Unspoken (23 page)

Charlotte ceased talking about it. Bryce expected the occasional comment or question, but neither came.

He put his focus on the remaining work to be done on the
vaults and selling the coins. He expanded the prep room and doubled the coin shipments. He finished clearing vault nineteen and opened vault twenty-two. Whatever Charlotte decided, yes or no, it would be useful for the coins to no longer be a matter to deal with after the will’s deadline.

Charlotte, emptying more storage units, found the model trains mentioned in the old logbook. The break room in the administration building soon filled with guys during their off-hours, helping their sons build an elaborate track so a dozen antique model trains could roar around the detailed display. Charlotte named engine nine the Graham Express and could be found at odd hours racing it around the intricate track.

Bryce had a lot of time to think, and he began to understand the problem. The more he thought about what could be done with the money, laying out tentative plans of how it could fund projects around the world, the more apparent how life-altering it could be. He wanted the opportunity, the challenge, and the satisfaction of managing the funds, and he equally understood why she would be inclined to say no. Her current life had a known quantity to it that was very attractive in light of her past.

Their dinners became more sporadic as the weather turned from the brisk cool of fall into the full-on cold of winter with snow coating the roads between Chicago and Wisconsin. In some ways he was grateful, for the decision had to be one Charlotte could live with for the rest of her life, and it needed to be her decision. He worried about pressuring her decision even with good intentions. The money side of this mattered to him, more than he was comfortable admitting. He wanted a life that wasn’t boring, and spending the next decades managing where to give a fortune was a solution. If she said no, he didn’t know where he’d find something else as interesting and fulfilling for his future. He needed time to let go of that motivation.

He believed in a sovereign God. The fact the money had been
left to Charlotte had been God’s plan for her. That he wished it had been left to him . . . he imagined anyone hearing about it might wish the same thing. God, in His wisdom, had determined the money would go to Charlotte. Bryce wondered what God was teaching her, or asking of her, by doing so. For Charlotte wasn’t reaching for wealth for herself.

As time passed, that reality became yet another fact Bryce deeply admired about the woman. She had the capacity to turn down enormous wealth. He couldn’t yet say the same for himself.

P
aul Falcon joined his wife in their home office on a Saturday afternoon before Christmas, unwrapping a candy cane. Their tree was decorated and lit, and Christmas music was playing in the background. He’d taken over the dining room table to finish wrapping his share of the gifts they would be distributing. He wasn’t surprised to find Ann, headphones in place, working on the Conner case. Her gift wrapping had been complete for several weeks.

He picked up the list of names she was annotating. She was back on the core problem—identifying the voice of the Dublin Pub caller who said baby Connor had died.

His wife pushed off her headphones. “The audio guys have been through the last of the old physical tapes found in evidence. They’ve confirmed none of the men the cops questioned and recorded in a formal interview is a voice match to the caller. It shrinks the list quite a bit. But I noticed something today. Does our caller sound drunk to you, or like he had been drinking heavily?” She handed him the audio headphones and cued the call to replay.

Paul listened carefully. “No.”

“Agreed. I’m not catching even a slight hesitation in his
speech. I noticed something related and interesting in the list of names. Lynel Masters. He was at the Dublin Pub that night because the bartender called him to pick up his sister, who’d had too much to drink. I wonder who else was there that night to pick up someone, meet someone—not there to drink or stay, but just stopping in. I wish the cops had thought to collect the names of the women who were at the Dublin Pub that night. Women watch guys, remember them, and they could have been a good source to tell us if this list of names we have is complete. Maybe someone didn’t stay but a minute—just long enough to make a call.”

“A good observation. I wish we could have worked that idea at the time,” Paul agreed. “We can track down Lynel’s sister. And a few of the guys named on the list were at the pub with their wives. Maybe their wives can look at the list and tell us who should have been on it given who
was
there. Friends of friends kind of connections.”

“It’s worth a try.” Ann looked at the page in her hand. “Either our caller is on this list of those at the pub that night, or he was there and his name didn’t make the list because no one thought to mention him. I’m beginning to think no one thought to mention him.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky this afternoon and add a new name,” Paul said. There was too much snow on the ground today to walk around Meadow Park knocking on doors, but there were two holiday parties this afternoon they planned to attend, one at the community center and the other at a church, where neighbors were gathering and a few questions could be asked. Extended families would also be home for the holidays, and it would be a good chance to connect with people they otherwise would be unable to see.

