The Hidden

“What about the father-in-law?” Meg asked.

“I found an entry from the day Nathan met Jillian. It’s really sweet,” Scarlet said, smiling and flipping pages. She read: “‘She touched my soul like the first sight of the snow on the mountains. And when she turned to me and smiled, I felt as if the purity of the air and the warmth of the high sun had entered my heart.’”

Meg smiled for a moment, but her voice was grim when she asked, “But what about the father?”

“Oh, him. There’s this. ‘US Marshal Vickers is a master of authority or, dare I say, an outright bully. Perhaps I have the man all wrong and he is simply a good and doting father, worried for Jillian because of what he knows—or may know—about me. He fought for the North—I fought for the South. He should know nothing of my outlaw days, and yet he looks at me as if he does. I have never lied to Jillian. She knows everything about my past, yet I do not think she would have told him. Whatever his reason may be, her father has forbidden us to see one another. But my love—my sweet Jillian!—has informed him that she is an adult and a free woman, and that she will make up her own mind in this regard. Thus far, however, we meet only in secret. One day, she assures me, her father will accept me. He loves her and she loves me, so eventually, she insists, he must love me, too. I hope she is correct in this, though I fear she is blinded by the love of a daughter for her only living parent.’”

“Would he have killed his own daughter?” Meg asked.

“I hate to think of a father killing his daughter,” Scarlet said, shaking her head.

“There are fanatics who would rather see their children dead than ‘defiled.’ And the evidence seems to say that Jillian caught the killer in the act. Vickers might have killed her to save himself,” Meg said.

“I still think it has to be someone else,” Scarlet said.

“We need to keep reading his journals. The way he was killed... I think someone wanted something from him, and the answer could be in the journals.”

“It could have been anyone, then, one of his old running mates or someone from the area.”

Meg laughed. “Which wasn’t well populated at the time, at least, so that makes our job easier.”

“I know no one called them serial killers back then, but I’ve read that they existed. Or it could just have been someone with a grudge.”

“Exactly,” Meg said, and looked over toward the stairs and the statue of Nathan Kendall.

Scarlet looked over at the statue, too. She wasn’t sure why, but ever since it had shown up by her bed, she’d found it frightening.

It was just a mannequin, she told herself. Of one of her own ancestors.

She turned her head, choosing not to look at it.

Because now, whenever she looked at Nathan Kendall, she felt as if he was looking back at her.

She tried not to let Meg see the unease in her eyes. And she was glad that—awkward as it would undoubtedly be—she’d asked Diego to sleep with her.

Yet, would it really be so awkward? She’d often wondered whether, despite what she’d done back then in response to the deep hurt and her wounded pride, life could change and they could somehow get back to the way they’d been. She’d thought about him so often on lonely nights, times when she couldn’t even talk herself into going out and enjoying the company of friends, much less contemplate dating again. Diego had filled her mind then, just as he did now. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the first time he’d touched her, how her flesh had come alive at the mere feel of his finger idly touching her hand across a table, desire sweeping through her like the sweetest fire.

There was a knock at the museum door, and Scarlet nearly jumped out of her chair. “Do you think the guys are back already?” she asked Meg.

“I don’t know. Sit tight.” Meg was already on her way to the door. She opened it a crack and peered out. It wasn’t the guys.