Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Blackwood Victorian
Sheriff Burke Scott
Sheriff Burke Scott met Aubrey at the front porch of the Victorian mansion.
The yellow crime-scene tape was gone. So were the patrol cars.
The house looked exactly the same. Somehow that made it worse.
“We’ve released it,” Burke said.
She looked at the front door.
“Officially?”
“Officially.”
Neither of them moved.
Burke shoved his hands into his pockets.
“If you decide to move back in here, I want you to know we’re doing nightly patrols.”
Aubrey nodded.
“But?”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“But I’d sleep better if you stayed with Bennett.”
Heat climbed her neck.
Burke ignored it.
“Or he stays here.”
She glanced toward the house again.
The house where someone had killed Mabel. The house where she’d found her. The house she now owned.
“Until we get answers,” Burke said.
Aubrey swallowed.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
He stepped backward toward his truck.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
A moment later he was gone.
Leaving her alone.
Aubrey stood there for several seconds before finally opening the door.
Moose pushed past her immediately.
The giant dog crossed the foyer and headed straight for the staircase.
“Well, apparently somebody’s got a destination.”
His tail swished once.
Aubrey followed him upstairs.
The second-floor hallway felt impossibly quiet.
Mabel’s bedroom door stood open.
Moose walked inside first. Then stopped.
The room didn’t look like Mabel’s room anymore.
The bed had been completely stripped. No quilt. No pillows. No sheets.
A bare mattress and box spring beneath the headboard.
Fingerprint powder dusted the nightstand. The lamp. The dresser handles. The window latch.
Black smudges marked places investigators had searched. Photographed. Dusted. Bagged.
The antique cedar chest at the foot of the bed wore a faint gray film of powder across the brass latch.
Evidence.
Everywhere she looked, evidence.
The room felt violated.
Not by the deputies.
By whoever had made all of this necessary.
Moose crossed to the bed and rested his head against the mattress.
Sniffing. Searching. Waiting.
Aubrey’s chest tightened.
“Oh, buddy.”
Moose looked up.
She crossed the room and buried both hands in his thick white fur.
“I know.”
The dog leaned into her.
“I know you miss her.”
His tail thumped once.
Aubrey scratched behind his ears.
“But I love you.”
The tail thumped again.
A watery smile appeared.
“You’re stuck with me now.”
Moose huffed and settled beside the bed.
Aubrey looked around the room.
Reading glasses sat on the nightstand. A book rested beside the lamp. A half-finished crossword puzzle remained exactly where Mabel had left it.
Life interrupted.
Her gaze drifted back to the cedar chest.
The gray dust on the latch drew her eye.
They’d dusted it. Opened it. Looked for answers.
She hadn’t.
Not once in all the years she’d visited had she opened it.
It had always felt private. Mabel’s.
Now it belonged to her.
Something made her walk toward it.
The lid creaked softly when she opened it.
Inside sat folders. Photographs. Letters. Documents.
A lifetime carefully organized.
Aubrey lowered herself onto the floor.
The first few folders held ordinary things.
Property records. Insurance paperwork. Old photographs.
Then she found one labeled:
LANGFORD
Her stomach tightened.
She assumed it was about her.
Curious, she opened it.
The first page stopped her cold.
University of Pennsylvania.
Aubrey frowned.
The next pages were worse.
Tuition statements. Housing invoices. Book reimbursements.
Penn.
A memory surfaced instantly.
Seventeen years old.
Acceptance letter in her hands.
Sitting across from Ted at the kitchen table.
“Dad, there’s no way.”
“Sure there is.”
“It’s Penn.”
“I know.”
“We can’t afford Penn.”
Ted hadn’t even looked up from his coffee.
“You’re going.”
She remembered arguing.
For weeks.
Community college. State school. Anything cheaper.
Ted had refused every option.
You’re going.
Now Aubrey stared at four years of tuition statements.
Four years.
Every semester.
Her eyes drifted lower.
And stopped.
Theodore Langford.
Aubrey blinked.
No.
She looked again.
Theodore Langford.
Her pulse began to climb.
She reached for another document. Then another.
Checks. Invoices. Records.
Mabel Blackwood. Ted Langford.
Year after year.
Aubrey sat back.
Confused.
Not angry.
Confused.
How had they known each other? How had this happened? Why had nobody ever mentioned it?
Her eyes dropped back into the chest.
Beneath the folder sat a small box.
She lifted the lid.
And stopped breathing.
She reached deeper into the box and pulled out a brightly colored birthday card.
A smiling cartoon pony stood beneath a rainbow.
Happy 10th Birthday, Aubrey!
Across the bottom, written in familiar looping script:
Love always,
Aunt Mabel & Uncle Harold
Aubrey couldn’t remember anyone ever calling themselves her aunt and uncle.
Aubrey stared at it.
They’d picked out a birthday card.
