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Gone

Karen Fenech

Copyright © 2009 by Karen Fenech

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Edition: 2010

First Edition

First Printing: October 2009

Published in 2009 by Gale/Five Star Publishing in conjunction with Tekno Books.

Set in 11 pt. Plantin.

Printed in the United States on permanent paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

(attached)

For Andrew, who takes every step with me

Acknowledgments

I owe a tremendous thank you to the following people:

Ernest J. Porter, Office of Public Affairs, FBI; Neal Schiff, Public Affairs Specialist, Office of Public Affairs, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.; and Tim Carlton, Coroner of Aiken County, South Carolina, who gave so generously of their time and expertise. Any inaccuracies or liberties taken with the information Ernie, Neal, and Tim so kindly provided are all mine.

Editor Brittiany Koren for her brilliant editing and for being so wonderful to work with; Editor John Helfers who is always available and so willing to help; Acquisitions Editor Tiffany Schofield who gives her all to each book release.

Fellow writers and friends, Judith Gelberger, Kenneth Puddicombe, and g. b. reist, for their invaluable input.

My husband Andrew and our daughter Pamela who know why.

Chapter One

In seven minutes, her mother was being executed.

FBI Special Agent Clare Marshall watched the clock mounted on the wall above her cubicle in the New York City Bureau office. After twenty-four years, three months and four days on death row, the state of Texas had grown tired of providing her mother, convicted murderer Jolene Marie Marshall, with room and board and was going to enact the death sentence handed down almost a quarter of a century earlier. Jolene would die by lethal injection at ten a.m. this July morning.

. . . in six minutes.

Clare had been five when her mother pointed a gun at her head and fired.

Boom.

Though Clare couldn’t recall it, she’d landed on top of the body of her older brother, Owen. Mama had shot seven-year-old Owen first. She would have shot the baby, Katie, too, if police hadn’t broken down the front door of their government-subsidized apartment before she could.

. . . three minutes.

Sweat broke out on Clare’s upper lip and along her hairline. Her heart pounded.

Someone in the outer office laughed. A phone rang.

The clock now read ten a.m.

Clare pushed her chair back from her desk with a screech. The air conditioner kicked on, blowing a gust of cool air down on her, yet the office felt stifling. Her chest felt weighted down. It was hard to breathe.

She had to get out.

She stumbled to her feet and staggered out of her cubicle.

“Clare . . .”

It was her team member, Benita Sanchez, calling out to her. Dimly, Clare recalled they had a meeting to go to. Clare ignored Benny and brushed by a trio of her colleagues grouped in the carpeted hall, waiting for an elevator. The stairs would be the quicker way down. Clare took them at a run. Her heels tapped against the tile in a staccato beat that echoed in the stairwell.

At the bottom, she headed for a rear exit—away from the smokers who gathered out front to enjoy a cigarette on the lawn.

She shoved the door open and charged into the alley beyond. Hazy sunlight beat down on the cracked asphalt and the faded brick of the old building. Clare squinted in the sudden brightness.

Fetid fumes from the overflowing dumpster wafted on a slight breeze. Clare didn’t care about the stench. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. In. Out. In. Out. When her breathing was regular again, she leaned back against the building. Her white jacket fell open, and a ray of sunlight glinted off the gun in her shoulder holster.

She’d just had what the psychologists who’d treated her in childhood called an “anxiety attack.” Though she hadn’t had one since her teen years, she hadn’t forgotten the symptoms, or what brought them on: vivid thoughts of the day her mother shot her.

The psychologists she’d spoken with over the years had blamed the attacks on fear. She’d certainly been terrified when Mama pointed the gun at her. But it wasn’t fear that triggered her panic, it was the awful emptiness of being completely alone in the world.

Her hands were almost steady now and she pushed damp strands of brown hair back from her face. Her first attack had come on when she awakened in a hospital bed weeks after her mother shot her and was told that her brother was dead, and that she couldn’t see her sister again. Katie had gone to live with a new family forever. At two years old, the baby had been promptly adopted.

The only thing that had calmed Clare was knowing that Mama was in prison. The officials from Child Welfare Services who spoke with Clare believed it was the reassurance that her mother would not be able to hurt her again that had given Clare ease, but they’d been wrong. Clare had been comforted knowing where her mother was—knowing where she could find her.

In the twenty-five years since the shooting, Clare had never gone to the prison to visit her mother, had never written, had never called. What her mother had done was horrific and Clare had not forgotten, yet . . . yet Jolene was her mother. The one person she belonged to and who belonged to her.

Now Jolene was gone and Clare was truly alone. She felt abandoned by the mother who’d tried to kill her. What did that say about her?

She closed her eyes, tight, tighter. Tears trickled from between her lids.

A sound—like the clang of cymbals—drew Clare’s attention.

She opened her eyes.

A convenience store was located behind the FBI office, separated by the alley between the two buildings. The door of the store was flung open. A gangly man, dragging a sobbing woman by her black curls, charged out. The woman wore a sleeveless yellow dress, but despite the heat, Clare could see she was trembling. The man held the barrel of a .45 to the woman’s head.

His acne-scarred face glistened with sweat that trickled from his hairline. His tiny eyes were glassy and glossy—hard and bright as diamonds. His pupils were dilated to the size of dimes. He was high on something. Damn.

His gaze met Clare’s and he swung the gun away from his hostage and fired a round at her. Clare dove behind the dumpster as the bullet pinged against the metal receptacle. She drew her gun.

She peered around the dumpster, looking for a safe shot, but the man had crouched behind his hostage, using her as a shield.

Clare shouted: “Federal Agent. Drop the gun and step back from the woman. Now!”

The man scuttled back against the wall of the convenience store. He ground the gun against the woman’s temple and she cried out. He hooked his arm under his hostage’s neck and jerked her back against his skinny frame. The woman’s tanned hands sprang up and she began clawing at her captor’s grip. She was sucking in air through her open mouth, gulping and gasping. Her eyes were beginning to bulge. Clare pressed her lips tightly together. If he didn’t relax his hold on her soon, he’d crush the woman’s windpipe.

The man tilted his head and peeked at Clare. His gaze locked on hers, staring without blinking. His lips curved in a small smile.

“Say bye-bye to the Federal Agent, pretty lady,” he called out in a sing song voice. “Bye-bye, Federal Agent.”

He was going to do it. Dammit, he was going to kill the woman right before Clare’s eyes.

She leveled her gun on the six inches of space between his head and the woman’s and fired.

The man jerked back, then just dropped. Clare didn’t doubt that she’d killed him. Her bullet had made a hole in his forehead.

The woman plopped forward onto her hands and knees. Her head was bowed. Her captor’s blood splattered her dark hair. She was whimpering.

Clare raced to the woman and crouched in front of her. “Are you hurt?”

The woman didn’t respond. An ambulance siren wailed, followed by a screech of tires Clare found reassuring. Someone had summoned help and it had arrived.

“Drop your gun!”

A uniformed cop with a sparse red moustache shouted the command from beside the dumpster that had shielded Clare.

“I’m a federal agent.” Clare held the gun by the trigger guard and let it fall onto the stained asphalt. She raised her arms at her sides. “My ID is in my jacket. Right outer pocket.”

He crossed the distance to her and retrieved her weapon and identification. More police and paramedics swarmed the alley. While the mustached officer glanced at her ID, Clare rose to her feet to make way for a burly paramedic bearing an oxygen tank.

“Can you tell us what happened here, Agent Marshall?” The officer handed back Clare’s ID and dug out a small notebook from his pocket.

Clare faced the policeman and began her statement.

Chapter Two

Clare ignored the knock on her front door. Whoever was behind it would go away if she didn’t respond. Billie Holiday’s mellow contralto played softly on a CD while Clare concentrated on the pages spread out across her lap. She was due in court the next day to testify in a case she’d worked on two years earlier and was reviewing her notes. Small wonder she’d never been complimented on her penmanship. She frowned at her own scribble. What was that word?

The person at her door knocked again. Clare stared at the door then, resigned, blew out a breath that fluttered her brown bangs. It looked like she was about to take a break whether she wanted to or not. She sprang off the low-back sofa and sprinted to the door.

Her window air conditioner had chosen last night to call it quits. New York City was experiencing unseasonably high temperatures—even for August—according to a weather report she’d tuned in to before popping in the CD. The DJ on the radio had declared, at its hottest, the day had been one hundred degrees in the shade.

Her large living room window was open to the screen, but the swift breeze that had rattled the blinds earlier had slowed to the occasional shallow breath. Even in shorts and a tank top, Clare was sweating.

She reached the door. She’d been reading for some time and, caught up in the case, hadn’t noticed that twilight had fallen. The room had dimmed and the chairs, table and desk that furnished her living room were no more than dark shapes now. She flicked on the overhead light and unbolted the door.

“Hello, Agent Marshall.”

It was a woman at Clare’s door, she saw when she swung it open. Clare recognized her at once as the woman who’d been held hostage in the alley.

One month had passed since that day. Clare had learned after the incident that the woman’s name was Theresa Sands. She’d gone into the convenience store to buy milk and interrupted a robbery in progress that left the teenage store clerk dead and resulted in her being nabbed and held hostage herself by the gunman.

Theresa looked well in a form-fitting dress in coral that suited her dark coloring. Her hair was swept back, probably in deference to the heat. Clare was glad to see that the woman appeared to have suffered no ill effects from her experience that day, but she shifted slightly, blocking the entrance to the apartment. The gesture was deliberately uninviting.

She guarded her privacy like a miser with his coins. Her job was only part of the reason her home phone was unlisted and only a handful of people knew where she lived. Growing up as she had—the daughter of a convicted murderer—she’d been hounded by press and curiosity seekers. She’d never denied her identity, but neither had she promoted it. Theresa’s presence at her door now made her wonder if there was a breach in her security measures.

“Hello, Mrs. Sands,” Clare said carefully.

Theresa reached out and clasped Clare’s arm in a tight grip. “Agent Marshall, it’s so nice to see you.” She smiled, revealing a slight overbite. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time. I really need to speak with you.”

Clare couldn’t imagine what Theresa Sands could have to say to her. Once paramedics had arrived in the alley, Clare had stepped back for them to examine Theresa. Her last glimpse of the woman was as she was being escorted into an ambulance for transport to the nearest hospital. Though Theresa had suffered no physical injury, Clare had recognized signs of shock in her enlarged pupils, rapid pulse, and bloodless lips.

“How did you find out where I live?” Clare asked.

A blush spread over Theresa’s cheeks. “It took some doing, let me tell you. I’ve been trying to track you down for two weeks. Your office wouldn’t tell me your address and in the end, I just had to visit all the Marshalls that lived in the vicinity of the FBI building.” Theresa rolled her eyes. “Do you have any idea how many Marshalls live in the city of New York?”

Theresa would have been surprised to learn that Clare did know the number of Marshalls residing in this location. Living in the highly populated area was just one precaution to remaining anonymous.

“Anyway,” Theresa said. “I found you. That’s all that matters.”

“A meeting at my office would have saved you a great deal of effort,” Clare said.

Theresa glanced over her shoulder, down the lit hallway, then back at Clare. “Yes, but what I have to tell you couldn’t be said in a public place. Especially the FBI office. I could get into trouble.”

For the first time, Theresa must have sensed that Clare wasn’t going to invite her inside the apartment. She dug her long painted fingernails into the handbag she held at her waist. Her nails sank into the buttery soft leather.

A door down the hall creaked open. Theresa glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the sound.

Clare noted the act. Was Theresa involved in something illegal, or maybe had fallen into something outside of the law? Clare knew she should advise the woman to leave and go directly to the nearest police station, but, clearly, Theresa trusted her since the incident in the alley, and Clare couldn’t bring herself to turn the woman away. Besides, Theresa had yet to release Clare’s arm. Her grip had tightened and now her nails were leaving their crescent shapes in Clare’s skin.

Clare gently broke Theresa’s hold and stepped back from the door. Theresa dashed into the apartment and Clare closed the door behind the woman.

Offering her a beverage might ease Theresa and bring her to the reason for the visit. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?” Clare asked.

She picked up her own drink from the coffee table then glanced into it and sighed. The thick frosted cubes of ice had melted to minuscule slivers. She returned the glass to the table then raised her gaze to Theresa, and awaited her reply.

Theresa didn’t answer. She wasn’t watching Clare, but had turned to face the scarred metal desk that backed against one blue wall. File folders and papers were piled high on the green blotter. More papers were tacked to a cork board on the wall above the desk. The files and papers logged Clare’s unsuccessful ten-year search for her sister.

Clare didn’t share Katie with anyone and she bristled at Theresa’s intrusion. Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended when she said, “Mrs. Sands, please state your business now.”

Theresa nodded. Long silver earrings shaped like spheres swayed with the movement. She smoothed a hand down the front of her dress in what Clare took as a display of nerves.

“Of course you’re wondering what I’m doing here.” Theresa’s dark eyes glowed and Clare realized that it wasn’t nerves driving her, but excitement.

“I haven’t forgotten what happened in the alley,” Theresa said. “I’m okay. Alive. Thanks to you.” Her eyes glistened with tears and she blinked quickly. “I think the thief wanted to kill me more than he wanted to get away with the money.” She shook her head and her hair fell forward onto her shoulders. “He didn’t need to grab me. He didn’t need to shoot the clerk. He had the money and could have just left.”

When the detective assigned to the case had spoken with Clare about her role in the alley, he’d said the same. Apparently, the man Clare killed had robbed another convenience store thirty minutes earlier. Again, he’d shot and killed the clerk and two customers.

Theresa cleared her throat. “I will never forget what you did for me.”

“It’s over,” Clare said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Yes. Like I said before, I couldn’t speak with you in your office because I’m here on a personal matter. Personal to you.”

The phone rang. Clare’s voice came on, inviting the caller to leave a message.

“I don’t understand,” Clare said.

“No, of course you don’t. I’m not being very clear.” Theresa took a small step so she stood nearly toe-to-toe with Clare. “When I said that I will never forget what you did for me, they aren’t just words; I mean them.”

Clare shifted position. “Mrs. Sands. Theresa—”

“Please.” Theresa held up her hand. “Please hear me out. I wanted to do something to repay you for giving me my life. Before that day, I’d been going through some things and had stopped appreciating each day for the gift it is. I wanted to give you something that would come close to what you had given me. I remembered you’d said that you were a federal agent and I knew your name, so I started looking into your life to see what I could do for you.”

Clare’s stomach tensed. “What do you mean you started looking into my life?”

“Your name rang a bell—I couldn’t remember why at first—and then it struck me. Your name was in the paper a few months ago.”

Clare pressed her lips together.

“I looked up the story and read about your mother and that a date for her execution had finally been set.”

Clare narrowed her eyes on Theresa. “We don’t have anything more to say to each other.” Clare brushed by the other woman and gripped the doorknob.

“Please. Listen. Please.”

Clare pulled the door open.

“I read about what happened to your family all those years ago—about your brother’s death and that your baby sister was adopted afterwards.”

Clare’s face went hot with anger and she turned to Theresa. “You didn’t get all that from the one brief article about the execution date. You would have had to do extensive research to learn so much.” Now, Clare leaned forward, invading Theresa’s personal space. “If you came here looking for a story—”

“No. No.” Theresa shook her head quickly, and the earrings swung like a pendulum. “I’m not a reporter—”

Clare had heard enough. “It’s time you left. You can leave on your own, or I can have you escorted.”

“I read that you and your sister were separated and I found records of your inquiries at Children’s Services seeking information about her. You’ve searched for her, but haven’t been able to find her.” Theresa spoke quickly, barely pausing to breathe. “The laws regulating adoption have relaxed somewhat for children seeking information about their biological parents, but haven’t changed at all for siblings.”

Clare knew all that. She’d butted up against the system for years.

“And when I read of it, it broke my heart.”

Clare’s anger dimmed slightly at the sincerity she saw in Theresa’s eyes. “Yes. Well. The situation is what it is.” Clare didn’t add that she would never give up the search for Katie.

