The House on Foster Hill by Jaime Jo Wright

Author:Jaime Jo Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romantic Suspense;Suspense fiction;Mystery fiction;FIC042060;FIC042040;FIC027110
ISBN: 9781493411986
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2017-09-13T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Jvy

Ivy slogged through the mud. Her visit with Maggie at the widow’s house had been pleasant, and her conscience eased a bit from using the poor girl the other day on her jaunt to the orphanage. Maggie was still timid, but she seemed at home in her great-aunt’s house, and Ivy was pleased she’d coaxed a smile from her more than once. Now, Ivy hurried across the road from the mercantile, dodging a wagon. She hopped onto the boardwalk, a slop of mud falling off her shoe. Ivy started at a black gloved hand that wrapped around her wrist. Foggerty stared at her through black eyes. His slouched hat covered his forehead and brushed his bushy eyebrows. He squeezed Ivy’s arm.

“Time you leave the dead to rest, wouldn’t you say?”

“Pardon me?” Ivy tugged her arm away. The odd looks, the sidestepping, Ivy knew that Joel had been right. Since the paper published her claims that Gabriella’s baby could still be alive, the entire town viewed her with even deeper curiosity than before. It didn’t help that the paper insinuated she talked to the dead.

Mr. Foggerty’s bony shoulders raised in a shrug. Ivy backed away a step. The old trapper unnerved her with his sharp gaze.

“A passin’ fancy is one thing, but this witchery of claiming you see a dead child? Did ya see it in the afterlife?” He appeared far too curious, as if ghosts and spirits intrigued rather than frightened him.

“No!” Ivy adjusted her grip on her purse and eyed the man with suspicion. “I never claimed to see the baby.” She stiffened. The rumors were becoming exaggerated. “I only—”

“The town knows all about your death journal. But your toyin’ with the souls of the dead?”

“How do you know the baby is dead?” Ivy demanded. Either Mr. Foggerty was a nosy and bored old man or he knew more than he was saying.

He stared at her. “Stands to reason, don’t it?”

Ivy spun on her heel and crossed the street to the boardwalk on the opposite side. She glanced over her shoulder, but Mr. Foggerty was rambling down the road, muttering to himself. The man’s assumption that the baby was dead only increased Ivy’s determination. While she wasn’t foolish enough to place herself in harm’s way again, she would make sure the sheriff and Joel were held accountable—to find justice for Gabriella and to rescue her infant.

Ivy redirected her path toward the jailhouse. Didn’t they at least owe her the courtesy of an update on the search? No. Ivy knew Joel believed they owed her nothing.

Ivy approached the jail, normally empty save for a drunk or two. She was reaching for the door when she heard voices filtering through the partially open window next to it.

“. . . I want to kill him.”

Joel’s hard voice stunned Ivy. She peeked through the window, careful not to let the men see her. Joel was slouched in a chair, elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin.

“Settle down, Cunningham.” The sheriff sat opposite him, behind his desk.

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