I sat at my desk and casually perused the old photo album. I reached for a carrot and crunched loudly as I turned the page, getting lost in local history as I thought about the last few months.

After our wedding, I returned to Florida with Christian and began a new chapter in my life. The summer had been fraught with challenges. Abby's mother, Autumn, was one of them.

Christian and Aunt Christy's suspicions that Autumn had intercepted my letter to him and sent that hateful reply had been accurate. She'd denied it at first, but after finding out that Christian and I had reunited, she couldn't hide the disappointment that her wickedness hadn't worked. She'd been livid, and her first tactic had been to lash out at me. I knew how to deal with mean girls. I laughed at or ignored her nasty comments and snide remarks. And of course, her crude insults were directed at me when nobody else was within earshot. Autumn immediately slipped into the role of dutiful mother, showing up at the appointed time to take Abby every other weekend. After finding out the day we'd planned to get married, she went so far as to ask her lawyer to petition a judge so she could get special permission to have Abby that weekend. She'd made up some stupid reason, but her petition had been denied.

I'd asked Christian once, "What is behind her obsession with you?"

He'd shrugged his shoulders and said, "She must be into guys who treat her like shit, because I don't think I've ever been nice to her."

"Do you have any friends you could introduce her to?" I'd asked sarcastically. "Someone who would treat her worse than you did? Maybe it'll distract her enough that she'll back off." Christian knew she'd mouthed off to me, but he also knew I was adamant about him not interfering. I wasn't afraid of Autumn. Annoyed, yes. But she wasn't a real threat.

"Isaac Brooks," he'd said, interrupting my thoughts. "I could introduce her to Isaac. He treats women pretty crappy."

After hearing sordid tales about Isaac’s love life, and then finally meeting Jonas and Lucy Brooks's son, and seeing him in action, I had to agree. I shook my head. "I could never do that to the mother of your child. Even if it's Autumn, nobody deserves him," I confessed. As much as I wanted to make Autumn go away, putting her in the hands of Isaac Brooks was tantamount to putting a bull’s-eye on her forehead and sending her into a shooting range. Isaac was a notorious womanizer who left a trail of broken hearts everywhere he went.

The phone rang with a loud shrill and I jumped. Reaching for it, I picked up the receiver and said, "Bascom-Little Family House and Historical Museum. This is Mimi."

"Why aren't you answering your cell?" Christian asked, frustration oozing from each syllable.

"Because it didn't ring," I told him while simultaneously reaching for my phone. "Oops," I said before he could reply. "I forgot I turned the ringer off while I was adding up receipts."

Upon arriving back in Fort Lauderdale, I'd immediately started looking for a full-time job, but Christian was against it. He told me to use the summer to settle in. I could work full-time if I wanted, but he'd rather I use the time to take care of priorities. I knew what he was talking about and finally relented.

I needed to find someone to talk to about my eating disorder. It had gotten out of control in the months leading up to my graduation and our wedding. I couldn't continue to ignore it. I hadn't yet made any new friends in Florida so I reluctantly approached Aunt Christy for help. She listened to the same story I'd told Christian, and had the same reaction. No judgment, only concern. She helped me find not one, but three therapists.

"You should make an appointment with all three, Mimi," she told me. "And keep seeing whoever you make a connection with." She'd been right. The first two were strikeouts, but the third was a charm. Not only did I like her, she'd given me the lead for the part-time job opening at the museum.

"Are you?" Christian asked.

"Uh...hmm?" I'd been daydreaming and only half paying attention to what he'd said.

"Are you going to yoga after you see your therapist tonight?" he repeated.

My dislike of formal exercise had never waned. And even though I still enjoyed sparring regularly with Christian at his friend’s gym, I found that I craved something else. My therapist had suggested yoga, as there was a small workout center where they held classes in the same building as her office. Unfortunately, after only taking a few lessons, it had closed. I'd yet to find a new place.

"I know it's been weeks, but I haven't found another place yet. At least not one that I like."

"Yoga classes are a dime a dozen." His word were confident. "You'll find another one."

