Page 42 of Dirty Valentine
“What happened to him?”I asked.
“It’s documented in his journals,” he said.“He was weighed down with shame and guilt over Bridget’s death.He became ill, losing weight and sleep until he’d wasted away to nothing.He wrote in his journal that he felt it was a just punishment for his sins.And then he died less than a year later.His sons were old enough to steward the property and provide for the family, so our line and the inheritance of this land passed on through generations.”
“Judge Morton,” I said carefully, “Dr.Mills is missing.Her medical practice was closed yesterday, and this morning we found her house had been ransacked.There were signs of a struggle.”
The color drained from Morton’s face.“Missing?Good God.You think someone took her because of what she was researching?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Jack said.“But we’re concerned about anyone who has knowledge of these historical documents.Have you had any other unusual visitors or phone calls recently?
Morton was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking.“There was one odd phone call, about two weeks ago.Right around the time Thomas Whitman made his presentation to the historical society, now that I think about it.Someone asking about Ezekiel’s journals, claiming to be doing genealogical research.But the questions were very specific—about property boundaries and land transfers.And there was something strange about the voice.”
“Strange how?”
“It sounded electronically distorted, like someone was deliberately disguising it.They knew details about the journals that aren’t in any published accounts.You can understand that there are some aspects of my family history that aren’t open for public consumption and opinion.”
Jack leaned forward, his expression growing more serious.“Judge Morton, between Dr.Mills’s visit last week, this suspicious phone call, and now Thomas’s murder, I think you need to consider that you might be in danger too.”
“You really think so?”Morton asked, though his voice suggested he’d already been wondering the same thing.
“Someone is eliminating people who have knowledge of this historical conspiracy,” I said.“And you have more documented evidence than anyone.”
Morton was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing the implications.
“Do you mind if we take these with us?”Jack asked, indicating the photocopied journals.
“Of course.I had the letters published several years ago, so I have books of them.I have a sister in Richmond,” Morton said, understanding the gravity of the situation.“I can drive down there this evening.”
“Good.And Judge?If anyone else calls or visits asking about those journals, you contact me immediately.”
As we drove away from Judge Morton’s house, I found myself mentally cataloging the pieces of a puzzle that was finally starting to make sense.This wasn’t about historical justice or supernatural revenge.
This was about secrets.Deadly secrets that someone was willing to kill to protect.
“Jack,” I said, watching the Virginia countryside roll past, “What if Dr.Mills discovered she was connected to this conspiracy?Either as a descendant of the victims or the perpetrators?”
“Then she became a liability,” Jack said with the matter-of-fact tone he used when analyzing criminal behavior.“Someone who knew too much about the past and might expose the truth.”
“The question is, who else knows enough about this conspiracy to be considered a threat?”I said.
“We need to get these documents digitized and secure,” Jack said, patting the folder Morton had given us.“And we need to find out exactly what Mills discovered before someone decided she was too dangerous to live.”
As we headed back toward town, I felt the familiar satisfaction that came when a case started clicking into place.Three centuries ago, a group of men had conspired to steal land and eliminate anyone who threatened their plan.
Now someone was playing the same deadly game, silencing anyone who might expose the truth.
The killer was cleaning house, eliminating anyone who knew too much about a three-hundred-year-old conspiracy.But they’d made a mistake—they’d left a trail of bodies and ransacked homes that told their own story.
We still didn’t know who JMH was, the person Thomas had dinner with the night he died.That meeting might have sealed his fate.But we were closing in, and the killer had to know it.
The question was whether we could stop them before they finished what they’d started.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
The Virginia countrysideunfurled before us like a watercolor painting left in the rain, all bleeding greens and soft edges that should have been soothing but somehow felt ominous instead.Jack’s hands were steady on the wheel, but I could read the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened whenever he glanced at the folder on the back seat that held three centuries of buried secrets.
“You know what’s eating at me?”I said, watching a red-tailed hawk circle lazily over a tobacco field that probably hadn’t changed much since Bridget Ashworth’s time.
“The fact that someone’s been planning this for a long time,” Jack said without hesitation.“The voice distortion, the specific questions about property boundaries—that’s not casual curiosity.That’s reconnaissance.”
