Page 92 of Target Acquired
Cole hung up and turned into Kenzie’s drive. She blinked at the vehicles in front of her home. Cole chuckled. “Looks like the guys are putting their words into action.”
“I don’t see Butler’s vehicle.”
“He’s still stewing. Let him.”
He followed her inside, and after she greeted the others—and thanked them for showing up—she walked to the storage area and looked around.
“Want to finish this room while we have time?” Cole asked.
She walked over to the journal she’d left on the table. “Actually, I think I just want to curl up in that chair there and read this for a bit.”
“Well, I vacuumed it, so you shouldn’t have an allergy attack by sitting in it.”
She laughed. “I know. Thanks.”
He nodded. “All right then. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”
She studied him, her eyes soft and . . . secretive. The look dug into the very heart of him and he forced himself not to squirm. “Kenz?”
“I was just thinking. Thank you, Cole, for everything. For standing by me and supporting me—and just . . . doing all things right.”
He thought about that moment in the hospital. Not quite all things.
She smiled as though she could read his mind, settled herself into the overstuffed chair, and opened the book.
He turned to leave her alone when she gasped. He spun. “What is it?”
She held the book up. “This isn’t my grandmother’s journal, it’s yours.”
“What?” He joined her to look over her shoulder.
Kenzie pointed to the inside cover and he read, “‘This journal belongs to Eliza Crane. Please return if found.’ Huh. How about that?”
“Your grandmother must have given it to mine, and she kept it all these years.” She handed it to him. “I guess I’ll give this to you then.”
He took it and ran his hand over the cover. “Let’s read it together. I’m sure she mentioned your grandma Betsy in it.”
Her eyes smiled. “That would be awesome.”
He grabbed a chair from under the card table and pulled it around next to her. “All right, let’s see what Granny E has to say.” He opened the book to the first entry and began reading.
1947. I don’t even know where to start. Everything is so fuzzy at the moment, but I feel like if I don’t get the thoughts out of my head, it may explode. I’ve been here at the hospital for two days now and I’m truly living my worst nightmare. The only consolation is that Betsy came to see me and snuck in this journal and pen. I can’t say how wonderful it is that she knew I’d need this in order to survive. The screams from last night still echo in my mind. The poor lost souls who cry out for help that is nowhere to be found. So, how did I get here? Why am I here and how do I get out? Please, Jesus, comfort me. I’m terrified.
A tear slipped down Kenzie’s cheek and she swiped it away. “That poor woman.”
That poor woman had been his grandmother, and his heart pounded in sympathy at all she’d gone through at the hands of the man who was supposed to love and protect her. “Nobody knew how to deal with mental illness back then,” he murmured.
“Not sure a lot of people know how to deal with it today.”
“True.”
“And besides, she wasn’t really mentally ill, was she? I remember Grandma Betsy saying Eliza’s mind was just fine. It was her father who was the sick one.”
“Yeah, but he sure made it seem like she was.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe this was less than a century ago. Seems like it should be much further in the past. Want me to keep reading?”
“Sure.”
Nurse Alice is one of the nicer ones here. She apologized for cutting my hair so short in order to get rid of the lice. Who knew an infestation could happen so fast? But they took out the old bed and brought a new one, so maybe Father is pulling some strings even though he’s the reason I’m here. I thought I’d have to sleep in crowded conditions, but I’m the only one in the room. Again, probably Father’s doing since most every other room is packed to the brim. I doubt he’s doing it out of love. Maybe appearances? But he’s not telling anyone I’m here, so . . . why? I guess I’ll have to figure that out later. The thing that concerns me most is that they tell me I tried to kill myself. But that can’t be true despite the wounds on my wrists. I don’t want to die. I want to get out of here and find my William and start a new life. But how, when my father holds all the power?