Free The Witness by Dee Henderson Page A

was sitting across from my own father.”
    “Makes you mad?”
    “Yeah. Furious. But it’s another emotion for after the shock of all this fades. Please make yourself comfortable. Look around. I’ll start some coffee.”
    The apartment was large and open, the kitchen counter one of the few room dividers beyond the door leading into the bedroom wing. She found the canister of coffee and filled the carafe with water, glad to be back in her own kitchen and on her own turf. She set the coffee to percolating and pushed open lids to find something to share. She bit into a shortbread cookie and found it still fresh; she got out a check-patterned blue-and-white plate to set out the rest.
    She watched as Connor walked around looking at some of the artwork she had displayed around the living room. She’d hung a set of small oil portraits capturing four generations of one family, and on the far wall a fascinating piece that tried to capture the feeling of an urban city market. She particularly loved the small watercolor beside the clock, the scene capturing water flowing over a cliffside and falling into the sea below. She tried to keep variety in the art around her, to keep her own perspectives ever widening for what was possible to accomplish with paint. Over one of the couches hung her newest addition, a bold study in cubes and lighting, its vivid reds and greens dominating the white-painted brick wall behind the canvas. Connor’s expression was difficult to judge. “What do you think?”
    “You’ve got good natural lighting, and the tall ceilings—it makes this space really great. And the paintings—those are pretty nice too.”
    She smiled at the soft teasing she could hear in his reply. “Tracey calls it our brick warehouse, but she laughs as she says it. She’s the one who figured out how to get the stencils to work on brick.”
    He turned from studying the waterfall. “You’ve got a nice home. It’s elegant, Marie, and at the same time comfortable.”
    “I think so.” She pulled out a tray and when the coffee was done brought it over to the low table set between the two love-seat couches.
    He took a seat in the barrel chair and accepted the coffee mug she offered. “Thank you.”
    “I can almost see the lists being written; you took one look at this place and nearly winced.”
    Connor smiled. “Actually, this place I love. It’s that old door and lock downstairs, the dim hallway, the fire escape coupled with very old windows—there will need to be some work done in the next twenty-four hours to make it safe for you and Tracey to be here.”
    “I’m not willing to consider moving away from the only home I’ve known in the last decade just because I inherited some money.”
    He held up his hand. “Relax; there’s nothing here that money can’t deal with—new locks, doors, security system, and for the next bit, a security guard on-site for another layer of help. It doesn’t do much good to have a security alarm sound trouble and have the cops still be five minutes away from arriving to help, not when the risk is more personal than just a robbery.”
    “What kind of risk?”
    “With serious-sized new wealth? You’d be surprised, Marie.” He settled back in his seat with the coffee and studied her a moment before answering. “Any former boyfriends in your life? They’ll find reasons to want to pick up the relationship again. Anyone imagine they were once a boyfriend? How about former school friends who have hit a bad patch lately? Former or current business partners? There are dollars attached to your name now and all kinds of past grievances to imagine.
    “And that’s just the beginning, Marie. Then there are those who want to be near the fame and publicity of it all or be involved in creating it—the autograph hounds, the reporters wanting photos of you ‘relaxing at home,’ the admirers who would like to get to know you, the other lost children of Henry who will begin appearing wanting to