Ann stuffed her working files into her flight bag to take with them.

Paul leaned down to rub the dog’s back. “Which one of us is going to break the news to Black that he’s not going with us today?”

Ann looked down at the dog. Looked up at him. “If I say pretty please, will you explain it to him?”

“Maybe we can put antlers on him and smuggle him in as a reindeer in disguise.”

Ann laughed. “I’ll call Kate and see if Black can visit. Holly will enjoy climbing all over him, and Black can go outside and sit on a snowdrift and play king of the mountain.”

“That works.” Paul settled his arm around his wife. “I like Christmas.”

“It’s the cookies. And the music. And the candy canes—those were for the kids.”

“I used to be one.” He dropped a kiss on her hair. “I’ll add the dress you’ve got set out to wear on Christmas Eve.”

Ann smiled. “I’m planning to turn your head. Your presents are wrapped?”

“All but the one for you-know-who. He would eat the wrapping paper to get to it, so it’s left in the pantry.”

“We’ll cheat and let him open his first gift tonight.”

Paul grinned. “I’m all for spoiling him. Call Kate while I get us our coats.”

“You’ve been in a pensive mood tonight, son.”

Bryce turned from the window where he’d been watching the snow fall. “Just wondering if this is my last Christmas alone.” The family gathering would pack more than twenty people into his parents’ home, but it didn’t change the fact Bryce would come alone and would leave alone. “I’m hoping it is.”

“I’m growing more comfortable with the idea myself. You’d
be a good husband for her, Bryce. I hope she accepts. Charlotte could use a family like ours around her.”

Bryce would have invited her to the gathering tonight, but she had gone with Ellie to Texas for the holidays, along with John. She was at least out of reach of this snow. “You’ll like her, Dad.”

“It says something about her character that she isn’t reaching for the money.”

“It does.” Bryce rubbed the back of his neck. “And it’s a lot.”

“I don’t want to know the amount. You’re nervous, that’s enough to tell me it’s large. But I know God has prepared you for handling even large amounts wisely.”

“If she says yes, she’ll want to give it away. She’s already decided on that.”

“A generous thing to do, and one you’ll both enjoy. You’re bothered by the delay in her decision?”

Bryce shrugged rather than admit he was. “She’s got a very difficult choice before her. I would be a good husband, but she’s got to accept being married. She’s not inclined toward saying yes.”

His dad smiled. “It’s okay to admit there’s a bit of pride on the line. You asked the woman to marry you. It’s going to sting if she says no.”

“More than I’m comfortable admitting.” He could close his eyes, see himself married to Charlotte, and see something interesting. He liked the idea of being her husband. He liked the challenge of what life would be with her. He wanted to show her what it was like to relax and share her life with a guy day-to-day. He wanted to give her back some of the carefree days she’d missed during her teens and twenties. And wasn’t that an interesting Christmas wish? “I’m just dreaming a bit, Dad, and hoping.”

“Christmas is a good time for that kind of hope. You asked her in order to give her a choice. She has one now. It will be good if she says yes, and you’ll survive if she says no. Now come help
me with the tree. Your mom wants to bring out the last of her twelve days of Christmas ornaments tonight.”

Bryce complied with a smile. He liked Christmas with his family and thought Charlotte would enjoy being part of this next year, should she say yes. He wanted a chance to share this with her.

T
he movie on TV had half Charlotte’s attention; the rest was on the sketch coming to life. Butterflies were some of the most interesting creatures to draw—and some of the hardest to get the perspectives right. No two butterflies in the sketch were on the same plane, and their wings were tipped at different angles, some facing her, some nearly edge on, some in three-quarter profile as they hovered or sat on flowers. She loved Christmas but was equally glad the holidays were now past and a new year was unfolding. She was anticipating winter being gone and spring arriving.

“Want some popcorn?” Bryce asked.

She glanced up from her sketch. “Sure.”

Bryce headed to the kitchen. She found the remote to put the movie on pause. She thought she had seen the film before. In the same vague way she was pretty sure Bryce had asked that question about popcorn more than once before she tuned in and heard him. She stretched her arms over her head and pulled against the stiffness in her back. Never before had she enjoyed regular evenings sitting with a guy simply to watch a movie, talk a bit, and draw. Sometime in the last few months she had come to realize these evenings were mini-vacations for her, and
instead of finding reasons to push them off to a later date, she was at the point she preferred to say yes.

