But Gray worried about Annabelle. For the past two days he’d watched from his bedroom window as she came and went from his house. Her shoulders drooped, and she seemed dispirited as she headed up the walk each day.

Something was wrong. She was usually such a sunny person, but it seemed the stress of her sister’s situation was wearing on her. Everything in him admired Annabelle and wanted to save her. He wanted to rush downstairs and plow through the library alongside her in search of something to please the bureaucratic paper-pushers in the government. He’d even considered sending Otis to Mexico in search of that elusive orchid the Smithsonian seemed so eager to discover. Which was ridiculous. That orchid was long extinct, and he depended on Otis for the daily operations of his business.

But the burning urgency to help Annabelle would not ease. He’d use the book she loaned him as an excuse to talk to her.

Pulling on a pair of pants made his head whirl, and he had to sit for a moment to regain his balance. He put on a necktie, combed his hair, washed his face, then grabbed the book and carefully headed down the stairs.

He moved slowly, placing his feet gently to avoid setting off a firestorm in his head. The door to the library was closed, but he knew she was inside because he’d watched her arrive only an hour earlier.

He opened the door to see her sitting on the floor, an explosion of paperwork in stacks around her. It didn’t make any sense. What was she doing with all those old papers? When she looked up, her face was awash with guilt.

The antique chest containing his most private letters was open. He looked at the papers before her, unable to believe his eyes. He moved closer, and there could be no doubt. She was looking through his family’s personal correspondence.

“What are you doing with those?”

She abruptly closed the trunk and gaped at him, apparently speechless. His father had saved his letters, hundreds of them sent from the Far East, Africa, and Central America. Those letters were like peeling back the skin on his soul, and she had been reading them. It took every ounce of willpower not to snatch them from her hand.

Dizziness drove him to reach for a chair before his knees gave out. He held on to the back, bracing himself against the anger roiling inside.

“I am a private person,” he ground out. “My father was as well.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered.