Dangerous Inheritance. Barbara Warren
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already had one to the front door, but she didn’t want other keys out there for someone else to use. Another thing bothered her. Why would a grandmother who made no effort to stay in touch be so generous at her death? It didn’t make sense.
She reached the house without any trouble but found Nick Baldwin and his police car parked in her driveway. What was he doing here? Did he intend to stop her from moving in? There must be something in that house they didn’t want her to see. Well, she’d find it in spite of them. She might be outnumbered, but she wouldn’t give up without a fight.
Macy got out of the car and waited for Nick to join her. Had Sam sent him to check on her? She wouldn’t put it past him.
“What are you doing here?”
The smile stayed in place, but there was something watchful about his eyes. “I thought you might need some help moving in.”
“I don’t have all that much and I can manage just fine.” He had to have a reason for showing up at just the right time to help. No, not just showing up. He was waiting for her. Which made her a little uneasy, considering the way she’d already been treated that day.
He shrugged, still looking pleasant. “I thought you might feel more comfortable if you had someone with you when you went inside. I won’t get in your way, just be along to keep you company in case you need anything.”
And she was supposed to believe this? “Does Sam know you’re here?”
The grin faded, but if she’d struck a nerve it didn’t show. He shook his head. “No, this is something I’m doing on my own. I just thought it might help if you didn’t have to do this alone.”
Okay, she hated to admit it, and wasn’t going to admit it to him, but she had been dreading going inside again. Afraid of what she might find or how she would feel. It would be easier to have someone with her, and it was nice of him to think of it—if he was telling the truth. And if he wasn’t, she’d deal with it later.
Right now she felt better just to have him standing beside her, strong and dependable. Macy shook her head. Dependable? What was she thinking? She didn’t know him well enough to be sure of that. She held up the key ring, steeling herself to face the inevitable. “All right, let’s go.”
The storm had left a scattering of budding leaves and broken twigs covering the walk. They crunched underfoot as she strode toward the house, hearing him stepping along behind her. Seen in daylight, the house was still imposing. Two stories high plus an attic, cream-colored with light blue and beige trim, a wide porch and a corner turret, classic Queen Anne. Beautiful, but not exactly cozy. Scary might be a better word. She swallowed the lump in her throat and fumbled with the key ring the lawyer had given her.
Nick reached over and took it from her. “I’d guess this is the one you need.” He inserted it in the lock.
Macy motioned for him to go first, not sure she was ready. She followed, nerves prickling. The entry hall had a hardwood floor and a long mahogany table against one wall, with a wide gold-framed mirror hanging behind it, elegant, but cold. Macy walked slowly through to enter the living room. It looked different in the daylight.
Gold brocade armchairs with high backs flanked the fireplace. A crystal chandelier with a cluster of white candle-like lights hung overhead. An alcove held a matching gold sofa with a scattering of ivory and darker gold pillows. The air smelled musty, as if the house hadn’t been aired for some time. Judging from the muted rumble of the furnace, the heat was still on.
The furniture wasn’t new, so she assumed it had been here when her parents were alive. At least she hoped it had. Maybe it would jog her memory in some way. She moved farther into the room, nerves keyed to the max, almost forgetting to breathe while waiting for something to spark a recollection.
Nothing.
Macy swallowed her disappointment. What had she expected? That everything would immediately fall into place? When had her life ever been that easy? She walked over to stand in front of the white fireplace with a marble mantel holding several pictures of people she probably should know.
She waited for a hint of recognition. Nothing happened. She turned to Nick. “Is one of these my mother? Would you know?”
He gave her a curious look, and pointed to a photograph of a woman laughing at the camera. She had the same red hair as Macy and now that she really looked, there was a resemblance in the planes of her face, the curve of her lips. Not an exact replica, but there could be no denying the similarities.
“You don’t know what she looked like?” Nick asked.
She wasn’t sure how he would take it or if he would even believe her, but it was time to tell the truth. “I don’t remember her. I don’t remember my father, either, or even remember living in this house. The first seven years of my life are a total blank.”
Macy watched him trying to take this in. It probably sounded like something she’d made up, but let him try living with it, try realizing that a part of him was missing. That he didn’t know what exactly, just the gap in his life. See how he felt then.
“You don’t remember anything?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
She hadn’t expected him to understand, so why was she disappointed by his reaction? Why would she care if he believed her or not? His belief or disbelief had nothing to do with the truth.
“I have dissociative amnesia. According to my doctor it happens when a person blocks out certain information usually caused by stress from something a person has witnessed. My memory begins when I woke up in the hospital with Grandma Mattie sitting by my bedside. I have no recollection of ever being in this house. I’m hoping living here will help restore what I’ve lost.”
If not, at least she would know she’d tried. But if she could recall the events of the night her mother died, perhaps she could remember the face of the killer, and it would not be her father. It would take strong, irrevocable proof to make her believe otherwise.
Nick still looked uncertain, as if not sure what to think about everything she’d just said. “Let me get this straight. You don’t remember anything about living in this house. You don’t even remember your parents? Is that what you’re saying?”
She gave the collection of photos on the mantel a second look before answering. “That’s right. I don’t remember anything about them. And I don’t remember the grandmother who lived here. She was never a part of my life after I moved to Oklahoma. I didn’t know anything about her until I got a call from her lawyer.”
He nodded, as if in some way he understood, but he couldn’t. Not really. No one could unless they had lived it. She barely even understood it herself. But according to what she’d learned, she’d been born here, had lived here with her parents the first seven years of her life. Been attacked and left for dead the night her mother was murdered. Add that to the fact that all memories of her parents were gone, as if they had never existed. Then tell her she had no right to dig around in the past. She had every right, whether Sam Halston and Raleigh Benson liked it or not.
Or Nick Baldwin, either, for that matter.
Macy reached for the picture of her mother, and something rustled at the back of her mind. Laughter, soft arms holding her close. Almost as soon as the image came, it vanished, leaving her aching for more.
Her mother.
She wanted her mother.
The house had waited for her, large, empty and filled with secrets. Macy suddenly had an overwhelming desire to leave—get out of this place.
Resolutely, she gripped the mantel with both hands, fighting down the billowing wave of fear threatening to submerge her.
God, where are you? Help me. I can’t do this on my own.
Gradually the feelings subsided, leaving her in some semblance of control. She took a couple of shaky steps toward the next room. Nick followed, not saying anything, but she was aware