Hidden Sins Read online

  “So you left to save me and yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fool, Mara. I never had any illusions about who you were.” He walked toward the front porch with its sagging steps and sat down heavily, overwhelmed.

  Mara remained by the sign, exhaustion wrestling with contempt. For years she’d told herself she’d left to save him. Had she simply used her father as a reason to do exactly what her mother had? To leave because staying was too difficult? Too honest?

  She made her way to the stoop and leaned against a splintered railing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ethan. I swear I thought I was doing what was right. What was best.”

  “I’m sure you did. But you were wrong.” Unable to find any words that would ease the sting, he pointed to the sign. “What about that? Do you have any idea why your grandfather put it up?”

  Grateful for the reprieve, Mara latched onto the change in topic. “Bailey mentioned digging a hole to hide his key. That all of them did.”

  “Out in Austin, right?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Mara stood abruptly and skirted the dilapidated building. Behind the low-slung ranch house a wooden structure lurched drunkenly, supported by rotting beams and worn timbers.

  Ethan trailed at her heels. The abrupt transition from devastated to businesslike should have annoyed him. But Mara was a chameleon, and it wouldn’t do to forget it. “What are we looking for?”

  “The deacons kept tools in this shed. We need shovels.” She jerked at the door, but a heavy aged lock secured the structure. It refused to budge. Kneeling, she squinted at the mechanism. Even if she had the right picks, rust had filled the slot. No makeshift key would penetrate. She rose and began to search the ground. “Look for a rock or something.”

  Willing to take orders, he quickly scanned the overgrown thicket near the shed. “You think there’s something beneath the sign.”

  Mara inched along the side of the shed, eyes peeled. Careful not to stick her hands anywhere she couldn’t see, she parted weeds and bramble. Thorns pricked at her fingers. She welcomed the distraction. “My grandfather wasn’t a stupid man. And he was cunning. What better place to hide a sign than beneath one that few people could read?”

  Because he agreed, Ethan merely nodded. According to his research, Micah Reed had been more clever by half than the men who followed him. Like grandfather, like daughter. Flat on his belly, he reached beneath the shed. He had no idea whom he resembled, in person or in spirit. Unlike the kids he’d grown up with in the orphanage, he had never really cared. To him, the only history that mattered came scribbled on parchment or lay in the silence of bones and sinew and science. Familial ties had never bound him.

  Identity, he’d always believed, was a very personal creation. A man became what he wanted to be. Genetics may have given him true black eyes or the long, ropy muscles he’d worked hard to sculpt into strength, but the work he did, the way he behaved—that was his doing.

  As he groped beneath the building blindly, he wondered how he had failed to realize that Mara held the opposite to be true. Father, grandfather, mother. She imagined that they had shaped her, made her who she was. The sins of the father, of a family, driving her further and further away from the woman she could be. Should have been.

  In the dark he gripped an oblong shape, hard and cool to the touch. “I’ve found something!” Scooting out from beneath the building, shirt filthy from his efforts, he lifted the metal pipe triumphantly.

  Mara skated around the corner of the shed, holding a rock. Seeing the pipe, she dropped the stone to the ground. “Good job. Let’s see if it will break the lock.” Together they approached the entry. Mara stood off to the side, giving Ethan room to work.

  He swung at the lock, driving the metal down onto the hinge where the top looped through the door. Twice, three times, he struck the padlock. On the fourth swing the joint gave way. Quickly, he tossed the pipe aside and ripped off the lock. Mara jerked the door open and hurried into the musty interior.

  “Here,” she warned as she lobbed a shovel toward Ethan.

  He snatched it from the air and waited for her to rejoin him. They raced to the sign, silently agreeing to dig on opposite sides of the post. The sun rose higher as the shovels bit into the packed ground, baked by summer. Soon, sweat slid down their faces in wet, dusty streaks. Ethan dug hole after hole, moving faster than Mara. Working counterclockwise, he excavated the area easily, after years of practice and training.

  “Reminds me of a dig I went on in grad school,” he muttered as his shovel hit a patch of rock.

