottage to me years ago. It's small, but it's mine. It's ours, if you want to live there with me.”

Hope flickered in her eyes. “You'd want that? Even if I lose everything else?”

“Dazy.” I crossed the room and took her hands, stilling her folding. “I told you I'd follow you anywhere, and I meant it. To another state, another country. It doesn't matter where we are as long as we're together.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she was smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you too. No matter what happens, that won't change.”

She pulled me down for a kiss. When we broke apart, she rested her forehead against my chest.

“The cottage sounds perfect,” she whispered.

We might lose the estate, but we wouldn't lose each other.