“That’s why I have to be careful,” Theresa went on. “Why I had to meet with you here. I could lose my job or face criminal charges if I’m found out. And you would be implicated too. I know you wouldn’t want that.”

“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Sands? I should have called the police when you arrived. I’ll rectify that now.” Clare went to an end table and picked up the phone.

“Please don’t make that call.” Theresa shook her head. “I work for Children’s Services. I investigate potential adoptive parents.”

Clare pressed the numbers for the local police station.

“You don’t understand, Agent Marshall.” Theresa’s eyes widened. “I found her. I found your sister.”

Chapter Three

“Wh-at?”

“I found your sister,” Theresa repeated.

This was not the first time Clare had met someone claiming to know Katie’s whereabouts. Over the years, Clare had met hundreds of people purporting to have information about her sister. The recent press about her mother’s execution had resulted in a new slew of claims.

A preacher touting the good book had spouted scripture at her—proclaiming that if Clare gave up her life of violence, the path to her sister would become clear. Another, a self-proclaimed psychic, declared that Katie had appeared to him in a vision. To find her location, though, he needed money for expenses—to the tune of fifty thousand dollars. He’d quickly recanted his offer when he learned that Clare was a federal agent.

As time passed, Clare had followed each lead, no matter how half-baked, to its ultimate dead end. She’d met the crazies and the crooks. That last time, with the psychic, she had been just desperate enough to consider selling everything she owned and borrowing the rest to accept his offer.

And here was Theresa now, with another claim—one that she couldn’t elaborate on at the Bureau office. Her guise of coming forward out of gratitude was a new one, as was her claim of employment with Children’s Services, which certainly lent her credibility. Theresa hadn’t yet given up her angle, but Clare believed that she had one. In time, Theresa would reveal what that was. Fresh on the heels of the latest con, though, Clare was in no mood for more of the same. She didn’t want to give Theresa that time but, how could she turn the woman away without hearing what she had to say? Clare closed her eyes briefly. She couldn’t.

A rush of anger spread through her—anger that Theresa Sands had struck her where she was most vulnerable. Clare clenched her fists at her sides, welcoming the anger because, despite it all, she felt a little thrill of anticipation that she knew better than to feel.

She slammed the phone back in its cradle. “You have two minutes, Mrs. Sands.”

Theresa fumbled in her purse. So far, she hadn’t been violent, but Clare knew nothing about this woman who’d shown up at her door. Fearing that she might have a gun in there, Clare knocked the bag out of her hand then clamped her fingers around Theresa’s forearms.

“Wait!” Theresa shouted.

A compact, lipstick, wallet, and a folded piece of pristine white note paper slid across the wood floor. No gun.

“That’s it. The paper.” Theresa reached down as far as Clare’s hold on her allowed and stretched out her arm, fingers wiggling. She couldn’t reach the page with her hands and used the slim heel of her coral shoe to bring it within range.

“Please, Agent Marshall.”

Clare relaxed her fingers marginally, granting Theresa another couple of inches of distance. She snagged the paper from the floor and held it out to Clare.

“I found her. I promise.” Theresa’s voice quavered.

Clare glared at the paper as if it were a snake. Theresa unfolded it herself and held it up. In handwriting as lovely as calligraphy, Theresa had written:

Elizabeth Linney. 54 Daisy Lane, Farley, South Carolina.

“Hank and Gladys Linney adopted your sister and changed her name to Elizabeth,” Theresa said.

Clare’s grip on Theresa slackened. Questions—thoughts scattered as she stared at the words. The woman slid her arm from Clare’s grasp. Theresa rubbed the red imprint that Clare’s fingers had left on her skin.

Theresa placed the paper on the small square table by the door, atop the mail Clare had stacked there earlier. “I’ll show myself out,” Theresa said softly as she gathered the contents of her purse. “Good bye, Agent Marshall.”

Theresa left the apartment. Clare eyed the paper. A hoax? If so, why? Theresa hadn’t made any demands for money in exchange for the information. She had given up the name without requesting anything at all. What could she hope to gain by simply fabricating such a wild tale? Clare shook her head. It made no sense that Theresa would do that. And because of that, Clare couldn’t dismiss the claim.

Clare’s mouth felt dry as dust. She picked up the glass of iced tea from the table and drank deeply. She drained the glass, but kept it between her palms, needing something to hold on to.

Was it possible? Had Theresa really found Katie? Theresa said she was employed by Children’s Services. Clare didn’t know the workings of the department, but thought it unlikely that Theresa would have ready access to such old records. It wouldn’t be impossible, however, for someone who knew the ins and outs to obtain such information. Clare sank her teeth into her lower lip. Especially if proper channels were waived, as Theresa suggested they had been.

Did she dare hope? Her heart began to thud.

The name and address were twenty-five years old, if Theresa’s information was good at all.

Elizabeth Linney. 54 Daisy Lane, Farley, South Carolina.

Clare plucked the paper from the table and clutched it in a tight fist.

* * * * *

Three days after Theresa’s visit, Clare paced her living room. A clerk at the South Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles had promised to send a fax of the driver’s license registration for Elizabeth Ryder of Farley, South Carolina. A problem with the department fax machine had delayed the transmission. Clare had chewed her thumbnail to the quick, waiting. Disgusted now, she looked away from it.

Somewhere outside a dog barked. The tantalizing aroma of steak grilling carried on the wind blowing in through the screen. Clare’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Despite her intentions to keep her hope in check, she was strung as tight as piano wire, anticipating the fax from the DMV.

After her court appearance two days ago, Clare had returned to her office. She ran the name Elizabeth Linney through the Bureau’s database, and confirmed that one person by the name of Elizabeth Ryder was listed as a resident of Farley.

Further investigation through other registries revealed that Elizabeth Linney had married four years earlier and Ryder was her married name. Clare’s information revealed that Elizabeth no longer lived at the address Theresa supplied. She must have moved when she’d married. Clare wrote down the updated location.

So far so good, but she still had a long way to go before she could uncork the champagne. Clare kept a tight rein on her escalating hope. The Elizabeth Ryder in Farley may not be Katie.

Theresa’s information was accurate as far as she knew, but it was possible that a mistake had been made when the document was filled out or filed or at any point in between. Clare kept that thought at the forefront of her mind, and worked tight-lipped, contacting government agencies with requests for information on Elizabeth Ryder.

So far, though, she hadn’t seen a picture of Elizabeth, but a photo was mandatory with a registered driver’s license. Clare hoped a picture would reveal something to identify Elizabeth as Katie.

Her computer signaled an incoming fax. Clare whirled toward it and darted across the room to retrieve the message now being printed.

She closed her eyes briefly then focused on the fax. And there it was . . . a photo of Elizabeth Ryder, taken four years earlier when she’d renewed her driver’s license. The picture showed a face that was three years younger than Clare’s own thirty. Familiar wide brown eyes with dark stubby lashes glanced back at her. The face was angular, the features a little sharp with a nose that was slightly pointed at the tip, as Clare’s was.

There was no mistaking the resemblance. The woman in the picture had to be Katie. Clare snatched the fax from the printer.

“Yes!”

She shrieked, then laughed. Hands shaking, she clutched the page. Tears filled her eyes and spilled onto Katie’s photo.

Clare was across the room, picking up the telephone to call directory assistance to Farley when she realized that Katie wouldn’t know her. She’d been a toddler taking her first steps when the sisters had last seen each other. Katie had certainly forgotten her. For all Clare knew, Katie may not even have been told that she was adopted.

Clare replaced the phone in its cradle. She had two weeks of vacation time coming from the Bureau. She would ask Benny to take care of her cases, and then she would catch the first flight out to Farley.

* * * * *

Clare turned again in the bed. With a loud sigh, she plopped down onto the pillow. She should sleep. The numbers on the nightstand clock glowed two a.m. She had a six o’clock flight into Columbia, South Carolina, the nearest airport to Farley, then a seventy-five mile drive in a rental car to the town itself. She should sleep, but sleep eluded her.

She’d sweated through the dark tank top and bikini panties she opted to sleep in, in deference to the heat and lack of air conditioning. The sheet beneath her was damp and she’d moved so many times in the hours since she’d gone to bed that there wasn’t a dry spot to be found.

To hell with it. She sprang up and left the bed in search of a cool breeze.

She stepped through the sliding door onto the small balcony that overlooked the building parking lot and leaned over the railing. She was on the sixteenth floor. Clouds covered the moon and no light reached her from the lot below. She blended in with the darkness.

The night air was comfortable and cool. A lounge chair where she could catch some sleep was angled in a corner. She made no move toward it. More than the heat was keeping her awake.

By this time tomorrow she would be reunited with Katie. After all these years, she would finally be with her sister again.

Her pulse picked up with the thought but along with it, her stomach fluttered with fear.

She wanted to be with Katie, but would Katie want to be with her?

Katie had a life in Farley—a husband, children maybe. Clare was about to turn Katie’s world upside down. If she didn’t know of her adoption, how would she react to learning of it? How would she feel about the truth of where she came from?

Unlikely, she would welcome that information.

It was also possible that Katie’s adoptive parents had told her that she wasn’t their biological child. If so, Katie—Elizabeth—hadn’t registered to receive word of anyone inquiring about her. Maybe she didn’t want to know about her life before the adoption, or the people in it.

Clare closed her eyes tight against a sudden sharp pain.

Katie may not be happy that Clare reentered her life, and may regard Clare’s arrival as an intrusion. It was possible that she would turn Clare away.

Clare heard a meow and opened her eyes. Tilly, the cat that belonged to Clare’s elderly neighbor, leaped onto the balcony railing that ran the length of both apartments. Her green eyes glowed in the darkness.

Deftly, the cat crossed the narrow railing, a path she was well acquainted with, stopping where Clare’s arms rested.

“Can’t sleep either, I see,” Clare said softly.

Tilly rubbed against Clare’s wrist.

The cat was very loved by her owner, and spent much of her day on the elderly lady’s lap. Tilly liked to be held. Clare obliged and lifted her into her arms. The cat’s tawny coat smelled of her owner’s floral perfume.

As she cradled the feline, Clare pressed her forehead against Tilly’s soft fur. Katie would not turn her away. That was not how their reunion would play out.

Tomorrow she would meet with her sister and they would be a family again.

* * * * *

Clare checked the map of South Carolina she’d brought with her, then took the next exit. After a considerable drive that had her questioning if she’d taken a wrong turn, despite the map, she came to a sign that read: Welcome to Farley.

She tossed the map of the state on the passenger seat. On it, Farley was a dot she’d needed a magnifying glass to see. None of the roads within the town were depicted. She’d obtained a diagram of Farley’s streets through the Bureau’s database and retrieved it from the glove box now.

The town of Farley was in Blane County, a rural area that was primarily agricultural. Clare drove past farmland and fields where cotton and soybeans grew tall. The road went on and on. She needed to find out just where she was and searched for a street sign she could look for on the map, but there wasn’t one. A white clapboard colonial house came into view. It stood against the blinding yellow backdrop of the sun. Clare squinted at the sign on the front lawn: Connie’s Inn.

A patch of yellow flowers grew around a flag pole in front. Yellow Jessamine, South Carolina’s state flower, according to the wooden plaque staked into the dirt. A card table with four chairs around it and two half-filled glasses of what looked like lemonade were centered together on the white verandah. Someone there should be able to tell her what road she was on. Clare turned onto the driveway, turned off the ignition, and stepped out onto a pink flagstone walkway.

After being in the air-conditioned car, the heat outside hit her like a blast from a furnace. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare reflecting off the upper story windows and made her way up the three steps to the porch.

Welcome to Connie’s. Come in was painted in yellow on the glass door. Clare rang the bell then, following the instructions, went inside.

Cinnamon scented the air inside the house. Clare strolled over gleaming wood floors, passed a living room where a floral print sofa backed against an ivory wall. Someone had left knitting on the arm of the couch. The atmosphere was homey. There was no one in the room now though, and Clare continued down the hall.

“Hello,” she called out.

Soft music played somewhere in the back of the house. A country tune that Clare didn’t recognize.

No one answered her call. She was about to call out again when she heard footsteps and creaking wood. She turned in the direction of the sound as a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.

She appeared to be around seventy and was small and spare. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun that emphasized prominent features. Her gnarled hand gripped a three-pronged cane.

Leaning heavily on the cane and the banister, the woman began a slow descent of the blue carpeted steps. When she was halfway down, she stopped. Her eyes widened on Clare and she gasped. The woman’s face went deathly pale.

“Are you all right?” Clare asked.

The woman looked about to faint. Clare rushed to the stairs.

“I never thought you’d have the nerve to show your face back here.” The woman said in a low, guttural voice.

“What?”

The woman’s face flushed sunburn red. “How dare you come back here?”

“I’ve never been—”

“The last thing my son needs is to see you again.”

“I don’t know you,” Clare said, “or your son.”

The woman’s pale eyes narrowed. “You can bet he’s wished he never knew you.”

Okay, this was getting odd. “My name is Clare. Clare Marshall. You’ve made an error and mistaken me for someone else.”

“An error?” The old woman tilted her head and regarded Clare down the long length of her nose. “Fancy talk. Guess you’re getting yourself some of that college you was always wanting.” Her gaze lowered to Clare’s silk blouse and pleated walking shorts, then lifted to Clare’s face. “Fixed yourself up real classy. That why you come back? To show my boy how you’re doing better without him? Figured he might finally be getting over you and you just couldn’t let him do that.”

Clare crossed her arms. “Look. I stopped here to get my bearings. Clearly, that was a mistake.” One that she intended to correct immediately. So much for Southern hospitality. She turned to leave.

“That’s right. Go on. Get out. Go back to where you come from, and stay there!”

The woman was shouting now. As far as Clare was concerned, she couldn’t leave the inn fast enough. A door at the end of the hall opened. Clare glanced toward it. Another woman, bearing a basket of wet towels on her hip, entered the hall.

Clare took the newcomer’s measure. Mid-thirties. A couple of inches shorter than Clare’s own five-foot-eight. Dark hair was pulled back from her round face in a tight ponytail. She had a solid, sturdy build that suggested a lifetime of hard work.

“What’s going on in here, Mama?” The new woman was puffing slightly. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. “I could hear you shouting from the base—” The woman’s gaze went to Clare and she stopped speaking.

“She’s what happened Connie-girl,” the elderly woman said. Her lips pulled back, baring her teeth. “She’s back.”

Connie’s lips quivered briefly. “That’s not her, Mama.” Her mouth tightened. She set the basket on the floor at her feet. “She looks like her, but it ain’t her.”

The statement was uttered in a harsh tone. The younger woman was as hostile as the older, Clare observed. Was everyone in this town a nut?

If she drove long enough, she’d come to a street with a sign on it. She’d knock on every door in Farley if she had to to find Katie. Clare turned her back on the two women.

The old woman shouted. “You keep going, and this time, Beth Linney, don’t you never come back!”

Beth Linney. Elizabeth Linney. Clare’s heart pounded and she whirled to face the women again.

Addressing the elder of the two, Clare asked. “You know Elizabeth Linney?”

It was Connie who responded. “Mama’s a little confused.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t pay her no mind.”

Clare eyed the old woman. “You called me Beth Linney. Elizabeth Linney. I’m Clare Marshall. Elizabeth Linney is my sister.”

Connie shook her head hard. Two red spots colored her cheeks. “Beth don’t have no sister.”

“I won’t go into the details of it with you, but yes, she does.” Clare squared her shoulders in defense of the statement. “Now. How do you know my sister?”

Connie’s gaze sharpened on Clare. “Sister, huh? Well, well, I wouldn’t have figured Hank Linney for stepping out on his missus, but there you go.” Connie propped a hand on her hip. “Well, sis, Beth was married to my baby brother till one week ago when she up and left him. Run off with a trucker that delivers fruits and vegetables to Dawson Foods.”

Clare’s throat tightened. She ignored the other woman’s incorrect assumption about Katie’s parentage. “Are you telling me that Katie—ah—Beth isn’t in Farley?” Clare’s voice came out thin.

Connie curled her lips in a sneer. She lowered her eyelids, looking at Clare as if she were something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “You heard me. Beth is long gone.”

