Quinn gathered her belongings and walked into Rhys’s office, ready to face his displeasure. He’d been brusque on the phone, and she expected a full-on bollocking for missing their meeting and not keeping him up to date on her findings. Rhys had a schedule to meet and the functions of various departments to coordinate. Quinn had never realized what went into making a television program, or how many people were actually involved in the production of each episode.

“Nice of you to show up,” Rhys said, pushing aside a memo he’d been reading and glaring at Quinn across his ultra-modern desk. “Scotland, was it? You could have given us a heads-up.”

“Rhys, I already told you; it was a personal matter of great urgency. And that’s all I’m willing to give you. Do what you will,” Quinn challenged him. Her attitude had the desired effect on Rhys, whose bark was worse than his bite.

“Have a seat,” he said and extracted a plastic container from the drawer of his desk. He pushed it toward Quinn with an air of someone making a peace offering. “Have a madeleine,” he said, his expression sheepish. Rhys enjoyed baking, and did it often and well.

“That’s a lot of madeleines,” Quinn observed as she took one to be polite. She was still full, but to refuse would have been churlish. Rhys took his hobby very seriously. The container held at least two dozen golden, shell-shaped biscuits.

“I was stressed,” Rhys replied. “Anyhow, let’s make a start. I have an appointment in half an hour.” Rhys looked furtive for a moment, but Quinn paid him no mind. Whom he met with was none of her concern. She’d really liked him once, but since finding out about his role in Sylvia’s life, she scaled their interaction to a minimum, keeping things as impersonal as possible. When sitting across from Rhys, it was hard to forget that he might have been her father.

 “Right. We are due to start filming the first episode next week. I’ll have my PA forward you a schedule. Now, what have you got for me on this new case?”

“Not much,” Quinn countered, annoyed by Rhys’s demanding tone. Quinn had every intention of telling Petra’s story, but she would do it on her own terms, and when she was ready.

“Come now, you must have something for me. It’s a fascinating business. Is it not?” he asked, his voice now silky and cajoling.

“Rhys, at this stage we are dealing with pure conjecture. According to Dr. Scott, our victims were mother and son, who died of blunt force trauma to the head. They were buried on the fringes of a leper cemetery, face down as a sign of disrespect. Their remains date back to early- to mid-fourteenth century, and those are the only hard facts we have.”

“Have you been able to locate any parish records?” Rhys asked. Quinn’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Rhys smiled and shook his head, instantly realizing the futility of his question.

“There are no parish records. Were you hoping I’d go deep-sea diving and see what I can salvage from a church that was claimed by the sea six hundred years ago?” Quinn asked.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Rhys retorted and reached for a biscuit. He leaned back in his chair and chewed thoughtfully as he considered the situation. “Actually, that’s perfect.”

“Is it?”

“There’s not a shred of evidence as to who these people were or why they died. Any story we decide to tell is as valid as any other. Since there are no records, no one can disprove our version of events, and I know that our version will be the truth, won’t it?” he asked, watching Quinn intently. “Come now. What have you seen, Quinn?”

Quinn sighed with resignation. Telling Rhys about her gift seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she wished she’d kept it to herself. Rhys had every intention of exploiting her to get his story, and nothing would stand in his way. Rhys Morgan gave the phrase ‘creative license’ a whole new meaning.

“The cross I found belonged to a young woman named Petra Ordell. She was a widow with three children, the oldest being a boy named Edwin. Edwin suffered from debilitating seizures which seemed to be brought on by stress. He might have been epileptic, but I can’t say for sure. That’s all I know so far.”

Rhys looked disappointed, but tried to make the best of the situation. “Well, I’m sure something of interest will crop up. This Petra didn’t get herself buried face down in the dirt by being a model citizen. So, the child was her son?”

“It would seem so,” Quinn replied. She had no desire to tell Rhys about Petra’s relationship with Avery or the details of Edwin’s true parentage. She needed to know more, but her stomach twisted with anxiety every time she thought of what awaited Petra and Edwin. They were ordinary people, the type of individuals who rarely made a mark on history, their lives of interest only to their descendants. What happened to them, and why had they been punished even in death?

“I’ll keep you posted,” Quinn said as she sprang to her feet, eager to put an end to the conversation. Rhys hadn’t asked about the silver necklace found at the site, and Quinn saw no reason to bring it up. She had yet to unlock its secrets, so there was nothing to tell.

“Wait, what happened with Chatham?” Rhys asked as he rose to his feet and reached for his coat. His next meeting clearly wasn’t at the office.

“Not a match.”

“Did you speak to him? What did you make of him?” Rhys asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“I thought he was a right old wanker, if you must know. A bully and a misogynist. Nice company you keep.”

“Come now, I haven’t spoken to the man since I was a teenager. Are you ever going to let me live this down?” Rhys asked, his expression petulant.

“Probably not,” Quinn replied, but without genuine heat. Continuing to stay angry with Rhys was pointless and counter-productive. “What can you tell me about Seth Besson?”

“Absolutely nothing. He was a friend of Robert’s. I’d only met him a few times. Have you searched for him online?”

“Not yet. I’m doing one potential dad at a time,” Quinn joked, but the truth was that she wasn’t ready to face the man who’d fathered her. She needed time.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Rhys offered without any enthusiasm. “Come, I’ll walk with you to the lift.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” Quinn replied as she followed Rhys out of his office toward the bank of elevators.

“Quinn, I’m meeting Sylvia,” Rhys suddenly blurted out. “She’s finally agreed to see me.”

Quinn nodded, unsure of what to say. She wouldn’t tell Rhys this, but she had a newfound respect for him. Facing a woman you raped three decades ago was not for the faint of heart, and Rhys deserved some credit for taking that step toward forgiveness.

“Good luck,” Quinn said and meant it.