Page 62 of Crosshairs

“I picked out one that read full-bodied since I thought that fit you.”

“Really?” She hadn’t meant to tease with her voice and swallowed a grin when his face turned crimson.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “What’s the plan for today?”

“First thing is to call Sam to see what he’s learned.”

“Sounds good. And don’t forget your vest.”

“I already have it on. Do you have yours?”

“Grabbed it when I got my change of clothes. It’s in the Tahoe.”

She hoped it wouldn’t be hot and humid today. As if. This was Natchez in June. “I want to check Cora’s safe first.”

“You asked her about opening it?”

“Same time I asked if I could stay here. Then everything that happened at the Hanover place blew it right out of my mind.”

“What are we waiting for?” he asked, setting his mug down.

They both stood, and she led the way to the safe. After taking the picture down, Ainsley twirled the knob four times to clear it.

“I hope this works like a combination lock,” she said. “Dad’s birthday is November 16, 1960, so the combination should be 11-16-60.”

She turned the dial and lastly landed on the 60 and turned the handle to the right. It silently swung open. “We did it!”

Linc used his phone light to shine in the dark safe, illuminating several packets and a couple of boxes. And a small leather-bound book. Ainsley gently removed the book held together with a thin leather cord.

A shiver went down her spine. She held in her hands the diary of someone who had lived over 150 years ago. Ainsley took the diary to the chair she’d been sitting in. “I wonder where Cora found this,” she said.

“Good question—it’s not in the best of shape,” Linc said, pointing to the cracked leather binding.

Ainsley carefully untied the cord and opened the diary. The first entry was dated August 1870. She looked up at Linc. “Do you know the date of the first diary Cora found?”

He rubbed his chin. “I think she said it was 1871, the year after Zachary Elliott died.”

“This is fascinating,” Ainsley said, carefully turning the weathered pages. “Look,” she said, reading an entry. “Charlotte was holding a graduation ceremony for her students.”

“This needs to be in a museum,” Linc said softly.

“I agree.” Holding the words of her ancestor sparked something inside Ainsley. She’d never understood Linc’s deep interest in history, but reading Charlotte’s words birthed a desire to know more about her. With a sigh, she carefully closed the diary. “I have a murder to solve. This will have to wait.”

He grinned. “I’d love to read through this ... maybe later?”

“Definitely.” Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up from the table, glancing at the caller ID. Her dad. Ainsley silenced the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

“You’re not going to answer his call?”

“You saw who it was?”

“Kind of hard not to. Your screen was in plain sight.”

She fished it out of her pocket. He’d hung up. “Oops, just missed him.” Then it rang again, and she sighed.

“I’ll get you a refill,” he said and grabbed her coffee cup.

After Linc shut the door behind him, she punched the answer button. “Hello, Dad.”

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