The Inn at Rose Harbor by Debbie Macomber

ups and equally rapid downs. His heart pounded hard against his ribs while he struggled within himself.
    “I apologize, Michelle,” he said, turning to face her and planting his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t know what it is about Richard that makes me so angry. I didn’t mean to blow up like that.”
    “It’s a volatile situation,” she said. “I understand.”
    Josh stuffed his hands in his pockets. She was right; it was that all right, and more.
    “If you want I’ll ask Richard if I can look through his bedroom for your mother’s cameo.”
    Josh shook his head. “It would probably be better to just wait.”
    “You mean …”
    She didn’t say the words out loud. She didn’t need to complete the thought for Josh to know what she was asking.
    “Yeah,” he confirmed. Josh wanted to wait until Richard was dead to find the cameo, if it was to be found. No sense unsettling the old man any more than he already had.
    “So which room was yours?” Michelle asked as they stood in the middle of the narrow upstairs hallway. Dylan’s bedroom was on the right and Josh’s on the left. The bathroom they’d shared was at the end of the hallway. The master bedroom was downstairs. Josh wondered if Richard had taken that into account when he purchased the house years ago, anticipating that he wouldn’t have the strength to climb the stairs in his old age. He couldn’t now; otherwise he would have followed Josh up the staircase.
    Instead of answering Michelle’s question, Josh opened his bedroom door. The room looked exactly as it had when he’d been in high school. The bedspread was the same one that had been there when he’d left—correction—when he’d been kicked out.
    The dresser and mirror were also exactly as he remembered them. He walked over and opened the dresser drawer and frowned. Instead of his T-shirts being in the top drawer where he always kept them no matter where he lived, he discovered his socks and underwear. They were stuffed haphazardly inside, which was just the way he’d left them—in a different drawer. The second one down held the T-shirts.
    “Do you want to pack up any of these clothes?” Michelle asked. “They look almost brand-new.”
    Josh shook his head. “I’d prefer to give them all to charity … except,” he paused and smiled at Michelle. “I want my letterman’s jacket.” He’d earned that letter his senior year in track. Dylan had been the athlete who all the girls had pined for, but Josh had made his mark on the track field. He wasn’t a great runner, but he’d been good enough to make the team.
    “Where’d you keep it?” Michelle asked, sounding excited herself.
    She’d made a point of attending all the school’s sporting events, including the track meets. Josh remembered how she used to cheer the team on from the sidelines, and was grateful. A couple of times he’d gotten a ride home with her. His mother had been too sick to attend the meets and Richard, well, he couldn’t be bothered. Even driving to pick Josh up after an event had seemed to be a huge burden for him, and he’d always complained. So much for parental support.
    Josh slid open the closet door. A couple of shirts remained and a good pair of slacks, the very ones he’d worn to his mother’s funeral. Then he saw his letterman’s jacket.
    “Oh, Josh.” Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth.
    Someone had taken a razor blade to the sleeves, ripping them open, slashing away at the leather.
    Someone?
    Josh was able to narrow that
someone
down to a single individual in less than a second.
    Richard.
    It could only have been Richard. For an instant he saw red. Josh wasn’t about to stand by and ignore this. He didn’t care that Richard was sick, this was destructive and immature for a grown man. Josh started out of the room when Michelle placed a restraining hand on his arm.
    “Why?” Josh demanded. “What did I ever do to Richard that would give him reason to destroy the one thing I