Chapter Four

Katie . . . gone for one week. No. No. But even as Clare shook her head in denial, she saw the truth in Connie’s eyes and felt as if the earth shifted beneath her.

“Now you got what you come for,” Connie said. “Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.”

Clare ignored Connie’s comment. “Where?” Her voice cracked and she forced some strength into it. “Where did she go?”

Connie’s features pulled taut and her eyes glittered with malice. “To hell, I hope.”

Connie’s hatred for Katie aroused a fierce protectiveness in Clare. Her cheeks warmed with anger. She welcomed it and focused on it rather than the feeling of despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Teeth gritted, she said. “Never mind, I’ll get my answers elsewhere.”

“There’s no answer to get. She’s gone. You go, too. Get out of Farley like your slut of a sister!”

Clare let the screen door slam behind her. After the dim interior of the house, the bright sun was near-blinding, and she shielded her eyes with the back of one hand while she fumbled in her purse for the car keys. Getting out of Farley was what she was not going to do. She hadn’t come this far to give up. She would never give up.

In her car, she started the engine then backed out of Connie’s drive and set off down the street. A white cat streaked in front of the bumper. Clare stomped on the brake and the car screeched to a halt. She suppressed a shriek of her own. Her fingers were clamped around the steering wheel and her stomach was tight. Clare realized she was trembling. Not the fault of the near-mishap with the feline. She was still reeling from learning that she’d missed Katie. Again.

In all the years she’d been searching for her sister, there’d been a few times when she’d thought she was close to finding her, only to have the lead fizzle. None, though, had been as close as this time.

Because she’d been so close, she’d gone beyond the vague hope of someday being with Katie again to an expectation that a reunion with her sister was imminent. She’d just fallen hard from a great height. The disappointment felt like the weight of an elephant crushing her. She pressed her forehead hard to the vinyl-wrapped steering wheel.

The pain would paralyze her if she allowed it. She forced herself to raise her head. This was just another glitch. She would find Katie. She told herself that after each false lead. It was do that, or go quietly insane. This time though, it was not a false lead she was pursuing. She had an identity for Katie that she could use to find her.

Clare shook her head, shook off the despair. Relaxing her grip on the steering wheel, she renewed her determination and slid her foot to the gas pedal again.

Connie may not know where Katie went, but Katie’s husband might. She’d proceed as planned to Katie’s house, though this time, to speak with her sister’s husband.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. Coming up on noon. Unless Katie’s husband didn’t work mornings, or knocked off work early for the day, it wasn’t likely that he’d be at home at this time. No matter. She’d camp out on his doorstep until he returned.

Clare drove on. A sign proclaimed the next street she came to as Bridge Road. A creek flowed slowly below. Two men in floppy hats sat beneath a Live Oak, lowering fishing poles into the still water. After sundown, Clare imagined a breeze would blow in off the water. If the heat didn’t let up, she just might go there and find out.

She found Bridge Road on the diagram. Daisy Lane was one street south of that.

The houses on Daisy Lane were small, single-story dwellings that showed pride of ownership with well-tended lawns and paint that shone on eaves troughs, porches, and doors. Katie’s place was no exception. Clare parked her car by the curb, and leaning forward in the driver’s seat, got her first look at Katie’s house.

All visible trim was painted white. Even in the unforgiving glare of sunlight, the white was as bright and chaste as new fallen snow, making a lie of the old adage that white was hard to maintain. The lawn looked as fresh and lush as a golf green. A row of thriving petunias lined the edge of a painted wooden porch.

Clare smiled. Unlike herself, Katie had a green thumb. Unable to resist a closer look at her sister’s home, she braced herself against the heat, and left the car.

A freesia bush bloomed with pink petals. The sweet scent hung in the still air. Upon closer observation, Clare noticed that the bush was carefully trimmed so that its branches were aligned. The petunias were evenly spaced. That prompted another smile. Katie must have a sense of order that Clare herself didn’t possess, in addition to that green thumb.

A decade-old green sedan was parked on one side of the driveway. If that was the only car the Ryders owned, Clare figured it was likely to be parked in the center of the driveway. Again, she considered that it was unlikely Katie’s husband would be at home on a week day, at the noon hour, but there was a car in the drive and she climbed the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell, just in case. As she suspected, no one answered her call.

A gate led to a backyard. She would be trespassing if she wandered through it, invading Katie’s privacy. She held herself back, just barely, from going into the yard, so hungry was she for details about Katie’s life.

She was about to return to her car and wait out the return of Katie’s husband when a white pickup turned into the driveway. The window was rolled down.

The man behind the wheel wore his sandy hair cut military short. It suited his features. He parked, then left the vehicle. On the driveway he stood in place facing her, his blue gaze unwavering. He appeared to be taking her measure, Clare thought, though his expression didn’t alter. She expected some degree of surprise in his eyes, but there was none, and the lack made her think he’d been expecting her.

Clare met his gaze. “Hello. I’m looking for Dean Ryder.”

“You must be the woman my sister called about.”

So this was Katie’s husband. She tried a smile. “I’m Clare Marshall.”

Ryder didn’t acknowledge the introduction. “You do resemble my wife. Her sister, that who you told Connie and our mama you were?”

So much for the pleasant greeting Clare had planned. Expecting a warm welcome for Katie’s relative might have been naive, having learned what she had about Katie leaving him for another man.

“Yes, I’m Ka- ah—Beth’s sister.” Clare was going to have to start thinking of Katie as Beth.

The temperature had to be over one hundred degrees. Ryder’s tan suit jacket was buttoned. A tie was cinched at his throat. He appeared unaffected by the heat. Unlike herself. Clare could feel perspiration trickling down her neck.

“So my sister said.” Ryder nodded. “You’re going to give Gladys quite a turn.”

Clare saw no point in withholding the truth from him. “Hank Linney is not my father or Beth’s. Beth was adopted. She was born Kathleen Marshall.”

His lips pursed. “She never told me about an adoption.”

He appeared angered by that, and Clare rushed to defend Beth. “She might not have known. She was an infant when the adoption took place.” Clare took a deep breath and reigned in her own anger, which wouldn’t be productive in getting any information from Ryder. “Your sister mentioned that Beth is no longer in town. Mr. Ryder—Dean, I’m trying to find her. I’d like to ask you some questions—”

“I got nothin’ to tell you.”

Ryder walked by Clare up the porch steps.

“Did she tell you where she was going?” Clare asked.

Ryder stuck his key in the door lock.

“Did you try to find her?” Clare called out.

Ryder stopped. Without turning around, he said, “She doesn’t want me. I don’t want her.”

He went into the house.

She’d been dismissed. Clare took a deep breath to cool the anger that had increased her body temperature and headed up the steps to the front door. While she sympathized with Ryder’s hurt over Beth leaving him, his feelings ran a distant second to her search for her sister.

He had left the wooden door open behind the screen door, and the glass on that one was raised. Clare took up a position on the welcome mat. She leaned on the doorbell for a few seconds, then waited for the chime to stop.

“If you don’t speak with me, Dean, I’ll get my answers elsewhere,” she said loudly enough to carry into the house. “I’ll speak with every person in Farley if I have to, to find out what I need to know. I’m not going away.”

Clare didn’t know Ryder and couldn’t gauge his feelings about the town’s reaction to Beth leaving him. Was he basking in the sympathy of the town as the poor jilted husband or had his pride taken a hit and all he really wanted was to put the incident behind him? If the dust was just beginning to settle on the gossip, she supposed it was unlikely he would take kindly to the prospect of having it stirred up again. Not her problem. At this point, Clare had nothing to lose. Though she had no wish to cause him more hurt, she didn’t have the time to get to know him, to ingratiate herself to him, if it were possible to do so, in order to enlist his cooperation.

She waited a little longer but Ryder didn’t come to the door.

She went back to her car. Behind the wheel, with the air conditioning on high blowing cool air across her face, she considered her next step. She knew the names of Beth’s adoptive parents. Hank and Gladys Linney might still be in town. Their daughter may have confided in them.

If she’d had her laptop with her, she could log onto the Bureau’s database and find out if the couple still resided in Farley. She hadn’t brought it with her, however. She’d planned a reunion, not an investigation.

Clare consulted the diagram of Farley and located Main Street, which she assumed would be like most other towns and house the business district.

Main Street was wide with a row of shops on the east side and a tidy park on the west. A bronze statue on a pedestal presided over an assortment of bushes and lush flowers in a manicured garden. The plaque beneath the statue identified it as town founder Walter Farley.

Driving slowly, Clare read the signs above the shops in passing. Potter and Sons Pharmacy. Main Street Diner. The Pizza Place. Main Street Hardware and Bait. Farley Army Surplus. There wasn’t much activity. A man sat on a bench, fanning himself with a newspaper. Two preteen boys stood beneath the striped canopy of the army surplus, taking turns looking through a pair of binoculars. Though the residents were undoubtedly accustomed to the heat, apparently they had the good sense to stay out of it.

She was looking for a gas station and came to one across from an intersection. And it had a telephone booth. Clare flipped through the directory there looking for Hank or Gladys Linney. She came up empty and went back over the names. It was possible that the parents were deceased, but what about nephews or nieces or other relatives? There were no listings for anyone named Linney.

County records would reveal if the Linneys had died. The county seat was a forty-minute drive out of town. Clare figured it could be faster to visit the local churches and speak with the resident pastors about the Linneys. In a town the size of Farley, how many churches could there be?

Two were listed in the phone book, and both located on a street called July Road. One was Lutheran and the other Methodist. The listing for the Lutheran house of worship also featured a map. Clare tore the page out of the directory.

She reached the Methodist church first. Small residences had been built around it. Two young girls spun a skipping rope on the sidewalk while a shaggy dog leaped beside them.

Clare entered the small structure. There wasn’t anyone inside. She went to the house next door that had been built on the church property, thinking it might be the pastor’s residence and rang the bell. No one came to the door. She rang again. Moments later when there was still no response, she drove on, down the street.

An old station wagon was parked in the gravel drive of the rectory built beside the Lutheran church. Clare parked and walked to it. A round woman answered Clare’s knock. Spectacles dangled from a silver chain around her neck. She lifted them to her eyes and they widened for an instant. The look she gave Clare wasn’t friendly.

Clare attributed the woman’s hostility to her resemblance to her sister, and ignored it. “I’d like to speak with the pastor. Is he available, please?”

The woman nodded once briskly. “Come inside.”

“Thank you.”

The woman ushered Clare into a kitchen. Tea bags, lemon slices, sugar—the makings for what looked like iced tea—were spread across the counter.

Two tall fans stood on the tile floor at opposite ends of the kitchen. Clare made her way to one of them as a man entered the room. He was slim and stoop-shouldered. The woman hadn’t returned with him.

“I’m Reverend Shannon,” the man said. “You wish to speak with me?”

His tone was frosty, as was the glint in his pale blue eyes.

“I’m Clare Marshall,” Clare said. “I’m trying to locate two people who may be parishioners of yours, Hank and Gladys Linney.”

Reverend Shannon nodded. “Yes, Hank and Gladys worshiped here.”

His use of the past tense wasn’t lost on Clare. “Are they not part of this parish any longer?”

“Why do you want to find them? Before I give you any information, I must know what your interest is in the Linneys. I need to be sure that your intentions are pure.”

“Fair enough, Reverend.” Clare explained briefly about the adoption and her search for Beth that led her to Farley. “I believe when you first saw me, you noticed a resemblance between Beth and myself.” The pastor’s lips tightened. Clare took that as confirmation of her statement. “Be assured that my only intent is to find my sister.”

The pastor crossed his arms at his chest. “Hank passed on about two years back. Gladys suffered a stroke shortly after. She currently resides at the Linwood Nursing Facility on Oak Road. I counsel her there.” The pastor uncrossed his arms and pointed at Clare. “You should consider very carefully before paying a call on Gladys. She was devastated by her daughter’s betrayal of her marriage vows.” He stabbed the air with his finger as he went on. “Beth Linney made her choice. It would be better for Gladys and Dean if she stays away. Better for the town. Farley doesn’t need her kind setting an immoral example to our young women.”

Reverend Shannon had worked himself up to a point that his cheeks had reddened and a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow.

Clearly he preached of fire and brimstone in his sermons. Unlikely his parishioners would find a sympathetic or compassionate ear from him.

Clare eyed the pastor and said with sarcasm, “I’ll be sure and convey your good wishes to my sister when I find her.”

Back in her car, Clare found Oak Road on the map. The nursing facility was located at the outskirts of town. The drive there was too short to completely dispel Clare’s anger over Reverend Shannon’s comments. She rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension as she crossed the parking lot.

Inside the facility, the walls were painted a cheery pink, and the three staff members in sight were dressed in uniforms of the same color.

Clare approached a pencil slim woman bent over a desk, sorting a stack of papers.

“I’d like to see Gladys Linney,” Clare said.

The woman glanced up at Clare. There was no recognition in her gaze.

“Ah, okay. Yeah.” She released the papers and reached out to a computer, pushed back to the edge of the desk. “Gladys Linney. L-i-n-n-e-e?”

“-e-y,” Clare said.

“e-y,” the woman repeated. She tapped a few keys. “It’s my first day,” she said. “I haven’t met all the patients.”

That explained why she hadn’t acknowledged Clare’s resemblance to Gladys’s daughter, Clare thought.

“Gladys Linney? Gladys Linney.” The woman kept her gaze on the computer screen. “Room Fifteen. Down this hall on your left.”

Clare had expected to be asked her relationship to Gladys, but the woman said nothing more, and went back to the papers.

Clare made her way to Room Fifteen. Given what the pastor said, it was unlikely that Gladys would welcome a visit from Clare. How would she react to Clare’s resemblance to Beth? Bracing herself for another verbal sparring match, Clare knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The voice was feeble. Clare strained to hear it. She pushed the door open.

“Mrs. Linney?”

The room smelled faintly of lavender. A woman sat in a deep arm chair in front of the window. Full sun shone on her face, yet her eyes were wide open to the light. A white cane stood against the wall. Clare realized Gladys Linney was blind.

“Yes, I’m Gladys. Do I know you?”

Clare entered the room and went to Gladys. “No, you don’t. I’m related to Beth.”

Gladys turned away from the window then, and leaned forward, her thin hand clutched the arm of the chair. “Beth? Do you know my Beth?”

This is the point where Clare hoped the conversation wouldn’t turn ugly. “I’m Clare Marshall, Mrs. Linney. I’m Beth’s sister.”

“Her sister.” Gladys’s lips quivered. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting you.”

Clare didn’t know what to make of that. “I don’t understand.”

“I always feared one day someone would come about my Beth and take her away. Realize the great treasure they’d given up and want her back.”

Clare closed her eyes briefly at Gladys’s comment, at the love in her voice. She felt relieved of a burden of worry she’d carried for her sister. For years she’d feared that her sister had been raised by a mother like their own.

There were so many questions she wished to ask Gladys about Beth, but first things first.

“Mrs. Linney, I’ve been looking for Beth for a long time. I recently learned that she lived in Farley, but that she’s no longer in town. Do you know where she went?”

Gladys’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head.

Clare felt the weight of disappointment. She took a breath and cast it off. Mrs. Linney may know something more and not realize it. “Does Beth have friends or relatives she might contact?”

“No relatives. Both my late husband, Hank, and me are only children. Hank and me are from Tennessee. We found out that we could apply to get a baby from another state and that’s what we did. When we adopted Beth, we moved here and cut all ties with the people we knew from home. We didn’t want nobody knowing that Beth wasn’t our natural child. People can be awful cruel. Didn’t want anyone to give her a hard time about it. We didn’t want her to know either, and think on it, and question if she belonged with Hank and me.”

That answered why people in Farley didn’t know about Beth’s adoption. And Beth hadn’t known herself. A knot of tension in Clare’s stomach eased. Beth had not chosen to cut herself off from Clare.

Clare addressed Gladys again. “Did Beth mention to you that she was leaving Farley?”

