Hidden Legacy. Lynn Huggins Blackburn

ONE

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       FIVE

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       TWENTY-FOUR

       Extract

       Copyright

       ONE

      The house had been ransacked.

      Caroline Harrison squeezed baby Henry closer. Her chest tightened, and each breath came as a spasm as she took in the scene. Chair and sofa cushions lay scattered around the living room. Glass from a shattered vase littered the rug. Two plants had crashed to the floor, their leaves and soil mingled with books yanked from the bookcase.

      Who had done this?

      Why?

      What if they were still here?

      A scraping noise from the back of the house answered her silent question. Her skin tingled, and acid filled her mouth.

      She had to get out. Now. Her parents’ home was a quarter of a mile back down the winding mountain road. Too far to run with a sixteen-month-old in her arms.

      She needed to get to her car. Once she got away, she’d call 911 and wait for the police. She backed up, one slow step at a time, reaching into her pocket for her keys.

      Keys that weren’t there.

      She patted the other jacket pocket. Also empty. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, but she kept moving—closing the distance between the den and the garage, where the safety of her car waited.

      What had she done with her keys?

      Her mind spun, retracing her steps.

      She’d pulled into her dark garage, frustrated that the bulbs in the garage door opener had blown out—again. She’d grabbed the diaper bag—

      That was it. The keys were in the diaper bag.

      She’d dropped the bag on the table by the door as she’d entered. She continued to ease backward toward the garage, taking each step with care. Maybe whoever was inside was so busy stealing something they hadn’t noticed her arrival. The longer they stayed occupied, the better her chance of getting away.

      Henry slept on, oblivious to the unfolding drama.

      Her hand closed around the strap of the overflowing diaper bag. Why hadn’t she cleaned it out this morning? If anything fell out on the floor as she made her escape...

      She slid the strap over her shoulder and reached behind her with her free hand. She’d find the keys after she got in the car.

      She hadn’t realized her palms were sweating until she couldn’t grip the doorknob. She rubbed her free hand on her pants and tried again. The knob turned without a sound, but as she opened the door, she braced for the chime from her security system that usually alerted her to any opened door or window.

      Nothing happened.

      The burglar had disabled her alarm. She hurried down the two steps that led into the garage, every cell in her body screaming for her to go faster, every neuron in her brain urging her to move with more caution. She pulled the door behind her, stopping short of closing it all the way.

      With her free hand out to keep from crashing into her car, she crept around to the driver’s side. She opened the door, and the click of the handle ricocheted around the room. Anyone in the house could have heard that. Or not. Maybe it only seemed loud because she was hyperaware of every sound. Her blood pounded and her breath rasped, despite her best efforts to make no noise. Opening the door activated the car’s dome light, and she hit three wrong buttons before she managed to extinguish it. She settled into the seat, sweet Henry still resting on her shoulder.

      She couldn’t risk opening the back door to strap him into his seat. What if he woke up and started crying? As soon as she was sure they were safe, she’d stop and secure him.

      She eased the door closed and fumbled with the diaper bag, digging in the pockets for the keys.

      Come on, come on. They had to be here.

      Where were they?

      Her hand closed over her cell phone, and she grabbed it and punched 911 as she continued to search for her stupid keys. Why, oh why, hadn’t she purchased the car with the keyless ignition? It had seemed like such a pointless feature at the time. She’d give anything for it now.

      “911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice echoed through the car.

      “My name is Caroline Harrison,” she whispered. “I live at 2200 Mountain View Drive. My home has been broken into. I think the person is still in the