The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond by Jaime Jo Wright

Author:Jaime Jo Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romantic Suspense;FIC042060;FIC042040;FIC027110
ISBN: 9781493414734
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2018-05-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Libby

This day was too similar, too stained in suspicion and fear, like the day they’d buried Elijah’s father. While the parlor walls and décor were in hues of blues instead of yellows, it had still housed a casket, shrouded in funeral crepe. The stifling scent of flowers perfumed the air, mirrors cloaked, pictures facedown. The body of Dorothy Hayes lay silent, hands crossed over her chest before they’d taken her to be buried at the cemetery. Libby had stared at her, every nuance of her mind trying not to concoct what Dorothy’s last moments might have been like. What she might have endured. The terror of staring into the eyes of her killer, accused of some secret worth having her life stolen, being plunged beneath Gossamer Pond, needing to breathe, with her hands clawing at the one who held her under the murky water. . . .

Libby shook her head to clear her mind. Concocting visions of violence would result in nightmares. She’d had enough of those the past few nights and had no wish to repeat them when awake.

The home of Dorothy Hayes was now clear of mourners, leaving behind a few stragglers like Libby’s and Elijah’s mothers. The women worked soberly and efficiently to tidy the house. This time, unlike with Elijah’s family, there was no mother left behind to put things to rights.

“Libby?”

Grateful for the interruption to her unwelcome but unstoppable thought progression, she jerked her head up at the sound of Elijah’s voice. A boy shadowed him.

“This is Lawrence, Dorothy’s son. He’ll be staying with my family for a while until . . .” Elijah glanced over his shoulder at Lawrence’s father, the bereaved widower who slumped in a chair in the corner of the room. “Well, until my uncle can sort through her affairs.”

Libby gave the blond boy a smile. He ignored her and looked up at his cousin with sad eyes. Elijah held his shoulders, muttering instructions. Lawrence nodded, brushed away a tear he was too embarrassed to let fall, and hurried away.

Watching the boy disappear through the parlor entry, Libby wondered what kind of future he would have. Losing a mother so young would impact him for the rest of his growing-up years.

“We need to speak.”

Libby nodded. Yes, they did.

Elijah led her down the hall into a small room. Gauzy white curtains filtered the sunlight that cast pleasant rays over a desk whose feminine curves from its legs to the scalloped edge of its top led Libby to conclude this must have been Dorothy Hayes’s personal study. A doily with delicate tatting of yellow-and-blue threads adorned the mantel over the small, cold fireplace. A porcelain statue of a raven-haired Southern belle was centered on the spot of homemade décor. Libby noted a few volumes of books, hardcovers embossed with gold flowers with titles printed in a golden swirl.

Elijah closed the door and brought Libby’s appreciation of the simple beauty of the room to a shuttered halt. The room became suffocating. Like being in a casket with the lid closing and latching over her.

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