Dangerous Inheritance. Barbara Warren
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expect that. Would she be strong enough to do this?
Only with Your help, God.
Next was the dining room. A long walnut table surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs caught her eye. A matching sideboard sat along one wall with mounted pictures depicting the four seasons arranged above it. Beautiful furnishings, but nothing here spoke to her. Macy moved on, walking through the downstairs.
She ended up in the entry hall again and turned toward the staircase. Nick stopped her. “From what you’ve said, you probably don’t remember, but you were found here at the foot of the stairs. You’d been knocked unconscious. At first the police thought you were dead, but when they discovered you were breathing they rushed you to the hospital in an ambulance.”
Macy grasped the newel post with both hands. She’d been found here? Why couldn’t she remember?
“Where was my mother?”
“She was lying in front of the living-room fireplace.”
“How did she die?” She forced the words out through lips gone numb with shock.
Nick placed his hand over hers, his expression compassionate. She fought an urge to lean against him, draw courage from him.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.
She drew a harsh breath that was almost a sob. “I have to know. After all these years, I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I need to know everything.”
He drew her away from the stairs. “Let’s sit down for a minute. This is going to be hard for you.”
She let him lead her into the living room and sank into the chair he indicated. He sat across from her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze locked with hers, and she caught her breath at the concern reflected there.
After a minute he started speaking. “She’d been hit repeatedly with the fireplace poker. They found it beside you, and believe you were struck with it, too.”
Macy bowed her head, hands tightly clasped in her lap. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she furiously wiped them away. Beaten to death? Her mother? In this room? And she couldn’t remember. Even now, after what he’d said, she had a picture in her mind of what it could have been like, but she knew it wasn’t real, just a manufactured image. Not a memory.
Nick caught her hands, holding them in his. “Macy, look at me. It was a long time ago. You were just a child. It has nothing to do with you now.”
She raised her head to stare at him, tears blurring her vision. “It has everything to do with me. She was my mother. My mother was killed here, and I can’t even remember her. It’s like I’ve betrayed her in some way. Betrayed them both. My father died in prison and I can’t give the police the name of the person who destroyed my parents.”
* * *
Nick knelt beside Macy, aching to help her, and knowing he couldn’t. No one could. All he could do was kneel here and watch her suffer. He couldn’t share her grief and feelings of guilt, but he could understand her need. Whatever it took, he was going to do everything possible to help her learn the truth—if it was available after all these years. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he was a stranger and he was afraid that would upset her even more. Better to wait and just be here if she needed him.
After a long time she raised her head. “I need to go through the rest of the house. Will you go with me?”
“I’ll be glad to.” He helped her to her feet and continued holding her hand. To reassure her.
They mounted the stairs together, her hand warm in his, and he slanted a sideways glance at her. She’d almost fallen apart in the living room. There might be even more personal reminders up here. He’d need to stay close. Be ready to help.
It must be horrible for her not to remember her parents. He had good memories of growing up, of times spent with his mother, fishing trips with his dad. He was a cop today because he was following in his father’s footsteps. He couldn’t imagine not remembering them.
He hadn’t been completely honest with Macy. Sure he figured she might be nervous about entering the house, but he also intended to do everything he could to prove the police, particularly his father, were innocent of any wrongdoing.
But if she didn’t remember the night her mother died, that had to be part of the reason she was here. What if her memories returned? Would she remember the face of who had killed Megan Douglas? The person who had brutally beaten Macy and left her for dead?
If she did remember, would it be Steve Douglas or someone different? Someone who lived in Walnut Grove and didn’t want Steve and Megan’s daughter staying here, trying to find out what actually happened that night? Someone who would do everything he could to prevent her from remembering? Macy just might be in more danger than he’d realized.
And what was going on with Sam, behaving the way he had? Almost as if he had a reason for not wanting Macy Douglas to stay here, a strong personal reason. That brought him up short. Sam had lived here all his life. He claimed to have had no interest in the murder, but what if he wasn’t telling the truth?
But then again, if Sam had a hand in the cover-up, why would he mention that the police might be involved? Or was he trying to throw suspicion on them to save his own neck? Nick felt ashamed at the thought. Sam was his boss, his friend. He needed to slow down, not jump to conclusions.
The rooms were in order, and apparently nothing caught Macy’s attention. He’d worried that she might remember her parents’ room, but she didn’t seem to see anything familiar. They turned toward the round turret room at the front, across the hall and down from what he took to be the master bedroom.
Macy stopped in the bedroom doorway, stiff and silent, as if she had received a sudden blow. What had she seen? She released his hand and took one step inside the room, looking around, mouth sagging open and eyes wide. He reached for her, knowing something had happened, but she moved away.
It was a child’s room, decorated in pink, pale green and white. Nothing looked new, but there was a floral bedspread with matching curtains, a small white wicker rocking chair and a bookcase full of children’s books.
Macy crossed to stand in front of them, fingering one after the other. “I know these. I’ve read every one. They used to be mine.”
She strode across the room to a white corner cabinet. The top shelves held an array of figurines, ceramic animals, things that would appeal to a seven-year-old girl. She ignored them, pulling open the door covering the bottom shelves.
Nick watched as she lifted out a large stuffed brown bear with a pink ribbon tied around its neck.
“Toby.” Macy snuggled the soft animal against her, cuddling it close. Behind her, Nick stirred restlessly. She turned to face him. “I remember this room. It was mine and I loved it here, and I loved this bear. It was a gift from my father. Oh, Nick, my memory is coming back!”
That’s what he was afraid of. Yes, he wanted to help her, but something about all of this was making him uneasy. What if Steve Douglas really was innocent of killing his wife? What if someone here in Walnut Grove knew the truth? That person wouldn’t want Macy to remember what had really happened that night. She walked downstairs, carrying the bear, and he followed, wishing he knew what to do.
First he’d like to get her out of this house. After all, there was someone trying to break in regularly. What if the person succeeded and found Macy here—alone?
“Look, Macy, you can’t stay here by yourself. Why don’t you spend a few nights at the motel for a while until you get better acquainted with this house and everything?”
“Everything?” She gave him a long, searching glance. “You mean you think I would be safer at the motel? That I’m in danger because I’m the Douglases’ daughter, and I’m here. Isn’t that right?”
He puffed out a frustrated