Dangerous Inheritance. Barbara Warren

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      Macy swallowed her disappointment. What had she expected? That everything would immediately fall into place? When had her life ever been that easy? She walked over to stand in front of the white fireplace with a marble mantel holding several pictures of people she probably should know.

      She waited for a hint of recognition. Nothing happened. She turned to Nick. “Is one of these my mother? Would you know?”

      He gave her a curious look, and pointed to a photograph of a woman laughing at the camera. She had the same red hair as Macy and now that she really looked, there was a resemblance in the planes of her face, the curve of her lips. Not an exact replica, but there could be no denying the similarities.

      “You don’t know what she looked like?” Nick asked.

      She wasn’t sure how he would take it or if he would even believe her, but it was time to tell the truth. “I don’t remember her. I don’t remember my father, either, or even remember living in this house. The first seven years of my life are a total blank.”

      Macy watched him trying to take this in. It probably sounded like something she’d made up, but let him try living with it, try realizing that a part of him was missing. That he didn’t know what exactly, just the gap in his life. See how he felt then.

      “You don’t remember anything?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

      She hadn’t expected him to understand, so why was she disappointed by his reaction? Why would she care if he believed her or not? His belief or disbelief had nothing to do with the truth.

      “I have dissociative amnesia. According to my doctor it happens when a person blocks out certain information usually caused by stress from something a person has witnessed. My memory begins when I woke up in the hospital with Grandma Mattie sitting by my bedside. I have no recollection of ever being in this house. I’m hoping living here will help restore what I’ve lost.”

      If not, at least she would know she’d tried. But if she could recall the events of the night her mother died, perhaps she could remember the face of the killer, and it would not be her father. It would take strong, irrevocable proof to make her believe otherwise.

      Nick still looked uncertain, as if not sure what to think about everything she’d just said. “Let me get this straight. You don’t remember anything about living in this house. You don’t even remember your parents? Is that what you’re saying?”

      She gave the collection of photos on the mantel a second look before answering. “That’s right. I don’t remember anything about them. And I don’t remember the grandmother who lived here. She was never a part of my life after I moved to Oklahoma. I didn’t know anything about her until I got a call from her lawyer.”

      He nodded, as if in some way he understood, but he couldn’t. Not really. No one could unless they had lived it. She barely even understood it herself. But according to what she’d learned, she’d been born here, had lived here with her parents the first seven years of her life. Been attacked and left for dead the night her mother was murdered. Add that to the fact that all memories of her parents were gone, as if they had never existed. Then tell her she had no right to dig around in the past. She had every right, whether Sam Halston and Raleigh Benson liked it or not.

      Or Nick Baldwin, either, for that matter.

      Macy reached for the picture of her mother, and something rustled at the back of her mind. Laughter, soft arms holding her close. Almost as soon as the image came, it vanished, leaving her aching for more.

      Her mother.

       She wanted her mother.

      The house had waited for her, large, empty and filled with secrets. Macy suddenly had an overwhelming desire to leave—get out of this place.

      Resolutely, she gripped the mantel with both hands, fighting down the billowing wave of fear threatening to submerge her.

       God, where are you? Help me. I can’t do this on my own.

      Gradually the feelings subsided, leaving her in some semblance of control. She took a couple of shaky steps toward the next room. Nick followed, not saying anything, but she was aware of the way he watched her, as if expecting her to fall apart. Well, she almost had, and she was sure there were other shocks waiting for her in this house. She had to expect that. Would she be strong enough to do this?

       Only with Your help, God.

      Next was the dining room. A long walnut table surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs caught her eye. A matching sideboard sat along one wall with mounted pictures depicting the four seasons arranged above it. Beautiful furnishings, but nothing here spoke to her. Macy moved on, walking through the downstairs.

      She ended up in the entry hall again and turned toward the staircase. Nick stopped her. “From what you’ve said, you probably don’t remember, but you were found here at the foot of the stairs. You’d been knocked unconscious. At first the police thought you were dead, but when they discovered you were breathing they rushed you to the hospital in an ambulance.”

      Macy grasped the newel post with both hands. She’d been found here? Why couldn’t she remember?

      “Where was my mother?”

      “She was lying in front of the living-room fireplace.”

      “How did she die?” She forced the words out through lips gone numb with shock.

      Nick placed his hand over hers, his expression compassionate. She fought an urge to lean against him, draw courage from him.

      “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.

      She drew a harsh breath that was almost a sob. “I have to know. After all these years, I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I need to know everything.”

      He drew her away from the stairs. “Let’s sit down for a minute. This is going to be hard for you.”

      She let him lead her into the living room and sank into the chair he indicated. He sat across from her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze locked with hers, and she caught her breath at the concern reflected there.

      After a minute he started speaking. “She’d been hit repeatedly with the fireplace poker. They found it beside you, and believe you were struck with it, too.”

      Macy bowed her head, hands tightly clasped in her lap. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she furiously wiped them away. Beaten to death? Her mother? In this room? And she couldn’t remember. Even now, after what he’d said, she had a picture in her mind of what it could have been like, but she knew it wasn’t real, just a manufactured image. Not a memory.

      Nick caught her hands, holding them in his. “Macy, look at me. It was a long time ago. You were just a child. It has nothing to do with you now.”

      She raised her head to stare at him, tears blurring her vision. “It has everything to do with me. She was my mother. My mother was killed here, and I can’t even remember her. It’s like I’ve betrayed her in some way. Betrayed them both. My father died in prison and I can’t give the police the name of the person who destroyed my parents.”

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