For her.
Her fingers trembled as she turned it over.
Thick black marker slashed across the envelope.
RETURN TO SENDER.
She reached for another.
Christmas.
STOP MAILING HER.
Another.
Graduation balloons.
NOT INTERESTED.
Another.
Valentine’s Day.
Easter.
Birthday.
Graduation.
Every envelope carried Anne’s unmistakable handwriting.
All those years she’d believed nobody had cared enough to send a card.
A memory flashed.
Ten years old. Sitting on the front porch steps. Watching every car that turned onto their street. Certain this year would be different. Certain somebody would come.
Nobody ever had.
A folded letter rested near the bottom of the box.
Different paper. Different envelope.
A copy.
Addressed to Anne.
Aubrey unfolded it.
Anne, I don’t know what else to do. You don’t return my calls and every card I send to Aubrey comes back unopened.
If you’re angry with me, then be angry with me.
But Aubrey hasn’t done anything wrong. Harold asks about her every birthday.
Every Christmas. Every year. At the very least, let her come visit.
She deserves to know her family. You don’t have to forgive me.
But please stop punishing Aubrey for something that happened between us. Mabel
Aubrey read it twice. Then a third time.
Moose nudged her shoulder.
She looked down at him.
“I don’t understand.”
Moose rested his head more firmly against her knee.
She reached for her purse.
Eleanor Harper’s business card remained tucked behind her driver’s license.
She pulled it free.
Dialed the number.
The phone rang twice.
“Harper and Associates.”
Frannie’s cheerful voice answered.
“Frannie, it’s Aubrey Langford.”
“Aubrey, honey. How are you?”
Aubrey looked around Mabel’s bedroom. At the open chest. The cards. The records. The letter.
“I’m looking for Declan.”
A pause.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Another pause.
Then Frannie said softly, “Hold on, sweetheart.”
A minute later, a familiar Irish brogue came across the line.
“Ah now, tell me you’ve found a body and not just another committee agenda.”
Despite everything, Aubrey laughed. The sound came out shaky.
“Why is that always your opening line?”
“Professional consistency,” he replied. “Keeps expectations low.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
“Aubrey?” His tone had shifted. Less teasing. More careful. “What’s going on, love?”
She took a breath.
“I need your help.”
The humor vanished instantly.
“All right,” he said at once. “Where are you?”
“Can you come to the winery?”
A brief pause.
“Now?”
“Please.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
Relief washed through her.
“Thank you.”
“Aubrey?”
“Yeah?”
His voice gentled.
“Whatever it is, don’t sit there alone with it, yeah? I’m on my way.”
The line disconnected.
Aubrey lowered the phone.
Then looked back at the pile of secrets spread across Mabel Blackwood’s bedroom floor.
Did I ever really know my family?
Blackwood Estate Winery
Aubrey waited for him in Mabel’s office.
The folders sat stacked on the desk.
The small box of cards rested beside them.
She’d tried putting them away twice.
Both times her hands had started shaking.
So she’d left everything exactly where it was.
Moose lay in his usual spot near the window, front paws crossed.
When footsteps sounded in the hallway, his head came up.
A second later, Declan O’Rourke filled the doorway.
Dark suit. Loosened tie. That familiar, slightly rumpled competence.
He took one look at her face and closed the door behind him.
“Right,” he said. “That’s not your ‘we’re out of Pinot Gris’ expression.”
Aubrey tried to smile. Failed.
“Hi, Deck.”
He studied her for a long beat.
Then he crossed the room and pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head.
“Hi yourself,” he said gently. “Show me.”
Aubrey swallowed. Her throat felt too tight.
She gestured toward the desk.
“Start with that one.”
Declan moved closer.
The top folder read:
LANGFORD
One dark brow lifted.
“Well now. That’s ominous.”
He flipped it open.
The first page stopped him.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
University of Pennsylvania.
He paged through quickly.
Tuition statements. Housing invoices. Book reimbursements.
Quarterly. Every semester.
“Tell me this is a very good forgery,” he said.
“It’s not,” Aubrey said.
He kept reading.
His finger landed on a line near the bottom of a statement.
“Aubrey Langford,” he read. “Student ID. That’s you.”
“Yes.”
He turned another page. Then another.
Finally, he hit the checks.
Payable to: University of Pennsylvania.
Remitter: Mabel Blackwood.
A low whistle slid between his teeth.
“Well, well,” he said softly. “Mabel wasn’t just sending you birthday money, was she?”
Aubrey said nothing.
He turned another page.
This one was different.
Check stub.
Payable to: Theodore Langford.
Declan’s expression sharpened.
“Ah,” he said. “Here we are.”
He checked the memo line.
Housing deposit.
Another stub.
Books.
Another.
Living expenses.
All four years.
He looked up.
“How long have you had this?”
“Since this morning.”
