Chapter 9 - The Marriage That Wasn't an Accident
Morgan read the sentence four times.
Your marriage was arranged long before you ever met him.
She looked at Peter.
"What does that mean?"
Peter shook his head.
"I don't know."
"She never told you?"
"Only that she was afraid someone had become interested in your inheritance."
Morgan gripped the letter.
Julian had first approached her at a charity fundraiser eleven years earlier.
He'd been charming.
Funny.
Attentive.
He'd remembered her favorite wine.
He'd called the next morning.
For months, Morgan had believed their relationship was the most wonderful accident of her life.
Now she couldn't remember who had introduced them.
A woman named Angela?
Someone from work?
She closed her eyes.
The memory slowly sharpened.
A fundraiser at a hotel near the river.
A woman wearing a red dress.
An introduction.
Morgan, you have to meet Julian. He's wonderful.
Morgan's eyes flew open.
"Angela Price."
Denise frowned.
"Who's Angela Price?"
"She introduced me to Julian."
"Do you still know her?"
"No."
Morgan searched her phone.
No number.
She searched social media.
Nothing.
Then Peter spoke quietly.
"Look at the second page."
Morgan turned over the letter.
Clara had written several names.
Christopher Mercer.
Adrian Vale.
Julian Cross.
Angela Price.
And one more.
Samuel Whitcomb.
Morgan recognized the last name.
"Samuel Whitcomb?"
Peter nodded gravely.
"The developer who tried to buy Clara's land."
Morgan stared at him.
"Wait."
"Whitcomb owns one of the largest private development companies in the region."
"He approached your grandmother repeatedly."
"She refused."
Morgan looked down.
The final paragraph of Clara's letter read:
If these names have entered your life, go to the cottage.
The brass key opens the old sewing cabinet in my bedroom.
Inside, you'll find the evidence I couldn't safely turn over before I became ill.
Please, sweetheart, trust documents more than promises.
And remember that fear is exactly what these people want you to feel.
Morgan folded the letter.
"We're going to the cottage."
Peter checked his watch.
"It's nearly four."
"So?"
"It's getting dark."
Morgan stood.
"I spent eleven years letting Julian decide when we could talk about my grandmother's house."
"I'm not letting him decide when I can go there too."
Peter sighed.
Then picked up his coat.
"I'm coming with you."
The cottage sat nearly forty minutes away, down a narrow road bordered by maples and old apple trees.
Morgan hadn't visited in almost six months.
The last time, Julian had complained about the plumbing and the cost of repairs.
Now the familiar white siding and green shutters nearly brought her to tears.
The screened porch sagged slightly at one corner.
The stone walkway was covered in fallen leaves.
Nothing about the property looked worth millions.
It looked like home.
Morgan stepped out of the car.
The air smelled of damp earth and apples.
For a moment, she imagined Clara standing in the doorway with flour on her hands.
Come inside, sweetheart. I made your favorite.
Morgan blinked back tears.
Peter unlocked the front door.
They entered carefully.
The living room was exactly as Clara had left it.
A plaid sofa.
A wooden rocking chair.
Family photographs on the mantel.
Then Denise whispered, "Morgan."
Morgan turned.
A muddy footprint marked the hardwood floor near the kitchen.
Another stood beside the stairs.
Someone had been inside.
Recently.
Peter immediately called local law enforcement.
They waited outside until a deputy arrived.
The deputy inspected the rooms and confirmed there were signs of unauthorized entry.
Nothing obvious appeared stolen.
But Clara's bedroom door had been forced.
And the old sewing cabinet stood open.
Morgan hurried toward it.
The lock was broken.
The drawers were empty.
"Oh, no."
She searched the shelves.
Pulled out folded blankets.
Checked behind the cabinet.
Nothing.
Whoever had entered knew exactly what they wanted.
Peter examined the damaged lock.
"They were looking for the same thing."
Morgan's shoulders slumped.
"We're too late."
Then Denise called from the hallway.
"Maybe not."
Morgan turned.
Denise stood beside an old framed photograph hanging near the stairs.
The frame was crooked.
Behind it, someone had scratched a message into the wall.
Three words.
ASK ABOUT APRIL.
Morgan stared.
"April?"
Then she noticed the handwriting.
She knew those letters.
The long loop on the A.
The sharp downward line on the P.
Grandma Clara.
Peter stepped closer.
"Your grandmother left that?"
Morgan nodded.
"She did."
She studied the words.
And suddenly remembered something Clara had said during her final Christmas.
If I ever forget where I put something important, remind me about April.
Morgan had laughed at the time.
She'd thought Clara was joking about getting older.
Now she understood it had been a clue.
But April wasn't a month.
April was a person.
Clara's longtime housekeeper.
A woman who had disappeared from Morgan's life shortly before Clara died.
May you like
And Morgan had just remembered the final thing Clara said about her.
April knows why I stopped trusting Julian.
