The Abandoned - By Amanda Stevens Page 0,1

clout than hers.

Following Trudy to her desk, Ree battled an inexplicable urge to glance over her shoulder. “Can we at least check the files? There must be someone out there who would want to know about Miss Violet.”

Trudy looked up with a heavy sigh. “Honey, I’ve been here for over twenty-five years, and in all that time, not a single, solitary soul has ever paid that old woman a visit. I’m sure her family’s all gone by now. Or else they just don’t care. Anyway, it’s out of my hands. As I said, Dr. Farrante will handle the arrangements. He’s always taken good care of Miss Violet.”

Ree couldn’t argue with that. Miss Violet’s private suite—bedroom, bath and sitting area—was located in the south wing of the hospital, a quiet, sunny area with peaceful garden views. Ree could imagine Miss Violet sitting there year after year, watching the seasons pass by. Waiting for spring. Waiting for the violets outside her window to bloom.

Trudy picked up a thick packet from her desk and handed it to Ree. “Here. If you want to make yourself useful, take this up to Dr. Farrante’s office. I’m sure he’s gone for the night so just leave it on his assistant’s desk.”

Ree glanced back down the hallway. “What about Miss Violet?”

“What about her?”

“It just seems so sad, leaving her all alone like that.”

Trudy’s face softened and she gave Ree’s arm a motherly pat. “You’ve done all you can for her. More than anyone else has bothered in years. Now it’s time to let her go.”

She was right, of course, and Ree honestly didn’t know why the death had hit her so hard. She’d only been working there a couple of months and at Miss Violet’s age, her passing wasn’t unexpected. Given her circumstances, some would call it a blessing. She was free now.

But Ree couldn’t shake the lingering pall as she climbed the stairs to Dr. Farrante’s second-floor office. The swish of her sneakers sounded like whispers and she found herself turning yet again to check the hallway behind her.

The outer office door was open and she took a quick peek inside before entering. The spacious suite was much as she would have imagined—subdued and tasteful, from the soft brown leather furniture to the thick Oriental rugs on the teak floors. She walked across the room and placed the package squarely in the center of the desk so the assistant would see it first thing when she arrived the next morning.

It wasn’t until Ree turned to leave that she realized the set of double doors leading into Dr. Farrante’s office was also open, though only a crack. The sound of his voice stopped her cold and she paused, not meaning to eavesdrop so much as she wanted to savor the timbre of that rich baritone.

Then she heard a second voice and as the conversation continued and Dr. Farrante’s anger became apparent, she was too afraid to move, too worried that the telltale squeak of a loose floorboard might give her presence away.

“…shouldn’t have come here!”

“Oh, trust me, Nicholas, what I have to tell you warranted a special trip. Besides, I thought I’d look in on Violet while I’m here. My father’s recent passing has made me realize she won’t be around for much longer. I hope you’ve finished your latest treatise.”

A warning tingled down Ree’s spine. What did this man have to do with Miss Violet?

“Your concern for her is touching,” Dr. Farrante said sarcastically.

“As is yours. The Farrantes have always taken such good care of my aunt.”

Aunt? So she did have a living relative. Why had this man not come to see her before?

“She’s lived a long and, I believe, contented life here,” Dr. Farrante said.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

“And just what do you tell yourself, Jared? You or your father could have taken her out of here at any time. Made a place for her in the family home.”

“You never would have allowed that.”

“But you never even tried. So let’s not kid ourselves. The arrangement suited everyone involved.”

“The arrangement is why I’m here,” the man said. “I assume you’ve heard about the plans for Oak Grove Cemetery.”

Dr. Farrante’s voice sharpened. “What plans?”

“Camille Ashby wants to have the cemetery restored. She has her sights set on the National Register in time for Emerson University’s bicentennial. Of course, she’ll have to get approval from the committee. You can’t so much as paint a front porch in this town without their say-so. But