Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

She gathered the edges of her cashmere shawl closer and rejected the thought without hesitation. That never could’ve happened. Alyssa’s death had been nothing but an unfortunate stroke of bad luck, a crime motivated by reasons that had nothing to do with the family, with her or any of the children.

The disaster she had to prevent had very little to do with Alyssa’s death, if anything at all. However, the thin layer of dust that had settled over ancient history and its deeply buried secrets risked being swirled up in the air by that nosy detective and by Carole’s own children, who, spineless and weakened by the good life they’d been living, couldn’t take any of fate’s merciless blows without falling apart, without jeopardizing their heritage and the honor that stood with the Caldwell name.

Shameful and lame.

She stood from her bedroom armchair and put her shoes on, adjusted her hair, and applied a touchup of lipstick. Inspecting her reflection in the mirror, she straightened the hem of her burgundy shawl where it had caught against the button of her black jacket. She applied a short, discreet whiff of perfume on her left wrist, then rubbed her wrists together. With the scent of jasmine surrounding her like a halo, she was ready to fight another battle.

One look out the window confirmed Bill’s car was gone, but Blanche’s was still here. Every morning, staff pulled their vehicles to the entrance and readied them for the day.

Maybe it was for the best that Bill had already left. Blanche was the weakest link at the moment, her overly sentimental view of life rendering her the most likely to crack under pressure. If that detective showed up one more time, there was no telling what could happen. Like knots on the same string knitted into the fabric of time, Alyssa’s murder could pull out in the open new secrets and old ones, equally dangerous, threatening to unravel the texture of their lives.

Carole walked quickly to Blanche’s suite, her determined footsteps noiseless, stifled by the lush carpets, and rapped her fingernails against her door. She didn’t wait to be invited in; a short moment later, she entered, expecting to find her daughter curled up in bed or still getting dressed. But she wasn’t there, not in the living room, not in her bedroom, where the unmade bed with twisted sheets and tear-stained pillowcases stood in testimony to the agitated night she had spent.

With an irritated scoff, Carole left Blanche’s suite and started looking for her everywhere, losing her patience with every room. Eventually, after trying her on her mobile phone and getting voicemail, she remembered Blanche liked to hide in the upstairs library when she was upset, the somber, quiet room soothing her fraught nerves.

Carole climbed the flight of stairs with a spring in her step, enviable for her seventy-nine years of age, and walked into the library. Standing by the window and staring outside, Blanche sobbed quietly, unaware her mother had entered the room. Rows of bookcases lined the walls, filled with all the novels that had been owned in the family for generations, Carole a fierce collector of such things. The window, shielded in the finest white sheers, let the filtered sunlight in, but that didn’t dissipate the solemnity of the space.

Approaching Blanche, Carole reached over to her daughter, and touched her arm gently. Blanche jumped out of her skin, startled, and turned her red, swollen eyes toward her mother with an unspoken plea.

“Please, Mother,” she whispered, “let me tell him what really happened.” Her voice shattered, strangled by a sob.

Carole’s grasp on her daughter’s arm turned firm, forcing her to turn and face her. Blanche veered her gaze away, then closed her eyes, allowing more tears to roll down her cheeks.

“Listen, my dear,” Carole said, but when Blanche didn’t open her eyes, seemingly withdrawn from reality, she grabbed both her shoulders and squeezed a little harder. “Listen to me.”

Visibly reluctant, Blanche opened her eyes and met her mother’s steely gaze for a moment, before looking away again.

“This secret has the power to destroy all of us,” Carole said, unafraid to let the decisiveness in her voice cut like a blade. “You’ve done a good job keeping it buried so far.” She caressed her daughter’s hair, sweeping a loose strand off her face with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t ruin everything now,” she added, lowering her tone to almost a whisper and willing herself to sound caring, empathic, when in reality she felt like shaking the woman back to her senses and yelling at her to wake the heck up. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Bill is just upset. But you know he loves you dearly. He didn’t mean it; you know he didn’t.”

“But if he knew—”

“Shush,” she said, at the limit of her patience. “There’s nothing to know. You wouldn’t do anyone any favors except yourself.” She stared her down until she felt her shoulders give in under her firm touch. “Ask yourself, is your selfishness a good enough reason to threaten the well-being of our entire family?”

Blanche sighed, a resigned release of air that had been kept captive in her lungs, signaling her defeat.

“That’s my girl,” Carole said, smiling. She hugged her daughter and held her tight for a moment, then pushed her away. Blanche had weakened with age, instead of becoming stronger, more independent, more self-assured. It didn’t take long for the floodgates to open with that one, and oh, goodness, she could cry.

A wimp.

“Will you be okay?” she asked, searching Blanche’s eyes.

The woman nodded, but looked away. The floodgates were still open, but she would get herself together shortly. And she’d keep quiet, and they might survive the storm, but only if that detective didn’t come calling again.

She had to watch Blanche like a hawk, make sure she wasn’t alone with that cop, not even for a minute.

Kay Sharp… Dr. Kay Sharp, no less. Carole had asked her assistant to look into the detective’s background, because she seemed way too smart