The Messenger

25

Amanda decided she would let Tyler be the one to tell his own secrets to Ron. She wanted time to think over all Tyler had told her, to sort through her feelings. So she told Ron about Brad’s misbegotten attack, leaving out the part about Tyler’s quick recovery from injury. Instead, she talked about Brad’s wounds, her worries that he had been drugged. She hardly needed to say more after that-Ron’s earlier derision of Brad was forgotten, replaced by his ready sympathy. They discussed and quickly dismissed a list of possible enemies.

“I can think of one or two people who might have wanted to punch him out,” Ron admitted. “He doesn’t always know when to shut up, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. But this wasn’t just a punch thrown in anger.”

“No. I don’t know anyone who’d be that mad at him. That mad at Rudebecca, maybe. Do you think someone would try to get to her through him?”

“Then why set him loose and tell him to attack Tyler and me?”

They could think of no answer to this.

“Whatever makes sense as a reason for taking him-getting back at Rebecca, ransoming him for money, whatever I can think of-doesn’t make sense as a reason to let him go or to tell him to go after you,” Ron complained.

“I don’t think we’re going to have any answers until he’s feeling better,” Amanda said. “If then. The doctor said that whatever drug Brad was given might have affected his memory-it will be some time before the lab tests come back to tell us what he was given. In the meantime, Tyler is going to ask Alex to look into who might have kidnapped Brad.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“You think she’s really a serious detective?”

She stared at him in surprise. “Ron, has anyone working here been less than the best?”

“I guess not.”

“What’s going on? Did she do something to upset you?”

He lowered his gaze. “No. Not at all.”

He was hiding something from her, and she felt a little dismayed by that, then realized that when it came to Tyler, she was hiding much more from Ron.

“So,” Ron said, as if reading her thoughts, “you and Tyler seem to be getting along better.”

“I don’t know what I would have done without him.” She paused, then added, “But it’s not just gratitude.”

Ron said nothing, but when he looked up at her again, he was grinning.

“What?” she asked.

“I can’t answer that without irritating you.” He stood up. “I’ll see what’s going on with Brad. You look as if you could use some sleep.”

“I was hoping to talk to Tyler when he gets back.”

“So at least take a nap. He doesn’t seem to sleep much, so I’m sure he’ll still be up if you conk out for an hour or so.”

“You’re right, I could use some sleep-but I hate to abandon you.”

He shrugged. “There’s always someone awake around here. Maybe Alex has learned something more from your cousin.”

The room she had been given was spacious, with access to the deck that ran all along this level of the house. Moonlight filtered in through the French doors that led to the deck, and she used that soft light to navigate her way to the maplewood desk, where she turned on a small lamp.

She had unpacked her bag earlier, before going to the hospice with Tyler. That seemed so long ago now.

She washed up in the large bathroom and changed into her nightgown. Turning off the desk lamp, she thought of closing the draperies against the moonlight but decided against it. Instead, she opened the doors and stepped out on the deck. The view from here was lovely, far better than the one from the secluded home her great-grandfather had built below. She could just see a corner of her house, and realized that from a little farther down the deck, one would have a fairly clear view of it. A breeze came up, bringing the scent of the nearby pine trees to her. She thought she heard the sound of an animal-the strange dog?-moving in the woods and hurried back inside. She nearly closed the French doors but told herself not to be ridiculous, there was no stairway from the deck to the ground level, nothing a dog could climb to reach these rooms. She discovered a mechanism to pull a hidden screen door across the doorway to the deck, and set the screen in place. The warm breeze came up again, and she moved toward the bed.

She turned the bedside lamp on and immediately saw what the moonlight had failed to reveal-a small sheaf of heavy paper had been laid against her sheets.

Heart hammering, she carefully lifted the pages. The paper did not seem fragile, despite its apparent age, but she handled it gently. It was thick and not quite smooth. She liked the heavy feel of it. The writing was in an old style, what seemed to her to be a sort of calligraphy, neat lettering flowing evenly across the page, in lines as precisely spaced down its length.

She lay down on the bed on her side, set the pages back against the sheets, and began to read. She soon became accustomed to the writer’s hand and made out the first line:

Think of this tale as an imagined story, if you must…