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“No, my mind was wandering.”
“Avoiding thinking about him?” Jamie asked.
“Yeah. It might all hit me later. In the middle of the night, probably. It’ll wake me from a dream, this black hole type of feeling, and I won’t be able to think of anything else but him going to prison and what might happen to him there.” My voice cracked.
“I’m sorry.” She swung her legs to the floor and scooted nearer to me. “What can I do?”
“You being here is a great distraction. I keep reminding myself that I’m not even in contact with him. He’s not part of my life. Or even my last name.”
“But it’s hard to separate. He’s your father.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything else.
“As much as I hate my dad, if he were going to prison, I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. I think, anyway. Or maybe I’d think—he finally got what he deserves. He’s a lawyer, you know. God only knows what kinds of unethical things he’s done.”
“Not murdered someone.” My voice broke all the way this time. Tears pricked my eyelids. I pressed my fingernails into the palm of my other hand until it hurt.
“As far as I know,” Jamie said lightly. “Who knows what kinds of bodies are buried in the backyard.” She moved to sit right beside me, putting her hand on my knee. “It’s okay to feel bad, even for him. Or the situation or whatever it is that you feel.”
“The victim, you know. And his family.” Tears flooded my eyes, making Jamie blurry. “I can’t forget that when I’m imagining him going to prison.”
She moved even closer and before I knew what was happening, she’d crawled onto my lap. Smelling better than a woman should. She melted into me, soft and warm. I draped my arm over her thighs and let my head drop to her shoulder and closed my eyes.
“It feels better when you’re here like this,” I said, thick and hoarse.
“Good. Because being here I can do. Whenever you want. Whenever you need me. I’m only right down the hall or across town. In a moment’s notice, I could come to you.”
We kissed, ever so gently, without the urgency spurred by lust. This was affection and support and friendship.
Jamie’s phone beeped with a text, causing us both to jump. She picked it up from the coffee table. “It’s Mr. Barnes. He’s here in the building and wants to tell me what he found out about Annabelle.”
I laughed at the delight on her face. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I know. Aren’t I awful? This was an actual person. A real-life woman who had troubles and heartache, and all I can focus on is the mystery of it all.”
“I don’t think you need to feel guilty about that,” I said. “Tell him to come on up to my apartment. I want to hear this too.”
She did so and a few seconds later, Mr. Barnes was at my door.
14
JAMIE
Mr. Barnes declined a glass of wine and settled instead into Darby’s shabby armchair. He had the metal box with him, which was now sitting on the coffee table, staring at me like the eye of a hurricane.
“I read what was in here,” Mr. Barnes said. “Then I went through some of the other material I have from the family. I have some information but not all. I’ve brought it back to you in case you wanted to read through the rest of it yourselves. But the gist of it as best I can tell is this—after her husband Clive passed away, Annabelle Higgins went to Florida to see the man she’d fallen in love with twelve years earlier. The details of which are all here.” He tapped the top of the box. “From what I can tell from looking through the family letters and journals, she came back to Colorado and left only after Clive died.”
“This is a great mystery,” Darby said.
“It is indeed,” Mr. Barnes said. “I thought I knew all the family stories, but this one seems to have been buried away.”
“Do you think Quinn and Alexander disapproved?” I asked, feeling defensive of Annabelle. She’d come back to her husband, after all. What more did they want from her?
“Her wedding dress designs were famous by then,” Mr. Barnes said. “From family folklore I know she spent a lot of time in Paris after the Second World War and was considered one of the finest wedding dress designers in the world.” He gestured toward the plastic file folder on the desk. “I brought the only thing I could find from Quinn’s things. A letter from Annabelle, dated 1937. Would you like to read it?”
I nodded and waited for him to pull it from the accordion-type file holder. When I had it in hand, Darby asked me to read it aloud.
March 7, 1937
