Beautifully Dead - Chapter 01

An Immortal Affections serialized novel

The email arrived at 2:17 AM, sandwiched between a conference reminder and a department budget request. Dr. Amelia Everett might have deleted it outright, like the dozens of other DNA match notifications she'd received since participating in Dr. Samoset's population genetics study last semester. But the subject line gave her pause: AncestryGlobal DNA Results: Unexpected Heritage Match - C.T.Everett, Virginia.

Amelia squinted at her screen, the blue light harsh in her darkened office. The bitter tang of cold coffee lingered on her tongue as she surveyed the three empty cups forming a semicircle around her keyboard—casualties of her late-night research session on disease transmission patterns in Civil War field hospitals. The radiator in the corner hissed and clanked, fighting against Boston's early spring chill that seeped through century-old window frames.

"Probably another distant cousin claiming Mayflower ancestry," she muttered, clicking it open anyway. Her keyboard's soft tap-tap-tap punctuated the silence.

Rather than the usual congratulatory message about finding her 47th cousin twice removed, the email contained only a link to the AncestryGlobal site. With a sigh, she clicked through and logged in.

The genetic breakdown appeared standard enough: 67% Northwestern European, primarily English and Scottish, aligning perfectly with her documented Boston lineage. A scrolling bar showed distant connections to third and fourth cousins—predictable matches to her father's well-documented Massachusetts family tree.

But there at the bottom, highlighted in orange: Strong genetic connection to undocumented family line. Multiple matches to individuals with Southern U.S. ancestry.

Below that: Closest familial match: C.T.Everett, represented by Taylor & Whitmore Law Offices, Fredericksburg, VA.

"That can’t be right." Her voice echoed in the empty office, bouncing off metal filing cabinets and framed maps of Civil War battlefields. "The Everetts have been in Massachusetts since 1630!"

She pushed back from her desk, the chair's wheels squeaking against the worn linoleum. Her eyes burned from fatigue as she rubbed them, and the faint smell of dusty books and dry-erase markers permeated the air. The department was half-empty due to the seasonal cold sweeping through campus. Dr. Chen from Epidemiology had sent a mass email recommending remote work for anyone with sniffles or sore throats.

A law firm with access to someone's genetic material? The thought clung to her, unsettling as cobwebs against skin. She jotted the firm's name in her research notebook—a habit from years of archival work—then closed her laptop with a definitive snap. Methodological error, obviously. Genetic testing companies were notoriously unreliable for anything beyond broad population markers. She'd examine it more carefully later, after some sleep.

---

The call came three days later, while she was grading papers in her cramped office. Outside, rain pattered against the window, turning the campus quad into a maze of puddles reflecting gray skies.

"Dr. Amelia Everett?" The voice carried a distinct Southern drawl, smooth as aged bourbon, incongruous against the backdrop of Boston traffic honking and splashing outside her window.

"Speaking." She tucked the phone against her shoulder, continuing to mark a particularly problematic essay. Her red pen scratched across the page, circling an error about cholera outbreaks during the Peninsula Campaign.

"My name is Harrison Taylor, with Taylor and Whitmore Law Offices in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I do apologize for calling you directly—I found your number in the university faculty directory. I hope I'm not intruding on your day."

The unexpected courtesy caught her off guard. In Boston, people rarely apologized for simply making a phone call. "It's fine. What can I help you with?"

"I'm calling regarding the Everett Estate."

Amelia's pen paused mid-correction. The nib left a tiny red pool on the paper, blooming outward like a miniature wound. The name clicked into place—the law firm from the DNA notification. "I believe you have the wrong person. As far as I know, there is no Everett estate."

A soft chuckle came through the line, warm and textured like well-worn leather. "That's what makes this situation so interesting, Dr. Everett. We've been searching for descendants of Charles and Thomas Everett for nearly fifty years. I sent you an email yesterday, but perhaps it didn't reach you?"

"It did not," she said, her spine stiffening. "Charles and Thomas Everett you said?"

"Yes, the Everett family held property outside Fredericksburg which has remained in trust since 1895, awaiting a direct descendant. The last recorded inhabitant was Thomas James Everett, a Union Army chaplain during the Civil War."

The orange highlight from her DNA results flashed through her mind. Her stomach tightened with the peculiar sensation of discovering unknown terrain on a map she thought complete. "There must be some mistake. The Everetts have been in Boston for generations. My father documented our genealogy extensively—"

"Back to 1630, yes." The interruption was polite but firm. "The Winthrop Fleet. I've reviewed your family history, Dr. Everett. What's curious is that your great-great-grandfather James Everett appears to have... selectively edited certain branches of your family tree. It seems he deliberately obscured the family's Virginia connections after the family moved back north."

Amelia reached for her laptop, pulling up the DNA results again. The spring air carried the scent of wet earth through her partially open window, mingling with the aroma of the cooling Earl Grey tea on her desk. "I'm a historian, Mr. Taylor, so where’s your proof? I require evidence before accepting claims that contradict well established records."

"Of course. I've emailed documentation, including the original trust documents and property deed." There was a pause, followed by the sound of papers shuffling like autumn leaves. "There's also the matter of the DNA match that led us to you."

