The Charity (47 page)

The situation was tight, but Jessica determined a long time ago that she was going to pursue this to the end. “Fine. I told you before to turn me in. I guess it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.” Her chin rose slightly in defiance.

“Hey. You might have a hard time believing this, but I’m trying to keep you alive. You’d be dead in less than one week, remember?” He turned to face her and wanted to shake her into understanding his situation. “In case you haven’t realized this, once the media gets wind that you’re alive, you won’t be safe anywhere. Your face and description will be on every TV station, newspaper front page, and radio. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry will be after you. Just stay here. Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to be gone a few days, and you have enough supplies to last you. The phone’s shared. If I call, I’ll be persistent. Answer it after three minutes of straight ringing.”

Pulling her shoulders back, Jessica narrowed her eyes and gripped Shea with a laser blue lock. “I am not promising you anything. My main goal is to find out all of the answers I can. If I can keep myself alive in the process, all the better.”

“
Jesus H. Christ
, Jessica,” he muttered under his breath. As hardheaded and stupid as she was, he had to force the smile from growing on his face. He knew it was no use arguing with her. “Right. Here’s my home phone number. That phone is probably tapped, too, but it might not be as closely monitored as my office. So, here’s how to leave a message for me.” They briefly worked out a code.

“Keep listening to the news reports. If this thing breaks, you are not going to be safe anywhere. You are the Murdering Heiress and as far as the media was concerned seven years ago and now, you are a murderer on the run and a danger to society. You sold one heck of a lot of newspapers back then. I am sure they would hope for a repeat of the increased circulation.” He grabbed his files and rushed out the door.

The sound of the car faded off into the cold day and Jessica sat by the wood stove, huddled close as if it could take away the chill that shook her now. She sat and stared at the walls for a long time. Finally, she got up and sifted through the papers Shea left behind. The envelopes he had given her fell to the floor. She was relieved that he did not see her find the keys.

She opened the letter and looked at her aunt’s handwriting without reading the words. This voyage back to where she grew up had been difficult for many reasons, but being alone and a stranger in her homeland was the most difficult. It was the first time since Gus’ murder that she had held something that belonged to her family. Seeing her aunt’s perfect, schoolmarmish handwriting brought up a tidal wave of grief she had not allowed herself to feel for many years.

It had been on only brief occasions that she felt the isolation of her life and the emptiness its tragedies had wrought on her. This was one of those times. She brought the letter up to her face and smelled the musty paper. She allowed herself to imagine the sweet powdery scent of her aunt drifting up from the pages. Tears flowed unchecked from her eyes.

The emptiness inside her eventually iced over into numbness. She drew in a deep, shaky breath and began to read.

To My Sweet Jessie,

The fact that you are reading this letter means that I have died, and you are now over 25 years old. I trust the years have been good to you and I pray that you are happy in your life now.

My illness is taking me and, as I watched you from the window today as you returned to college to begin your final semester, I realized that I must write this letter so that I can complete the promise I made to Jim and Margaret. I pray that I will be able to tell you myself the contents of this letter, but I have dreamt of the clouds and feel compelled to write as my time is near.

First, let me tell you what so often goes unsaid in life. You have been my greatest challenge and my greatest joy. Margaret, Jim, and I all loved you more than any words can express. There is so much I yearn to tell you, but so much I vowed to take to my grave. Just know that I was never allowed to have a child of my own and raising you as their child has given me untold pleasures. In your life, I have tried to keep them alive. Raising you has helped heal some of the pain of their deaths. I pray that you will never feel the pain I have felt.

I have tried to extend the umbrella of my protection far beyond my death. You have bridled against my protective ways often, and I have done what I could to keep you from harm’s way. You may have a hard time understanding why I have decided to keep your inheritance from you for as long as I have. The reason I have spoken out loud is that you are and will be a beautiful woman. Keeping wealth out of your hands will dissuade any suitors who may be attracted to you for anything other than true love. By becoming a wealthy woman at an older age, I hope to give you the time you need to learn about the world and men.

If you haven’t found the documents already, the newel post in the front hallway contains instructions and access information for several accounts. No one but you and I know about this money. Knowing that your trust will keep the bulk of your wealth away from you and knowing eyes, I’ve provided pockets of money you may access as you need. Money can be a prison, but it can free you as well. Access it with care and use it wisely.

There is another reason for my great care, one that I have learned about long before that terrible accident. There is a second envelope attached to this letter that bears Jim’s handwriting addressing it to me with the words ‘To be opened in the event of my untimely death.’ It contains two keys for a safe deposit box. It is registered to you, and I have paid for its rental for thirty years as its contents should only be read when you are well able to handle harsh realities. I do not wish its knowledge on a young mind, I therefore urge you to wait until you are older to review the contents of this box.

The trust was established in a way to appease forces I cannot understand. I have kept my bargain with the devil by keeping information away from you and for violating one of your father’s firm requests. I have only done so to protect you. There are certain truths that can never be known, for there is no point for the pain it would cause. I have prayed for forgiveness and hope that I have taken the right actions.

Jessie, my sweet, darling child, I know that God gave you to me so that I could live my life for you. You have been my whole life. I thank the sweet Lord for you.