“Want butter?” Bryce called.

“Please.”

He fed her, generated more ideas for giving, printed checks for her to sign, was curious about her day, and had stories to share about his family that made her silently regret her world was at its core only John and Ellie. He wasn’t pushing at the question of marriage resting quietly but very much there on the table, hadn’t even hinted at it. And that willingness to wait for her decision was more helpful to her than anything he could have said. He had made his case and was letting it be her decision.

The doorbell rang as Bryce came back with the popcorn. He changed directions to answer it. “John.” Charlotte heard his surprise. “Please, come in.”

“Sorry to interrupt the evening.”

“In here, John.” Charlotte recognized his expression and set aside pencils and sketchbook. “This isn’t going to be good.”

“How about a drive?”

She knew what he was asking and simply shook her head. “He can hear it.” John would have said they
needed
to take a drive if what he was about to tell her was in the terrain of information she wouldn’t later tell Bryce. She’d rather not have to repeat the bad news.

“I’m sorry I can’t buffer this.”

Charlotte nodded.

“A reporter is doing a book titled
The Bazoni Girls’ Kidnapping
. The publisher approached him to time its publication with the twentieth anniversary of the crime, he thought about it, and said yes.”

“We know him.”

“Gage Collier.”

Charlotte knew John and every nuance of how he handled trouble, had trusted him in crowds and when she was afraid. “That fact has you driving me home tonight and breaking the news, but you’d give me the few last hours of the evening to enjoy without knowing this.” She braced with a deep breath. “Give me the rest of it.”

He reached over and firmly took her hand. “Tabitha is cooperating with him.”

She felt the punch.

And then she felt nothing.

She iced it over and left the emotions for later. “You’re certain,” she whispered.

“Do you want a flight to New York to try to talk her out of it? She’s mailing her diary, your father’s journal, the case file and notes your father had gathered, and once the package is postmarked we’re going to be out of options.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and thought of a lifetime with Tabitha. She opened her eyes and met John’s gaze. “No. She’s doing what she considers best for both of us.” It was the wrong decision, horribly wrong in ways Tabitha did not know, dangerously wrong. But if she didn’t trust Tabitha’s motives, she had lost a relationship with her sister forever. To cooperate with a book—Tabitha needed to talk, needed people to hear her story, or she would have said no.

Charlotte could feel the nausea, knew the reaction was going to hit hard, and didn’t want Bryce to see the shakes that were coming. “Would you take me to Ellie’s?”

“She’s on her way here. I want you north. Gage knows your name.”

A reporter knew her name.
It impacted like a bullet. Had she lost it all?

A reporter was doing a book about the Bazoni girls’ kidnapping and knew Ruth Bazoni was Charlotte Graham. Bryce immediately understood the implications, was thinking through it better than Charlotte was right now. “Drink this, Charlotte.” He folded her hands around a mug of hot chocolate.

She did as he asked. Bryce was relieved some color was coming back into her face. John had stepped out to arrange with Mitch to take Charlotte’s truck back. “A book publication is at least six months to a year away. There’s time,” he told her.

She nodded. “Gage is . . .” She stopped and looked up at him, the panic in her eyes nearly breaking his heart. “Bryce, he’s the best investigative reporter in Chicago.

“At the hospital he used to send me homemade sugar cookies, movies, and these scrapbooks he had made on various topics—everything that happened in music the last four years, popular culture, world events. To help me get up-to-date. He wanted an interview like every other reporter, but he was nice about including a genuine get-well along with the request.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

She shook her head as she sipped at the chocolate. “Talked to him twice, briefly, on the phone. John knows him.” She handed back the mug when it was empty. “Tabitha didn’t call me, Bryce. Didn’t warn me.”

He knew the deep pain that simple fact created. Tabitha likely hadn’t wanted Charlotte to try to stop her from cooperating with the book, so she had not warned her. “I’m very sorry she didn’t.”

He heard the front door open and wished he had more time. “Will you call me later, just to talk? It doesn’t have to be on important things. We can talk coins and dogs and what movie to watch next.”

She smiled briefly, then began gathering her things. “If I knew
how the rest of this night was going to unfold, I’d say yes. I’ll be in touch, Bryce. I just don’t know when.”

“You’ll be in my prayers, Charlotte.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks for that.”

