“Donae shoot, it’s just me,” he called out as he entered the room while Becca was just lowering her gun.
“Anything?” Becca asked, now fully dressed and resting against her headboard. Her phone was on the comforter.
“Nae,” he answered, climbing back in bed. “Was there anything more to your dream?”
She shook her head. “You woke me getting out of the bed.”
Ian lay back down and pulled Becca into his arms. He stroked her hair while straining to hear any sounds out of place in the night. “Get some rest, lass.”
He wouldn’t be.
Chapter Eleven
Ian pulledup behind Aunt Betty’s car in the driveway outside Becca’s childhood home. Apprehension ate at Becca’s gut, knowing the answers she craved were just a few feet away.
Aunt Betty.
Becca would have never guessed the killer and she would be connected. The only questions remaining were how, and if Michael was really a killer.
“Are you ready for this?” Ian asked, squeezing her hand.
“Is anyone ever really ready for Aunt Betty?” Becca slid out of the SUV and rested her hand on her belly, trying to calm the butterflies that were swarming as if in battle.
Ian rounded the SUV and rested his hand on her lower back as she led the way into the house without knocking.
“Mom,” Becca hollered out.
“In here, dear.” Her mother’s voice called out from the direction of the library.
Betty and her mother were the only ones in the library. Betty was standing at the window looking out into the backyard, and Becca’s mom was seated on the couch, drinking an amber liquid from a crystal glass.
Becca’s eyes widened, and her stomach dropped. Her mother didn’t drink, not in the middle of the day, and not unless she was at one of her fundraisers or functions. This was so not good. “You’re drinking? This is bad.”
Becca’s mother took a sip of her drink. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“It’s mine.” Betty spun to face them. She inhaled a long, deep breath. Her normal bravado wasn’t so strong today. Worry etched her tired eyes as she wrung her fingers together. The butterflies in Becca’s belly fell into the pit of her stomach, as if they were made of lead.
Ian guided her to have a seat on the couch, as if he somehow knew that she’d need to sit to hear whatever they were about to tell her. He moved to stand behind the couch and rested a reassuring palm at the back of her neck.
“Just spill it. You know about Michael, and the picture he drew, since you sent me the original. So why did he scratch you out?” Becca blurted out, unsure if the anticipation was much worse than the actual reality.
Betty moved to sit on the couch and took Becca’s hand. “You know how it’s not unusual for me to be able to connect to you and your sisters.”
“Yeah.” Her answer came out shaky.
“Well…” Betty cleared her voice. “It wouldn’t be so farfetched that if I could connect to all of you, if I had my own children, I’d be able to connect to them too.”
“You don’t have children, but I’m sure you’d be right if you did.”
“Growing up, I had one dream, and that was to work with the FBI. Somehow, I knew deep down that I’d get the chance if I worked hard and followed rules.”
“You don’t follow rules.” Becca shook her head.
“I wasn’t always the free spirit that I am today. I did follow rules, and I followed my heart. Both of which almost killed me.”
Her words, which were meant to provide answers, were leaving Becca with only more questions than anything else.
Betty stood, and Becca’s mother moved to stand beside Betty. She wrappedher arms around Betty’s shoulders. “Just tell her.”
