Carla Neggers - Stonebrook Cottage

Kara sat on the edge of an overstuffed armchair a few feet from her godchildren. She’d gone to a store decorator with the dimensions and style of her living room and said go to it. She liked to think she’d have time one day to fuss with proper renovations and decorating, but this was her life, she thought. Here she was, listening to two middle-schoolers defend their inexplicable actions.

Henry had always been precocious and quiet, skilled at getting people to do what he wanted them to do without them even realizing it. He wasn’t manipulative so much as an effective negotiator, always certain of what he wanted the outcome to be. In this case, apparently, it was to convince his godmother that he and his sister had run away with their mother’s permission because they all were in big trouble.

Kara recognized the heavy cream-colored stock and dark green ink, the elegant lettering, of Allyson’s personal stationery. Nice touch. The letter inside was handwritten. Smart. If it had been typed, she’d have nailed Henry and Lillian immediately. The handwriting was similar enough to Allyson’s to pass initial muster, and whoever had done the writing had even thought to use her signature black fountain pen. Kara still wasn’t willing to declare the letter genuine. She read skeptically:

Dear Kara,

I know this will come as a shock, but you’re the only one I can trust right now. Henry and Lillian are in grave danger. We all are. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Please take them to Stonebrook Cottage and wait for me there. Tell no one! Don’t call me. It’s too dangerous. I’ll come to you. Please, Kara. I’m trusting you with my children. I have no other choice.

Please believe what they tell you and do as they ask. I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Allyson

When she finished, Kara quelled any sense of panic or urgency she felt in response to the dramatic words she’d read. She had to stay calm and reasonably objective, and above all, she had to think. At the very least, she had a tricky situation and two troubled kids on her hands. But if the letter was genuinely from Allyson, it was a dangerous situation, confusing, mystifying, illogical…and, still, she had two troubled kids to see to.

Stonebrook Cottage was located at the end of a dirt road on the southern border of Stockwell Farm. Allyson owned it, and Kara had stayed there a number of times during her years up north.

“Henry, Lillian. Listen to me.” Kara refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “If this is a forgery, I’m not going to be happy about it. Do you understand?”

They nodded solemnly, their expressions serious, frightened, tired.

Kara was unmoved. These were her godchildren, and she loved them, but she couldn’t let that lower her defenses. “What grades did you get in English?” she asked. “You first, Henry.”

He gave her a blank stare. “What?”

“Language arts, English, writing—what were your grades?”

“A’s.”

“He got a D in math,” Lillian said without looking up from her book.

“What did you get in language arts?” Kara asked her.

“A’s.”

Henry and Lillian are in grave danger. We all are.

The letter didn’t make any sense. Allyson was the governor of Connecticut. If she thought her children were in danger down in Texas, why not call Texas authorities? Or send a couple of state troopers to fetch them? At least why not call Kara and ask her to intervene? Why take such a huge risk and have them sneak off to Austin on their own?

If she didn’t want to involve law enforcement, Allyson was rich—she could hire a private bodyguard.

Nothing in Allyson’s call had prepared her for this development. Her friend had sounded genuinely near panic.

Kara knew how to shoot and had taken a couple of self-defense classes, but that was it. She didn’t have the training, the expertise, the weaponry or the mandate of the Texas Rangers, the Austin police. Allyson had to know the entire state of Texas—including Kara’s brother—would be on alert for the two missing kids of a New England governor. How did she expect Kara to get them out of Texas on the sly? Allyson’s actions defied logic.

For two middle-schoolers to engineer such an elaborate plan and think it made sense—that might not defy logic. The trauma of Big Mike’s death, homesickness, isolation and a natural sense of drama could have gotten Henry and Lillian plotting, but there had to be more. Something else had to be going on.

What?

Suddenly hot and frustrated, Kara shot to her feet and turned the air-conditioning up a notch. She heard it hum, felt the rush of cooler air. It was almost ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock in New England. She recalled her brief conversation with Allyson. “I have a million people around right now, so I can’t talk, but Kara—please, keep an eye out. I know you’re a ways from the ranch, but maybe they’ll turn up.”

Was that a hint?

Not bloody likely, Kara thought. Henry and Lillian’s story had to be bogus. It was the only reasonable conclusion, and it meant their mother and the people at the dude ranch were still worried sick about them. It meant the searches for them would continue. It meant all hell would be breaking loose in Texas and Connecticut until someone tracked them to their godmother’s doorstep—or until Kara called her brother and told him what was going on.

Lillian yawned, her book looking heavy on her skinny thighs.

“Don’t you two want to call your mother and tell her you arrived safely?” Kara asked.

Henry seemed to know she was trying to trip him up. “She told us not to call. You’re supposed to take us to Stonebrook Cottage and wait for her there. Doesn’t she say that in the letter?”

He’d know if he wrote it, wouldn’t he? Kara tried to keep her skepticism from showing. Her godchildren had gone through a lot of trouble to get her to believe them—it was important to them. She needed to be very careful about how she unraveled their story.

Lillian lifted her thin shoulders. “We’re just doing what Mom told us to do.”

Kara returned to her armchair, sinking into its soft cushions. She was still hot, the cooler air making little difference, and she was tired and torn about how to proceed.

One thing she knew for certain. The kids’ story had a million holes.

“Aunt Kara, you’re a lawyer, right?”

She narrowed her eyes on her godson, wondering what was coming next. “Yes, why?”

“I was just making sure. If you’re a lawyer, that means everything we tell you is confidential. You can’t tell anyone. Right?”

Kara stared at him. “Henry, I’m a lawyer, but I’m not your lawyer.”

“But that’s why Mom sent us to you! She said we can trust you because you’re our lawyer. Aunt Kara, you can’t tell anyone! We trusted you!” He balled his hands into fists, his mouth set, his face screwed up with determination. “We wouldn’t have said anything if we didn’t think you were our lawyer.”

“You mean you told me this whole story believing I was representing you? Henry, Lillian—I’m your godmother. I can’t be your attorney! Well, I can be, but I’d need explicit permission from your mother, or a court would have to appoint a guardian ad litem for you and then you could hire me.” Kara groaned, her head screaming now. “I’m not your lawyer, so get that out of your heads.”

Henry was near panic. “But that’s the only reason we told you—”

“Hold on—relax.” Kara got back to her feet, wondering who was in control of this situation, her or the kids. “If you told me this whole tale believing I was acting as your attorney and it was privileged information, then that’s what it is. Privileged information. I can’t tell anyone.”