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“How long? We—”
He glared at her. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Actually, no,” she said. “I— I heard something.”
“Heard what?”
“The other morning,” she said, lowering her voice. Dex’s attention was on the television, his expression telling her he was only half listening to her. “When I thought it was you down here, talking on the phone. Whoever Frank was talking to, it was about you.”
His focus shifted from the television to her, the annoyance on his face replaced by suspicion and wariness. “Out with it, then.”
“I—” Her resolve started to falter, and she was grateful she still held the dish towel, using it to hide her trembling hands. She checked the stairwell, making sure that Trevor wasn’t hiding there. “I heard him telling this person that once he made you take care of us, he’d take care of you.”
He gave a slight shake of his head and turned back to the television. “Go back to the kitchen.”
Sow distrust. She had to make him think she was on his side. “Did you hear me? He wants you to take care of us. And then, he’s going to turn around and take care of you. You know what that means . . .”
Dex clutched the arms of his chair, his eyes boring into her. “He is going to take care of me. By giving me my share of the Ghost money.”
“He’s twisted you against your own family. Trevor’s your son.”
“Is he? Because you changed that when you divorced me and got custody. Wouldn’t even let me see the boy. Look at him now. Coddled so much, he’d rather spend his time upstairs than watch the telly with me. Anything happens to him, it’s your fault, not mine.”
The knot in her gut tightened, almost paralyzing her. Dex didn’t love anyone or anything beyond himself. Not even his son. Trevor was merely collateral damage in Dex’s revenge on her. But with crystal clarity she realized that she’d forgotten the one thing she needed to do to focus Dex’s anger elsewhere: make it about him. Giving a casual shrug, she started back toward the kitchen. “Well, I just thought you should know what else he said about you.”
“What?”
“He told whoever he was talking to that he was only using you to get the journal.” The lie came so easily, it surprised her. Still afraid to even look at him, she stared down at the dish towel as she let the words sink in.
“What else?” Dex asked.
“Something about you being a loose end, but that he’d take care of it.” She finally dared a look. “After that, I don’t know. I— I didn’t hear the rest.”
Dex’s expression hardened as he stared at her, his breathing sharp and shallow. “Loose end, eh?”
“That’s what he said.” An apologetic smile. “I just thought you should know because, well, I have an idea.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’d never do anything that might harm my son.”
The television droned on in the background, the laugh track sounding desperate and hollow, while Dex pinned her with his stare, his fingers drumming a beat on the arm of the chair. Finally, after what seemed the longest seconds of her life, he nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
“We have Trevor write the journal—what he remembers of it.”
“Why bother? The couple times he’s sat down with me, it’s not like I learned anything
that’s going to help. Wasn’t any mention of any treasure hidden anywhere, was there?”
“Not any obvious mention,” she said. “But you know best. I was only trying to help.” She shook out the dish towel, returned to the kitchen.
A few seconds later, he walked in after her. “What do you mean by obvious mention?”
She picked up a plate from the dish rack, drying it, as she talked, not wanting to seem too eager or too interested. “My brother and I read that journal quite often when we were young.” She looked over at Dex, saw him hanging on every word. “We even acted out the parts. Trust me. If that treasure had been mentioned anywhere that was noticeable, we’d have found it.”
“Then why’s everyone looking for it?”
“Simple. The treasure from the train robbery was never found, my ancestor wrote about it, and his cousin was responsible for stealing it. Arthur Oren is a direct descendant of that cousin and he’s looking for it. Who knows what stories his family passed down. It’s quite obvious, don’t you think? If Arthur Oren believes the answer’s in that journal, it must be.”
