Page 60 of The Forgotten
“Thomas, forgive my impatience, but I have given our union much consideration and thought that perhaps we should bring the wedding forward,” Petra mumbled. She’d rehearsed her speech many times in her head, but now that the words were out, she felt embarrassed and vulnerable.
Thomas stopped and turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Is that so?” he asked, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “I thought myself lucky to be invited for a meal at your house, but now I see you had a celebration of a different kind in mind all along. Shall we set a wedding date today then?”
Petra blushed furiously. Now that the deed was done, she felt an immense sense of relief. Thomas hadn’t thought her forward, nor did he hesitate in his reply. “I would like that,” Petra replied shyly.
“And when shall we marry, my sweet? I know you’re still in mourning for your husband, but I’m no longer a young man, so time is of great value to me. The sooner the better, I say,” he said, smiling into Petra’s eyes.
Had Petra genuinely mourned her husband, she would have preferred to wait the usual period of a year, which would be up in the autumn, but given her trysts with Avery, she wasn’t sure shecould afford to bow to the dictates of propriety. If her courses arrived within the next week, she could wait, but if they didn’t, a speedy wedding would be best.
“Perhaps we should decide on a date once we’ve shared our intention with your family, but I think early next month would suit me very well,” Petra replied, hoping that this would be soon enough to mask a pregnancy, if there was one. Many children came early, so a seven-month baby wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows, but if they waited to marry until the end of April, she would be taking too much of a risk.
“How very considerate you are,” Thomas said, linking his arm with hers once again. “I think my mother would love an excuse for hosting a feast. It’s been a long time since the house saw any merriment, and Robert would like nothing more than to toast our future happiness, again and again,” Thomas added. Robert liked his wine and became even more boisterous with every additional cup.
Petra’s nervousness began to ebb as Thomas continued to speak of the future. She knew that Lady Blythe was not pleased with his choice of bride, but Thomas seemed certain and that was all that mattered. An image of Avery sprang into Petra’s mind, his body silvered by moonlight as he lay next her, his face serene in repose. How happy she’d been just to gaze upon him, and drink in his beloved features, but now it would be Thomas who would be lying next to her. She did not love him, nor did her body flush with desire at the thought of sharing a bed with him, but he was an attractive man in his own right, so Petra hoped that the intimate side of the marriage would not be repulsive to her. At any rate, it couldn’t be any worse than it had been with Cyril.
Thomas had to stoop to walk beneath the low lintel, but he straightened as soon as he entered Petra’s modest home and gaveher a formal bow. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Petra. It’s an honor to be here.”
Petra playfully bowed back. The honor was hers. What had she done to deserve such a good man?
FIFTY-TWO
MARCH 2014
London, England
Quinn set aside the cross, not wishing to see any more. Petra was happy, her future secure as long as she didn’t allow Avery to interfere with her plans. She’d made the right decision, as far as Quinn could tell, but something was lurking just out of sight, something that would lead to her death. It was at moments like these that Quinn truly hated her gift. It wasn’t a gift at all, but a curse, designed to suck her into the lives of people she couldn’t help. As an archeologist, she dealt with death every day, but the people she dug up were long gone, their bones dusty and brittle. Few of them had died of natural causes or reached old age, but dying of an illness or being slain on a battlefield wasn’t the same as being murdered, and Quinn had no doubt that Petra and her son had been murdered.
Her heart went out to Petra, but it was Edwin who made her wish she could just call Rhys and tell him that she’d changed her mind and didn’t want to do this anymore. She thought she could retain a sense of professional detachment, but how did you keep your feelings in check when you watched the emotional and physical suffering of a child and knew that he would never grow up to become a man or experience all the things that made life worth living? For some reason, it would have been more bearable had Petra and Edwin died during the coming storm. It would have been tragic, but not personal.
Someone had targeted those two, and not only killed them, but made sure that they would not have peace even in death. To bury them face down just beyond hallowed ground was cruel and unforgiving. What could someone as ordinary as Petra have done to invite such malice? And what of Edwin? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone attacked his mother? Had he tried to protect her? He thought himself a man, but his cheeks had still been rounded and smooth, and he had yet to experience the growth spurt that usually came with puberty. His eyes were full of innocence and trust, and the understanding of what life could inflict on one was still years away.
Of course, there were other factors at play, and other people. Quinn could only see what happened to Petra, and experience her point of view, but other forces were gathering “off-screen,” as Rhys liked to say. A part of Quinn wished she could just lose the cross, accidentally on purpose, and never find out what happened to mother and son, but she supposed, being a historian, that she needed to know how the story ended. It went against everything she learned to leave a job unfinished, and of course, she was still under contract with the BBC. There was one more episode after this one scheduled for the program, and then she would be done. Rhys might wish to renew her contract, if the ratings were satisfactory, but she wasn’t open to the idea. This job was proving to be one of the hardest tasks she’d ever undertaken, and one of the most emotional. Perhaps, now that Emma had come into their lives, Quinn was even more sensitive to the feelings of a child and a mother’s need to protect them from harm.