Gladys reached out, and removed a tissue from a box on the window sill. “All the time. Beth was a restless child, a restless woman. Hank and me blamed ourselves for her restlessness. We never took Beth out of Farley since the day we moved here with her. We were afraid as she got older that someone might recognize our little girl as their own and want her back. We heard of cases on television where adoptions were overturned and babies were given back to their natural parents.”

“Was there any place in particular that Beth mentioned she’d like to go?”

Gladys smiled. “Everywhere. Beth wanted to see the world, and wanted the world to see her. She’s so full o’ life, nothin’ going to keep that girl down, Hank used to say.”

Clare was barely listening, focused on one thought: Beth could be anywhere by now.

Gladys stopped smiling. “Don’t know what Hank would have said of our little girl if he’d seen her the last couple years.”

That got Clare’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“My Beth is a good girl.” Gladys’s skin pulled taut over her features. Her expression became fierce. She tilted her head back, jutting out her chin. “I know what the talk is in town, that Beth up and run off with a man, but no matter how much she wanted to see some of this world, she isn’t the kind to just up and run away, and surely not to take up with someone to do that. Since that’s what she did, she had good reason.”

Clare didn’t put much stock in Gladys’s statement. A loving mother, she would be looking for a reason to justify Beth’s leaving. Clare was going to let the comment alone and ask about Beth’s friends as other possible sources of information when Gladys spoke up.

“People don’t pay much attention to blind people. They think because we can’t see, all our other senses don’t work either. Since I lost my sight a few years back I pay a lot more attention to sounds than I used to. I can hear the sound of strain in a person’s voice. I can hear a lie. Beth was doing a lot of lying.”

If Beth was having an affair with the trucker, that could account for the strain Gladys heard in her daughter’s voice and for the lies, Clare thought.

“Her and Dean,” Gladys said. “Things weren’t right between them.”

Clare couldn’t disagree with that. A woman happy in her marriage didn’t leave her husband.

“At first, Beth looked to have settled into married life, then she got quiet and jittery,” Gladys went on. “I know Dean was wanting them to have a baby real bad, and was putting a lot of pressure on her to start a family. He did the same about wanting to get married. Hank and me wasn’t sure Dean was right for our Beth. She’s a free spirit and he’s got a need to have order in his life. But, he swept our girl off her feet, pursuing her something fierce. That kind of attention can turn a girl’s head and it did that with Beth whose got a romantic nature.”

“When was the last time you saw Beth?”

“The day she left.”

“What day was that?”

“Friday, last. She’s been gone one week today.” Gladys stopped speaking, unable to continue, then swallowed a few times and began again. “She came by real early in the morning, like always. I wasn’t expecting her, ’cause she’d been by the day before and she usually visited every other day. I asked her what I’d done to get two visits in two days.” Gladys’s voice trailed off. “I thought she come to tell me something. I asked about her and Dean but she wouldn’t say anything. I can’t say that surprised me. She was afraid of him.”

Clare frowned. “Afraid of him? Why do you say that?”

“Her breathing got real fast when she talked about him and I’d be holding her hand, and her hand would go all cold.”

Not exactly proof.

“I want to see my girl again, Clare, with all my heart. But if she’s gone on account of Dean, I’m thinking maybe it’s for the best that she stays gone.”

Clare didn’t know what to say to that. She certainly couldn’t tell Gladys that she was going to end her search.

“Does Beth have any friends in town?” Clare asked. “Someone she might have confided in?”

Gladys dabbed the tissue to her cheeks. “She was a popular girl in school. Had lots of friends. Patty Burby was her best friend.” Gladys smiled. “Couldn’t separate those two with a team of wild horses.”

Patty Burby. Clare committed the name to memory.

Clare wanted to ask Gladys about Beth’s childhood, about her likes and dislikes. She wanted to hear stories of Beth that only a mother would know. Gladys was the one person in the world, other than Beth herself, with whom Clare could speak of her sister without inhibition. She wanted to know everything about her sister, but it would have to wait. She had other places to go.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Linney,” Clare said.

“Clare . . . if you find my Beth, will you come back and tell me she’s all right?”

Clare nodded. “I will.”

She let herself out of Gladys’s room and made her way down the hall. A small woman pushed a mop across the floor. The sharp tang of disinfectant wafted on the air. Clare was glad to note that the pastor had been wrong about Gladys’s feelings toward Beth. Her love for Beth was apparent.

Clare wondered what time the grocery store closed for the day. She wanted to go there and find out what she could about the trucker Beth left town with. She also planned to speak with Patty Burby.

Clare pushed through the glass door into bright sunlight. She shielded her eyes with the back of one hand and with the other, reached into her purse dangling from her shoulder, digging for sunglasses. A man was walking across the parking lot toward her. A trick of the light, he looked like . . .

“Jake.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken his name aloud until she heard it.

He was close enough to have heard as well, though he didn’t speak. His eyes, narrowed against the sun, fixed on her with an intensity she remembered all too well.

Too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him. It wasn’t too late to walk away, though. She wanted to walk away, really wanted to, and because she did forced herself to stay put and meet his gaze.

Jake now stood in front of her, blocking the sunlight. Clare lowered her hand. His chin was at her eye level. He hadn’t shaved. Black beard shadowed his jaw, made his tanned skin look darker.

The last time she’d seen him, from the other side of her bed, he’d looked a little pale. Tired from working too hard. Tired from going another ten rounds with her.

That was three years ago. He didn’t look to be suffering from sleepless nights anymore. He looked rested and fit. The blue T-shirt he wore over jeans showed his hard, tough body. Was he still with the Bureau? If so, by his casual attire, he wasn’t working today.

“I could say the obvious ‘small world,’” Jake said.

It had been big enough for her until a moment ago. But in response, she said only, “Must be.”

In the awkward silence, a group of women in hospital uniforms dashed by, causing a slight breeze that smelled strongly of spicy perfume.

Jake cleared his throat. “Don’t tell me the Bureau’s sent you to make sure I’m not lazing my days away fishing?”

He said it with a smile, an obvious attempt at lightness. Clare didn’t return the smile.

“You’re assigned to the Columbia office?”she said.

“Resident office in Farley, actually.”

That surprised her. After they’d stopped seeing each other, Jake had put in for a transfer out of the New York office. They’d been members of the same squad for a time and had been paired off. Working together after things ended had strained them both. Jake was very good at what he did and had earned the commendations to prove it. He could have aimed a lot higher than Farley. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t.

She didn’t know where he’d gone—didn’t want to know—but she would never have imagined him choosing Farley. He was a city boy. She wouldn’t have figured he would come here voluntarily. He must have been desperate to create distance between them for him to accept this post.

“Just me, one other agent, and an admin assistant,” Jake went on. “How about you? What brings you to our fair town?”

When she’d known him, she’d never mentioned Katie. On the nights he’d stayed at her apartment, she’d stored her cork board and files on her sister in a closet. She had no reason not to tell him about Katie at this time. Her being in Farley and the reason for it was likely climbing the town grapevine at lightning speed. But there was no reason to bring Katie up to him now, when she hadn’t before.

“Vacation,” she said simply.

He heard the lie. The humor in Jake’s gaze vanished and in an instant his gaze grew razor sharp.

“I recall you had a preference for sand and surf,” he said.

No doubt he was referring to the one brief getaway they’d taken together—a spur-of-the-moment jaunt following a particularly grueling assignment. They’d both been wound tight. He’d asked her where she’d like to go.

White sand beach. A pounding surf. No one else around for miles.

Her words returned to her. The next morning, she’d awakened and found he’d packed her suitcase and had found the perfect place for them to go. She didn’t care for the reminder of how perfect it had been between them once.

“Not this time,” she said. “Good-bye, Jake.”

Before he could say anything further, Clare walked away from him.

Chapter Five

Clare forced herself not to run through the nursing facility’s parking lot. Regardless, she was panting by the time she got back to her car, and her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

All because she’d seen Jake.

She felt battered, bruised. She inhaled a deep breath, then released it slowly as she struggled to pull herself together.

Special Agent Jacob Sutton had come into her life at a time when the two things that mattered to her most—finding her sister and doing her job—were going wrong. Her best efforts to solve a series of brutal homicides had been unsuccessful. And a trail she’d been pursuing in the search for her sister had led to another dead end.

Jake had been assigned to work with her on the homicides. His assignment ended after the killer was apprehended, but that was only the beginning for them. They fell in love.

And then it was over. He walked away . . .

Recalling that time still brought pain. She would not go down that road. What she would do was forget she’d encountered Jake at all.

His being in Farley had nothing to do with her. She would be in town a few days and then be gone. It was unlikely she’d see him again while she was here. In fact, she’d make sure that she didn’t. She fumbled the car keys out of her purse. Next stop: the grocery store.

Clare parked in front of Dawson Foods. The closed sign hung on the inside of a glass door. She checked her watch. Two minutes after four o’clock. Store hours were posted beneath the sign. The store closed at four p.m. on Friday. She would have made it before closing time, if not for her run-in with Jake. Clare tamped down on her frustration. The store opened at eight o’clock on Saturdays. She intended to be the first customer.

She rolled her shoulders. A bone-deep weariness had set in. She’d planned on spending her first night in town at Beth’s and hadn’t arranged for accommodations. Connie’s Inn was obviously not an option.

She drove back to the gas station and searched the phone directory, this time looking for a local hotel or motel, but came up empty. Connie’s was the only inn in Farley. The next nearest accommodation was in Columbia. She wanted to be local to conduct her search, and not waste time commuting to and from there.

She recalled seeing a surplus store on Main Street. Maybe she could buy a tent there. Pitch it in the park right beneath the statue of Walter Farley. She was only half kidding. It was fast becoming apparent that she’d be spending the night in her car.

Flipping through the directory, she came across a listing for a local realtor. Earl Lowney was the man’s name. She was going to have to look into renting a place for the next few days, if one could be found.

The realtor was on Main Street, operating out of the Army Surplus. A misprint, or did the surplus store also serve as the local realty? There was only one way to find out.

As Clare pulled out of the gas station, a man leaning against a convertible while he filled the tank gave her a wink and flashed a smile worthy of a toothpaste advertisement. Tall. Toned. Tanned. Square-jawed. Hair cut to look fashionably shaggy. The cop in her took in the details automatically, then she looked away without acknowledging him, and drove on.

She reached her destination and turned off the road, into one of the metered parking spots that lined the street. She dug a quarter out of her purse to feed the meter and turned off the engine. Again, as she left the car, the heat assaulted her. Perspiration broke out on her scalp and forehead. Dark clouds were rolling in from the west. Farley was in for some rain. Clare hoped it would relieve the heat.

Swiping the back of her hand across her brow, she crossed the sidewalk to the store. Inside, she blinked, adjusting to the sudden dimness. Several pole lamps gave off a soft glow. Light slanted in through a small opening between two thick orange curtains. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight. Clare smelled mold.

A man sat on a stool behind a cash register. He held a pencil over a crossword puzzle he’d placed on the glass counter. She looked around. It was just the two of them in the store.

Force of habit had her sizing up her environment and accounting for everyone in it. Growing up as she had, in other people’s houses, she’d honed that skill long before she’d joined the Bureau.

The man glanced up from the puzzle. His face was round with a small nose and small chin. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, were the shape and soft brown of a Spaniel. They settled on her and he smiled. “How do?”

Clare saw recognition in his eyes. She had no doubt he’d noticed a familiarity about her, but chose not to comment on it. After her experience with the two women at the inn, and the people at the church, Clare had been braced for another strange encounter, rather than his pleasant greeting.

She relaxed her tensed posture and approached the counter. “Hello.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in town. I’m Earl.” The man set the pencil down and held out his hand. “Earl Lowney.”

“Clare Marshall.” She shook Lowney’s hand.

“The way you talk, I’d say you’re not from anywheres near here, Clare.”

Clare had been born in Texas but had been moved north while in foster care and she no longer sounded like a native of the state she’d been born in.

“Minnesota,” she said.

“Welcome to Farley.” Lowney released Clare’s hand. “You’ll find it’s a real nice place for a vacation.”

Clare saw no reason to correct his assumption that she was a tourist.

“You take your time in here,” Lowney said. “Take a good look-see around. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Actually, there is. I read in the phone book that you’re a realtor. I’m looking for a place to rent.”

Lowney scratched his chin. The skin was smooth, like a young boy’s, and looked baby-soft.

“That’s me,” Lowney said. “I help you buy ’em. I help you sell ’em. Not any call though to help you rent ’em. Sorry. There’s an inn a ways up here.”

“It’s not going to work out there.”

Lowney winced. “Connie wasn’t partial to you, I take it. You looking the way you do, like her brother’s wife.”

“You know the Ryders?”

“Surely do. Farley’s got two-thousand-four-hundred-ninety-six people at last count. Don’t believe there are too many folks I don’t know.” Lowney’s chest puffed out, stretching the buttons on his striped shirt. “Dean Ryder, why he’s a genuine war hero. A marine who served our country in the Gulf War, saved his platoon from an ambush. He got hurt himself, ending his military career, but lucky for us, he came back and joined the Columbia Police Force where he can protect us all. If you don’t know Dean Ryder, you don’t know Farley.”

Lowney was obviously a fan of Ryder’s. Clare nodded at the biography of Beth’s husband. “Maybe I could rent one of the properties you have for sale? It would be short term and if the owners get an offer, I’ll certainly leave.”

Lowney tapped a pudgy finger against his lips briefly. “Well, come to think on it, I got a place you could rent for the next little while. I inherited my uncle Chester’s place. It’s on a nice plot of land. I go out regularly to check on things and since I’m looking to sell, haven’t shut off the water and electrical. We could go take a look now if you like.”

Lowney was obviously eager, and just as obviously trying to conceal that he was. Clare had a feeling the place was going to leave much to be desired. What Lowney didn’t realize was that the condition of the house didn’t matter to her. She just wanted a post from which to conduct her search.

“Sounds good, Mr. Lowney. Let’s go take a look.”

* * * * *

The house was situated at the edge of town. Following Lowney, Clare watched the distances between the houses grow. She hadn’t seen another house for several miles and was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t be just as well served commuting from a hotel in Columbia when he turned onto a narrow, dirt road.

There was only this one house on the long road, a copy of an antebellum that had seen better days. Lowney parked in the driveway. Clare parked beside him.

“Uncle Chester was a cotton farmer,” Lowney said.

Clare followed the direction of the finger he pointed. A large crop was planted in a field on the east side of the house. That crop, though, now withered from neglect.

The house backed onto a swamp. Two glossy-leaved Magnolia trees grew along the ragged edge of the land, casting shadows across the still, murky water.

“Let’s take a look inside, Mr. Lowney,” Clare said.

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later, she closed the front door on Lowney. He left, grinning, with a few of her endorsed traveler’s checks tucked in his shirt pocket. She was sure the man had been drooling as she’d handed them to him. The affable Lowney had turned into a shark when he scented the opportunity to exploit her and named a figure to rent his deceased relative’s house for a week that would let a Park Avenue apartment for a month.

Lowney had said the rent was not negotiable. Clare gave him a level look that had him shifting his feet, then signed the checks without a word. She knew she was being fleeced, and wanted him to understand that she knew. It went against the grain for her to allow herself to be taken advantage of, but she was going to go along with him anyway. It was either do so, or walk away and take a room in Columbia. Lowney had her, and they both knew it.

With a spring in his step, Lowney made his way back to his car. Clare considered slamming the door behind him, but she needed to leave it open. The storm brewing earlier had gained strength. A cool wind had blown in from somewhere, and would dispel the stale air inside the house. Clearly Lowney’s claim of coming out often to check on the place had been false. There was no way he wouldn’t have noticed the odor.

She opened the windows to the wind and along with a chill breeze, rain struck her face. An instant later, rain fell in a steady downpour. She shut then latched the windows. Reluctantly resigned, she also closed the door.

She needed a meal and a bath. First the bath, she decided, then she’d go into town in search of food. She turned to the vast staircase that bisected the hall, intent on making her way to the bath. Rain struck her head. Clare looked to the ceiling. Water dripped from several spots.

