Page 54 of Dirty Valentine
“Better?”he asked, standing to pour hot water over a tea bag.Chamomile, I realized, not my usual morning blend.I hated chamomile, but to say so would be childish.
“Getting there.”I accepted the mug, wrapping my hands around its warmth.The kitchen felt like a sanctuary—our sanctuary—with morning light streaming through the windows and the familiar sounds of our life together.The coffee maker’s gentle burble, the house settling around us, the way Jack moved through the space with the unconscious grace of someone completely at home.
“If I drink all of these flowers can I have coffee?”I asked.
Jack’s mouth twitched in a half smile.“I wondered how long you’d last before you mentioned the chamomile.”
“I thought it was a long time considering,” I said, taking a large gulp and burning my tongue.“I keep thinking about what Judith said.About bloodlines and justice.What if there’s more to this than we’re seeing?”
Jack’s hand found mine across the counter, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles in that absent way that meant he was thinking.“What if there isn’t?What if someone’s just using all this historical drama as cover for something more straightforward?”
“Like what?”
“Money.Revenge.Jealousy.”He lifted his coffee mug, pausing before taking a sip.“Patricia Whitman’s got motive, means, and opportunity.Her husband was cheating.And she’s in good shape from being on digs.She’s got the physical strength to move those stones, and she certainly knows enough about archaeology to stage that cemetery scene.”
I nibbled at the toast, testing my stomach’s tolerance.So far, so good.“But does she seem like someone who could plan something that elaborate?She was so controlled, so professional when we talked to her.Almost too composed for someone who’d just lost her husband.”
“People can surprise you.Especially when they’re pushed past their breaking point.”
The quiet stretched between us, comfortable in the way that only came from years of sharing mornings like this.Even with everything happening around us—the murders, the investigation, the weight of secrets that reached back three centuries—this felt normal.Real.Like the rest of the world could wait a few more minutes.
“Jack,” I said finally, “what if this baby changes everything?What if I can’t do this job anymore once?—”
“Stop.”His hand tightened on mine.“Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow.We’ll figure it out as we go.And yes, the baby will change everything.That’s a good thing.”
“But what if?—”
“What if we have a healthy baby and you discover you’re even better at your job because you’re fighting for something bigger than just justice?”His eyes found mine, steady and sure.“What if everything works out exactly like it’s supposed to?”
I wanted to argue, to list all the ways this could go wrong, but the look on his face stopped me.This man had loved me through transformations I’d never thought possible.He’d seen me broken and helped me rebuild.If he thought we could handle whatever came next, maybe I needed to trust that.
“What’s the plan for today?”I asked instead, letting him redirect us back to solid ground.
“Patricia Whitman.Let’s pay her a visit.”Jack’s voice carried the focused intensity that meant he was already three steps ahead.“I want to see her reaction when we bring up Thomas’s affair with Margaret.”
“You think confronting her about it will break her composure?”
“Margaret said Patricia knew, but knowing and having it thrown in your face during a murder investigation are two different things.”Jack set down his coffee mug with deliberate precision.“I want to see how she reacts when we make it clear that her husband’s affair is part of our investigation.People reveal themselves when they feel cornered.”
Jack called Patricia from the truck while I finished my toast.When he reached her, she told him she was already out at a dig site and would be there most of the day if we needed to speak with her.Something in her voice—too eager to accommodate, too quick with the invitation—made Jack’s eyes narrow as he hung up.
“She wants us to come to her,” he said.“Could be she feels more comfortable on her own turf.Or could be she’s got something to hide and wants the distraction of work around her.”
An hour later, we were driving through King George County as it shook off the effects of the previous night’s storm.The countryside looked freshly scrubbed, all bright greens and clean edges under a sky that couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or threaten more rain.Puddles reflected the moving clouds, and the air that came through the vents smelled of earth and growing things.
“Storm seems fitting for this case,” I observed, watching gray clouds gather on the horizon.“All this ugliness from the past finally breaking open.”
Jack’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.“Let’s just hope we can weather it.”
The GPS led us off the main road onto a series of increasingly narrow lanes that wound through farmland and forest.We passed a hand-painted sign that readAshworth Archaeological Survey—Historical Preservation in Progresswith an arrow pointing down a gravel track that disappeared into a stand of ancient oaks.
“Well, that’s ironic,” Jack said grimly.
The track ended in a clearing that had been transformed into an active dig site.Canvas tarps stretched between metal poles created shelter over several excavated areas, and folding tables held an array of tools, measuring devices, and artifact containers.A white pickup truck and a Jeep were parked near a trailer that looked like it served as a field office.
But it was the site itself that made my breath catch.
We were standing in what had once been a small settlement—the kind of place where Colonial families had carved out lives from the Virginia wilderness three centuries ago.Foundation stones marked the outlines of buildings, and carefully excavated fire pits showed where hearths had warmed long-dead families.The entire area was gridded with string and stakes, each section meticulously mapped and documented.
