Page 26 of Dirty Valentine
“Starting to see a pattern here,” Jack said.“All these families still own the land their ancestors acquired right after Bridget Ashworth’s execution.The question is whether the current generations know how their ancestors really got it.”
Finally, I pulled up the Lawson family records, and Jack leaned forward with interest.
“William Lawson, 1665–1729,” I read.“Let’s see if the official records match what your parents told us.”I scrolled through the Colonial documents.“Here it is.Confirmation that he was definitely in Williamsburg during Bridget Ashworth’s trial.His name appears on a legislative document dated the same week as her execution, just like your dad said.”
“So the family stories were true,” Jack said, relief evident in his voice.“He wasn’t here to stop it.”
“And look,” I said, pulling up another document.“The records confirm what your parents said about him refusing the Ashworth land when it was offered.The other families divided it up, but the Lawsons didn’t take a single acre.
“But someone still marked his grave with a broken sword,” I said slowly.“Why mark the grave of someone who tried to help?”
“Maybe because he failed,” Jack said.“He had the authority to potentially stop it, but he wasn’t here.And then he was murdered before he could get justice.”
I studied the screen, something nagging at me.“But wait—our killer went to all this trouble to stage an elaborate historical murder, researched these families, knew about Bridget Ashworth’s execution method.But then marked the grave of someone who wasn’t even there?That doesn’t track.”
Jack leaned forward.“You’re right.Either our killer doesn’t know the real history as well as they think they do…”
“Or they’re deliberately including the Lawsons for another reason,” I finished.
Jack leaned back in his chair, the weight of the evening’s discoveries settling over both of us.“We’ve got a three-hundred-year-old land theft conspiracy, families who may or may not know their wealth is built on stolen property, and a killer who’s either making mistakes or deliberately trying to confuse us.”
“And somewhere in all of this, Thomas Whitman died because he got too close to the truth,” I said.“The question is, what truth?The historical conspiracy, or something happening right now?”
“Maybe both,” Jack said grimly.“Tomorrow we start talking to these people.Starting with Richard Blackwood and Margaret Randolph—the ones who threatened Thomas at that Historical Society meeting.”
As we finally headed upstairs to bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were only seeing the tip of the iceberg.The historical conspiracy was real—Thomas Whitman had died for uncovering it.But someone was also using that history for their own purposes, weaving past and present together in a web of secrets that stretched back three centuries.
Tomorrow we’d have to start untangling the truth from the lies.And pray we could do it before anyone else died.
CHAPTERNINE
The alarm’sshrill cry pierced through my dreams like a blade, dragging me from the blessed darkness of sleep into the harsh reality of another day.Before I’d even opened my eyes, my stomach was already staging its morning rebellion, rolling and pitching like a ship caught in a hurricane.
I barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit with the brutal efficiency of a sledgehammer to the gut.The cool porcelain against my knees was a small mercy as my body purged itself of whatever imaginary toxins pregnancy hormones had convinced it were poisoning my system.
Jack appeared behind me like he had every morning for the past two weeks, his warm hands gathering my hair away from my face while his other hand rubbed steady circles between my shoulder blades.Even half asleep and dealing with his wife’s unglamorous morning ritual, he managed to be exactly what I needed.
“This is so romantic,” I gasped between waves of sickness, my voice echoing off the bathroom tiles.“I bet this is exactly how you pictured married life.”
“Actually,” Jack said, his voice rough with sleep but gentle with understanding, “it’s exactly what I imagined.”
Despite feeling like death warmed over, I managed a weak laugh.“Your optimism is inspiring.”
“It’s realistic,” he corrected, helping me to my feet when the worst had passed.“This won’t last forever.And once it’s over, we get a baby out of the deal.”
After dry toast that tasted like cardboard and weak tea that barely qualified as flavored water, plus a hot shower that finally made me feel human again, we were ready to face whatever the day had in store.The drive to the sheriff’s office was peaceful in the way that only early mornings could be, with mist rising from the Potomac like the breath of sleeping giants and the countryside painted in soft watercolors by the growing light.
We’d spent breakfast planning our strategy over Jack’s coffee and my tea.Richard Blackwood and Margaret Randolph topped our interview list—they were the ones who’d directly threatened Thomas Whitman according to Patricia.But we also needed to approach the current generations of the Morton, Hughes, and Mills families to see if they could think of a reason their ancestors’ graves would have been marked in relation to a murder.
The King George County Sheriff’s Office occupied a brick building across from the courthouse in the Towne Square.The lobby was all polished linoleum and harsh fluorescent lighting, with community safety announcements and wanted posters covering a bulletin board that looked like it hadn’t been updated for the last decade.
Jack parked in his designated spot, and we went in the side door instead of going through the front.Jack typed in his code and we passed through the security door into the heart of the operation.The bullpen was already humming with the controlled chaos of a shift change, phones ringing and coffee brewing while detectives and deputies prepared for another day of keeping King George County safe from itself.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Cole drawled teasingly.“And here are me and Martinez, up all night looking through surveillance footage.”
“That’s why we make the big bucks,” Martinez said, grinning and putting his feet up on his desk.
“I thought you were looking a little worn around the edges, Martinez,” Jack said good-naturedly.“Not often I see creases in those fancy shirts.I thought you were having woman trouble.”