I love you in ways you can never know,

Bridget

Frozen trees swayed and moaned as they scraped their black fingers against the heavy sky. A deep rush of air pounded against the flimsy windowpanes and shutters chattered in the cold. Jessica remained motionless for a long time. Cautiously, she began to move not trusting that her fragile self would not shatter. The letter was brought up to her face and kissed, then slowly, mechanically, returned to the envelope.

“Oh God! I miss you all so much!” Jessica brought her head back, and the words were spoken upward from a deep wound of pain. She had to wait until the dull ache subsided before she could move again. She smoothed her hands over the papers on the desk and watched them with a tinge of fascination as if her hands belonged to someone else. Shea had taken everything of importance with him. There was nothing more she could do but sit there. For days.

“Not a chance.”

She got up and threw some food and extra clothes into an ancient, moldy backpack she scrounged up from a closet. Shea had left some of his clothes there, and she put on as many layers as she could. She forced herself to eat what she could as she checked the wood stoves and closed them down. She scribbled a message to Shea using the code words and agreed upon phrases. Returning here would be a goal, not a promise. There was no guarantee that someone else would not arrive before she did.

Snow crunched under her feet as she walked down the dirt road.

Shea got into his office at a little before three o’clock. He parked the car at a T stop and rode the Orange line in from Oak Grove. He liked the idea of having a ‘safe’ car away from the city. Security was still tight at his building from his earlier bomb threats, but that gave him little assurance that everything was under control.

He was greeted at his office by a throng of people. Most of the faces were those of other attorneys in the office who had heard about the commissioner’s request. Others were from the police department. No reporters. Yet. That was the only piece of good news.

Pushing his way into his office, he noticed a face towering above the heads of the others. He met its owner’s gaze and was stopped for a split second by his own double take. Not wanting his reaction to be noticed, he kept his head down and continued into his office.

“Owen Shea?” The man that caused Shea’s temporary lapse stood in the doorway. Steel blue eyes framed by stern streaks of black brows and lashes bore into him.

“Right. Who are you?”

“Sheriff Michael Conant from Perc, Kentucky. I’m here to see you about the Gus Adams murder case.” Without being invited, Michael strode into Shea’s office and sat down.

Shea paused for a moment to consider his visitor. Tall. Well-dressed. More northern than southern in style and manners. He wanted to know what the rules of engagement were going to be and looked for more clues. Finally, he closed the office door and sat down behind his large desk. “I only have a bit of background as to why you’re here now. Fill me in.”

Michael did not respond, and Shea watched while his guest carefully took in every detail of the office, and of him. Finally, Michael broke the silence. “I hear you were the junior member of the investigative team. Must have been pretty exciting for a rookie to be involved in a murder case so early in your career.” Michael waited for a response. Receiving none, he continued. “I have come across information that the woman suspected of the crime and long thought to be dead is alive and has returned to the Boston area. I want the case reopened.” He produced his files containing photographs and background information. He settled back into his chair and waited while the attorney general took a moment to review them.

Shea sifted through the documents pretending to give them total attention. He tossed the file onto his desk and broke into a large smile. “Well. That certainly looks like Jessica Wyeth. What makes you so certain that—what did you say her name was? Oh, right, ‘Tess White’ is her?”

“Because she confessed to me her responsibility for Gus Adams’ death.”

The smile remained on Shea’s face. “Confessed? Directly to you? For someone who disappeared from the face of the earth to suddenly confess a seven-year-old murder to a small town sheriff is pretty amazing, don’t you think?” His mind raced through replays of every conversation he had with Jessica. Why hadn’t she told him about this sheriff? He looked again at the documents. “I don’t see where you mention her confession here in these documents. Well, I must have missed it.” No. He did not miss a reference to a confession. The smile grew in intensity as he waited for a reply.

“This is a very unusual case. Please let me assure you that the commissioner has made it clear that you were not the decision maker on the scene. You shouldn’t be concerned about its reopening in that regard.”

Bastard. “No. That thought never crossed my mind. I’m used to the tough cases.”

“So I’ve heard. You’re building quite a reputation for yourself by going after some big fish. I don’t see how this case could help you in the least.” Michael paused. “Well, of course except for the publicity. Win or lose. It must be an enticing prospect.”

“I don’t take cases for the publicity.” He let the statement rest for a split second. “You seem to want her behind bars pretty desperately. It’s curious to me why a
southern
sheriff would travel so far out of his way to make a collar.” Shea let the conversation be led by Michael as he continued to assess the man’s appearance. A strong build, bigger than himself and eyes with brows that formed a straight line across his face when in thought. Where had he seen this man before?

“Why would Jessica Wyeth return to Boston? Every connection she ever had here is gone, isn’t it?”

Shea understood the implication and fought hard against giving any reaction that could give him away. A growing concern gnawed at him—how much did this man know? “You could be grasping at straws and it’s pretty clear that I’m not the only one who thinks that. I see that the commissioner has not assigned you anyone to work with until you bring up something concrete.”

Michael stood up and leaned across the desk. There was an air of dark anger and something like desperation about him just beneath the controlled exterior. “Are you saying that you are not going to reopen this case?”

“I am saying no such thing.” Shea drew in a deep breath and launched into his official position. “I’m saying that this is not a priority for me or this office until you have something more than a few grainy pictures and an
undocumented
confession to go on.”