I grabbed a pencil to flip the sheet, careful not to touch the paper. The notes spanned several weeks. Most tracked the domestic details of his life with Fiona. Chickens fed. Ground cleared for a garden. A shelter improved for their donkey, Fred. Christophe loved art, and he noted that he’d brought to Colorado a book of famous pieces. He and Fiona would peruse it by candlelight, discussing the paintings, imagining the fantasy worlds. That, apparently, had inspired her.
Fiona is painting, read one of Christophe’s entries. She isn’t very good yet, but she is trying very diligently. I told her we must visit Paris and see the wonders there.
His love for her was obvious, his enthusiasm for Elk Valley clear. I could have happily spent hours reading through his notes. But I had an assignment, so I made myself resituate the papers before I got sucked in any further.
I sat down in a squeaky and threadbare chair, pulled open the bottom desk drawer. There were folders of research, article drafts, published articles, copies of Taran’s curriculum vitae printed on thick stock.
I reached in and felt the back of the drawer for anything that might have been taped or secured there—I’d watched my share of criminal investigation shows. There weren’t any secret packets, but I did find a folder that had slipped down behind the others.
I pulled it out. Threats, was written in his tidy script across the tab, and so they were. There were nasty emails from students, rude letters from overbearing parents, an accusation—unfounded, according to Taran’s notes—that he’d plagiarized a twenty-year-old unpublished conference paper. Many of the papers were yellow with age. But there was one at the very back that was still white, still crisp.
I pulled it out, my heart accelerating as I realized what I’d found. It was an e-mail to Taran dated a week ago.
Taran:
I know you don’t want to talk about the Trust anymore but you have to understand. You will destroy everything we have built just because of her. That is how this valley fell apart in the first place and we cannot go back to that. Do the right thing here or what happens after will be your fault.
—Rowan
I wasn’t sure what the “trust” was, but I read a thinly veiled threat from Rowan over it. I put away the folder, carried the paper into the hallway, found Ethan, Gabriel, and Tom already there.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Nessa doesn’t think they took anything else out of her office. She wanted a few minutes to herself.”
I nodded. “I might have found something,” I said, and handed Tom the paper. “What trust is he talking about?”
Tom frowned, handed the paper to Ethan. “Probably the land trust.”
“What land trust?” Ethan asked.
“From what I understand, Taran’s plot—the property on which the house and guesthouse sit—is held in a revocable trust in Taran’s name.”
“If Nessa and Taran are married,” I said, “why is it in Taran’s name?”
“The land has always been in the McKenzies’ names. They filed homesteading claims before the Marchands got to it. That’s one of the reasons for tension in the valley. The shifters have the land; the vampires have the money.”
“Compound interest,” Ethan and I simultaneously said.
Tom nodded. “And there’s the practical issue—Taran couldn’t have put the trust documents in Nessa’s name—not when she’d never age. It would have been too obvious she was different.”
“And put her in danger,” Ethan said.
Tom nodded.
“So what was Rowan afraid of?” I asked. “What was he afraid Taran was going to do?”
“I believe,” Tom said, “it’s time to ask him just that.”
***
In comparison to Nessa’s houses, the shifters’ home was humble. Several buildings on a small, fenced acreage, with a dozen cars parked here and there across what would have been lawn. Chickens pecked in the dirt, and weeds and vines scrambled over a chain-link fence on the edges of the property.
Was that part of the animosity? Jealousy, that the vampires had so much and the shifters had so little? Or did their connection to the earth make the material elements of their existence irrelevant?
Rowan walked outside, Niall and Darla behind him. Niall and Darla looked surprised—and disappointed—to see us alive.
“Sheriff,” Rowan said, his gaze slipping warily to us. “Gabriel. Is there a problem here?”
Tom paused, looked at Gabriel, who nodded his permission to proceed. I guess Tom had decided his alpha had authority enough.
“First things first—are you aware Niall and some of his friends shot at these vampires, burned down the Marchands’ compound, and attempted to burn them out? One of your people also stole some legal papers from Nessa’s house, decided they proved she’d killed her husband.”
Rowan’s expression stayed blank but for a twitch in his jaw. His gaze found Gabriel’s. “That was not approved by me.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Tom said. “In a calm and reasonable fashion, with the Marchands and the McKenzies at the table, we’ll discuss whether reparations are appropriate.”
Niall opened his mouth to speak, but Rowan silenced him with a hand.
A surprisingly reasonable approach, Ethan silently snarked. I had to agree.
“Then why you are here?”
“Because of this.” Tom walked forward, handed Rowan the paper, now enclosed in an evidence bag.