* * * * *

Clare found an assortment of pots, and a telephone directory in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. After setting out the pots in the living room to catch the rain, she entered the upstairs bath. The claw-footed tub had a buildup of scum on it that looked like it dated back a century. She found cleaning products under the sink, and gave the old porcelain a scrub until it shone.

She was down to her bikini panties when the door knocker thudded. Who would be at her door? No one knew where she was, or would be of a mind to pay her a call if they did.

Ignoring it, she turned the hot water tap, then stood watching the steam rise from the tub. She’d spoken with several people about Beth. Could one of them have remembered something and tracked her down to deliver the information?

With one hand, she gave the tap a sharp turn, shutting off the water. With the other, she snatched the shorts and blouse she’d worn earlier from the vanity counter. She dressed in an instant and ran down the stairs to the front door.

She yanked it open. Lightning zig-zagged across the dark sky, illuminating the trio of swaying Oaks laden with Spanish moss in front of the house and the man who stood between the two crumbling stone pillars on the sagging verandah.

Jake.

The storm was in full swing now. Rain pelted the earth.

Jake’s dark hair was matted to his head. A drop slid from his hairline and trickled down the side of his face. He seemed oblivious to it. His focus was all on her.

She crossed her arms. “What are you doing here, Jake?” She had to shout to be heard above the rumbling thunder.

“May I come in?”

Inviting him in was the last thing she wanted to do. She hadn’t intended to see him again while she was in town. She hadn’t expected that he would seek her out. She was about to refuse and send him on his way. He must have sensed it, because he added, “This isn’t a social call.”

Clare raised an eyebrow, then stepped back from the door, leaving it open. Turning away from him, she crossed the short hall to the living room. The breeze blowing in carried the pungent scents of damp earth.

Jake closed the door then joined her in the room. He pushed his hair back off his forehead. Hands low on his hips, he glanced around. “Nice,” he said, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

The house was long past any glory days. Plaster had cracked. Paint had peeled. Velvet wallpaper curled at the corners. Rugs were threadbare in places, worn through to the floor beneath in others. Rain fell steadily into the pots she’d placed about the room. The drops struck the steel cookware with audible plops.

“Your sources at this Bureau office must be better than what we’ve got in New York,” Clare said. “I only rented this place a little over thirty minutes ago.”

“I went by the inn, looking for you. When I asked Connie Dannon if she had a guest staying there, and gave her your name, she gave me an earful.”

So he knew why she was in Farley.

“With Connie’s place out,” Jake went on, “that only left Earl Lowney if you were looking for a place to stay in Farley.” Jake’s gaze lifted from his surroundings and returned to her. “You never mentioned a sister.”

“No.”

Clare straightened her shoulders, anticipating accusation, but there wasn’t any in his mild tone.

A new possibility presented itself to her and her heart picked up its pace. “Do you know Beth?” she asked in a rush.

“I know her husband. He’s on the Columbia PD. Town golden boy. I never met his wife.” Jake’s gaze softened on her. “I never met Beth,” he said gently.

Clare rolled her shoulders against the disappointment that settled on them like a mantle. It made sense that Jake didn’t know Beth. If he had, it was likely he would have noticed her resemblance to Clare. Maybe questioned it. He probably didn’t know anything more about Ryder or Beth than she’d learned herself.

She’d moved closer to him in her eagerness for information about Beth. He was now near enough that she caught his subtle aftershave. Rain had dampened his clothing, but not his attractiveness. He had a face that was ruggedly male, and an athlete’s hard-muscled body. The combination of face and form would speed up the heart rate of most women. And beneath the handsome exterior lay a strength that would shield and comfort.

When she’d needed both from him most, he’d withdrawn.

The memory brought pain. She lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see her hurt. Kept her eyes down until she was sure they would not betray her. Then, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. “You said this wasn’t a social call. Why are you here, Jake?”

“To offer you the services of my office in the search for your sister.”

Again, she recalled that she was without her laptop and couldn’t access the Bureau’s databases.

“I’m also offering my help,” Jake said. “I work and live with these people, Clare. That gives me an edge you don’t have. You can expect more reaction like the one you got from Connie Dannon. Farley’s a close-knit community. Beth left one of their own and the people here didn’t take that kindly. They’re not going to hand the key to the town to her sister.”

“I’m not after the key to the town. I just want to find Beth.”

It was a knee-jerk response, one that lacked real heat. He was right, and they both knew it. If he wasn’t considered an insider, at the least he was now a local. That gave him an edge she couldn’t hope to gain. Added to that she’d worked with him, knew him to be a skilled investigator.

She’d be a fool to turn down his offer of help. Still, she hesitated. They shared a painful past and hadn’t parted amicably. His offer made no sense and she needed to know the reason for it.

Clare eyed him. She chose her next words carefully and infused them with the firm tone she reserved for interviewing suspects. “I could use your take on the town and its people.”

“Then it’s settled.”

He turned to leave.

“Why Jake? Why the interest?”

He faced her once again, met her steely gaze with one that was just as hard. “The faster you complete your business in Farley, the faster you’ll leave town.”

She had her answer, though hearing it stung.

“I have a lead on a trucker that my sister left town with,” Clare said. “I plan to check that out first thing in the morning.”

Jake nodded. “I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll have breakfast at the diner in town. You can bring me up to speed and we’ll follow up on your lead from there.”

“I’ll meet you at the diner.”

He shrugged. “Meet me, then.”

A loud creak came from overhead, and a section of the ceiling at the opposite end of the room collapsed. Water poured in through a now gaping hole.

Clare watched the downpour. “Guess I’m going to need more pots.”

* * * * *

Jake stopped just short of slamming Clare’s front door behind himself. He leaned back against the scarred wood of the door. Water poured from the down spout into a crater-sized hole in the porch. Could good ol’ boy Earl Lowney have rented her more of a dump than this one?

When the ceiling collapsed, he’d had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from scooping her off her feet and taking her back to his house. How she would have balked at that. He’d have likely lost a body part. One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. He’d seen her take down men who outweighed and outdistanced her significantly. On more than one occasion he’d been relieved to see that she had the skill to back herself up.

Still, she wasn’t as tough on the inside. She’d looked so vulnerable when she’d asked him if he’d met Beth. He knew what it cost her to open herself up like that to him. When he’d told her he hadn’t, her disappointment had sliced through him. In that moment, he’d have given a lot to be able to say he knew her sister.

She looked the same. Wide, soulful eyes. A sweep of dark hair that flowed around her shoulders. A killer body that he remembered all too well. He’d curled his fingers into fists to keep from reaching for her, so badly did he want to take her in his arms.

She’d asked why he wanted to help her. He’d told her what he believed she wanted to hear. It didn’t please him that he’d been right. That he’d known the only way to get her to accept his help was to lie to her. She would have thrown him out if she knew the truth.

They’d been over for three years, and he’d never stopped loving her.

Chapter Six

The next morning Clare drove into town for her breakfast meeting with Jake. She wasn’t looking forward to it—or more accurately, to seeing him. She preferred if they didn’t cross paths again while she was in town. But his offer to assist with the locals in her search for Beth had been too good to pass up. So, here she was.

They would only be speaking with one local, she reminded herself, the grocer, who could provide the name of the truck driver Beth left town with. Once Clare had the name, she and Jake could go their separate ways.

She parked her rental by the curb in front of the diner. Despite the short walk, perspiration broke out on the back of her neck. The rain last night hadn’t caused the heat to let up, as she’d hoped. If anything, it was hotter today. She was glad to exchange the sticky, damp air outside for the cool interior of the diner.

The scents of coffee brewing and bacon frying wafted in the air. Clare’s stomach growled, reminding her she’d missed dinner the night before. After Jake left she’d returned to her bath. The adrenaline that had been driving her for the last couple of days was spent and she’d fallen asleep on the sprung mattress in the master bedroom. She never did make it out of the house to find a meal.

She scanned the diner. Jake hadn’t arrived yet. Judging by the number of people inside, the place was doing a great business. Only a couple of empty tables remained. She started toward one of them.

Heads turned as she made her way down the center aisle. Conversations slowed then ceased. Clare thought it was a safe assumption word that Beth Ryder’s look-alike sister was in town had spread.

A buzz of conversation began as Clare reached the table. She felt every eye in the diner on her. It was not an unfamiliar sensation. She’d been the new kid—in the family—in the school—in the neighborhood—more times than she cared to count. Though the attention remained unwelcome and uncomfortable, she’d learned to deal with it.

She took a seat. She’d dressed as she would have if she were going into the Bureau office. The sleeveless dress she wore beneath a matching suit jacket fell to mid-thigh and the vinyl padding of the chair cooled the backs of her legs. Her gun, in a shoulder holster beneath the jacket, pressed against her side.

The table sat in front of a large window. Sunlight streamed across two menus stacked in the center of the white tabletop. The window looked out onto Main Street. A few Farley residents walked the sidewalks, pushing strollers and pulling shopping carts.

Clare spotted Jake leaving a black SUV. Like her, he’d dressed for work. Seeing him in the deep blue suit and tie reminded her how well he wore business attire.

He entered the diner. She watched him search the crowd, then his gaze settled on her and he made his way over. Before they could exchange a word, a waitress stepped up to the table. The woman arrived so quickly, Clare wondered if the order of the day was to get her and Jake out as quickly as possible.

The waitress held an order pad clutched in a plump grip that was white with tension. In her other hand she held utensils. As Jake took the seat opposite Clare’s, the waitress placed them in front of him. Clare noticed the woman wasn’t carrying any utensils for her.

To Jake the waitress said, “What can I get you?”

The woman’s tone was unfriendly.

Jake rested his chin on the heel of his hand as if he had all the time in the world and regarded the woman. “How are your grand kids, Milly?”

The waitress—Milly—hesitated then said, “Got me another.”

She’d responded grudgingly, her tone low, as if reluctant to engage in personal conversation. Since Jake knew about her family, it appeared he was on friendly terms with her. Clare figured it was likely that the woman’s hostility was new and due to the fact that Jake was consorting with an enemy of the town. Clare refrained from rolling her eyes.

“How many does that make now?” Jake went on. “Three? Four?”

“Five.” Milly’s lips twitched, then curved into a smile. Color suffused her broad cheeks. “My Erline, bless her, this is her fifth girl.”

To Clare’s surprise, the waitress plopped the pad on the tabletop and stuck her thick fingers into her apron pocket. She pulled out a photo of a wrinkled, red, crying newborn and stuck it in front of Jake’s eyes.

He took the photo from Milly and nodded in appreciation. “Pretty as can be, just like her sisters.”

“That she is,” Milly said.

The waitress’ eyes glistened briefly and she sniffed. Jake handed the picture back to her. She returned it to her pocket, then snatched up the order pad.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“I’ll have the number three and coffee. Clare?”

She hadn’t glanced at the menu—too engrossed in the byplay between Jake and the waitress. He had a way with people, unlike herself. When they’d worked together and had occasion to interview witnesses, he’d taken on that role. People warmed to him.

To Milly now she said, “I’ll have the same.” She lifted the corners of her mouth in a very small smile. “I’ll need a knife and fork with that, Milly.”

The waitress’ lips tensed briefly, then she gave Clare a brisk nod and left them.

Clare crossed her arms and leaned against the padded back of the chair. “I guess it’s a safe bet that the waitress is a friend of Dean Ryder and Connie Dannon.”

“Farley doesn’t get a lot of tourists. You would have been conspicuous anyway. The resemblance between you and your sister is unmistakable.”

Clare uncrossed her arms and clutched the edge of the table. “You said you never met my sister?” Her words came out in a rush.

“I haven’t.” He said the words gently. “Last night, after I left you, I did some digging, wanting to find out a little about Beth. She and Ryder ran an announcement of their engagement in a newspaper in Columbia. There was a photo of the couple.”

Clare slid forward on the chair. “Did you print that announcement and the picture?”

But before she’d finished her question, Jake had removed a folded paper from the pocket inside his suit jacket and held it out to her.

Eyes wide, she drank in the picture of her sister and the brief paragraph below it, giving the names of the engaged couple and the date, time, and location of the wedding ceremony and reception.

She glanced up from the page and into Jake’s eyes. She broke the eye contact and hastily tucked the page into her purse.

She could feel his gaze still on her. What else had he looked into? With very little effort, he would have learned about her mother and the events that resulted in Clare and Beth’s separation.

Clare straightened her spine. It never sat well with her when someone learned of her past. Avid curiosity glowed in people’s eyes when they found out about her. That curiosity was usually followed by pity.

None of that was in Jake’s expression now. She resented the intrusion though, just the same. She didn’t care to be under his microscope.

“It wasn’t necessary for you to do a search on Beth,” Clare said. “This isn’t a full scale investigation. We have only one person to interview—the grocery store owner—and then your part in finding my sister is over.”

“It is an investigation, though unofficial, and whether I conduct one interview or dozens, I don’t go into a job without knowing anything about it. You know how I work. If you don’t like my methods, you shouldn’t have accepted my offer of help.”

Clare’s cheeks heated. “My mistake then, in thinking you wouldn’t treat this as a job since it doesn’t involve the Bureau. I thought you were just one old friend helping out another old friend.”

Jake eyed Clare. “Whatever we once were, it was never friends.”

He got to his feet. He tossed a bill onto the table to cover their meals and made his way to the door. Clare watched him go. Her appetite had soured and she left the table also.

Jake was standing on the sidewalk in the shade of the canopy of the diner when she went outside. The muscles in his face were pulled taut in anger. She was plenty angry herself. The sooner she got away from him, the better. She would have liked to send him on his way, and conduct the interview with the store owner herself, but she wouldn’t let anger risk her chance at the information. Jake was her best bet at finding out what she wanted to know.

He glanced her way as she came to stand beside him. “Might as well take one vehicle to the grocers.” His words were clipped. “I’m parked across the street. We can pick up your car later.”

Clare matched his tone. “That would work just as well with me driving. I’m parked right here.” She went to the driver’s side door of her rental. “I need to get to know my way around town. You can direct me as we go along.”

Without giving him a chance to comment, she hit the keyless remote, unlocking the doors, and got in behind the wheel. Jake joined her inside the vehicle.

“Where to?” she asked, cranking up the air conditioning.

“Follow Main. Turn right at the next light.”

The grocery store was a squat building on a large plot of land. Clare parked behind a rusty pickup.

Jake unlatched his seat belt. When she made no move to do the same, he raised an eyebrow at her.

She’d made a decision on the drive over. “Better if you go in alone and talk with Dawson.”

She hated saying that, hated more taking a back seat when it came to Beth, but nothing would be gained from her presence during Jake’s talk with the store owner. If anything, at seeing her, the man might decide not to cooperate at all.

Jake nodded. Clearly, he felt the same. He left the car.

* * * * *

Jake closed the car door with more force than was necessary. Since meeting Clare yesterday, slamming doors was becoming a habit. The short drive from the diner hadn’t cooled his anger with her.

She thought he’d been spying on her by checking out Beth Ryder. Jake’s jaw ached with the force of gritting his teeth together. But that wasn’t all that hurt.

He hurt. After all this time, he could still be hurt by her. No one had the power to evoke such strong emotion in him as she did. To touch him as deeply. The fact that she could still shift the ground under his feet left him feeling weak and helpless.

He stopped for a moment, getting his bearings, bringing himself back to the moment then made his way across the parking lot. Mikey North called out to him.

“Hi, J-Jake,” Mikey said.

The boy was Jake’s next door neighbor. Mikey was fourteen with a scraggly growth of whiskers sprouting between raw acne. He worked Saturday mornings for Dawson Foods and at the moment was pushing a linked row of carts.

“Hey, Mikey.”

The boy fell into step beside Jake.

“C-can I borrow your c-camping gear tonight?”

“Sure. You know where it is. Help yourself.”

“C-cool.”

Mikey bent low over the carts, broke into a trot and moved on to collect another abandoned cart.

Inside the store, only a handful of shoppers walked the aisles. Jake didn’t need to ask where to find Cal Dawson. He spotted him easily at the front of the store. The store owner was crouched in front of a shelf of canned peas.

“Morning, Cal,” Jake said.

Dawson glanced up from the peas. “How you doin’, Jake?”