  Mara swiped at her damp brow. “Where were you?”

  “Madagascar. Hot as Hades, with no air. We were out there digging for six days.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “We were on the Tsaratanana Massif, a volcanic region of the island. They’d found bones near a volcano site from the 1800s. My team was invited to come and investigate whether the bodies had been the victims of the volcano or other causes.”

  “Couldn’t they tell from the burn marks?” Intrigued, Mara propped her hands on the shovel. “Why would they need you?”

  “Because I’m special, darling.”

  The hint of Texas drawl and the cozy grin skipped Mara’s heart a few beats, and she was loath to disagree. “How do you fit a hat over that oversized head?”

  With a long, serious look, he replied, “A good haberdasher.”

  Laughing, Mara smiled. “Seriously, what could you have told them that an autopsy wouldn’t?”

  “I learned from my examination that several of the bodies found had been buried before the volcano. Most had died of natural causes, including a form of influenza.” At her quizzical glance, he explained, “Certain diseases affect bone mass, and the bacteria that cause the disease don’t immediately die when the tissue does.” He chattered on, explaining the methods of spotting causes of death, of mapping a human life from what remained after death.

  “Fascinating.”

  Stung by the dry tone, Ethan ducked his head and began to dig again. For a moment he’d allowed himself to relax with her. To pretend they were here as friends, not as forced partners. “Didn’t mean to bore you,” he mumbled.

  “You didn’t,” protested Mara, perplexed. “What did I do?” When he didn’t respond, she dropped her shovel and crossed to him. Laying a hand over his, she stopped his motions. She waited until he lifted his eyes to hers. “Confound it, Ethan! Talk to me.”

  He pulled at his hands, but her surprisingly strong grip held him still. Unwilling to sink to a petty tug of war, he returned stiffly, “We’re different people with very different lives. You race around the world stealing. I just study dead people. I realize it must be stultifying to listen to me ramble on about it.”

  “Ramble?” Genuinely confused now, she fumbled for an explanation for the sudden chill between them. “I asked you a question and you didn’t treat me like an imbecile. You were explaining and I was listening. Then I said your work was fascinating. What did I miss?”

  Feeling abruptly foolish, Ethan mumbled, “I thought you were being sarcastic.”

  “Dolt.” She spat out the word, her temper flaring. How dare he think so little of her and himself. But she’d not given him any reason to expect more. Since her return she’d made such a point of protecting herself, she’d never told him what she thought of the man he’d become. Holding his gaze, she offered, “I’m proud of you, Ethan. You did exactly what you promised yourself you would. Became somebody. A smart, accomplished man who travels to war-torn countries to solve medical mysteries.” She cupped his cheek. “I admire you. I always have. I’ve missed you.”

  In quiet tribute, she drew his mouth to hers. The meeting of lips was soft, almost delicate. Gently, reverently, the kiss offered apology and acceptance, penance and remorse. Too soon for both of them, Mara pulled away. “The sign.”

  They returned to their positions, each digging quickly, lost in jumbled thought. When Mara’s shovel s
truck metal she nearly didn’t notice. The second time the shovel vibrated from the contact she paid attention. “Ethan! I think I’ve found something.” She scattered dirt in every direction and uncovered a compact box with a on the lid. The hand-painted letter quickened her breath and she sank to her knees.

  Ethan dropped down beside her. “Open it. It’s yours.”

  With unsteady hands she pried open the lid. A leather pouch lay inside, nestled beside a weathered roll of paper. She retrieved the pouch and poured a brass key into her lap. Etched into its handle was .

  “What does that say?”

  “In numerics, it’s 217. But there’s no corresponding meaning.” She lifted the paper. “Maybe this explains it.”

  Peering over her arm at the scrawled Greek, Ethan saw the black marks and agreed. “Can you translate?”

  “Yes.

  “‘Four gospels. Four winds. Four seasons. Four corners of the earth. But there is only a trinity for salvation. If you have found this, you are a step closer to a treasure I could not claim. I hope you are of my lineage, of my treasure. I pray you are not my son, but that you are braver and wiser than he. Keys to unlock our treasure. May God be with you.’”

