Page 22 of The Woman I’ve Become

“I’m thinking someone forced her to the edge of the landing, maybe twisting her arm—slapped her at some point—then pushed her down those stairs with enough force to ensure she wasn’t going to get back up.”

I flinch at his words, and my heart sinks. Eleanor was murdered.

The person living in her house was the same person to find her. Acacia. Fury rushes through me like a brush fire in the middle of a hot summer day.

I drag in a harsh breath and struggle to remain calm. “Anything else on Acacia?”

Archer grunts. “In my opinion, Acacia Hanson, as you know her, doesn’t exist. There is nothing on her. No prints on file. No school or work records I can find. No nothing. She is definitely using an alias. Under the circumstances, it’s going to take some time to track her down. All the neighbors I’ve interviewed only knew her as the pleasant young woman who took care of Eleanor’s place. Eleanor mentioned to her closest neighbor that she’d decided to get a tenant because of a string of burglaries in the neighborhood. I checked it out, and that part is true, at least.”

I wish Eleanor had told us. I can only assume she didn’t want to mention that she felt the need to have help with her own home since she spent all her time and energy at ours. Maybe she worried we would feel it was time for her to retire. Or maybe she just didn’t want anyone to know she no longer felt capable of doing both. Whatever the case, we should have seen it. I will never forgive myself for not being more aware—more sensitive to her needs.

I want to kick something. “So where does that leave us in determining her identity?”

He heaves out a breath. “I just might have something new to go on. It’s a long shot, but we’ll see. A friend of one of the neighbors—a nice but nosy lady I hadn’t interviewed before—mentioned a boyfriend coming and going a couple of times. On one of those occasions he was carrying a box—like a moving box.”

“And?” I glance at the door. For all I know, Acacia could be listening. But I need to hear the rest.

“Although my forensics guy got nothing back on Acacia when he lifted prints from the room she used, I wasn’t aware of a friend at the time. Considering this new information and since there were a couple of boxes left in her closet, maybe we’ll get lucky and the guy’s prints will be on one of them. If he has a record, then we might be able to locate him and find out who Acacia is via that route.”

Code for he needs my okay on the added expense of calling his forensics guy back in. “Sounds like the proverbial needle in a haystack.” I rub at my forehead, wishing the ache there would go away. Headaches have been my near-constant companion since the accident. A brain injury will do that.

“Hey, it’s something,” he points out. “At this point I’m damned desperate.”

He isn’t the only one. “Okay, do it. And thanks for the update. By the way, I’m at the lake house now.”

“Is she with you?”

I moisten my lips. “Yes.”

Another of his sighs tells me he thinks this is a bad idea. “Keep a close eye on her.”

“Yeah.” I end the call and tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. Apparently it’s a good thing our attorney is in charge of Eleanor’s estate, allowing me continued access to the apartment. At least for a little while longer.

When I open the door I fully expect to find Acacia standing there, but she isn’t. I track her down in the kitchen, admiring Olivia’s work on the puzzle.

I think of the necklace and what Archer told me, and I wonder just how much Acacia knows about me and my distant past.

Far too much, I fear.

As Olivia, Acacia, and I step out into the crisp air, the soft lap of the water against the shore relaxes me instantly. The view of the lake always makes my breath catch. This is a beautiful, restful place under ordinary circumstances.

In some ways I feel inordinately lucky to be here. In others I know I earned it and more. Not going down that path of memories.

I blink away the past and affix myself firmly in the now.

The woods that border the property are thick and dark and always filled with birds. Birds love old trees. There’s the house, a massive barn that predates the house by about half a century. Two other stone buildings that were once cottages but now serve as mere storage space. Somewhere on a neighboring property was once a stone farmhouse where the owners of all this land lived, but it’s long gone now.

The barn is Olivia’s favorite place. We check the stables where horses once resided. Wander through the various separate spaces that served as feed and tack rooms.

“What’re we looking for, Mommy?” Olivia skips down the barn’s broad center aisle.

“You never know until you find it.” It’s the best answer I can think of.

“You might find some sort of old tool,” Acacia suggests. “Maybe parts of a saddle or”—her eyes get big—“maybe a horseshoe.”

Olivia makes a face. “Horses don’t wear shoes.”

“Sure they do,” Acacia counters. “If we look really close, maybe we’ll find one.”