“At the moment, I could use your help.”

Dawson rose to his feet. He wiped his hands down the sides of the apron tied to his slim waist. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like the name of the driver that delivers your produce, and the company he drives for.”

Jake figured his question would spark a reaction from Dawson, but not the one he got. The man blanched. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow.

“What would you be wanting to know about him for?” Dawson asked.

“It’s a personal matter, Cal, nothing to do with the store. Can you get that information?”

Dawson’s breathing quickened. “I don’t know it right off. I’d have to look that up. It’s a Saturday. Store’s busy. I don’t have time to go digging through my files.”

No additional customers had entered the store in the last few moments. There was hardly a crowd. Jake nodded slowly to Dawson, wondering at the excuse. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

Dawson cleared his throat. “He hasn’t been here in a week.” Dawson swiped a hand across his forehead. “Company’s got a new guy delivering here now.”

“Okay. I’d still like the name of the company and the driver.”

Dawson’s gaze lowered briefly. When he glanced up, his gaze fixed on something behind Jake. An instant later, his eyes widened slightly and his gaze darted back to Jake.

“That sumbitch,” Dawson said loudly. “Yellow pole cat sneaking off with another man’s wife.”

Jake narrowed his eyes at Dawson’s sudden outburst and the vehemence behind it. He turned to look at what had captured Dawson’s attention. They were in line with the double glass doors that led to the parking lot. Clare was now in plain view. She’d left the car and stood leaning back against the yellow driver’s door.

“Don’t expect he’d have the guts to show his face back in Farley,” Dawson went on. “Haven’t seen him since the day him and Dean’s wife took off together.”

“That so,” Jake said.

“Damn right, that’s so.” Dawson scowled, drawing his brows together.

“I could still use that name, Cal.”

Dawson rubbed the back of his neck. He met Jake’s gaze then averted it. “Etherley Transport delivers some of my stock.” Dawson’s voice sounded strained. “So do Robert’s and McKinnon’s. Not sure which of the three bring in my fruits and vegetables. We get different drivers all the time. I can’t keep track of all their names.”

Perspiration was now trickling down the side of Dawson’s face. He turned and led the way to the back of the store and into his office. The space was small, hardly larger than a closet, but neat. An inbox and a computer sat on the desk. A filing cabinet took up one corner. A copy machine occupied another.

Dawson went to the computer and pressed a few keys. Seconds later, he snagged a sheet of paper from the tray of the copier and held it out to Jake.

Contact information for the transport companies Dawson named were listed on the sheet.

Jake accepted the paper. “Thanks for your help, Cal.”

* * * * *

Clare was still standing by the car when Jake reached it. She pushed off the door.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“Etherley Transport. McKinnon Transport. Robert Transport. They all deliver stock to Dawson Foods. Dawson claimed he doesn’t remember the names of the drivers.” Jake handed the printout to Clare.

Clare read it. “Okay.” She pushed hair back from her face. Excitement surged through her. “Looks like I’ll be making some phone calls.” She turned away from Jake then turned back to face him. “Claimed? You don’t believe him?”

“No. I think Dawson knew exactly who I was asking about and for some reason he didn’t want to tell me the man’s name.”

Clare frowned, mulling that over. Why wouldn’t Dawson want to name the driver? He had to know once they had the names of the transport companies, the driver would be easy to trace. The best that Dawson would have achieved was a short delay.

She didn’t know Dawson well enough to speculate, and in truth, his reason meant nothing to her. All she was interested in was finding Beth.

Clare blew out a breath. “Thank you—ah.” She held up the paper. “For this.” And because she didn’t like being in his debt, she added, “If I can return the favor, let me know.”

Jake leveled his gaze on her. “Is it that hard to accept help from me, Clare?” Before she could respond, he held up a hand. “Never mind. Professional courtesy. No thanks necessary.”

His cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and the tension in his expression eased into a grin.

“Morning, honey,” he said to his caller. “I hope you’re setting everything up for our tea party. I can’t wa—” The smile left Jake’s face. “Okay. I’m on my way. I’ll be home in five minutes. Count with me, sweetie. One. Two . . .”

Jake held the phone to his ear and strode to the passenger side door.

Clare joined him in the car.

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I need to get home. Turn right at the end of this street then left at the next one.”

She started the car and at Jake’s urgent tone, pressed the gas pedal. In the seat beside her, he continued to count off the time. She overheard a very young girl, her voice choked with tears, repeating the numbers after Jake.

When she reached the street Jake had directed her to, he pointed to a house that was painted two different colors. Parts of the wooden trim and porch were brown, while other parts were yellow.

Clare pulled into the driveway. Jake got out without a word and ran toward the house. Before he reached it, the front door was flung open and a young girl with copper-colored hair spilling out of a loose pony tail and pajamas depicted with pink teddy bears appeared. Clare had no experience with children, but thought it was a good guess that the child was five or six years old.

The girl met Jake on the porch and flung herself into his arms. She had obviously been watching for Jake’s arrival. He scooped her up, holding her close.

Jake had a child?

Was there also a wife?

Clare felt a jab to her stomach at the thought and she yanked her gaze from him and backed the car down the drive. Someone started a lawnmower and the roar drowned out the laughter of a group of children gathered on the sidewalk.

Whatever we once were, it was never friends.

Jake’s words in the diner returned to her. He was right about that. They’d never gotten around to being friends. One moment they’d been colleagues on the job, then lovers, then in over their heads.

That Sunday morning three years earlier came back to her. She’d left her bedroom after she and Jake had made love and when she’d returned there’d been a rose and a ring on her pillow. She’d stared at the ring on the dark blue cotton and joked that the Bureau was paying Jake a lot more than it was paying her.

Jake rose from his reclined position on the mattress and leaned on one elbow, looking up at her. His gaze unswerving, his voice rock-steady, he’d said, Marry me, Clare.

She saw that he was serious and her throat constricted. She gave a little nervous laugh. “Things are wonderful as they are. Why spoil what we have by getting married?”

He left the bed and went to stand in front of her. He cupped one shoulder gently. He raised his other hand and brushed his thumb tenderly over her cheek, tilting her head back so their eyes met. “I want it all,” he said softly. “I want you for the rest of my life.”

Jake was a man who believed in “happily ever after” but she knew better.

Her breathing quickened and she broke out in a cold sweat. “A marriage license won’t make me love you any more.”

“Or any less,” he said.

“Then we don’t need that piece of paper.”

She ran her palms up his bare chest. She followed the path of her hands with her lips . . .

She’d thought the matter settled, but six months later he raised the subject of marriage again. That time she reacted with anger.

No, she didn’t want to get married. Not then. Not ever. She wanted to go on as they were for as long as they wanted to. Until they didn’t want to . . .

She knew a time would come when they wouldn’t want to go on. The end would come. It was inevitable.

Heart pounding, she wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug and waited for his response.

They’d been arguing, shouting, almost in each other’s faces. Jake’s hands, at his sides, had clamped into fists with impotent anger. But at her words, a look of resignation filled his eyes. His rigid shoulders slumped. The anger appeared to drain out of him.

He watched her without blinking, then slowly turned away from her, went to her apartment door and opened it. Head bowed, he stopped on the threshold and stood gripping the frame. Then he walked out.

The memory left Clare feeling raw and hollow now. Her throat clogged with tears. She wiped a tear from her cheek. That she could still feel pain over him humbled her.

She’d given him all she could, and it hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted it all, he’d said. All or nothing and he’d chosen nothing.

She’d been devastated when he’d left her, but she’d gotten over the worst of it and moved on. As apparently had he. Her reaction to him now was brought on by the surprise of seeing him with his child—one more surprise on top of the surprise of meeting him again yesterday. She’d been caught off guard. That was why she was reacting so strongly. If their paths ever crossed again, she would not be affected. God, Clare, just who are you trying to convince? Clare exhaled a slow, tremulous breath.

Unlikely that she and Jake would meet again, however. His role in the search for Beth was over, now that he’d obtained the information from Cal Dawson. Clare would take it from there. She had no need to see Jake again.

She certainly had no business rehashing the past.

She forced her thoughts back to Beth and to her next step to finding her sister.

Her plan was to call the transport companies Cal Dawson had named and inquire which of them delivered produce to the grocery store.

Clare had driven back the way she and Jake had come and was now once again at Dawson Foods. She turned into the parking lot. The rusty pickup she’d parked behind earlier was still where it had been. She pulled in behind it for the second time that day.

She dug the paper Jake had given her, and her cell phone, out of her purse. First on the list was Robert Transport. She placed the call.

An automated system led her through a series of commands to a receptionist.

“Yes, hello,” Clare said to the woman on the other end of the line. “I’d like to leave a message for the driver who delivers produce to Farley, South Carolina . . . oh, your company doesn’t deliver produce. Dry goods. Thanks for your time.”

Her second call was to McKinley Transport. McKinley, she learned, did deliver produce and to Farley. Clare willed herself to remain calm. She repeated the same message.

“Name of the driver?” the receptionist asked.

Clare selected a name at random. “Jim Silver.”

“Hmm. I don’t recall that name,” the receptionist said. “Where did you say the driver goes to? South Carolina?”

The woman went on without waiting for Clare to reply. Clare heard the clack of computer keys being struck.

“South Carolina territory belongs to Gil Hoag. Oh—wait a minute—Gil doesn’t drive to South Carolina anymore. Nate Linden took over Gil’s route.”

“It’s Gil Hoag I’d like to leave a message for,” Clare said.

“Your name?”

“Clare Marshall.” She considered adding that she was calling about Beth Ryder, but she didn’t want to spook her sister who’d gone to great lengths to leave town in secret and hadn’t disclosed her destination. Of course, she couldn’t include her own identity as Beth’s sister. She feared Beth’s reaction to that even more.

“I’m calling from Farley regarding a personal matter,” Clare added. She left her cell phone number and hoped that would be enough for Gil Hoag to return the call.

She thanked the receptionist and disconnected. At this point, she had nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring. She didn’t have to be in Farley to receive the call. She was finished with the town and could leave if she wanted to and go home.

As appealing as that thought was, she dismissed it. She would arrive at home only to have to travel someplace else when she determined Beth’s location. The best thing to do was to stay put and go directly to Beth from here.

Looked like she was staying in Farley for the time being. The grocery store parking lot had gained a few more vehicles in the time Clare had been parked there. Her stomach rumbled. Her last meal had been on the plane yesterday.

The prospect of eating at the Farley diner made dieting a welcome alternative. She rolled her eyes. Since there was nothing to be gained by subjecting herself to that unpleasant environment, she’d cook for herself. She hoped to be in contact with Hoag shortly, and to be on her way to wherever her sister was by tomorrow at the latest. Clare left her car to stock up on a few things to take her through the next few hours.

* * * * *

One hour later, she was back in Earl Lowney’s deceased uncle’s kitchen. She was at the table forking up scrambled eggs. Steam rose from a cup of black coffee, liberally doused with sugar, that she’d placed beside her plate.

Also beside her plate was her cell phone.

She caught herself glancing at it again and again. Willing it to ring wasn’t going to make it happen. Even as she thought that, her gaze strayed back to the phone.

She dropped the fork onto her half-eaten eggs. Her stomach was too tight to eat more. There was nothing left to do but wait.

By ten p.m. her neck and shoulder muscles were so tight they felt as if they were bulging. She took a long shower, letting the spray beat against her taut back. She resigned herself to another night on the sprung mattress.

She was stepping out of the tub when her phone rang.

Clare pounced on it. Caller ID displayed the name G. Hoag.

“Clare Marshall,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. She pushed wet hair back from her face.

“Yeah. Hey. I’m Gil Hoag. You left a message for me to call you out in Farley? You said it’s personal. Do I know you?”

“No, Mr. Hoag, you don’t.” Clare licked her suddenly dry lips. “I’m calling about Beth Ryder. I need to speak with her.”

“Who are you? Why are you calling me about Beth?”

“I need to get in touch with her. I need you to relay a message to her. I’m—” Clare hesitated briefly, closing her eyes, praying Beth wouldn’t dismiss her as crazy. “I’m Beth’s sister.”

“Sister, okay. But, now, I’m confused here.”

“Confused?”

“Why do you think I can get your message to Beth?”

“Because Beth is with you.” Clare spoke the words slowly. “She left Farley with you one week ago.”

“She was going to hitch a ride with me out of town, but she didn’t.”

“What?”

“Beth never showed up.”

Chapter Seven

“Beth never showed up? Was that what you said, Mr. Hoag?”

Clare hadn’t turned off the water taps since stepping out of the shower to retrieve her phone. Behind her, water struck the plastic orange curtain enclosing the tub, making it difficult to hear. She bent over the tub now and turned off the faucets.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. I told her where I was going to be,” Hoag said, “and she said she’d meet me, but she never showed. I waited a bit, but then I had to get going. I have a schedule to keep.”

Water sluiced down Clare’s face from her sopping hair that hung like rat’s tails to her shoulders. She blinked a drop that fell into her eyes, but ignored the thick white towel she’d left on the vanity earlier.

“I was told that she left Farley with you.” Clare’s grip on the cell phone tightened. “You’re saying that Beth didn’t arrive at the specified time and you left town without her?”

“That’s right. I figured she just changed her mind about leaving.”

“You didn’t wonder why she didn’t show up?” Clare’s tone was sharp. “Didn’t find her to ask?”

“Hey. Not my business if she decided not to go.”

“Not your business? According to what I’ve heard, you and Beth were lovers.”

“Lovers? Who in blazes told you that?”

“It’s all over town, Mr. Hoag.”

Hoag cleared his throat. “Lady, I was going to give Beth a ride out of town, and that’s it.”

Clare’s stomach clenched at the news that Beth wasn’t with Hoag. “I want to know just what plans you and Beth made.”

“You sound like a cop. Just who are you, lady? If Beth’s mixed up in something involving cops, I don’t know anything about it.”

“I am an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation but I’m also Beth’s sister. Just answer my questions, Mr. Hoag. Now, I’ll ask you again, what plans did you and Beth make?”

“I don’t need to tell you a damn thing. I don’t want nothing to do with cops.”

He was right. At this point she couldn’t force him to talk to her about anything. She needed his cooperation. Clare released a breath. She softened her tone.

“Mr. Hoag,” Clare said. “I’ve contacted you unofficially. I’m not speaking with you as a federal agent, but as Beth’s sister. She isn’t in Farley. As far as everyone here knows she left with you. I’m trying to find her. I would appreciate any information you could give me.”

“What do you want to know?”

His tone was wary. Clare reminded herself not to push or she’d lose him. “You said that you were meeting Beth. Where?”

“She was going to meet me out on County Road Nineteen at five o’clock, but like I said, she never showed.”

“Who picked the time, you or Beth?”

Clare heard Hoag exhale sharply, like he was releasing cigarette smoke. “She did. I drove the same route going on fifteen years. I usually pulled into town around ten in the morning and made my delivery to Dawson’s then pulled out again around four thirty. She asked me to wait the extra half hour, said she couldn’t get off work before then without someone wondering about it. She really seemed like she wanted the ride, and hey it wasn’t going to be more than thirty minutes, likely less, so I said I’d wait.”

“How did you meet Beth?”

“She works at the inn. I’ve spent some nights there. Hey, I got to know a lot of people from Farley. Ask around.”

There was an edge to the comment that Clare didn’t understand, but she decided to let it go for the moment. “Where did Beth say she was going?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Where were you headed from Farley?”

“Next stop was Bradley County. I drove the same route from Florida to North Carolina, making my deliveries and pickups.” He named the towns and cities he went to. “Once I hit Raleigh, I just turned around and went back to do it all over again.”

From what Gladys Linney had said about Beth wanting to see the world, Clare thought it was likely she would head for a big city. Though which one? There were a lot of cities between Florida and North Carolina. The theory had merit, except, according to Hoag, Beth hadn’t left town with him.

“When did Beth ask you for the ride?”

“Same day she wanted to leave. Friday.”

“What time did you and she make these arrangements?”