  “Four keys.”

  “Poncho. Bailey. Grandpa. Reese. And Guerva. According to Bailey, he hid the safe. He wouldn’t have received a key.”

  Ethan stared at the page. “Only a trinity for salvation.”

  “Does he mean we only need three keys to open the safe?”

  He concurred, having the same thought. “Possibly. But we don’t have sufficient data. The symbols are different and now we have one key. I wish we had something more. Someone who could give us a place to start.”

  Absently, Mara rubbed at her hip. One last secret, but there was no point to sharing it now, she decided. “The symbols on my grandfather and Poncho aren’t numerics. And they got their tattoos from another source.” She closed her eyes, recalling the graceful strokes that twined the Greek symbols into a single work. “Those were drawn by an artist.”

  “Who?”

  Mara tucked the paper inside and dropped the key next to it. Rising, she shook her head, startled that she hadn’t put it together before. “The only Reed who’s ever been worth a damn, probably because she didn’t share the blood. My grandmother.”

  Chapter 11

  Ethan drove the long, green convertible with determined precision. The summer storm began without warning, and rain pelted the windshield in fat, tumescent drops and echoed against canvas. Gray clouds gathered in the corners of the sky, framing a cerulean blue splayed against the horizon. The contrast was stark and fit his mood perfectly. Relief and rage in awkward concert.

  Mara’s bombshell continued to reverberate in his spinning thoughts. She hadn’t left because of him. Sneaking into the night had been an act of foolish chivalry, not an indictment of the boring, sensible young man who loved her. And in doing so, she’d likely saved her own life in the bargain.

  His conscience burned, though, because he’d never realized how fine a line she’d walked to be with him. The whole town laughed at the loony preacher and his followers, but Ethan had not considered that Mara courted danger each time he cajoled her into sneaking into town to see him. Silly teenage choices could have cost her everything.

  Still, he fumed, she hadn’t trusted him enough to share that or anything else important with him. Not even her fear for him. Twelve years of agony explained away by a feeble attempt to protect his life. As though she had the right to make that kind of choice without him. How dare she pretend that she left because he’d be better off without her? They both knew the fact of the matter was that she’d been afraid to try. To be better than she was. To be with him.

  He tightened his hold on the steering wheel, determined not to do what he so desperately yearned to—to stop the car and throttle the arrogant little coward.

  Violence wasn’t a part of his makeup, but Mara exposed facets of personality he’d prefer not to know. In fact, she seemed to revel in blithely exploding the careful myths he’d constructed to keep his sanity. Almost daily she’d rekindled another emotion he imagined seared away by neglect and regret. And she stoked fires he’d prayed were extinguished.

  How was a man supposed to move on with his life when the past curled up on the bench next to him?

  He shifted gears forcefully, metal scraping against metal. Beneath his hands the engine coughed in irritated response to the abuse of its transmission. The wave of angry nausea that had been chasing him since her announcement rose again, and in response he punched the accelerator. The vintage Plymouth he’d restored leapt at his command.

  At least something in the world gave a damn about his wishes.

  “I’m not in the mood to deal with the cops today,” Mara offered helpfully from the passenger seat. “You drive any faster and you’re gonna get a ticket.”

  “I’ll pay for it.” With a quick check of the speedometer, he shifted into fifth.

  Mara heard the wind whip past the windshield, the sound a dull roar. Much like the headache building up at her temples. She’d always heard that confession was good for the soul. No one ever mentioned that it wreaked havoc on the nervous system. Ethan was wound tighter than a spring, but despite that, she felt compelled to taunt. She needed some reaction from him, something other than careening down a deserted highway in a freak storm. “I’d consider slowing down, dear. You passed the speed limit ten minutes ago. Around the time that cow went flying past the car.”

  Ethan spared her a hooded glimpse. “Cute. But if you’re really worried about your safety, I’d suggest you buckle your seat belt.”