"Yeah, I know." I paused before asking, "Why did you ask?"

"I know it's not our regular night, but I was wondering if you minded if we got Abby tonight? She could come to our house instead of going to my parents'."

I smiled. "I never mind, Christian. You know that."

"I know," he answered. "But, if you go to yoga then we can't have dinner together. It'll be too late for her."

"That's okay. It's not like I was planning on it. I can start looking for a new place another time."

"There's something else." His voice floated through the phone with an air of apology. "She's at Autumn's mother's place, and you'll have to pick her up. I have to work later than usual."

I'd forgotten that instead of getting Abby on Friday night and returning her to Aunt Christy and Uncle Anthony's home on Sunday night, Autumn had asked to pick her up on Saturday night and return her tonight, Monday. Ugh.

There was a loud chime indicating that someone had come into the museum.

"It's not a problem. I'll pick her up, Christian," I assured him. I let him know someone had walked in before hanging up.

I closed the photo album, tucked it under my arm and made my way to the front of the museum. The Bascom-Little Family House and Historical Museum was exactly what its name implied. It was one of the oldest homes built in Fort Lauderdale, passed down several generations. The entire home still contained furnishings from as far back as the early 1900s.

I smelled moth balls before I saw her. I approached the elderly woman with a smile on my face and said, "Welcome to the Bas—"

"You must be Miriam Bear," she interrupted. She was hunched over and leaning on a cane. She cocked her head to one side, looking me up and down.

"Yes, I am. Please call me Mimi. And you are?" I tried to raise the inquisitive eyebrow that never cooperated.

"Mrs. Winifred Truncle," she cackled. "The Truncles have been in Fort Lauderdale longer than the Bascoms. I'm on the board that approved your employment." She paused for effect. "Miriam."

She spoke with an air of superiority that amused me. It was ninety degrees outside yet she wore an antiquated lavender dress that fell to her ankles, and a mink stole that had obviously been retrieved from a closet that had been doused in moth balls.

I started to thank her when she said, "It's hot in here!"

It wasn't hot, more like stuffy, but it wasn't due to the temperature.

"What kind of last name is Bear, Miriam?" she asked me.

"It's Native American," I replied proudly. I placed the album on the table next to her, and opened it to a random page to better display it. She peered down, then looked back at me. "That's what I thought when I voted to approve your application. But you don't look Native American."

"I'm not," I answered kindly. "My husband is half Cherokee and half Seminole."

"A mixed marriage!" she spat.

Her uppity nature had amused me. Her nasty reaction to my mixed marriage shocked me.

"I had no problem giving my approval for a Native American employee. I believe in that, you know? Giving opportunities to minorities." She raised her chin in indignation. "But I don't believe in mixing the races. That's how King Solomon fell out of grace with God. He married women outside of his own ethnic group. It was displeasing to God." She took in a deep breath and waited for me to react. Did she think I was going to throw myself on the mercy seat of Winifred Truncle and pray for her forgiveness for marrying a Native American? It was laughable.

Like I'd told Christian that night at the rental house in South Carolina, I wasn't good at Scripture memorization, but I had studied the Bible. And I knew that God's command for King Solomon not to engage in an interracial marriage was not because of skin color or ethnicity. Rather, it was because God didn't want the Jewish people to intermarry with cultures that worshipped other gods. What a sad and twisted interpretation of God's Word Madam Truncle had used to fuel and justify what could only be summed up with one word—racism. I was beginning to wish there had been a job opening at the Stranahan House instead of here.

Apparently, she considered my delay in responding as acquiescence, and she focused on the album I'd returned to the table. "You should know Fort Lauderdale's history if you're going to be of any value here."

I'd been doing my best to bite my tongue. I liked this job, and because I hadn't seen Mrs. Truncle before, I highly doubted she came by regularly. I started to tell her that I'd been familiarizing myself with all of the literature and historical items in the home when she thumped her finger on the album.

