Like almost every other person her age on planet Earth, Gemma preferred texting to talking on the phone. Except, as it turned out, when it came to Jude Camden.
His calm, manly, educated voice was the auditory equivalent of a fudgy brownie. She loved the timbre of it. Plus, he didn't interrupt, and he didn't monopolize the conversation.
On Monday, the night of their first scheduled phone call, she caught herself smiling as they talked over his fake backstory and her real one while she unloaded dishes and folded laundry. When she completed those chores, she carried the phone into bed, flipped the covers up over her crisscrossed legs, and simply focused on the conversation. She almost always multitasked while talking. But this time, the conversation was plenty engaging on its own. To be the object of this particular man's time and focus was a little . . . dazzling.
He was Felix Camden's son and Finbar Camden's descendant, and Jude could have been a bit of a celebrity for those things if he'd wanted to be. The fact that he'd kept his pedigree quiet made his family connections more interesting to her, not less. Imagine, her, Gemma Clare, being in on that secret-ish information. Like Lois Lane knowing Clark Kent was Superman, Gemma knew that FBI Agent Jude was from the famous Camdens.
When he said he should let her go because an hour had passed, she was astonished to learn that much time had gone by. “While I have you,” Gemma said, “may I ask a favor unrelated to our case?”
“Yes.”
“My relatives and I recently found a mysterious code in my great-grandmother's desk.” She briefly explained to him Gracie's desire to be reunited with her own love story, and how Gracie's mention of her desk had led them to the handwritten code. “I'm wondering if you know someone at the FBI who could provide information about it.”
“I know a cryptanalyst,” he said. “If you'll take a photo of the code and text it to me, I'll run it by her.”
“Thank you, Jude.”
“You're welcome, Gemma.”
The strip of paper with the code on it rested on her bedside table. She snapped a picture and—whoosh—sent it off.
* * *
Gemma heard back from Jude the following afternoon.
Jude
My cryptanalyst friend thinks your great-grandmother's code is a cipher used in World War Two.
Gemma
A cipher? Interesting. Thanks. Any chance your friend can tell me what it means?
Jude
No, that type of code hasn't been in use in decades. She recommended you reach out to a man named Everett Rusk. He's a professor and expert on WWII codes.
A few seconds later, a text followed containing Everett Rusk's phone number.
Gemma dialed Professor Rusk and was pleasantly surprised when he answered right away. She identified herself and her purpose. He responded with interest and explained that he taught history at Maine's largest university, the University of New England. He told her he'd make time to meet with her if she wanted to bring the code, which had her rushing to her desk calendar. “I can be there Monday afternoon,” she told him.
“Excellent. I have you on the schedule for three o'clock.”
* * *
On Thursday morning Jude spent far too much time writing and editing a brief text to Gemma. He was careful and a perfectionist with all his communications. For some reason, though, he obsessed over every letter and punctuation mark when he communicated with her.
He had a ton on his plate today—audio evidence to review, cases to prepare for, investigative work outside the office. He couldn't afford to burn this many minutes on a text to Gemma.
He made himself quit fussing with it and hit send.
Jude
Supervisory Special Agent Dixon Martin and my case agent, Shannon Bailey, would like to introduce themselves to you. Do you have time to meet with them briefly tomorrow afternoon?
Gemma
Yes, but why do they want to introduce themselves to me? Have I already messed up? Is this like getting called to the principal’s office?