  “Buckle my seat belt,” she mimicked snidely. “What’s with the crash test dummy instructions lately? First my kidnapper solicitously harnesses me in, and now the man determined to break the sound barrier is concerned about me flying from the car.” With a harrumph, Mara slid lower against the supple beige leather, arms folded across her chest. “I wouldn’t need a seat belt if you’d drive the speed limit.”

  Ethan retorted mildly, “I’m over it by nine miles. The police won’t care until I pass eighty-five.” He looked over to the shoulder of the highway. The absence of police vehicles had him urging the needle up another notch. “Do you want to see your grandmother or not?”

  “Not if it means I’ll be in a companion gurney,” muttered Mara. “Your girlfriend doesn’t arrive for another few hours. We’ve got time.”

  Ethan reached out and twisted the knob on the radio. Peabo Bryson poured out, asking if anyone could stop the rain. He adjusted the volume and the speedometer inched up another notch.

  Turning in her seat to face the window, Mara peered out into the driving rain. Streams of water slicked along the glass. Black topsoil drank in the water greedily, but there was too much to take it all in. Puddles formed on the surface and glistened beneath the scattered shards of light that pierced the clouds. Brown-eyed Susans and indigo horsemint lined the road, clinging to the welcome drops.

  If the storm was an omen, she couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. For better or worse, though, she was about to find out. Only two people in the world had real cause to despise her. One sat next to her, gunning the engine like an Indy racer, trying to outpace tomorrow. The other lived in a nursing home two towns over.

  Following a drop as it slid along the clear pane, Mara tried to recall why breaking ties with her grandmother had made sense a dozen years ago. At eighteen, sore from her father’s retribution, she’d thrown her belongings into an old army duffel bag and crawled out the broken window in the rarely used attic. She’d shimmied out on the roof and dropped down below, ready to dash for the highway.

  Huddled behind the house, she was shocked to feel a hand close around her arm. When her grandmother silently pressed crumpled bills into her hand and kissed her forehead, the tears Mara hadn’t shed since her mother’s desertion fell onto a paper-thin cheek. In exchange for her freedom, her grandmother made one request.


  “Write to me, my Mara. Don’t forget.”

  But between stealing from Ethan and conning her way across the West, it got harder and harder to compose a letter that wouldn’t reveal too much. That wouldn’t disappoint. Soon the silence had stretched too long for a simple letter to suffice.

  Moving Grandma Reed to a nursing home after her father’s death had been the easiest solution. The probate attorney followed her instructions well, telling the elderly woman that the sale of the church had netted enough to settle her into Haven House. Mara found the name redundant and ridiculous, but the director agreed to take care of her and they accepted cashier’s checks. No questions asked.

  Life was much simpler when answers weren’t necessary.

  “Does Mrs. Reed even know you’re in town?”

  Apparently, Ethan didn’t share her disdain for queries. But at least he was speaking to her. Flopping over to face him, she arched a sardonic brow. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t bother to respond. Instead, Ethan scanned the rearview mirror, and seeing no traffic, shot across the lane to the exit for Shreveport, Louisiana. “What’s the plan, then?”

  “I don’t know.” She drummed her fingers against the dashboard, trying to ignore the knot in her throat. To distract, she glanced at her hand. Good gravy, she needed a manicure soon. Henri, her go-to guy in Atlanta, would be appalled. Ragged cuticles and broken tips. And not a lick of polish. “It’s been a while since we spoke.”

  “How long a while, Mara?”

  “Oh, a couple of years, give or take ten.”

  The easy answer stunned him. He’d expected a hint of remorse, some semblance of contrition. “Do you have any sense of loyalty? Any at all?”

  Rounding on him as the indictment squarely hit its mark, Mara blustered, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “Hell, Mara, the way you’re going, you won’t have anyone left who cares to hear the excuses anyway.” He downshifted and coasted to a stop at the end of the ramp. Checking the dashboard clock, he saw that it was barely past eleven. It felt like an entire week had passed. Outside, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. He followed a road sign that indicated gas and food ahead. He’d refuel the car before they continued into Shreveport. Which raised the pertinent issue of where in Shreveport they were headed to. “Where is the nursing home, Mara?”