“Going on eight in the a.m., I’d say. I spent the night before at Connie’s place and was making my way from my room, on my way to grab some breakfast, when Beth come up to me and asked what she did. She asked me not to say nothing to nobody. Wasn’t my business, I said, and told her so.”

“Sounds like a spur of the moment decision?” Clare prodded.

“I don’t know about that. She didn’t say why she wanted to leave, only seemed real anxious to get gone.”

“You pulled out of Farley at four-thirty that day, Mr. Hoag?”

“No lady, it was after five o’clock. I told you that I waited a bit, just in case she was running late.”

“Did you drive straight through to Bradley?”

“Yeah. Straight through. Had a pickup early the next morning and I had to be on time. Fruits and vegetables lose their freshness real fast.”

“Where was that pickup?”

Clare took a tube of lipstick from her cosmetics bag on the vanity counter and scrawled the information in Beige Bisque on the mirror.

“I made the rest of my stops,” Hoag said. “Then I turned around and went back home to Jacksonville.”

“You’re not delivering to Farley anymore. Why is that, Mr. Hoag?”

Hoag’s response came out in a rush. “I’m in a new relationship and my long route keeps me away for a couple of weeks at a time. It’s causing problems. I want to be close to home.”

“I may need to speak with you again, Mr. Hoag. Where can I contact you directly?”

“I don’t know what more you’d have to ask me, but hey, I got nothing to hide.” He recited his home telephone number. “To tell the truth, I was surprised when Beth didn’t show up. Like I said, she seemed real anxious to get gone.”

“If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate if you’d call me. Day or night.”

“Okay,” Hoag said.

Clare ended the call reluctantly. Her heart was pounding. When she’d asked Hoag why he was no longer delivering to Farley, the trucker had lied to her, she was sure of it. He’d answered too quickly, as if he’d been anticipating the question or had rehearsed the answer.

Believing that, it had been a monumental effort for her to say goodbye to him.

Was it a coincidence that Hoag’s last day delivering to Farley was also Beth’s last day in town?

Earlier Jake had believed that Cal Dawson knew the driver, but had chosen not to reveal that information. Clare chewed the inside of her cheek. Both men were holding something back. Did that something have to do with Beth?

She’d check Hoag for any priors, but that was all she could do about him for the moment. Cal Dawson was local though. Clare dressed quickly in jeans and a cotton top and finger-combed her damp hair.

In the kitchen, she retrieved the phone directory then looked up Dawson’s home address. Three Dawsons were listed, but only one Calvin Dawson.

She scooped her car keys from the table in the hall and left the house.

Ten minutes later, Clare was at Cal Dawson’s front door.

Dawson’s house was a modest two-story. A sprinkler set to low watered the clipped lawn that looked black as ink, except for the occasional flash of a Lightning Bug. Intermittent bulbs on posts staked into the ground lit the faces of gnome statues scattered about.

Clare rang the bell. A porch light came on. Cal Dawson opened the door.

His eyebrows arched at seeing her. Clare expected that his eyes would narrow now in a show of the same hostility she’d received so far from Farley’s residents.

It wasn’t hostility that filled his gaze, but fear. Clare’s heartbeat already pounding too hard, kicked up another notch.

“Good evening, Mr. Dawson,” Clare said. “I don’t believe I have to introduce myself. By the expression on your face, I’d say you know who I am. I need to speak with you. May I come inside?”

Dawson, a small-boned man, set himself squarely in the doorway, doing his best with the little bulk he had to block the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder then stepped onto the wooden porch with her, closing the door behind himself.

He glanced to his left, to the neighboring house, Clare thought. The porch was dark. No way to tell if someone was out there. In any case, if someone were there, the distance was great enough to prevent eavesdropping. And as she thought that, she wondered what Dawson feared that someone might overhear.

“What are you doing here?” Dawson whispered. His voice was hoarse with tension.

Clare decided to try a bluff. “Gil Hoag says hey.”

Dawson’s face paled. His eyes fixed on her in a deer caught in the headlights stare.

Clare’s stomach tightened as she wondered what was causing Dawson’s panic. “I just had a talk with Gil about why he’s no longer delivering to Farley.”

Dawson’s shoulders slumped. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat, and then rubbed a hand up the column of his neck. He left the hand there, clutching his Adam’s apple.

“Please. None of that has anything to do with you,” he said. “What do you want to go and stir up my life for? I got a wife—kids. If word of me and Gil got out, I’d be finished in this town.” Tears welled in Dawson’s eyes. “It’s over now. I called it off.”

Clare believed she’d just learned what Dawson had hidden from Jake. Why he hadn’t wanted to name Gil Hoag . . .

“Did you see Beth Ryder on Gil’s last day in town?” Clare asked.

Dawson squinted in confusion. “Ah, I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugged.

Clearly, Dawson had no clue where she was going with this.

“Does Gil know Beth?” Clare asked.

Dawson shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. Can’t say we ever talked about Beth Ryder.”

“Did you know that Beth had arranged to leave town with Gil on that same day?”

“Heard talk of it. Around town. After.”

“Gil didn’t mention it?”

Dawson swallowed a couple of times. “Had other things to talk about.”

She turned to leave, then glanced back at the man. He appeared to have shrunk in his time on the porch. “You know, Mr. Dawson, Dean Ryder may believe that his wife left him for another man.” Clare let that hang in the still air.

Dawson shrugged. “I know it. I feel sorry for Dean, thinking that, but I can’t do anything about it.”

So much for the close-knit community of Farley where neighbor looked out for neighbor, Clare thought. To protect his reputation, Dawson was quite willing to let Dean Ryder twist in the wind, believing his wife had taken off with another man. Here was one more example to support her lack of faith in human nature.

Clare gave a little humorless laugh. “No, Mr. Dawson, I guess you can’t.”

* * * * *

She took her time driving back to the rented house. It was a beautiful night, lit by a full moon. She found that she’d driven to the street where Beth had arranged to meet Hoag. It was a long stretch of road, deserted at this time of night, except for herself. Hoag hadn’t specified the exact point where Beth was supposed to meet him, but that would have been difficult to do. What would she have said—in front of an oak tree? The road was lined with towering oaks. Beth probably figured she’d spot Hoag’s rig. Except that she hadn’t shown up.

Clare leaned over the steering wheel, peering out into the night. Looking for . . . what? There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the Spanish moss hanging from the tree branches. Maybe a raccoon or opossum was about, but if so, Clare couldn’t see one.

Hoag had said that he’d been surprised when Beth hadn’t met him. She’d been anxious to leave, he’d thought. Was that comment made to explain Beth’s absence from Farley and support his claim that she’d left some other way?

Clare would find out.

She slid her foot back to the gas pedal and returned to the rented house. Inside, she stood at the kitchen counter and drank deeply from a bottle of water. She’d left in a hurry and forgotten her cell phone on the vanity counter in the bathroom where she’d been speaking with Gil Hoag. She retrieved it, and checked for messages. None.

To check Hoag, she needed access to the local Bureau office and for that she would have to call Jake. She licked her lips. She didn’t want to call him. She focused on a chip in the counter. Didn’t want to spend any more time with him. Every time she did, their past reasserted itself, and picked at old wounds. Clare wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug.

But to find her sister, she’d do anything she had to. And, once she gained access, she would have no contact with him. Her contact would be with a computer.

Clare placed the call. Jake’s voice mail message clicked on. She left a brief update of her phone conversation with Hoag and her visit with Cal Dawson, then made a request for access to the local Bureau office.

“I want to run a check on Hoag for priors,” she said, “and I want to check Beth’s credit and debit cards for any activity in the last few weeks.” If Beth bought anything with one of her cards, they’d be able to place her in another town or city. “I also want to check with the DMV. See if Beth owns a car.” Clare hoped Beth did, that she’d changed her mind about going with Hoag and drove herself out of Farley. Tracing her vehicle could be a simple matter.

Clare disconnected. While she waited for Jake to get back to her, she’d find out what other transportation was available in Farley.

She consulted the phone directory again, checking listings for local transportation. There was a bus station in Blane County, but it wasn’t located in Farley. No cab companies operated in the town either. Beth could have left with a friend or neighbor who happened to be leaving Farley. But if so, then why arrange to leave with Hoag?

She had no answer. It was past midnight now. Clare rubbed her tired eyes and called it a night.

* * * * *

Clare woke early the next morning. Jake hadn’t called her back. Gladys Linney had mentioned Beth’s closest friend was Patty Burby. Clare decided it was time she met Patty.

After a shower and a quick breakfast, she jotted down Patty’s address from the phone book and went in search of the woman.

Patty Burby lived on a farm. Clare pulled up to a house on a well-tended stretch of land. A man drove a tractor across the fields. A yellow Labrador snored on the front porch. He opened one eye as Clare knocked, but didn’t rouse himself.

A slender red head answered Clare’s knock on the front door. Her curly hair formed a halo around her head. She was bearing a large baby on her hip, the child heavy enough to strain the tendons in the woman’s arms.

“Patty Burby?” Clare asked. At the woman’s nod, she said, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Patty said. “All over town about you.”

She stepped back from the door, and issued a curt invitation to come in. Clare complied.

The door opened into a small kitchen. The room was cluttered with the usual appliances and an assortment of baby furniture and toys, but countertops and the tile floor gleamed. The woman placed the baby in a playpen on a thick comforter, then went to the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of lemonade, which she held in one hand, and retrieved a bottle of beer with the other.

“Take your pick. I’d really love a beer.” Patty made a face. “But I’m nursing so it’s lemonade for me for the time being.” She cast a loving glance at the baby, then back at Clare.

“Lemonade, thanks.”

Patty poured two glasses and handed one depicted with Fred and Barney to Clare. “I’m thinking you didn’t drive out here for a glass of my lemonade, so why are you here?”

Clare met Patty’s steady gaze. “Since you know who I am, you likely also know that I came to town to see Beth. I’ve been told that she left Farley. I’m hoping that she confided her destination to you.”

Patty pulled out a wooden chair at the kitchen table, then waved a hand for Clare to do the same.

“You made the drive for nothing.” Patty drank deeply from the glass. “When Beth left, I was as surprised as everybody else.”

“According to Gladys Linney, you and Beth are best friends.”

“Were best friends. I haven’t seen much of Beth in the last four years—not since she got married.”

Clare heard bitterness and resignation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry to say that, but I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I told Beth things were going to change with us once she married Dean. She said no of course, but I knew that once she said ‘I do’ her friendship with me wasn’t going to be her call any longer. A lot of things weren’t going to be.”

“Why was that, Patty?” Clare asked softly.

Patty curled her lips in a sneer. “Dean didn’t like us being friends. I knew he wouldn’t let Beth and me go on once they were married.”

“Did Beth say that to you?”

“No. Like I said, we stopped hanging out. Not right away. It took some time for Dean to get his way. But he did and once he did, I only saw Beth if I happened to run into her in town.”

“Why do you think Dean would put an end to your friendship?”

“I got my theories. Like me and Parker aren’t good enough to be friends with the likes of him. Plus, he didn’t care for my attitudes. Wouldn’t have wanted my take on things to rub off on Beth.”

“What ‘take’ did Dean object to?”

Patty laughed. “Oh, hell, he didn’t like anything I had to say, but mostly he didn’t like what I had to say about him. I knew he would run Beth’s life once they were married, and I told her that—the last time was in front of Dean at the wedding rehearsal. Dean didn’t care for my comment. Of course, he didn’t say nothing to me about it. Left it to Beth to take up his cause, which she did.” Tears brimmed in Patty’s eyes. “Oh, hell.”

The door opened and a man built square and squat like a cinder block entered the kitchen.

“I think you’re done here, Miss.” His words were slow, his tone soft. “You shouldn’t have come, upsetting my wife.”

Patty plucked a tissue from a box on the table. “It’s all right, Parker. Clare here didn’t say nothing that I don’t already know.”

Parker Burby took up a position behind his wife’s chair. They were clearly a unit. For an instant, Clare wondered what that would be like. She shook off the thought.

Patty went on. “Beth told me she didn’t want me to stand up beside her as her matron of honor, feeling like I did about Dean.” Tears fell onto Patty’s cheeks. She mopped them up with the tissue. More fell and she pressed the tissue to her eyes.

Parker placed his bear-size hand on his wife’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Patty reached back and clutched his fingers.

“We made up some and I did stand up with her on her wedding day.” Patty shook her head slowly. “But that was the beginning of the end for us.”

“Were you surprised when Beth left Dean?”

“Oh, yeah. She thought he was responsible for the sun rising every morning. I’m thinking she found out that wasn’t the case. The Beth I saw after the wedding wasn’t the same girl I’d known. Her spark was gone. I was afraid it was gone for good, but she left Dean so she must have got it back, and I’m glad. I hope she’s real happy with that truck driver. Dean Ryder wasn’t good for her.”

“I spoke with the driver,” Clare said. “He wasn’t involved with Beth. He says that she didn’t leave Farley with him.”

Patty’s shimmering eyes widened at that.

“It looks like she left on her own,” Clare added. “Patty, where would my sister go?”

“She used to talk about getting herself some schooling. She wanted to be in the movies.” Patty’s eyelids lowered and her shoulders slumped as if she were suddenly carrying a great weight. “That wasn’t so long ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know Beth anymore. I don’t know this new Beth. I can’t say where she would go.”

Clare had been hoping for some insight from someone who knew her well. “Any other friends she would confide in?”

“She didn’t keep up with the girls we know. Once she married Dean, he became her whole world.”

And yet she left him, Clare thought.

She needed to piece together her sister’s last known day in Farley. “When was the last time you saw Beth?”

Patty wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Weeks before she actually left. I didn’t see her around town much and Connie Dannon and me don’t get on. She knows I don’t like her brother and didn’t want Beth to marry him.” Tears filled Patty’s eyes again. “Beth didn’t come by to tell me she was leaving.” She raised her eyes to Clare. Her auburn lashes were damp. “She’s family to me. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Beth.”

Patty covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them.

“Okay. That’s enough,” Parker Burby said. His eyes narrowed in concern. He crouched beside his wife and put his log-thick arms around her. “Easy, darlin’. It’ll be okay.” To Clare he said. “You can show yourself out.”

Clare left the Burbys. The dog was still on the porch when she stepped out, muzzle resting on his forepaws. She made her way to the car. The asphalt drive was gooey in places and the trek was slow as her low sling-back sandals stuck to the tar.

She intended to pay a call on Connie Dannon. According to Hoag, Beth had worked at the inn on her last day in Farley and was presumably there until four thirty. Clare wanted to confirm that. So far, the inn was the only known place that Beth had been on her last day in town.

Clare’s cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID, then spoke into the phone. “Hello, Jake.”

“Got your message,” Jake said. “I ran Hoag. No priors. Man pays his debts and his taxes. Nothing raised any red flags.”

She had no doubt that Jake had been thorough and took comfort in the fact that he hadn’t found anything nasty in Hoag’s file that would raise fear for Beth.

“Beth doesn’t have a car registered with the DMV. I went ahead and initiated a search on Beth’s credit cards, bank info, etcetera,” Jake went on. “It’ll come through my home computer shortly. I’ll print a copy of whatever turns up for you and drop it by your place on my way into work tomorrow, or you can pick it up at my place. I’ll be home all day.”

He sounded distracted. Clare wondered if that had something to do with whatever emergency had compelled him to go home yesterday after his talk with Cal Dawson.

The last thing she wanted to do was go to Jake’s house, but she did want a look at Beth’s recent credit card transactions. She also wanted to arrange access to Jake’s office.

“I’m on my way,” Clare said, and disconnected.

Chapter Eight

When Clare pulled into Jake’s driveway, he was on a ladder painting the eaves trough of his house. Chocolate brown was slowly giving way to sunny yellow.

She parked beside his SUV on the double drive, then left the car. She took in her surroundings as she made her way to the cement walkway the ladder was perched on. A small inflatable pool filled with water sat on the freshly mowed lawn in the shade of a live oak. A wooden swing that glistened with wet paint the same color as the eaves troughs hung from the thick limb of that tree. The scents of freshly cut grass and paint filled the air.