Bryce hoped and prayed to hear from her that night, but the phone never rang.

John called him the next morning. “She’s at Silverton with Ellie for the next few days.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Hard to read. Charlotte handles something like this by getting very quiet, which is why I wanted Ellie along. Over the coming weeks the rest of this picture is going to become clear—what Tabitha is thinking, what Gage is planning. If we can keep Charlotte’s current name out of the book, that will be a good step in the right direction for her.”

“John, is Gage Collier the kind of guy who puts together Ruth Bazoni, the Legacy Trust, and one of the richest women in the country?”

“He’s not looking for it.”

“But if he bumps into something that makes him wonder—he’s the guy who would find it?”

“Yes.”

Bryce pushed a hand through his hair. “It’s a reason she needs to consider staying at no regarding the money.”

“She hasn’t mentioned the matter, but I’m sure it’s crossed Charlotte’s mind.”

The odds had just risen significantly that Charlotte was going to turn it all down—marriage, the inheritance. And Bryce couldn’t disagree with that outcome given the circumstances. “You’ll call if there’s anything she needs?”

“I will.”

“Keep her safe, John.”

“It’s what Ellie and I do, Bryce. When it matters we’re her family. I’ll be in touch.”

Charlotte walked alone up the steps to the two-story townhouse, rang the doorbell. She had declined John’s offer to accompany her. She was on time and expected, and the door opened before the sound of the chimes had faded.

“Charlotte, thanks for coming.”

“Gage.”

He stepped back so she could enter. “I asked for twenty minutes of your time, and I won’t keep you longer than that. May I offer you a soft drink or some refreshments?”

She thought she’d test how he wanted to approach this. And how good a memory he had. “Have any sugar cookies?”

“Straight up or with a glass of milk?”

She could survive twenty minutes talking with him. “Make it with milk.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Surprised at how calm she was feeling, she looked around his home with interest. He was working on the book here, it appeared. The living room was an office, the dining room crowded with four long tables neatly stacked with paper. Charlotte recognized her father’s journal, two of the cloth-covered diaries Tabitha favored, the neat handwriting on the folder tabs—the material from her sister was on the second table.

The background report John had handed her on Gage Collier ran five pages single-spaced. Pulitzer Prize, weekend investigative pieces, scandals and crimes he had uncovered—his work had been admired and feared for decades, and he had a solid reputation as a cynic who didn’t trust an answer he couldn’t verify. That work history she expected and respected.

His personal information had been more useful. Gage Collier
was a widower who had lost his wife and unborn son in a house fire. That particular fact was enough for her to accept she’d be able to find some common ground with the man. He understood personal pain in a profound way.

Reading the report hadn’t completely settled her nerves, though. She was the fact-finding target of this man. He might be a decent man at the core—John liked him—but she had good reason to fear what he could do. She stopped the thought. She was here, it was her choice, and she could walk out the door to the car idling at the curb whenever she wished.

Gage returned with a tray holding two glasses of milk, a plate piled high with sugar cookies, and a stack of napkins. He placed it on the table between two comfortable chairs, took a seat and picked up one of the glasses. He dunked a cookie. “I haven’t forgotten any detail of our short relationship to date. If you’re willing to trust me with more, you’ll find I don’t forget those details either.”

“A useful trait for a reporter,” she noted as she sat down.

“You interest me, Charlotte. Which is one reason I didn’t dismiss the publisher when they approached me about this project.”

Charlotte reached for the glass of milk and a sugar cookie to have something in her hands.

“I wasn’t the first one they asked—Ann Falcon turned them down—and I modified the terms to suit me before I said yes. This will be my first book, and it will be well researched, on par with the best journalism I’ve done in my career. The cops who worked the task force, both local and federal, have retired, and many are willing to now go on the record.

“I didn’t expect your sister to cooperate with me. She’s spoken on background for a couple of articles over the years, and while she’s a polite woman in her dealings with the press, I expected her to decline to offer anything more than the same for this
book. She instead agreed to sit for an interview concerning the day of your abduction and the twenty-four hours before you shoved her out of the van. She’s provided me with what she had in written materials up to the day you were rescued—your father’s journals, her diaries, the case file the family had built, notes about what the investigators told the family, what they thought had happened. She won’t discuss her conversations with you or arrangements made after you were rescued. That’s the background for our conversation now.”