Page 15 of Archer

She shook her head and looked away.

“Inheritance?”

She ran her fingertips beneath one eye, catching a falling tear.

Now I was getting somewhere. “You knew Martha Lawson?

Sarah’s gaze snapped to mine. “Did you?”

“No.”

She raised her brows. “Fine. She was my grandmother. I haven’t done the paperwork, because deeds are public record on the county auditor’s site.”

“Nothing’s private anymore.”

She cut another look in my direction. “Exactly.”

I took a deep breath, because this would, apparently, be an unnecessarily long conversation.

“Now that you’re here, and we’ve established that I’m not a squatter, can you help me secure this place? And does your company also provide private personal protection?”

I studied her for a long moment, appreciating the flash of resilience in her eyes, despite the evident fear.

“Yes to both,” I said. “Let’s start at the beginning. What is your biggest security concern?”

She led me to the kitchen table, where a small silver box sat on a flattened plastic shopping bag. Tiny roses had been painted over the box, and it reminded me of something my grandma might’ve kept her jewelry in.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A music box.”

I turned my blankest expression onto her. “This is your biggest security concern? Do you have the Crown Jewels in there or something?”

“No. It’s empty. Someone delivered it, but I didn’t order it.”

She didn’t touch it, but she stared at it as if it might bite.

“Was there a receipt or intended address?” I knew the delivery wasn’t an accident, even as I asked. Her cottage was too far removed from the other homes on the street. It would be difficult to incorrectly choose this place.

“No.”

I pulled out my phone and photographed the box from multiple angles. “Did you open it?”

“Kind of, but I didn’t have to.” Her hands trembled. “It plays “Only You” by the Platters.”

I stepped closer and used my truck key to flip the lid. The familiar melody began. “Huh. Is that song significant to you?”

“No.”

“How’d you know that was what it played?”

She sighed. “Because that’s what it always plays.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen, then passed the device to me. “Scroll.”

I obeyed, and a half dozen jewelry boxes filled her camera roll, along with lots of roses. “Are these all yours?” I returned the phone to her.

“No, but they were all delivered to me. They all play that song, and they came to me in multiple different locations. At home in Nashville. At a friend’s I visited for two weeks in LA, and at a resort where I spent ten days trying to convince myself I was stressed and overreacting. Now, here.”

That all sounded very concerning. No wonder she was scared. “Can you send me those photos?”