Kaine read his thoughts. “My stalker is male. A muffled, disguised voice based on the phone call, but definitely male.”
Grant shrugged. “Well, Patti has always wanted Foster Hill House.”
“Word has it,” Joy continued, “the picture goes with the house, so I can see why Patti felt it should be there. She certainly didn’t expect Kaine to buy Foster Hill, but then she never held out much hope of purchasing it with that gambling problem of hers. Meanwhile, Patti and Mr. Mason have done what they could to preserve things, even if it was a losing battle.”
“So, Myrtle Foster’s painting was left behind in the house originally?” Kaine asked. “I mean, where did it come from before it got put in storage in the museum for Patti to find?”
Joy tipped her head, thinking. “I’m not sure. But, keep in mind, Myrtle Foster and her children were run out of town when they found out she was loyal to the South. Story goes, they left everything behind. No one lived in the house until about forty years later, when a family bought the place from the town of Oakwood, moved in and made it their own.”
“Who bought the house?” Kaine frowned. “Wouldn’t that be about the same time as when the girl was found murdered on Foster Hill?”
Joy nodded. “Maybe that’s your missing link.”
“Maybe.” Kaine swallowed the ball of anxiety that had yet to leave her stomach since the attack the previous night.
Nothing computed. That was the problem. Nothing tied together, and now even Grant and Joy could offer no real answers, only an endless amount of ancient stories with unanswered questions trailing behind them.
Kaine scrubbed at the paint on the window. Useless. She threw the brush into the soapy pail of water.
“Soap won’t remove paint, Kaine. You’ll probably first have to scrape it off with a razor blade. Or use paint remover.” Grant climbed the porch stairs and rested his hands on her shoulders. Kaine pulled away from him. Danny’s name screamed at her in blood red.
“I need a new window, that’s what.” She kicked the pail of water and stalked into the house.
Grant had helped her replace the front door earlier in the day. The make-do modern design was like a blatant scar on the face of the historical architecture. Detective Carter had recommended that with the suspicion of a break-in at her motel, plus the recent attack, an alarm system should be installed for her own safety. One that would alert the police of an intruder. But to do that, the house needed to be secured, which meant putting in a sturdy front door and repairing or replacing several broken windows.
Kaine climbed the stairs with Grant close behind her. She passed Myrtle Foster’s portrait, slapping her hand on the woman’s face and accidently sending a piece of canvas floating to the floor. The painting was crumbling, much like Kaine’s life, though she was past caring. She was boiling mad now, mad that she was back at this evil, horrific house that was stealing the last vestiges of hope she had left. Taking out her anger on the woman’s image was minor compared with how she felt after seeing Danny’s name in the light of day.
“Kaine.” Grant tried to get her attention.
Ignoring him, Kaine went to her backpack in the corner and pulled from it the pages she’d found under the floorboards. She thumbed through them again, kneeling on the floor and spreading the pages around her like a map of another damaged life. Page after page of scribbling.
Weary and worn, yet God has not deserted me.
God.
I will hope in what I cannot see. For these walls close around me like a prison.
Faith.
He will come soon. I cannot bear this much longer. Oh, Lord, as David cried, “Please deliver me.” Even in death, I welcome your presence and your rescue.
“What did she mean?” Kaine pressed her palms on the pages. “What did you mean?” she whispered once more, as if Gabriella could hear her on the other side of death.
The room was silent. Kaine ran her fingers down a page. Grant came and knelt beside her.
“How did she find hope?” Kaine blinked several times, willing away the cloud of tears that made reading Gabriella’s handwriting impossible. Ivy’s locket dangled from her neck, and she grasped it. “Even Ivy—she was here. What if she wrote all this?”
Grant’s voice was calm beside her. “Doubtful. Outside of Ivy’s attack, she isn’t linked to Foster Hill House as having been held captive here.”
Kaine picked up a page. “Then it must be that girl, Gabriella. The one who mothered the child Ivy was so determined to find. It’s obvious, whoever it was, that her life was horrific. She was held here in the house by someone. And yet here she is, writing promises to herself that God will rescue her.”
“He will.” Grant’s quiet statement of faith irked Kaine.
“He didn’t. She was murdered! And only God knows what happened to my great-great-grandmother. My whole life is filled with women treated as if they’re nothing. But we are valuable human beings. Intelligent. Strong. Independent. I can’t believe God would allow Gabriella to be held here, against her will, or whatever her circumstances were. And now, I’m imprisoned by some monster who probably murdered my husband and thinks he can play mind games with me. I can’t do this anymore! I’m so done!”
Kaine jumped to her feet, and Grant followed suit. She shoved past him and marched to the window overlooking the field and woods beyond. She bit her lip. Great. Now she was making an emotional display of herself.
“What happened to you, Kaine?”
Grant’s words sliced through her with the sharp edge of honest insight.
Lord, no. Please. Not that. Not now.
Kaine shook her head. Not even Danny knew. Or her sister, Leah. No one knew. It had always been her secret.
“Kaine . . .” Grant’s footsteps echoed in the empty room. She could feel his presence behind her.
Go away. But she couldn’t say the words out loud, because a part of her screamed for him to stay.
“This is deeper than Foster Hill House. Than even Danny’s death. Why did you become a crusader for abused women? Why did you put your own safety on the line, your marriage or so it seems, to stand between those women and the ones who hurt them?”
Kaine swallowed back a lump the size of California. She wrapped her arms around her body and bit the inside of her lip so hard she could taste blood. The grasses in the field outside were turning green, and she focused her gaze on them. New growth. New life, and yet she related to the dead oak tree in the distance. Not the one that had been Gabriella’s coffin at the turn of the century, but another. Another stark reminder that death always triumphed. It was the hunter, and man was its prey.
“Was it a relative who hurt you?” Grant pressed.
Lord have mercy! Kaine squeezed her eyes shut. How did he know? He was a counselor, that’s how. He could read people, read their faces, and Kaine knew she would be the first one out in a poker game.
“No.” She shook her head. The whisper hurt her throat.
“Danny?”