Chapter 4 - A Promise Made in the Smoke
Betsy opened the door before Darwin could stop her.
The stranger collapsed inside.
Blood stained his coat.
Darwin caught him.
“Who did this?”
The man struggled to speak.
“Vale.”
Betsy locked the door.
Darwin dragged the stranger behind the counter.
His name was Martin Shaw.
Betsy recognized him after several seconds.
He had eaten at Oak Haven years ago.
Arthur knew him.
That realization frightened her more than the blood.
Martin pushed the photograph toward Betsy.
“Arthur told me to keep it.”
“Arthur knew Darwin?”
Martin nodded.
Betsy looked at Darwin.
“You lied.”
“I told you I never met him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Darwin’s face remained controlled.
“I didn’t.”
Betsy held up the photograph.
“You’re standing beside him.”
“That isn’t me.”
She stared.
Darwin pointed at the young man.
“My brother.”
Betsy looked again.
The resemblance was extraordinary.
“D.M.M.,” Martin whispered.
Darwin closed his eyes briefly.
“What?”
Martin answered.
“Daniel Matthew Myers.”
Darwin’s older brother.
Betsy felt the room tilt.
Arthur had known him.
Darwin explained reluctantly.
Daniel Myers disappeared twenty-seven years earlier.
He had been involved with men who eventually became part of the organization Darwin controlled.
Darwin spent years believing Daniel had been murdered.
Arthur King had apparently known something.
“But Arthur never told me.”
“Maybe he was protecting you,” Martin said.
Betsy hated that answer.
Dead husbands were impossible to argue with.
Martin explained that Arthur had once helped Daniel disappear after Daniel witnessed a killing.
The brass key opened a safe-deposit box.
Its number was hidden in the scratches.
Darwin stared.
“If Vale knows about it—”
“He does,” Martin said.
“Where?”
Martin looked at Betsy.
“Arthur left the answer with her.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What?”
Martin began coughing.
Blood touched his lips.
Betsy called emergency services.
Darwin tried to keep him conscious.
Martin gripped Betsy’s wrist.
“Recipe book.”
“What?”
“Arthur’s recipe book.”
Betsy stopped.
It was at home.
The old black binder containing every recipe Arthur had developed for Oak Haven.
Stew.
Pie crust.
Meatloaf.
Gravy.
He had written notes in the margins for twenty years.
Betsy had not opened it since his death.
Sirens approached.
Darwin stood.
“We need that book.”
“You’re not touching it.”
“Vale will.”
That changed things.
They reached Betsy’s house before midnight.
Cole and four men surrounded the property.
Inside, Betsy went directly to the pantry.
The binder was gone.
She stared at the empty shelf.
“No.”
Darwin searched the kitchen.
Nothing.
Betsy suddenly remembered Arthur’s habit.
When something mattered, he hid it somewhere boring.
Tax records.
She ran upstairs.
Darwin followed.
In the closet sat a box labeled 2019 RECEIPTS.
Inside was the recipe binder.
Betsy opened it.
Arthur’s handwriting nearly broke her.
Beef stew.
Two pounds chuck.
Carrots.
Potatoes.
Thyme.
On the final page, written beneath a recipe for apple pie, was a sentence:
ELIZABETH—IF DANIEL’S BROTHER EVER COMES, TRUST THE MAN, NOT THE NAME.
Betsy sat down.
Darwin read over her shoulder.
Neither spoke.
Beneath that was a number.
And an address.
Catskill Federal Bank.
Darwin whispered, “Safe-deposit box.”
Betsy looked at him.
“Arthur knew you’d come.”
“No.”
“He knew someone would.”
Darwin sat beside her.
For the first time since meeting him, he looked vulnerable.
“My brother disappeared when I was seventeen.”
“Did you love him?”
“He raised me.”
That answered enough.
Betsy touched the page.
Arthur had carried another man’s secret for decades.
She should have felt betrayed.
Instead she felt strangely close to him.
It was exactly the kind of thing Arthur would do.
Protect someone quietly.
Never ask for credit.
Darwin said, “We go to the bank tomorrow.”
“We?”
“The box belongs to whatever Arthur left you.”
“Then I go.”
“No.”
Betsy gave him a look.
Darwin sighed.
“We go.”
“Better.”
He glanced at the ring box still in her pocket.
“You haven’t answered.”
Betsy touched it.
“Ask properly.”
Darwin blinked.
“What?”
“If you expect me to pretend to be your wife, at least ask like a human being.”
He stood.
Then, awkwardly, Darwin Myers lowered himself onto one knee.
Betsy nearly laughed.
He looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“Elizabeth King.”
“Betsy.”
“Betsy King. Will you temporarily marry me so my enemies become marginally less enthusiastic about murdering you?”
She stared.
“That was worse.”
“I warned you.”
She laughed.
For the first time in months, really laughed.
Then she became serious.
“Yes.”
Darwin’s expression changed.
“Temporarily.”
“Of course.”
“And if you lie to me—”
“You leave.”
“No. I hit you with a skillet.”
“Understood.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger.
It fit.
Betsy looked at it.
Something about the moment felt too intimate for an arrangement.
Darwin apparently felt it too.
He stood quickly.
Downstairs, glass shattered.
Darwin drew his gun.
Cole shouted.
Betsy grabbed the recipe binder.
Footsteps crossed the kitchen.
Then a voice called from below.
“Mrs. King?”
Betsy recognized the voice.
May you like
It belonged to the insurance adjuster who had denied her claim.
And he had just entered her house carrying Arthur’s missing death certificate...
