There was a lump lodged in her throat. They’d been on such uncomfortable terms for the better part of Jamie’s adult life, yet her mother had taken steps, almost from the moment Emma was hurt, to take care of both of them.
“I can write checks on this account,” Jamie said, staring at the bank statement.
Musgrave nodded. “You’re a signer.”
“You’ll generally be dealing with David from here on out, as I’m retiring at the end of the year.”
“Is this . . . the extent of the money for Emma?” Jamie asked, a little surprised it was so small, because her mother and Emma, too, had acted like it was set up to take care of Emma after her death.
DeGuerre looked at David Musgrave with some confusion. Jamie sensed that a lot of the business was in Musgrave’s hands, that maybe Elgin DeGuerre’s retirement wasn’t coming a day too soon.
David said, “This is your mother’s full financial picture.”
They talked a bit more, and then Musgrave and DeGuerre laid out all the particulars required for Jamie to assume the deed to the house, etc. By the end of the hour, she was sufficiently informed to assume control of her mother’s estate, but she headed back down the stairs from the offices feeling emotional in a way she couldn’t quite define. She opened the manila envelope with her name scrawled on its face and drew out a handwritten card the size and shape of a thank-you note.
When she unfolded it, the contents made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
If you’re reading this, I’m gone, and that means Emma’s alone and needs you.
Come home, Jamie.
The buzzing in Jamie’s ears made her deaf. She stood in frozen fear for seconds that felt like eons.
“Jamie?”
The female voice snapped Jamie back and made her jump. She’d stopped halfway down the stairs and now had to grab for the handrail to steady herself.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
A woman in her late thirties or early forties stood just inside the exterior door to the building. It took Jamie a long moment before her heartbeat began to slow and she could focus on the newcomer. “Gwen?” she asked, aware how unsteady her voice sounded.
Gwen Winkelman reached out both hands to her as Jamie made it down the last few steps. “Your hands are so cold. Are you all right? I heard you were back. How are you?”
“I . . . just met with the lawyers about my mom’s estate.” Jamie swept a hand vaguely toward the second floor.
“Bad news?”
“No . . . no . . . I’m just processing.”
“Do you have a moment? Come into my office. I’m at the end of the hall. I have herbal tea.” She didn’t wait, just led the way, looking back to see if Jamie was following.
Jamie did, gratefully. She realized Gwen’s office was the one with the ferns showing through the window. She almost laughed. She should have known.
The rooms were half the size of Elgin DeGuerre’s, which was right above it, but it had a small reception area and an office. Gwen held open the door and pulled over a plush client chair for Jamie.
“It’s my therapy room,” Gwen said, “but don’t let that scare you. I’ll be right back with some chamomile.”
Jamie practically collapsed into the thick cushions. There was a small desk to one side and a couple of other chairs. She could hear Gwen in the reception area, tinkering, and a few minutes later she reappeared with two cups of steaming tea. She handed one cup to Jamie and took one for herself. She then seated herself in one of the other cushy chairs and flipped up the hidden footstool on the recliner, showing Jamie how to do the same, which she did.
Jamie let out a huge sigh. She wanted to cry, for no good reason she could discern.
“What is it?” Gwen asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Jamie drew a breath and looked at her long-ago classmate. Gwen was more of what she’d been in high school, and less, too. She had that same otherworldly quality her parents possessed now. Maybe it was a function of her appearance: long, somewhat wild hair, shot with gray and corralled in a brightly colored scarf; white peasant blouse; hoop earrings teamed incongruously with a pair of black yoga pants. Or, maybe it was the office, with its plants and faint, musky scent. She was a throwback to another era, as her parents had been.
“How are your parents?” Jamie deflected.
“They’re fine. They moved to Chile. Patagonia. Way, way south. Practically the tip of the continent. They live in a small village and work with the local people. It’s really a wonderful way to live in this world, you know?”
Jamie had a vision of living in a place with none of the complexities of her life and momentarily saw the appeal . . . yet knew it wasn’t for her.
“Do you want to talk about whatever it is?” Gwen pressed again. “Something about the estate bothers you.”
“It’s not that.” There was something so open about her, so fresh and different, that Jamie’s guilt was twigged again. Gwen wasn’t the norm, and Jamie, as a high schooler, had been threatened by that. She glanced down at the note, which she’d practically crushed in her hand when Gwen scared her. Now she smoothed it out and tucked it into the rest of the papers she’d been given.
She thought about telling her about the note, but couldn’t bring herself to. Instead, she said, “You’ve worked with the River Glen police.”
“That’s true. Did you talk to someone there about me?”
“Cooper Haynes.”
“Ah. Cooper, yes. Well, I didn’t really do that much for them. They were on the right track. I just gave them a profile of a killer. The kind of thing you see all
