“Really?” He lifted one eyebrow in a sceptical look.
A chill wrapped itself around her heart. He didn’t believe her.
“Let me be sure I have this straight. First, I’m a schemer, and now I’m a liar?”
“Don’t forget a spoiled little rich girl,” he said.
“Fine.” Ice-cold fury stiffened her backbone. “If that’s what you think, go. I don’t need your help.”
“I suspected as much.” Dillon’s smirk made her want to smack him, but she managed to maintain her dignity until he left the attic.
Then she promptly burst into tears.
Dillon paused halfway down the narrow staircase. Noelani’s sobs pricked at his conscience. “You’re a real jerk, Makua,” he muttered under his breath. He should go and make sure she was all right.
Unless the waterworks were a deliberate ploy, a bid for sympathy.
Could Noelani cry on demand? How good an actress was she?
Not that good, he decided and was just about to head back up when he heard the first of several loud thuds, punctuated by some very creative profanity. Apparently, she’d progressed beyond the hurt feelings stage into the desire-to-cause-bodily-harm stage. Not the best time to apologize. He headed downstairs instead.
But the minute he stepped onto the moonlit verandah, he realized leaving wasn’t an option either. Their only transportation was the four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee they’d rented at the Hilo Airport, and if he took off, Noelani would be stranded here alone until Lily Yamaguchi showed up tomorrow. If Lily Yamaguchi showed up tomorrow. Considering tomorrow
was Sunday, that was a pretty big if.
Damn.
As he stood debating his next move, the porch light came on and the front door flew open. Noelani rushed out and grabbed his arm. “Wait!”
Very dramatic. Pretty damned effective, too, especially factoring in the entreaty in those big hazel eyes. “You just told me to go,” he said.
“I know what I said, but please don’t leave. Not until you see this.” She held out a photograph.
Noelani wasn’t trying to manipulate him, he realized, and felt like a bastard for suspecting otherwise. “You found it. The original.”
“No, it’s not the picture of my grandfather. It’s a picture of my Great-uncle Thomas.”
Dillon took the photograph from her trembling fingers.
“I dropped a box and this photo fell out of an old album. His name’s on the back. There’s no mistake. Besides, I recognize him from photos taken when he was younger.”
“What’s the big deal?” Dillon asked, then fell silent as he got a good look at the picture of a middle-aged man in a priest’s cassock. “I thought you said your Great-uncle Thomas died when he was in his teens.”
“He did,” she said. “I’ve visited his grave. He’s buried in the family plot in Hilo.”
“There must be some explanation.”
“Like what?” she said. “Great-uncle Thomas miraculously rose from the grave?”
“Maybe your great-uncle faked his death, then secretly ran off to become a priest.”
“Great-uncle Thomas was knifed to death in a bar brawl. I’ve read the old newspaper clippings. Grandmother kept them in the top desk drawer in her office. I think she felt guilty, as if his death were her fault.”
“How so?”
“Grandmother made a habit of rescuing her brother, but this time, she was too late.”
“Knife wounds aren’t necessarily fatal,” Dillon pointed out. “Maybe the family just pretended he died. Maybe they were so embarrassed by the scandal that they forced him into the priesthood.”