Page 128 of Dying to Meet You
Scrap metal fetches a nice price, so Beatrice gave the moving contract to a scrap company. Workmen came to carry everything out via a pair of bulkhead doors—like inThe Wizard of Oz.
I inhale sharply.
“What?” Beatrice asks.
“The bill of sale. Can I see it? From the scrap company?”
Before she can answer, there’s a loudbangat the top of the stairs.
We both jump practically out of our skins, because it’s deafening. And then I realize that the door at the top of the stairs has slammed shut.
Beatrice glares up at it, rubbing her arms. “Don’t even say it. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine.” I let out a nervous laugh. “That was definitely just a breeze. Because ghosts aren’t real.”
“You don’t think...”
I know what she’s asking, and I don’t want to say it aloud, either.Are we locked in this basement?My mind flashes to an image of my phone, which I’d stupidly left on my desk.
“I guess I’m finished down here,” I say, ignoring the hum in my ears.
Beatrice climbs the stairs, with me on her heels. I hold my breath as she reaches for the doorknob. It turns in her hand, and she pushes the door open.
I am full of relief as I flip off the light switch and leave the basement.
Back in our office, I wait impatiently as Beatrice hunts through her files.
“Here,” she says eventually.
She passes me two stapled sheets of paper, and I scan the contents. The scrap was weighed, the inventory detailed. My finger drags down the list until I find the heaviest object on the list:Chest freezer, 200 lbs.
I snap a picture of the list with my phone.
“Okay, what is the deal?” Beatrice asks. “Did something happen last night? Why are you interested in an old freezer? You’re acting so strange. Did Hank do something?”
Shit. I wait a beat. “No. Hank was... no big deal.”
Her eyes widen.
I drop the bill of sale on my desk and sink back into my chair, resting my head in my hands. “I understand how loyal you are to the Wincotts, and I admire that. So if I heard a freaky story about the mansion, I’m not sure you’d want to hear it. Let’s just go get lunch and move on.”
She’s quiet for a second. Then she gets up and crosses to the door and closes it before sitting down across from me. “Rowan,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “My loyalty to the family is based on a lot of things. History. Gratitude. But also trust. I’m well aware that not every Wincott lives up to the family name. So if you know a reason why I shouldn’t trust my boss, then I would like to know.”
Discomfort hums through me. Beatrice knows more about the Wincotts than I ever will. I don’t trust Hank at all, and I can’t share Laura’s story. Even if I could, there’s no way I could prove it. That chest freezer might have only held extra hamburger meat.
“I’ve discovered a few things about what Tim was up to before he was murdered,” I say quietly. “He was researching the maternity home. He was born here in this building, and his adoption seems to have been... irregular. Coerced.”
“Jesus.” She swallows audibly. “You’re serious?”
“Very. And if that happened to Tim, then it probably happened to other people. The maternity home was open for more than thirty years. All those adoptions. And potentially a huge cover-up.”
She takes a slow breath. “Can you prove it? The family would lose their minds.”
“No, I can’t. But it’s troubling me a great deal. If Tim’s death had anything to do with his investigation, I can’t just sit at my desk and pretend everything is fine. Especially if the police are trying to pin it on my child’s father.”Or me.
“Well...” She fiddles with the bracelet she’s wearing. “What if I could help? I might be able to access Tim’s adoption record.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “That could be really helpful. But what about other records? It would be great to know more about whoever worked here in the eighties. And, uh, one employee in particular.”
