Finley bent her head as guilt, sorrow, and sympathy jumbled inside. Her father had accidentally killed Carla, and there was no way anyone could ever make that right, because the only way to do that was to bring Carla back to life. Finley’s annual pilgrimage to this fundraiser didn’t assuage the responsibility she carried on her father’s behalf. But it did enable her to do the few paltry things she felt honor-bound to do. Pay her respects. Remember Carla. And support Carla’s family’s excellent cause.
All four of the Vance children had been close in age. Ken was older than Carla. Dennis and Jeff were younger. It was Ken who took the mic next, to share memories of his sister’s life.
Finley pulled the ball cap she wore low. She’d only met the brothers in person once, at a party her dad and Carla had hosted.They looked a lot alike. Big-boned, hearty men with square faces and thick dark hair. They’d been kind to her at the party, and after Carla’s death, she’d been unable to get them and their poor mother out of her mind. She’d started checking on them every so often via their Facebook feeds, which was how she’d found out about the first memorial fundraiser.
Dennis opened the live auction bidding.
Finley’s gaze centered on the giant photograph of Carla.I’m so sorry.
She extracted an envelope filled with cash from her purse as she made her way toward the exit. A donation box waited at the start of the potluck table. In one quick movement, she deposited two thousand dollars inside.
Late Sunday afternoon, Finley set her hands on her hips and blew a wayward strand of hair out of her eye.
She and Luke had been searching her dad’s house for three hours. The entire time, the tension that existed between them now had been snapping like a downed electrical cable. She’d been much too aware of the scent of his soap. The strength of his movements. The musculature of his torso beneath his shirt.
They’d tackled the garage—examining every inch of her dad’s old bike and the space around it. Nothing.
Then they’d gone through his kitchen. Nothing.
At that point, Luke had suggested that since they’d come all this way for the second time, they search the house in general. Even if the clue that was supposed to be found next after theBrothersbook wasn’t here, maybe they’d find a clue her dad had left for later in the hunt. If that occurred, they could leapfrog the clue.
They combed the house room by room. They peered under rugs and furniture. Peeked behind art. Opened every drawer. Ran their hands down the back of the closets.
They worked well as a team. They’d been fast and thorough.
“There are no clues in this house,” Finley stated.
Luke hunched in front of the cupboard beneath the laundry room sink. He shut its door and straightened to his full height. After scrubbing his scalp for a few seconds, he dropped his arms.
She really did think she could make her peace with leaving the treasure hunt unsolved. She could even spin that ending fancifully in her mind.You father will never be completely gone, Finley, because his final treasure hunt clues will always remain at large. Magical. Mythical. An open-ended resolution is sometimes better than a resolution in which everyihas been dotted and everytcrossed.
Luke, however, would never be content with that outcome. He wouldn’t feel he’d been released from his promise until they brought this to a clear-cut close.
Why were her emotions such a frustrating tangle? She wanted Luke to experience the freedom of a promise fulfilled. Yet she didn’t want him to leave Misty River. Yet sheshouldwant him to leave Misty River, because her life would be far less confusing with him gone.
“I think it’s time for us to call it a day,” she said. “We gained valuable information because now we know that this house holds no more secrets and, as such, we should not sink more of our time here.”
He frowned.
“Let’s head home,” she said. “We can visit the gold mine next weekend.”
The whine of wind against the creaky walls of the house answered.
His shoulders braced. She’d noticed that sounds like that made him nervous. No doubt, that was an aftereffect of the earthquake. As was the window he kept ajar at work, the generator he stored behind his truck’s bench seat, and the fact that he charged his phone the whole time he was at his desk.
Desperately, she wanted to lighten his mood.
His mood is not your responsibility, Finley!
Could she get away with hugging him?
No.
Though she felt compelled to hug him, she could not trust herself to do so.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Late in the afternoon on Tuesday, Ben entered the workroom with his usual smile. “Hey, man.”