Quinn sighed and replaced the cross in a drawer. Gabe was sound asleep next to her, having read Emma three stories and sworn that Mr. Rabbit would be there when she woke up. Tomorrow was Monday, and Emma was feeling a bit anxious, as she did before each new week at nursery school, which was stillnew to her. Quinn was feeling anxious too, but for somewhat different reasons. She’d been feeling unwell the past few days, and her moods seemed to be swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other, like a pendulum. One minute she was wonderfully happy, and then suddenly she was barely holding back the tears that threatened to flow for no apparent reason. The smell of bacon, which she normally found appetizing, nearly drove her out of her favorite cafe only that morning, and her breasts felt tender and swollen.
She often felt a bit weepy and achy before her period, but she was a week late, and that was worrying. She had been late several times before, but it happened mostly on foreign digs. The time difference, change of climate, and hours of painstaking labor sometimes threw off her cycle, but she was at home now, enjoying all the cold and damp that an English spring had to offer. She’d never really worried about pregnancy. Luke had been fanatical about using protection, knowing full well that if Quinn found herself pregnant, she’d plead with him to keep the baby, and he had no wish to find himself in that position. Babies had never been at the top of Luke’s list of priorities, and neither was she, as she’d discovered.
Gabe was always careful as well, but there had been that one time in Edinburgh, when they’d both been too overcome by their emotions to think of practical matters and just went at each other like two sex-crazed ferrets. Quinn counted the weeks in her mind. It was just over six weeks ago, or maybe seven, so this would be just about the time a pregnancy would make itself known. Her period in February had been unusually light and short, but she hadn’t given it much thought, being preoccupied with settling Emma into her new life in London and her new school.
Quinn stole a peek at Gabe. He looked tense, even in sleep. These past weeks hadn’t been easy on him, and he was justbeginning to settle into the role of fatherhood, which had been thrust upon him so unexpectedly. Gabe, being the stoic that he was, would embrace the idea of another child and make things work, but was he emotionally ready? He’d proposed only two months ago, and at a time when most men secretly battled a case of cold feet, he was learning to become a dad, doing his best to support Quinn in her ill-fated quest to find her father, and running the institute with the help of his PA and the other department heads, who, being archeologists, were not the most practical bunch, or the most budget-minded.
Quinn stared into the darkness. She wasn’t ready for this. Any of it. Everything seemed to be happening backwards, her carefully thought-out life plan going up in flames. She could almost hear the cackling of the Three Fates, laughing at her as they spun, measured, and cut the thread that was her life. It was an occupational hazard for her to deal with people’s failed plans and truncated lives. What made her think she was any different? Life came at you, like a great storm, and you did your best to prepare and weather it, hopefully coming out on the other side stronger and wiser, if a little worse for wear in some cases.
Not everyone weathers the storm, Quinn thought drowsily as she began to drift off, images of Petra and Edwin filling her with dread.
FIFTY-THREE
MARCH 2014
Leicester, Leicestershire
Quinn boarded the London-bound train and settled in a window seat, plopping her handbag in the adjacent seat to prevent some socially minded stranger from sitting next to her and talking her ear off for an hour-and-a-half. She was in no mood to make small talk. In fact, she was in no mood to do anything more than stare out the window. When she’d arrived in Leicester several hours ago, the day had been sunny and dry, but at the moment, a steady rain fell from the lowering sky, and despite the early hour, it looked like night was fast approaching.
The train began to glide out of the station, the houses alongside the track sliding past as Quinn stared miserably out the window. She reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of mints. She suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseated, and hoped the mints would help combat the rising bile. Thankfully, the feeling passed quickly, and she leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, shutting out the rain-drenched scenery. She just wanted to go home, change into comfortable clothes, make a cup of tea, and curl up on the sofa, preferably alone. She’d tell Gabe what happened, but first she needed a little quiet time to process what she’d learned. They had a mighty row about today’s outing, but in the end, he reluctantly gave her his blessing. He wanted to come along, but Quinn resolutely refused the offer, explaining to him once again that she needed to do this alone. One thing she had promised him—willingly—was that there were going to be nogames of deception. She would be honest and see where it took her.
Quinn arrived in Leicester just before noon and walked to the High Street. It had taken nearly a half hour, but Quinn didn’t mind. She used the time to prepare herself for the meeting that was about to take place. She’d been determined to do this, but now that she was there, all she wanted was to turn around and go back home. It wasn’t too late to change her mind, but she knew that she’d find herself right back in Leicester, maybe not tomorrow, but next week or next month. For better or worse, she had to find out the truth.
The Queen’s Arms Pub looked like countless other pubs all over England. The façade was old-fashioned and quaint, the interior dim and somewhat oppressive. The blackened beams dissected the white plaster walls like veins, and the brown carpet on the floor had seen better days and much spilled beer. There was a fireplace directly across from the bar, where a merry fire crackled in the grate. Several patrons occupied the tables closest to the fire, enjoying the warmth and the comfortable atmosphere. An attractive middle-aged woman, her blonde hair silvered with gray, came out of the kitchen with a tray loaded with food, and Quinn suddenly felt hungry. The fish and chips smelled divine, and so did the steak and kidney pie. For the past two weeks, she’d been alternating between nausea and all-consuming hunger, but lunch would have to wait, and if she still had an appetite, she’d treat herself to something nice.
