Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II by Abby L. Vandiver Read Free Book Online Page B

again?”
    I
didn’t say anything to him. I put my gardening gloves back on and grabbed
another impatiens out of the slat. After he saw he wasn’t getting an answer, he
got up and headed back in the house.
    “Don’t
forget to look at the letter I put on your desk,” he said over his shoulder.
    I
dug another hole.
    “No
need putting this off,” I said out loud.
    I
stuck the trowel down in the dirt, pulled off my gloves, and threw them down
next to it. I may as well get to it.
    I
stood up and brushed the dirt off my bottom and knees and slapped my hands
together. I followed behind Mase back in through the French doors, into my
study.

 
     
    Chapter
Eight
     
    The
letter from the publishers sat front and center on my desk. Mase wanted to be
sure that I didn’t miss it. How could I have? Even if I didn’t get the letter,
they would be calling me soon enough. Kate Gianopoulos didn’t seem to give up
on me. Maybe she was eager to let the world know the truth. I couldn’t
understand why. They couldn’t have made “one red cent” (my mother’s saying) off
of the last book.
    I
stood behind the desk, grabbed the letter opener, and ripped open the envelope.
I sat down holding the letter in my hand.
    I
had left out so much stuff that was in the manuscripts in that first book, I
thought as I sat there holding the letter, not even looking down to see what
was written.
    The
Dead Sea Fish. It was going
to be more honest. More academic. The thought of putting it out really scared
me. But it was only part of it.
    One
step at a time, I thought. Peel away that stinking onion layer by layer. Maybe
then people would be more receptive. It needed to be known, though. So, I went
back and forth between having the guts to tell the story, or not putting myself
out there. Or not only putting myself out there, but getting the proof I needed
and dropping it all on the world. Getting the proof had won out.
    Deep
down (way down), I knew after I read the Latin in the back of Dr. Sabir’s notebook
that just giving out the information from the manuscripts wouldn’t be enough. I
would write the book, since the publishers were waiting. I would get the ball
rolling, while I worked on getting the proof.
    I
looked down at the letter and saw the encircled feather logo. Meredith-Wilcox
Publishing, known mostly nowadays as just Wilcox Books, was a family run
publishing house in Cincinnati. It was in Lincoln Heights, a neighborhood that
wasn’t what it once was. But that change hadn’t affected Wilcox Books. It was
an old business, small but self-contained. Housed in a bungalow-styled brick
house, on a corner lot, it once served as the Meredith’s personal residence.
Now the basement had been converted into a fully functional printing shop that
produced all the company’s books. The warehouse was the attached garage and the
rest of the house served as the offices.
    I
thought about that little publishing house. Sitting stalwart, overcoming all
the challenges it had gone through. Standing through the test of time, bending
with the winds of change that blew in a new wave of self-publishing and Indie
authors, those not seeking or needing traditional publishing, Wilcox Books was
still a vibrant company.
    I
read the letter. It was pleasant enough even though what it really was saying
was, “What the heck are you doing? Send us the darn book already.”
     I
leaned my body forward, rested my elbows on the desk. Hands holding up head, I
started to chew on my nail. My eyes wandered over to my bookshelf. There on the
shelf was even more of a shocker than what the manuscripts had revealed.
    Dr.
Sabir’s little secret at the back of his notebook. Those four seemingly
innocuous pages in Latin. I remembered how I didn’t bother translating them
when I did the rest of the notebook. Thought they couldn’t mean much, and I
didn’t know Latin. It would have been a chore to translate it. But, scrawled
out in fountain pen, barely legible, written on the last