“This isn’t up for debate.” I crossed my arms over my chest and sat forward, so she couldn’t try and hide from my gaze. Agnes lifted her chin.
“Graham, I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good thing I’m not offering to be one.” I started gathering the loose papers, tapping them into neat stacks. “I’m offering to be a friend who helps you carry heavy boxes and makes sure you don’t pass out from exhaustion before you find whatever you’re looking for.”
“I can carry my own boxes.”
“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to.” I met her eyes across the cluttered table. “Let me help, Agnes. Even if you won’t tell me why, let me help with the how.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the war playing out behind her eyes—the part of her that wanted to let me in fighting against the part that had been pushingme away for years.
“You’ll be bored,” she tried. “It’s just old documents and records. You’ll hate it.”
“I readTreasure Island. Cover to cover. I’m clearly capable of enduring things I don’t enjoy.”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but I didn’t care. It was better than the wounded look she’d been carrying all week.
“You said you liked it.”
“I said I finished it. There’s a difference.” I grinned at her. “Besides, maybe I’ll learn something. You know, expand my horizons. Become a man of cultural and historical knowledge.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you haven’t actually said no.”
Agnes sighed, a long, exhausted sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her bones.
“Fine,” she said. “You can help. In a limited capacity. But you’re not allowed to ask questions about what I’m looking for.”
“No questions. Got it.”
“And you can’t hover.”
“I never hover.”
“You absolutely hover. You’re a champion hoverer.”
“I’m attentive. It’s my job.” I shrugged.
That surprised a laugh out of her and I relaxed, just a bit.
“Go shower,” I said, softer now. “I’ll sort things out here.”
She hesitated, then nodded and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door close and the water start to run.
I stood alone in her kitchen, surrounded by theevidence of whatever was consuming her, and took a deep breath.
Something was wrong and I had to be okay with the fact that sheneededto process internally. It was her way, after all. But now that I was certain this wasn’t just a small project that had distracted her, that this was deeply troubling her, I was going to dog her every step whether she liked it or not.
I started organizing the papers, careful not to look too closely at her notes. She’d asked me not to ask questions, and I’d respect that.
But I noticed things anyway. It was almost impossible not to. A family tree sketched on the back of an envelope, names and dates stretching back centuries.
Whatever Agnes was hunting for, it was old and clearly linked to her ancestors.
By the time Agnes emerged from the bedroom, hair damp and wearing clean clothes, I had everything organized into three manageable piles and had washed up the few dishes in her sink for good measure.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, eyeing the clean kitchen.
