My name was written on the envelope in a swirly, feminine hand. There was no return address.

'It's for me, Bird.'

No reply.

'Did you see who left it?'

I shook the package.

'Probably not the way the bomb squad would do it.'

I tore a corner and peeked inside. A book.

Ripping open the envelope, I withdrew a large, leather-bound journal. A note was taped to the front cover, penned on delicate peach stationery by the same hand that had placed my name on the outer packaging.

My eyes raced to the signature.

Marion Louise Wiloughby Veckhoff.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Dr. Brennan,

I am a useless old woman. I have never had a job or held office. I have not written a book or designed a garden. I have no gift for poetry, painting, or music. But I was a loyal and obedient wife all the years of my marriage. I loved my husband, supported him unquestioningly. It was the role to which my upbringing led me.

Martin Patrick Veckhoff was a good provider, a loving father, an honest businessman. But, as I sit, deafened by the silence of another sleepless night, questions burn inside my heart. Was there another side to the man I lived with for almost six decades? Were there things that weren't right?

I am sending you a diary that my husband kept under lock and key. Wives have a way, Dr. Brennan, wives alone with time on their hands. I found the diary years ago, returned to it again and again, listened, followed the news. Kept silent.

The man killed on the way to Pat's funeral was Roger Lee Fairley. His obituary gives the date. Read the journal. Read the clippings.

I'm not sure what it all means, but your visit frightened me. These past few days I have peered deep into my soul. Enough. I cannot endure one more night alone with the dread.

I am old, soon to die. But I ask one thing. If my suspicions prove correct, do not disgrace our daughter.

I apologize for my rudeness on Friday last.

Regretfully,

Marion Louise Willoughby Veckhoff

Burning with curiosity, I double-checked the security system, made myself a cup of tea, and took everything to my study. After colecting notebook and pen, I opened the journal, removed and upended an envelope I found stuck between the pages.

Neatly trimmed clippings fluttered to my desk, some without identification, others from the Charlotte Observer, the Raleigh News & Observer, the Winston-Salem Journal, the Asheville Citizen-Times, also known as 'the Voice of the Mountains,' and the Charleston Post and Courier. Most were obituaries. A few were feature stories.

Each reported the death of a prominent man.

The poet Kendal Rolins succumbed to leukemia on May 12, 1986. Among those surviving Rolins was his son, Paul Hardin Rolins.

The smal hairs on my neck reached for the ceiling. P H. Rolins was on the list of H&F officers. I made note.