Chapter 42
LINC
We make dinner together—grilled fish and vegetables from the local market—and eat on the porch as the sun sets. Jules tells me stories about her brothers’ antics in Las Vegas, and I find myself saying, “I’d love to meet them.”
She nearly chokes on her meal. “You sure about that? They’re feral and not particularly subtle about it.”
I hint, “You mentioned your mom and Brad’s anniversary party.”
“Yeah, next month.”
“Let’s go. Together.”
She stares at me. “It’s in Las Vegas. And you’re so busy—”
“Not too busy for family. Besides, I want to see where you grew up.”
Her smile is radiant. “Really?”
“Really.”
Jules throws me off balance in a refreshing way, though I won’t admit it out loud.
After years of networking with people who have hidden agendas.
How genuine she is, is almost too good to be true.
But watching her get excited about introducing me to her family and seeing the way she lights up at the smallest kindnesses makes me want to be the man she thinks I am.
The next afternoon, rain patters against the windows while Jules reads and I doze on the couch. The sound of her sharp intake of breath wakes me from my nap.
“Linc.” Her voice is urgent.
I bolt to standing. “I’ve been staring at that desk all week and just realized something. It’s a replica of the one we found at the library.”
I’m instantly alert. “What?”
She’s already moving toward my mother’s desk, running her hands along the wood paneling. “The same dimensions, the same detailing. Different wood stain or finish. Some variations, but what if it’s one of the desks Abraham Lincoln had commissioned for his sons?”
I crouch beside her, looking for the secret panel we found on the other desk. The veneer gives and I hold my breath as I peer inside. “It’s empty.”
“Just some dust and a cobweb.”
My thumb rubs my lucky penny.
“If there are others, the letters could be in one of them. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that before.”
“We’re not technically sleuths,” I joke, feeling the rush of excitement fade. But then I snap my fingers. “Unless there are others.”
“Yeah. As I said, the desks made for the other sons—” Jules starts.
“No, I mean other secret compartments. We didn’t want to be caught when we were visiting Tudor Place, but we can check to see …” I’m already running my hands along every inch of the desk, trying to find another loose piece of wood, a crack, anything that would reveal a hiding place.
Easing into my mother’s chair, I recall her in this very position countless times. Then I picture my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. If he were to have something to hide, where would he put it?
I pull out the drawers, one at a time, but don’t notice anything unusual. Jules takes my lead and investigates other parts of the desk until we’re both back where we started.
“It was a good hunch,” Jules says.
I’m not ready to give up. “Abraham Lincoln was tall, so I don’t imagine he’d have hidden anything down low.”
“He’d have wanted to be discreet if he were hiding something.”
“So it has to be right in front of our faces.”
Jules puts her hand under the desk’s surface and her eyebrow arches.
“Find something?”
She crawls underneath the desk and lets out an excited little sound. “Your instinct that he wouldn’t have crouched under here was right, but that’s also because he would’ve known the location of the hidden compartment and could’ve found the latch by feel. I need something smooth.”
“I can go get a screwdriver.”
“Or your penny. There’s a little mechanism that looks like it needs to be twisted, but I can’t do it with my thumbnail.”
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.