“You call your stepdad yet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t want to embarrass him,” she said.
Declan studied her for another moment. Then nodded once.
“Fair enough.”
He closed the folder.
“That’s one mystery,” he said. “What’s the other?”
Aubrey’s gaze shifted to the small box.
Her hand shook when she lifted the lid.
“Cards,” she said.
“Cards?”
“Birthday. Christmas. Graduation.”
She pushed the box toward him.
Declan reached inside and pulled out an envelope at random.
Aubrey Langford
The handwriting on the front was neat. Familiar.
He turned it.
The flap was still sealed.
Across the front, in thick black marker:
RETURN TO SENDER
His eyes narrowed.
He picked up one more.
NOT INTERESTED.
Another.
STOP MAILING HER.
He didn’t need a fourth.
“That’s Anne,” he said softly.
“Yeah.”
He set the envelopes down more carefully than Aubrey expected and leaned over the box.
A second layer waited underneath.
Christmas stamps. Balloons. Graduation caps.
All unopened. All sent back. All marked in the same hand.
Declan’s jaw flexed once.
“Right,” he said.
The word carried more weight than most speeches.
“Keep going,” he added.
Aubrey reached for the folded letter at the bottom of the box.
“Last one,” she said.
She handed it to him.
He unfolded it.
His eyes moved quickly across the page.
Twice. Then a third time.
He refolded it with more care than he’d opened it.
“When did you find this?”
“An hour ago.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Silence settled between them.
For a moment, he simply stood there, one hand braced on the desk, looking at nothing.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“Tell me how you’re doing,” he said, “before we talk about what any of this means.”
Aubrey let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” she said.
“That about sums it up,” he said dryly. “Emotionally?”
She swallowed.
“My aunt paid for college,” she said. “Four years. And never told me.”
He nodded.
“And my mother,” Aubrey continued, “spent my entire childhood sending these back.”
Her voice shook.
“Also never told me.”
Declan’s expression didn’t change.
But his eyes softened.
“And Ted?” he asked.
“Ted made sure I went to Penn,” Aubrey said. “That’s all I know.”
“Right now,” Declan said.
She nodded.
“Right now,” she agreed.
He straightened.
“All right. Here’s what I think.”
Aubrey braced herself.
“You don’t have enough information to be mad at anybody yet,” he said. “But you’ve got enough to ask questions.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“Good,” she muttered. “I was worried I was overreacting.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely overreacting,” he said. “That’s half the fun.”
A corner of her mouth lifted despite everything.
“But,” he added, “you’re not wrong.”
He tapped the top of the LANGFORD folder.
“This says your aunt cared about your future.”
He nodded toward the box.
“This says she tried to be in your life.”
He held up the letter.
“This says somebody made sure those cards never reached you.”
Aubrey looked down at the desk.
Her fingers dug into the edge.
“I don’t know who to believe,” she whispered.
Declan’s voice gentled.
“Love,” he said, “you don’t have to pick a side yet. That’s my job.”
She looked up.
“I want the truth.”
“I know.”
He slipped the letter back into the box.
“That stubborn woman,” he said.
Aubrey looked up.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Once Mabel Blackwood decided she loved somebody,” he said, “God help ye if you tried to stop her.”
The words landed almost as hard as the cards.
He let them sit between them.
Then he drew a breath.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll start with paper. Records. Timelines. I’ll see when your aunt first started sending money. When the cards started coming back. If there are any gaps.”
He paused.
“Eventually, I’m going to have to talk to Ted.”
Aubrey’s throat tightened.
“I know.”
“You want to be there when I do?”
She shook her head immediately.
“No.”
His gaze softened again.
“Didn’t think so.”
He closed the folder and rested one hand on the box.
“I’ll photograph everything before I leave,” he said. “Paper trail, dates, postmarks. Then I’ll start digging.”
Aubrey nodded.
“I’ll be discreet,” he added. “No one needs to know I’m poking around except the people I have to ask.”
“Burke?”
“Doesn’t need to know,” Declan said. “This isn’t his case. Not yet.”
That steadied her more than anything else had.
“Okay,” she said.
Declan pulled out his phone and glanced toward the folder.
“Give me a few minutes with these.”
Aubrey stood.
“I’ll be in my office.”
He nodded.
“I’ll find you before I leave.”
She started toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Deck?”
“Yeah?”
“If this goes where you think it might…” She hesitated. “Do I want to know?”
His expression softened.
“That’s not a question I can answer for ye, love.”
“No,” she said honestly.
Then:
“But I need to.”
A slow smile touched his mouth.
“Ah,” he said. “There’s the Blackwood in ye.”
Aubrey stared at him.
“You think so?”
He snorted softly.
“I’ve known both of ye. Trust me. I think so.”
He tipped an imaginary hat.
“Go do your job, O’Rourke.”
“Yes, ma’am.”