Free Endless Night by Maureen A. Miller Page B

your relatives.” Her hand flipped helplessly at his growing amusement. “What did you find?” She stepped into the glow.
    In silent invitation, Jake shifted to make enough room for her to sit beside him and benefit from the weakening ray of the flashlight. Megan glanced at the gritty floor, and then at the extensive legs splayed across it. For an instant, she hesitated. Curiosity won out over discomfort, and in a nimble move, she dropped down beside him. Interest piqued, she bowed her head over the book.
    “Let me see.” It felt awkward leaning in so close to Jake, close enough to breathe in the scent of detergent and soap.
    Aside from the clothes, he must have used the basin and the Ivory bar to wash up. Jake smelled clean and masculine and she drew in that aroma like it was a bed of flowers in this musky sea.
    A woman’s magnetic eyes, even in black and white, drew Megan from the tempting scent of Jake’s neck to the face in the photo.
    “Oh—my,” she whispered.
    Jake nodded, close enough that the gesture brushed her hair. “Exactly. You can offer an unbiased opinion,” he said. “Do you see any similarity?”
    Earnest in his need for her judgment, Jake looked at her. When their eyes met, Megan held her breath. She knew if she expelled it, it would dust across the full lips that were only two inches away from hers. Jake must have made the same observation. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there.
    “Hmm?” The hum vibrated through her.
    “I said do you see any resemblance?”
    She wrenched her glance to the glum woman in the book. The similarity was there, although not blatant. Even in black and white, Gabrielle’s long hair looked flaxen; her face ashen in contrast to what seemed a natural tan on Jake. Pale eyes were void of the myriad bursts of color that gave Jake so much character, but aside from those dissimilarities, there was the rugged protrusion of cheekbones. On Gabrielle’s frail countenance they seemed harsh, but on Jake, the stark planes and square jaw served to give him a determined mien, the tense look of one in charge.
    “Yes, I see some resemblance.”
    “Just some?” He sounded disappointed.
    Megan forced herself to look again. On the few occasions that she had met Gabrielle Wakefield, she recalled gray hair cut into a pageboy and a thin face with a quick smile. There were signs of illness, shadows where flushed skin should have been, but from what Megan could recall, Gabrielle had tried her hardest to secret those signs. Fluffy scarves around a thin neck, droopy hats to shade weary eyes, all layers of camouflage.
    The woman in this picture still had her youth, yet after all these years, the sadness in her pale gaze had never dissipated. Megan wondered if someone would look back at pictures of her someday and think the same thing.
    “Okay, yes. I see similarities. The facial structure. Though her eyes are pale and your eyes are—” Megan swallowed when she looked into those cascades of color, “—are different. But you can see that they’re shaped the same. Almost an almond effect.”
    “Different?” A scuff of a boot and the shift of a long leg had Jake resting his head back against the cinderblock wall, though still watching her. “What do you mean different?”
    “But Gabrielle never had any more children. Supposedly she couldn’t.” She disregarded his question.
    Jake frowned. “Says who?”
    “Harriet. Who claims to have heard it directly from Gabrielle many years ago.”
    “I don’t know.” He touched the face on the yellowed page and then snapped the book shut. “I just go by what I see, and the note of a woman I never met. If she was barren…” he ran a hand through hair that was still wet, and Megan noticed a furrow of frustration spike across his forehead, “…why did she send that letter?”
    There was already enough mystery in Megan’s life. The last thing she needed was more unanswered questions. But the earnest way Jake clutched that book,