Her finger froze on the trackpad. The office suddenly felt too small, the walls of academic journals and historical maps closing in. "How did you access genetic material for comparison? That seems ethically questionable at best."

"We've been submitting the Everett DNA profile to various databases for years. The samples came from preserved items in the estate. When our results matched, the search was finally over."

Amelia felt a chill that raised goosebumps on her arms, despite the overheated office. "That's not possible without consent. There are privacy laws—"

"Which we've adhered to scrupulously," Taylor assured her. His voice remained steady, like a river current moving beneath a calm surface. "The terms of service you accepted for Dr. Samoset's study included potential notifications of familial matches for historical reconciliation purposes. Paragraph seventeen, subsection B, if you're inclined to review it."

She wasn't. Nobody read those agreements—a professional oversight she was now regretting. As a historian, she prided herself on thoroughness, on reading the fine print of centuries-old documents to extract hidden meaning. Yet she'd clicked "accept" on her own genetic data without a second thought, allowing unknown entities to sift through the most personal information she possessed. The irony wasn't lost on her.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Taylor?" The clock on her wall ticked loudly in the silence between questions, marking time with mechanical precision.

"Nothing beyond confirmation of your identity, which we now have. The property belongs to you, Dr. Everett. Approximately twelve acres, including the original homestead, though I'm afraid it's in considerable disrepair. The trust has maintained the property taxes, but little else."

Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses, feeling the indentations the frames had left after hours of wear. "I have no interest in Virginia real estate, Mr. Taylor. I'll sign whatever you need to liquidate the property and close this matter."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. The terms of the trust specifically prohibit sale except by a direct descendant who has physically visited the property. Thomas Everett was quite explicit on that point."

"That's absurd. I have classes to teach, research deadlines—" The scent of her forgotten tea grew stronger as it cooled, herbal and slightly bitter. She'd added Earl Grey to her strict coffee regime two days ago, when the department's cold had claimed its fourth victim. The tea, loaded with honey and lemon, was her mother's old preventative remedy—one of the few maternal traditions she still maintained.

"The property has waited fifty years, Dr. Everett. I imagine it can wait until your semester ends." His tone softened, like someone gentling an uneasy animal. "Though I should mention there's been renewed interest in historical properties in our area. The county historical society has inquired about access several times."

Something in his voice caught her attention—a subtle shift in cadence that reminded her of dissertation committee members withholding crucial information. "What aren't you telling me, Mr. Taylor?"

A pause, filled only by the sound of rain intensifying against the window panes. "There have been... unusual preservation requests surrounding the property. A Mr. Elijah Merriweather from the local historical society seems particularly interested in the main house and certain artifacts reportedly contained therein."

Amelia reached for her tablet, quickly searching the name. The screen's light illuminated her face in the gray afternoon. "Merriweather... any relation to Dr. James Merriweather? The Confederate physician?"

"I believe so, yes." Taylor sounded surprised, the first crack in his polished professional veneer. "You're familiar with him?"

"I specialize in Civil War medical history, Mr. Taylor. Merriweather's field hospital techniques were revolutionary, if ethically questionable." She hesitated, tracing her finger along the wood grain of her desk. The familiar thrill of academic discovery pulsed beneath her professional demeanor. "What artifacts are we discussing exactly?"

"Personal correspondence, primarily. The inventory mentions letters, journals, and various medical documents dating from 1861 through 1865."

Amelia straightened in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her. The sound of her rapidly increasing heartbeat seemed to fill her ears. Unpublished Civil War medical documents were extraordinarily rare, particularly those from Confederate physicians. Her recent paper on disease transmission in military encampments had been criticized for relying too heavily on Union medical records.

"I suppose I could arrange a brief visit," she said, attempting to sound reluctant rather than increasingly intrigued. "Strictly to assess the historical significance of the materials."

"Excellent. When might we expect you? The spring is quite beautiful in Virginia." The pleasure in his voice was as tangible as the worn leather binder of her father's genealogical research on the shelf above her desk.

Before she could answer, a notification appeared on her screen—another email from the department chair. Three more faculty members had called in with head colds. Classes were moving online for the remainder of the week as a precaution.

"It seems my schedule has unexpectedly cleared," she said, the taste of possibility as distinct as the lingering coffee on her tongue. "I could drive down this weekend."

"Wonderful. I'll have the keys and documentation ready. And Dr. Everett?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to bring appropriate footwear. The property has been... undisturbed for some time."

After ending the call, Amelia sat motionless, staring at the DNA results still displayed on her screen. A mysterious Southern heritage. A secret branch of her family tree, deliberately obscured. A Union chaplain with property in Confederate territory.

She opened a new document and began typing methodically, the keyboard's rhythmic clicking blending with the rain's percussion against her window:

Preliminary Research Questions:
1. Why would a Union chaplain own property in Virginia?
2. What connection existed between Thomas Everett and Dr. Merriweather?
3. Why did my family deliberately erase this connection for generations?

The familiar structure of a research outline calmed her racing thoughts. This was simply an unexpected historical investigation—nothing more than an academic puzzle to solve.

Yet as she booked her hotel in Fredericksburg, a strange sensation settled over her—the peculiar weight of history reaching forward through time, searching for something it had lost. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle mist, and for a moment, she imagined she caught the faintest scent of lavender beneath the musty office air.

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