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He takes the handle and pushes his way into the room. I fear the worst. Old Mr H wasn’t in a good way. A confrontation with Becker – whatever Becker’s reason – could cause undue stress. I need to stop him. I hurry forward and catch Becker’s arm, trying to pull him back, but I get shaken off. I peek past him and see Mr H lying in his bed, Mrs Potts sitting next to him in an old fashioned, high-backed winged armchair. She looks up at us hovering at the doorway.
‘How is he?’ Becker whispers, surprising me. Everything suggested he was ready to go on a rant.
‘Resting,’ Mrs Potts frowns, and I see the question in her eyes. It’s probably matching mine. ‘Best to leave him,’ she says diplomatically, like she senses Becker has plans to do otherwise.
He ignores her and wanders quietly to his bedside. ‘Gramps,’ Becker says quietly.
Mrs Potts is up from her chair quickly, circling the bed. ‘Becker boy, I think it’s best we let him rest.’ I admire her valour, but nothing is getting Becker out of this room until he’s done whatever he needs to do . . . which is what?
He places a hand over his granddad’s frail, wrinkled one, and rubs a little. ‘Gramps, don’t pretend to be asleep.’
‘He’s not pretending, Becker.’ Mrs Potts swats his hand away, but he shrugs her off, determined, and moves in closer to his granddad, whose eyes are lightly closed, his breathing steady.
‘Gramps, I’m not going until you open your eyes.’
‘Becker boy, what’s gotten into you?’ Mrs Potts starts trying to pull him away, and for reasons unbeknown to me, I hurry over and take her arm, nodding at her reassuringly when she turns shocked eyes onto me.
Becker thanks me by reaching back and taking my arm, squeezing gently. The small gesture nearly breaks my heart. Whatever he’s doing, I have every faith that it’s necessary. That he’s confident he’s not putting his granddad in any danger.
Becker releases my arm and leans down, getting his face close to old Mr H’s. ‘Tell me, Gramps. Tell me why you had a funny turn.’
I hold my breath, and Mrs Potts looks at me, clearly confused.
My heart nearly stops when Mr H’s eyelids start to flutter. He’s not asleep. He can hear every word. His eyes open, revealing glassy orbs that zoom straight in on his grandson. I hold my breath, and I can tell by the rise of Becker’s shoulders that he’s holding his, too.
‘Fine,’ the old man rasps, staring into Becker’s eyes. ‘I’ll tell you, Becker boy.’
I find myself backing up, wary of the old man’s haunted eyes.
His nostrils flare.
He flicks his eyes to me.
And he takes a deep breath before he speaks.
‘Your wife-to-be just found the missing piece of the map.’Chapter 29Life stands still for a minute, my pulse whooshing in my ears.
Becker recoils, and Mrs Potts staggers back, taking me with her. I’m in no position to catch her, leaving her scrambling for a nearby cabinet for support.
‘What?’ Becker asks on a whisper, pure wonder in his question. Mr H struggles to nod as he looks away, like he can’t face the evident fascination sparking from his grandson.
I’m held rapt by what’s unfolding before me, unable to voice my shock. I haven’t found anything. What’s he talking about? I haven’t a bloody clue where the missing part of the map is.
I hear Mrs Potts catch a breath. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ she whispers.
Becker approaches his grandfather, who looks older and frailer than I’ve seen him before. ‘Your walking stick.’
Mr H refuses to look at Becker, and my gaze shifts quickly, back and forth between the men, mesmerised by what I’m hearing. The stick? My mind is in a tangle, struggling to keep up. I reach for Mrs Potts, who takes my arm to steady me, moving in quickly when I wobble from the rush of blood to my head. Becker catches my stagger and rushes over to relieve Mrs Potts. ‘I don’t know where it is,’ I blabber mindlessly. This is absurd.
‘No,’ Mr H grunts. ‘You don’t know, not technically, but you’ve unwittingly found it.’
I blink back the fog from my glazed eyes and find Becker staring at his granddad, shocked, confused . . . excited. ‘You’ve had it all this time? How could you?’
‘Why would I encourage you, Becker boy? After everything? Your mother, gone. Your father, gone.’ He’s getting distressed again, and I fold on the inside, especially now I know how Gramps and Becker lost their family. ‘I live with that guilt every damn day. I should have destroyed that blasted map when I had the chance. All of it.’
I hold my breath. I’ll always worry that Becker won’t be able to let it go of his need to find that sculpture. That he won’t be able to resist the temptation. He can say he’s capable of walking away until he’s blue in the face, but I don’t know if I can believe him. Especially if he knows where the sculpture can be found. The ultimate vengeance would be finding it, something his grandfather and father failed to do. This is personal. Becker wants peace. He can rip Brent Wilson off day after day for the rest of his life, but that’s a consolation prize. His only true peace will come from fulfilling his life’s ambition. What he sees as his calling. Which is finding the sculpture and avenging his parents’ deaths. Finding what he’s been searching for.
