Chapter 9: What the Old Man Wrote

Jasper Quarles did not sleep after she left.

He sat at the desk in the suite with a glass of water he had not touched and the lamp turned low.

The bed behind him still smelled of her.

He had told himself that three times already, and it kept being true.

At six he called his assistant.

"Everything we have on the Tarleton family. Everything Ambrose has sent my office in the last month. I want it by seven."

"Mr. Quarles, it's six in the morning."

"Seven," Jasper said, and hung up.

The folder was on his desk at five to.

Eleven letters, all on cream paper, all in the same cramped handwriting.

My dear boy. Your grandfather and I had an understanding. I would like to see it honored before I die.

My dear boy. I have a granddaughter who has come home. She has her faults, but she cooks like an angel.

My dear boy. My birthday is the fifteenth. You will come.

Jasper read each one twice.

Under the letters was a one-page summary his assistant had typed.

Willa Tarleton, 25, was the younger daughter.

She had left the country three years ago and returned this week.

She had worked in a hotel kitchen abroad. She had never married and was not engaged.

Returned this week.

He set the page down very carefully.

Ambrose had begun writing about a granddaughter this month.

That same week a granddaughter had walked into his suite and asked to be his mistress.

He had not liked coincidences since he was nineteen.

She had said she needed money. She had refused to say why.

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