Would He?
Luke
My brother.
My brother had been pestering me, back on the soccer field. Ethan’s talkative, and he’s always asking a million questions. Every time I turn around, questions. It drives me crazy.
When today’s sports camp ended and our youth pastor asked us to put away the sports equipment, Ethan was right behind me at the top of the stairs, asking questions. I couldn’t deal. So I took him by the shoulders and steered him to the back of the line behind the other kids. “You’re last,” I told him, glad to put some space between him and me.
Now I’m here, in this wrecked room. The windows that should be pointing out at the sidewalk are pointing straight up at a bright blue sky.
And my brother isn’t with me. Because he was bugging me, and so I put him at the end of the line.
Is Ethan dead?
I moan with terror and regret and clasp my head to keep my brain from exploding. He can’t be dead. He can’t have been crushed by this building.
He has to be fine.
Chapter Seven
Vault.
The termvaulttempted a person to conclude that the items stored within were of great value. Genevieve wondered if that would prove true in her case as she carried the item she’d just found inside the vault—a file on her mother—toward the reading room of Clarke County’s courthouse.
The temperature outside today: chilly for the middle of September. The temperature inside the courthouse: pleasant. She liked today’s furry vest, long-sleeved top, and wide leather earrings. Even her burgundy skinny pants were comfy, though every woman knew that it defied physics to useskinny pantsandcomfyin the same sentence.
She’d lain in bed at the cottage last night battling loneliness and struggling to fall asleep. She’d concentrated on Sam instead of the dark voices that kept trying to command her attention. She’d thought about his shoulders, his rare smile, his voice, his scent, his truck, his solitude. She replayed everything he’d ever said to her. She imagined him looking at her with those grave eyes.
It had taken ages before she’d at last nodded off, but at least she’d passed that time dwelling on someone who stoked a comforting glow inside.
She’d woken early, eaten granola for breakfast, and downed one cup of coffee at the cottage, then stopped for a latte en route. The caffeine had helped her energy level, but she could still feel the underlying weight of her tiredness. She blinked dry, scratchy eyesand focused on the folder she placed before herself on the small table. Her chair faced a sunlit window and a view of a tree covered in leaves that hadn’t quite yet decided to turn color.
After providing ID to prove her relationship to her mother and thus her right to access the documents, she’d been entrusted with the file without incident.
Her mom, Caroline Harmon Herrington Woodward, was the daughter of parents who’d despaired of having children before suddenly conceiving in their late thirties. They’d lavished love on Caroline, their only child. Her traditional childhood had included the Southern pillars of Christianity, manners, and class.
Mom had paid her parents back for their devotion by living a life of excellent decisions. She’d been a Brownie in elementary school, a class officer in middle school, a member of the local junior charity board, cheerleading squad, and homecoming court in high school.
Both Genevieve’s maternal grandparents had lived to the age of ninety. Both were now gone.
Reverently, she opened her mother’s file. Instead of the birth certificate she’d expected to see, she took in the details of an application for a marriage license.
She stared at it blankly. Mom and Dad had been married in Augusta. Clearly, they must have applied for their license here—
Her vision snagged on the groom’s name.
Russell Michael Atwell.
The world around Genevieve turned to smoke. All she could see were the letters printed so clearly and neatly on the page.
She checked her mother’s name. Correct. She checked her mother’s birth date. Correct. Her mother’s parents’ names. Correct.
She checked the groom’s name. Russell Michael Atwell.
Who?Her heart drummed.
She’d never heard of this person.
