Page 69 of You'll Be Sorry

Adams nodded. She wished he was a little less intelligent and attractive. The least he could do was have sagging jowls or a bulging gut or lettuce stuck in his teeth. But no, even his scars looked good on him. A man who’d been there and done that on behalf of his country. And had still chosen a profession where he was called to serve.

Honestly, she missed her mother right now. Her mother would know what to say, how to put it all in perspective. As it was, Mandy longed to run to the historical society to share every last outrageous detail with Betty. But she couldn’t. Her father, the possible implications of that damn DNA test. Mandy just couldn’t.

“You need a place to stay?” she asked at last, then catching the nuance inherent in the question, “I mean like a hotel! We got plenty of local inns. I mean that kind of thing.”

Adams grinned. “Got it covered. Friend has a condo I’ve crashed at many times. Even when I was young, I liked this town. Just passing through the covered bridge, feels like I can finally exhale, leave the world behind. Then, of course, once I read about the Dixon case many moons ago…Naturally I kept visiting Shereford. Personally and professionally, how could I resist?”

“You’re never heading back to Concord, are you?”

“Can you blame me?”

She scowled. He packed up his bag, and not even bothering to be subtle about it, she showed him straight to the door.

Second he was gone, Mandy collapsed behind her desk, rubbing her forehead furiously.

For the first time in her life, WWMFD couldn’t magically show her the way.

Because it no longer mattered what her father would do. It mattered what he had done.

23

Betty and Mason were fighting over the historic diary. Mason was still fussing over the book’s existence. How had it come to be on the society’s shelves? Why hadn’t anyone entered it into the library log? Random volumes—especially of local importance—needed to be properly documented. Not to mention, he was the society’s president. He should be the first to know everything!

Betty was pretty much yawning in the face of the elderly gentleman’s tirade. At one point, she declared, “For the love of God, man, no need to get your knickers in a wad,” though she uttered the words with a certain level of affection. Come to think of it, most of their squabbling seemed not just familiar, but indulgent in tone.

The secret life of senior citizens. Raquel didn’t want to know.

She let them engage in their foreplay, while making a show of shifting papers, distributing documents, then, as their quarrel reached a crescendo, sliding the crumbling journal into her bag. A few seconds later, she waved goodbye. Neither Betty nor Mason so much as glanced in her direction.

All the better, Raquel thought.

She’d just made it outside the church when two things happened at once. She came face-to-face with yet another cop—to judge by the gold shield dangling around his neck—and Mason came bursting through the doors behind her.

“Where’s the diary?” the historical society president stormed. “I know you took it!”

Raquel widened her eyes in a suitable display of surprise, while taking in the gray-haired man’s thunderous expression. It was edged with just enough malice to cause her to lean back a fraction. Forget being seventy. If looks could kill, elder statesman Mason was quite capable of murder.

Even the newly arrived detective appeared taken aback.

“I’m so sorry,” Raquel soothed. She placed a hand on the blustering historical society president’s arm. “Can I help you with something?”

“The journal! Where is it?” Mason was already reaching for her shoulder bag.

Raquel made a show of flipping back her long hair, which allowed her to gracefully twist away. “You mean the one Betty reshelved?”

Mason drew up short. “Wait? What?”

“Betty. Right before you two got into it. I saw her slide the volume back into the bookshelf. Though”—Raquel furrowed her brow—“not the same place she got it from. Then again, sounds like it had been cataloged incorrectly? She must’ve been remedying that situation. Yes. That makes sense. She placed the diary where it properly belonged.”

Mason appeared uncertain but hardly stupid. He narrowed his eyes, regarding her intently. Then he shifted his gaze to the investigator, still standing behind her.

“You are?” he barked.

“Detective Samuel Adams, New Hampshire Cold Case Unit.”

Mason blinked his eyes. “You’re with her?”

Well, this was a good question. Raquel eyed the cop with genuine interest. No dumb bunny, he smiled noncommittally.