"That used to be a family-owned mercantile. It's a furniture store now," she huffed. I peeked down and saw that it was a page toward the back of the book that I hadn't seen. She flipped to the next page and let out another disgusted breath. "A gentleman's club that's now a gas station. Not even a regular gas station. It's one of those that has a restaurant inside. If you can even imagine!"

I glanced down at the beautiful building and nodded in agreement. The architecture couldn't be appreciated with gas pumps and a hamburger sign that screamed for attention. She flipped another random page and I saw her face redden. Looking down at what had incited her, I had to blink twice to see if what I was looking at was real or a figment of my imagination.

I knew the history behind the picture, but clamped my jaw shut and let Mrs. Truncle ramble. With a bony finger she thumped the black-and-white photo several times before sneering, "There's a car dealership there now. It's just as well. It's one landmark I was glad to see go. Should've been called the hotel of horrors."

I knew why she thought that, but the word was out before I could stop it. "Why?" I squeaked.

I stooped lower to inspect the picture while she spoke. It was in black-and-white but I could imagine the colors of the sign that boasted The Glades Motel. Below it stood a balding old man, his pants high on his waist and a cigarette dangling from between his lips as he tried to smile for the camera. The picture was obviously taken by a tourist who'd wanted a memento of where they’d stayed. But the man and the sign weren't what caught my attention. Winifred Truncle's rant rattled around my head as I focused on another figure. Standing behind the old man, off to the right, with a rake in his hand, was a young boy. He looked like he'd been caught unaware and had been prepared to turn his head away, but the picture had been snapped before he could. I had no doubt I was seeing Grizz as a child. I also had no doubt there was no other picture anywhere in existence like it.

"Are you listening to me, Miriam?" she snapped.

"Yes, I've been listening," I said, shaking my head. "I'm sorry, actually, I didn't hear the last thing."

She gave me a hard stare and repeated, "I was saying that my dear friend had a granddaughter who fell in with that bunch of miscreants. They drugged her up, used her, and killed her."

I looked back at the picture and gulped.

"Her name was Miriam. Just like you." Her voice sounded softer.

I knew who Miriam was. Moe, my namesake, silently screamed through my head. Yes, she'd died, but it was from an overdose. Of course I hadn't had anything to do with it, but I felt a wave of sadness and shame.

"And all I can say," Mrs. Truncle continued, "is that I am grateful that my friend and Miriam's parents died before they found that poor girl. Do you know where they discovered her?"

I could feel a wave of heat as it made its way up my spine. She was right. It was hot in here.

"After holding her prisoner and torturing her for years, he murdered her and buried her on her own parents' property. What kind of cruel and evil mind would do that to a family? To put their dead child's body right beneath their noses?"

I looked at her and I didn't see anger in her eyes. I saw sadness.

"Like I said, I'm glad her parents and grandparents didn't live to see it. Of course Miriam's sisters know. They still have to live with what that horrible man did to her." Her voice had lost its bluster. She turned and headed for the door. "Thank the good Lord he's dead now. Of course, God only knows how many demon seeds he planted all over South Florida while he rained down terror. You be careful out there, young lady. You never know when you might be looking evil right in the eyes." She slowly turned around and headed toward the door.

I heard her cane thump as she walked down the steps without shutting the door behind her. I started to close it when I heard her muttering to herself, "The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love...but He will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and fourth generation."

I remembered when I'd first learned about my biological father, Grizz, and how I'd refused to call him anything other than the evil sperm donor. And that was exactly what feisty Winifred Truncle had just implied. Her head would've exploded if I'd told her she was staring into the eyes of his demon seed.

I watched as her driver helped her get into the back of a black Cadillac Sedan that had to be older than me. Closing the door, I grabbed the album and went back to my desk. I didn't have any museum visitors for the rest of the day. During that time, I managed to carefully remove the last tangible remnant of my father's childhood, and replace it with a picture from the same era that I'd found in a box.

After closing up the museum I headed for my car, and reached for the flyer that had been tucked under my windshield wiper. It wasn't until I got inside that I unfolded the thick paper.

WHORE was scrawled in bold black letters.

Could this day get any crappier?