Besides, Trey knew everyone. Adam Byler, now the township police chief, had been friends with Link’s big brother since they were kids, running around together, usually trying to brush off Link, the bratty little brother tagging after them and getting into trouble.
“Hey, Link.” Adam pulled off sunglasses and started toward him, followed by another cop…Dick McCall, fiftyish, balding, with a paunch that strained his uniform shirt a bit more each year. Mac had been a township cop when Link had been soaping windows at ten.
“Sorry to call you out.” Link leaned against the porch post, hoping it didn’t look as if he needed its support. “It’s probably nothing, but I figured you’d want a look at this.”
“No problem. That’s what you pay taxes for, right?” Adam punched his shoulder lightly, the tap a hint of the power that lay behind it. Adam was as solid now as he’d been in high school, with not an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. “Let’s have a look.”
Trey joined them, giving Link the worried look he’d been using since Link got out of the military hospital and came home to recuperate.
“What’s up?” Trey’s voice was so much like Dad’s that it still shocked Link sometimes. “Adam said you found something inside the wall of the addition.”
He jerked a nod and headed inside. “See for yourself.”
The family room, stretching across the rear of the centuries-old farmhouse, seemed smaller with four men in it. They stood in an awkward circle around the opened suitcase.
Adam took the photo, setting it so they all could see. He glanced at Link. “You know who the woman is?”
Link shook his head, frowning at a vague memory that teased at the back of his mind. “The face seems a little familiar, but that’s all.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Trey said, sounding annoyed with himself that he didn’t have the answer.
Mac picked up the photo. “You three boys are too young to remember, that’s all. It’s Barbara Angelo, that’s who it is.”
“Angelo.” The frown on Adam’s stolid face deepened. “Wasn’t there a scandal or something about her?”
“Ran off from her husband and kid, that’s the way I heard it.” Mac looked gratified at their attention. “Russ Angelo, the husband, said she’d gone back to Indiana to her family, leaving the little girl with him and his mother. Barbara was Amish, see, left the church to marry him, but the marriage didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “It happens. Nobody questioned her leaving all that much, as I recall.”
“But if her suitcase is here…” Trey let that trail off.
No point in going on. Trey was thinking what they were all thinking. If Barbara Angelo had deserted her husband and small daughter, what was her suitcase doing in the wall of Allen Morgan’s house?
Adam closed the suitcase, scanning the sides with his eyes, not touching. “No ID tags. The kind of cheap bag you could pick up at any discount store.”
To Link’s eyes, the bag looked worn and battered, but maybe that was just the effect of being inside the paneling all these years. It was thick with dust, splattered with darker stains and a few nicks here and there.
Adam seemed to scan the stains more closely, then looked around the room. “Where was it?”
“Right here, next to the fireplace.” Link showed them, concentrating on not limping as he crossed the room. Maybe that sledgehammer had been a bit much. The army said he was as well as they could make him, after what had happened in Afghanistan.
Adam squatted down, studying the area as deliberately as he did everything. “Well, it’s not a crime to put a suitcase inside a wall. You two know when this work was done?”
“We were kids when Uncle Allen built the addition, that’s as close as I can come,” Trey said. “Mom would know exactly, though.”
Adam let his gaze move around the room. “I hate to say it, but I think we’d best make sure there’s nothing else inside that paneling.” He shot a glance at Link. “You mind?”
“Hey, I’m tearing it off anyway. I’ll take any help I can get. One thing’s sure—if there is anything, it has to be in this room. The rest of the house has solid double-plank walls. Not room even for a mouse.”
Let alone a human body, if that’s what they were talking about.
“Well, let’s have at it.” Trey picked up the sledgehammer before Link could reach it. He managed a grin at Link. “You sure this isn’t just a ploy to get us to do the work for you?”
“How else would I get you to do it? You’re still dead set against my selling the old place, aren’t you?” Link softened the question with an attempted smile, but he’d be glad if everyone would stop hovering over him.
“I just wish you’d stick around for a while, that’s all,” Trey said. He punctuated the words with a swing of the sledgehammer. “Seems like Morgans belong here in Lancaster County.”
Trey didn’t understand this drive of Link’s to leave—that was clear. Link wasn’t sure he understood it himself, but life had to be easier someplace where people weren’t worrying about him all the time. A buddy of his was keeping a job for him in California. He had a simple plan: renovate the house, sell it, move to California and forget what had happened to his team in Afghanistan and the career he’d once thought to have in the military.
With four of them working, the job didn’t take long. Soon all the old paneling lay in dusty stacks on the floor.
“Nothing.” Adam summed it up, brushing off his hands. “Maybe that’s what the whole thing amounts to. I guess there could be some innocent explanation for the woman’s suitcase being inside the wall of your uncle’s house.”
“Can you think of one?” Trey challenged. Link could hear the worry in his voice. He’d be thinking about how Mom would take this.
“Not off the top of my head,” Adam admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Still, crime or no crime, I guess I’d better look into it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
That was aimed at both him and Trey, Link supposed. After all, it had been their uncle’s house. There would be talk, speculation about the possible relationship between Allen Morgan and the Angelo woman. Adam might want to keep it quiet, but they all knew how impossible that was in a place like Spring Township.
Link picked up the photograph, looking into the big brown eyes of the little girl, feeling again that sense of something wrong he’d had the first time he looked at her face, reminding him of those other children who saw death and destruction everyday. Stronger than that—it was a sense of empathy, as if the child meant something to him.
“One thing I do know,” he said. “This kid, or rather, the woman she is now—she deserves to know what happened to her mother.”
MARISA ANGELO FELT as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she left Baltimore. Cutting the car engine, she stared at the house in front of her. It stood on the fringe of the village of Springville, but still gave the illusion of privacy, hidden as it was behind a hedge of lilac bushes so high that nothing could be seen from the road.
Marisa got out slowly, pushing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the house. It was probably like a hundred other farmhouses in this rural area of Pennsylvania; a two-story white frame with black wooden shutters on the windows. But instead of being surrounded by neat flowerbeds, it hid behind overgrown trees, its windows shielded by blinds so that it seemed to sleep.
A shiver slid through her. She was being morbid. She shouldn’t let this experience get to her. From the moment the police chief called her, after being unable to reach her father, she’d been focused on one thing only: get here. Find out what this place had to do with the