“Okay, sunshine, but first, let’s go back in there...” I tilted my head toward the stairway. “...and wait for Patrick. Hopefully he found something.”

Araneae looked down at her watch. “It’s a little after eight thirty. What time do the people start working?”

“The offices open at nine. I’d like to be long gone by then.”

We slipped back through the door the direction we’d come, my hand wrapped securely around hers as footsteps from above came closer. I didn’t need to ask. I could tell by the expression on Patrick’s face that his excursion had been as fruitful as ours in the basement. He simply shook his head as he descended the wooden steps in front of us. With Araneae secured between us, I took up the rear.

Stilling our steps, we peered one last time around the basement, taking in remnants left over the centuries, those of memories, logs, and mementos. These were items—or what was left of them—that at one time someone thought to save. Or maybe they were things that no one cared to discard. Regardless, we hadn’t given ourselves enough time to thoroughly search every nook and crevice.

We needed to get out of this church now. And yet, by the magnitude of debris, I doubted that a week would be long enough to search.

We didn’t have a week.

Our time was running out.

We tried and came up empty—yet I wasn’t willing to accept defeat.

Once outside, Patrick secured the door and texted the driver as I stuffed Araneae’s and my blue latex gloves into one of the pockets of my jeans and again secured her hand. Together we walked toward the small graveyard.

Again, her small hand trembled in my grasp. That was her only outward sign of apprehension. With her neck straight and shoulders back, she stepped determinedly toward the enclosed graveyard. Letting go of my hand, she reached for the latch.

“Araneae,” I said, stopping her. “I never meant for me finding you to bring you here.”

She looked up with her soft chocolate eyes, full of a magnitude of emotions. “I’m glad it did.”

So fucking strong.

Awe simply didn’t come close to describing the admiration I had for this beautiful, resilient woman beside me. I’d been wrong when I’d said she was fragile. That description didn’t afford her the credit she deserved for all she’d endured in the past twenty-six years or for what I’d subjected her to in the last month.

In my eyes, her strength surpassed mine or even Patrick’s or Reid’s.

Yes, each of the three of us could look death in the face and walk away unscathed. That took a backbone of steel and a dead, nonfunctioning heart.

Araneae faced untold challenges and met them with love and emotion, baring herself in a way that scared the shit out of me. She faced the loss of parents and then the possibility of a family, only to have Pauline throw it in her face, and yet she didn’t stop.

She opened herself to Annabelle.

She was willing to risk it all for Louisa.

She had taken a man, one with not all pure motives, and allowed him to see that there’s more to life than success, money, and revenge.

I tugged Araneae’s hand as she began to enter. “I love you so much.”

Her small hand reached up to my cheek. “Sterling, I love you too. Thank you again for keeping your promise, being with me for the good and bad, and for bringing me here. I’m sorry we didn’t find what we wanted,” she went on, “but I feel like I’ve found so much more than a few compact discs. With each day since you bulldozed your way into my life, I’m finding more of me.”

I kissed the top of her head, her silky blonde hair beneath my lips filling my senses with her shampoo and hairspray.

Taking a deep breath, we stepped carefully between the gravestones. As I scanned the writing, I saw there were some graves dating back to the 1800s. Few were into the second half of the 1900s, and then we came to one that was only a few inches high in the front, a bit taller in the back. A small rectangular-shaped stone. Carved upon the surface was a tiny angel, one with a baby’s body and face.

---

---

Letting go of my hand, Araneae fell to her knees as she ran her fingers over the engraved stone. Without looking up, she spoke, her voice cracking yet filled with the determination uniquely hers. “It’s surreal to see my own name.”

I moved down to my haunches, wrapping an arm around her as the sedan entered the parking lot. “We should go.”

She peered toward me. “Do you think we could find out who this is and give her a proper burial?”

I shook my head as I stood. “No, the coffin is empty.”

“What?” she asked, still kneeling on the ground.

I offered her my hand and helped her stand. “From what I understand, there was a body. Rubio and my father had it exhumed.”

Her expression changed, morphing to one of shock as she stood and brushed off her knees. “Why? Why would they do that?”

I shook my head. “My father never told me. My mother mentioned it last week and McFadden confirmed it. Mother said it was to do DNA testing, and Allister told her that he’d been lied to. He said the baby was you.”

“No, you said...”

I reached for her shoulders. “I said you...” I emphasized the word. “...are Araneae McCrie and of that I’m confident. The mitochondrial DNA verified it. Sitting at a table with you and Annabelle, not only your coloring but your mannerisms confirmed it. You are Araneae McCrie. My father lied. It was what he did.”

“It makes me sad to think an infant died and was never properly honored.”

My mind went not to one infant, but tens—no, hundreds—of children who were never properly honored: those who lived through the hell of the Sparrow and McFadden outfits.

I reached for Araneae’s hand. As we carefully stepped around the headstones and graves, making our way to the iron gate, another car pulled into the parking lot.

Leaning against the sedan waiting for us, Patrick looked up, his hand moving under his jacket as he watched the car that was joining our gathering.

Shit.

“We need to go,” I whispered.

Araneae nodded as we shut the gate and hurried to the sedan.

The recent addition to the parking lot was an older model Buick, not black like our sedan, but a shade of red closer to maroon. As we hurried toward the sedan, the driver’s door opened and a woman approximately in her fifties stepped out.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Our feet stopped as for a moment we remained silent.

“I’m Jackie Fellows,” she said. “I’m the senior minister here. Are you looking for someone?”

“No,” I replied. “We’ll be on our way.”

She took a step toward us, looking closer at Araneae than at me. “Miss, are you all right? Would you like to talk to someone?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Araneae replied.

“You look sad.”

Araneae’s gaze went from Patrick to me and back to the minister. “I came to see a grave, and now, it was...more emotional than I expected.”

The woman took another step closer. “I don’t have meetings until later.” She finally looked up at me and forced a smile. “Please, come in the church and we can talk.”