Page 123 of This is a Kissing Book

I pass her the penny and then hear a soft click. My pulse races with excitement as part of the front drawer separates from the wooden seam and a smaller drawer, the perfect size to hide a stack of letters, appears.

I gasp as Jules gets to her feet.

Several envelopes tied with faded blue ribbon sit inside the narrow space. I can’t make my hands move to take them out. What if I’m wrong? What if they’re just old receipts or shopping lists? What if my mother spent her last years chasing something ordinary? The biggest question—did she know they were here all along?

Jules doesn’t say anything right away. She just rests her hand on my shoulder while I try to compose myself, and somehow that’s exactly what I need. “Linc, we found them. I’m sure of it.”

My mother spent the last years of her life searching for these. She died believing they existed but never knowing if she was chasing a fantasy. And here they are, real and tangible.

My hands practically shake as I reach for them, half-afraid they’ll disintegrate. All at once, relief and vindication crash together in a wave so powerful I have to close my eyes against it.

“She was right,” I manage. “All those years, everyone thought she was obsessed with a myth, but she was right—and the letters were with her all along.”

Jules moves closer, her hand finding mine. “She was brilliant.”

I carefully pull the first letter out of its envelope, the paper surprisingly sturdy despite its age. Lincoln’s distinctive handwriting covers the first page—strong, angular strokes. I recognize the script from countless museum exhibits. My ancestor’s hand.

“Lincoln’s name is right here.” Jules points to the signature with a trembling finger.

I imagine my mother’s excitement if she could see this. “Jules, we actually found them.”

The weight of the moment settles over me. These aren’t just historical artifacts. They’re proof that my mother’s instincts were sound, that her dedication wasn’t madness, that she knew what she was doing even when my father dismissed her research.

In the background, I hear the crunch of tires on gravel.

Jules freezes. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No.” Cold dread fills my body as I move to the window. A black SUV sits in the driveway, and two men in dark clothing get out.

Jules shrinks into herself, fear replacing the excitement of moments before as she hastily gathers the letters, returning them to the stack and retying the ribbon.

I stride toward the door.

“Who are they?” But she’s already moving, tucking the letters inside her shirt and walking toward the front door with determination that looks like courage.

“Jules, what are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she opens the front door and steps onto the porch, facing the men who’ve invaded our sanctuary.

“Are you looking for Albert Lindley?” she calls out, her voice steadier than I feel at the moment.

The larger man looks confused. “Who? No, we work for Drecken.”

Jules’s eyes go cartoon-round with shock. She walks backward into me as I make a crucial decision.

Whatever this is, it ends now.

43

JULES

“Go inside and pack.” Linc’s tone is low and commanding in a way I’ve never heard before.

When I don’t move because I’m frozen with fright, he adds, “Now.”

My legs feel unsteady as I back toward the cabin door, the precious letters still tucked against my chest. Through the screen, I watch Linc stride down the porch steps toward the two men, his posture radiating pure alpha confidence.

I should do what he says. Go inside. Pack.