She could imagine Jake pushing the swing for the young girl she’d seen him with yesterday—the child that Clare assumed was his daughter. Against her will, she thought of him standing behind a woman seated on that swing, her smiling face tilted back to his, as he rocked the swing gently.

She looked away from the swing.

Jake was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that were faded from many washes. He glanced down at her from the second rung of the ladder and nodded to her as she reached him. His eyelids looked heavy as if he hadn’t slept, and again she was reminded of his urgency to be home yesterday.

Since he was doing the mundane chore of painting, it appeared the crisis was over in the Sutton house.

Jake set the paintbrush across the open can. “The report on Beth came through. File’s on the chair, on the porch. Not much there and no credit cards to report on. Beth doesn’t have any.”

“What about joint—with Ryder?”

“Nada. Likewise for a bank account. Nothing with Ryder. Nothing on her own here in Farley either. She does have an account in Columbia though.”

“Columbia?”

“Yup. Set it up eighteen months ago. She’s the only one named on the account. She had a couple thousand in it until last week when she withdrew it all. She’s got debit card access, though the account is drained at the moment. That’s it.”

Clare retrieved the folder. In addition to the account history, the number and bank where it was located were also listed.

She shook her head and sighed. “It just couldn’t be that easy.”

“Tracking her through her card use was a long shot,” Jake said. “The secretive way that Beth made plans to leave town suggests that she doesn’t want to be found. She may know she would leave a trail if she used her debit card and opted to take the cash instead.”

“A trail for whom, though, I’m wondering,” Clare said softly.

“What?”

“You said Beth may not have wanted to use her debit card because she knows it can be traced. I’m wondering who she thinks will want to trace her. When I spoke with Ryder, he made it clear that he isn’t interested in a woman who doesn’t want him. Makes me think why all the drama of making secret plans to run away? Why take off? Why not just tell Dean she wanted a divorce?”

Jake was quiet for a moment, mulling that over. “Any theories?”

Clare recalled her conversation with Gladys. “Mrs. Linney thinks Beth is afraid of her husband.”

Jake frowned. “What makes her think that?”

“Nothing concrete, but she believes that to be the case.” Clare rubbed her brow. “Jake, I’d like access to your office.”

“Yeah, I got your message. Let me know when and I’ll do my best to accommodate you. I’ll be in tomorrow if you want to come in. We can run Ryder through the system. Strictly for background, I think. I don’t expect that we’ll find anything against him. We’ll see if we can poke any holes in what does turn up.”

“Or we could run that check now.” Clare shifted position in impatience.

Jake studied her for an instant then picked up a cloth that was draped across the top rung and wiped his hands with it. “I’ll need to see if my neighbor can watch Sammie first.”

“Sam-mie?” Clare repeated the name slowly. For some reason, it struck a familiar chord.

“Samantha. My niece.”

His niece, not his daughter. Clare had forgotten that he had a niece. They’d been together when his brother’s daughter was born. Jake had taken some vacation time to fly out and visit his new niece. He had invited Clare along but a conflict at work had kept her from accompanying him. Jake had returned one week later.

In her kitchen, she turned the dial on the oven to three hundred to heat the lasagna she’d made for them. She’d set the tone for a romantic evening and when she’d opened her front door to him, Jake had greeted her with enough enthusiasm that left no doubt that his plans matched hers.

The moon was high in the sky by the time they’d finally gotten around to thinking about dinner. While the food reheated, Jake poured glasses of wine, then he’d proudly shown her a photo of the newborn.

“She looks a little like me. Around the eyes,” Jake had said.

Clare couldn’t see a resemblance, and couldn’t resist teasing him. She smiled. “I noticed it right away.”

He must have heard the laughter in her voice, and laughed himself. It was obvious he was crazy about the little girl, and awed by her. Clare leaned against him and kissed him softly. “I’m happy for all of you.”

Jake slid an arm around her waist and held her close at his side. “That little girl.” His voice lowered. “She’s what it’s all about.”

“For some people,” Clare said softly.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Do I hear a ‘not for you’ in that statement?”

Clare’s stomach clenched. “I don’t want children.”

“Not now?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not at all.”

“So certain, Clare? Why?”

Children were important to Jake. She loved him. Would not mislead him. He deserved to know there would be no children with her.

Her throat tight, she faced him. She shrugged and said simply, “I suppose I don’t have the gene that makes women want to become mommies.”

A lie. How badly she wanted to have a child of her own. Wanted to have Jake’s child. Her breath held as love surged through her.

She would not tell him of her past. Of her fear that she’d turn on a child of her own one day, as her mother had. Clare shuddered. Better that he believed she didn’t want children, than know she feared turning into a monster.

The memory left Clare chilled to the bone.

Jake’s cell phone rang. He took it from the top of the ladder and answered the call. Clare was about to turn away to give him a degree of privacy, but his gaze flicked to her and held.

He glanced at his wristwatch. “I can be there in about four hours.” He listened once again to his caller then said, “Yeah. See you then. Appreciate the call, Steve.”

Before he’d flipped the phone closed, Clare took a step closer to the ladder. “What?”

Jake remained silent.

He was deciding what to tell her, she thought. “I already know that call had something to do with me. Now, what?”

Jake climbed down then stepped off the ladder and stood in front of her. “Let’s go inside for a minute.”

She gripped his arm. “What?”

Jake ran a hand back through his dark hair. “When you called me about Hoag’s claim that Beth hadn’t left town with him, I made some calls. I gave out Beth’s description to law enforcement officers I know in neighboring towns and cities. Unofficially. I didn’t give out Beth’s name. I put out the word to call me if anyone matched.”

The implication was alive or dead. He’d just gotten a call he hadn’t wanted to tell her about and despite the hot sun beating down on her, Clare shivered.

Jake cupped her shoulders in a tight, strong grip. He remained silent. It became apparent that he had no intention of saying more.

“The rest,” she said.

His gaze on her grew intent. His grip that already felt as if he were pressing to the bone tightened. “A body of a woman was found about a week ago in Russellville, a town in Georgia. No ID. She’s been in the Kenton county morgue tagged as a Jane Doe. She matches the description I gave out for Beth.”

Clare shuddered.

“I’m going to drive down there. Once I know something, I’ll call you.” He crouched so that their gazes were level. “Clare, I will call you as soon as I know.”

Clare’s throat had dried and she swallowed several times before she could speak. She shook her head. “I’m going with you.”

“No.”

She broke his hold on her and stepped away from him, headed for her car. “See you in Kenton County.”

He reached out and snagged her by the elbow. “You don’t want to go down there.”

She faced him. “Do you really think I could wait here?”

He held her gaze, then exhaled deeply. “I need to make arrangements for Sammie. Give me a few minutes.”

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later Clare joined Jake in the front seat of his SUV. He hadn’t shaved, a day’s growth of stubble darkened his lean jaw, but he’d washed up and changed into clean jeans and a shirt and topped off the outfit with a sport jacket. As he shifted his arm to the steering wheel, Clare glimpsed his shoulder holster beneath the jacket.

He started the engine. The radio was tuned to a fifties rock station and Elvis, singing “Jailhouse Rock.” Jake reduced the volume and backed out of the driveway.

Clare sat tight-lipped, looking out of the windows at the houses they passed. People sat on verandahs, waving paper fans and sipping from tall glasses and bottles. All was normal, yet here she was on her way to view a body that might be Beth.

Jake left Farley and steered his vehicle onto the interstate. Nausea roiled in her stomach and she felt a little dizzy, the feeling enhanced as the SUV picked up speed and the traffic outside her window blurred.

For the most part, they drove in silence, exchanging the odd monosyllabic word, letting the radio and the whoosh of oncoming vehicles provide sound.

Jake had had the presence of mind to bring along a couple of bottles of water. He uncapped one, held it out to her. She shook her head, afraid that even water would prove too much for her unsettled stomach.

After about three hours of driving, Jake pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

“Steve, we’re about thirty minutes out. Beth Ryder’s sister is with me.” Jake fell silent while he listened to the man on the other end of the line. “Okay. See you there.”

Clare didn’t ask for a summary of his conversation. It wasn’t hard to put together that Jake had made arrangements to view the body with the cop who’d alerted him earlier.

All too soon, yet not soon enough, he pulled into the Kenton County Morgue parking lot.

The morgue was in the basement of a small hospital. Steve Sumner, a lanky man with a receding hairline and a full red beard, met them in the short corridor. Jake made quick introductions. Clare supposed she muttered an adequate response, though she couldn’t remember what it was she’d said.

“We don’t have a camera to view the body,” Sumner said. “Not in the budget at this time. Clare, you’re going to have to take a look at it up close.” Sumner tugged at his tie. “The body was found in a dumpster. It’s pretty banged up, including the face.”

“I’m making the ID,” Jake said.

Since Jake had never met Beth, he couldn’t legally identify a body as hers. Neither could Clare for that matter; the last time she’d seen her sister, Beth had been an infant. If the body was believed to be Beth from photographs they’d both seen of her, Dean Ryder would be notified for an official identification. The legalities sprang to Clare’s mind and then faded away like bubbles. At the moment, legalities meant nothing to her.

Neither did Jake’s insistence that he view the body himself.

Voice tight, Clare addressed Sumner. “I want to see the woman.”

Sumner nodded, then opened the door to the morgue and led them inside.

The morgue was like the thousand others Clare had been in, crypt cold and wreaking of disinfectant. Unlike the others, however, she’d never gone into one fearing the body she’d view was her sister’s. Her stomach clenched tight as a fist and goosebumps pebbled her skin.

A male attendant nodded to Sumner and went to one of the drawers.

Clare’s heart thumped. Jake’s hand settled on her shoulder, big and heavy, while his other arm wrapped around her.

Clare held her breath.

The attendant slid the drawer open. A wave of cold air rose. He drew the sheet down to the body’s neck.

Clare stared at the face. Bruises discolored the left side. A cut sliced across the jawline. Despite the damage to the features, Clare could see that this woman wasn’t Beth.

Clare shook her head.

* * * * *

Back at his vehicle, Jake stood at the driver’s door, facing the opposite side of the street. It was twilight now. Neon lights lit up a small white-washed structure with a marquee that proclaimed the place Mack’s Bar.

Jake regarded the marquee. “We could use a drink.”

“I’d rather we went back to Farley.” She did not want to linger here. She tried for a firm tone. Instead, her voice came out thin.

Jake eyed her and his jaw tensed. “Got a hot date?”

Before she could summon a response, he crossed to the passenger side where she stood and seized her hand. He waited out two cars driving through the intersection then towed her across the street.

The onset of evening hadn’t dispelled the heat, but for the first time since she’d come to the south, Clare didn’t mind the temperature. She was bundled in Jake’s jacket. He’d put it on her in the hallway of the morgue when she began to shiver. The jacket was still warm from his body and she huddled into it.

There were few people inside the bar. A couple sat together on the same side of a booth. Two men racked up balls at one of the pool tables. A film of cigarette smoke circulated in the conditioned air. A big screen TV mounted high on one wall was tuned to a sports channel.

The bar stools were unoccupied. Jake steered her to one of them, then took the seat beside hers.

He ordered a beer and a gin from a bartender with the build of a Sumo wrestler, and when the drinks arrived, set the gin in front of her with a curt, “Drink.”

Clare would have objected to his high-handed tone, but just then her stomach did a flip-flop and she gagged. She slid off the stool onto legs that felt as sturdy as wet noodles.

“Clare—”

She clutched her stomach. “If you don’t want me to be sick on you, stay out of my way.” She spotted the restrooms and rushed by him.

When she returned to her seat moments later, Jake stood leaning against the brass railing of the bar, facing the door she’d gone into. His eyes narrowed as she approached. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She had less color in her face than the poor woman she and Jake had just viewed.

When she picked up her drink, to her dismay, her hand shook. Jake wrapped his fingers around hers, steadying her grip. Together, they lifted the glass to her lips and she took a gulp. A fire ignited in her throat and stomach from the alcohol, but she welcomed the burn.

Once they lowered her glass, Jake released her. He raised a bottle of beer to his own lips and drank deeply, as he downed half the liquid.

She took another large swallow of the gin, then a third, finishing the drink. Jake signaled to the bartender for another, but she shook her head. The gin had already achieved the desired effect of warming her, and that was all she wanted from the alcohol at the moment. She wanted to remain clear-headed, though why she would want that, given that the gruesome image of the woman she’d just seen hadn’t dispelled, she couldn’t imagine.

Someone fed the jukebox and Willie Nelson crooned about all the girls he’d loved before.

Clare set the glass on the bar. “I’m okay now. When you’re done, I’m ready to go.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but continued to nurse what had to be the last remaining swallow or two of beer in the bottle. She found his unwillingness to abandon the last drops unusual. He’d never been particularly fond of beer.

Some time passed; he didn’t respond to her statement or finish his drink.

“Jake, if you’re done, I’m ready to go,” she said.

He turned to face her then. “Are you? You should take a look at yourself.” He pointed with the neck of the beer bottle to the mirror behind the bar. “See what I’m seeing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” It occurred to her that he was angry with her. “Are you mad at me?” Her tone held outrage, but due to her recent bout of nausea lacked the usual punch.

He raised the bottle once again, this time in a toast. “You got it in one. Give the lady a prize.”

She turned her head to face him fully, and caught her reflection. Indignation had put two spots of red on her cheeks now. It wasn’t a flattering addition. The red looked ghastly, garish against her still chalk-white face.

“Jake, what is your prob—”

He thumped the beer bottle on the wooden bar top. “You could have waited in the hallway of the morgue. Not only was there a possibility that the woman was Beth, but Sumner warned you that the woman had died hard. It was going to be ugly. Your first glimpse of your sister in twenty-five years would have been of her bruised and beaten and laying on a cement slab. You didn’t need to put yourself through that. You didn’t need to, but you did anyway.”

“I needed to see for myself that the woman wasn’t my sister.”

“Was that it, Clare? Really? Or, was it you just didn’t want to be weak—let yourself for once in your life give in to a moment of weakness?” The anger in his eyes was now joined by frustration. “When there’s a way to achieve a result that will save pain, most people take that way. Not you. You have this need to test yourself—to push yourself to impossible levels of endurance. If there’s a way for you to punish yourself, you’re first in line to do that. Just what the hell are you punishing yourself for?”

Clare straightened her shoulders. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I do. I know you, remember? At least as much as you’d let anyone know you. I’d venture to say that I know you better than anyone. Delude yourself if you want, but don’t try to delude me.” He touched his index finger to her temple. “You’ve got a need in there to keep yourself from being happy. I wish to God I knew what to do about that.”

Clare drew back, so he was no longer touching her. Body tense and shaking from heat now, rather than cold, she eyed him. “Are you finished? I must have missed the Bureau’s class on Psych 101. As to your claim that I keep myself from being happy, where does that come from? Where do you get off? I was happy three years ago, remember, you were there. I did not keep myself from being happy. If you want to lay blame, then it’s all yours. You walked away from what we had. I didn’t.”

“What we had?” He grunted. “What we had was great sex. That’s all we had.” His brows drew together. His tone lowered and the anger left his voice. “That’s all you’d let us have. It was never anymore than that.”

Chapter Nine

Clare pulled into the driveway of Connie’s Place. An elderly man and woman sat on the verandah facing one another across from a checkerboard. They glanced up from their game as Clare climbed the creaking porch steps.

“Good afternoon,” Clare said as she walked by them into the house.

Clare had just come from her sister’s residence after spending the last hour with Beth’s neighbors. The women on the short street were stay-at-home moms, and when Clare had given them the date of Beth’s last known day in town and asked if they recalled being at home on that day, they’d given responses like, “I’m home every day!”

The women hadn’t been cordial. Clearly, their sympathies lay with Dean Ryder but Clare could tell they’d been curious about her. They hadn’t wanted to turn down a chance to learn something new about the Ryder scandal.

She’d asked each woman in turn if she’d seen Beth on that afternoon. None had.

She needed to retrace her sister’s steps on her last day in Farley. So far, all she knew was that Beth had been in the grocery store at ten-thirty on that Friday morning, arranging with Gil Hoag to leave town. Hoag said that Beth intended to complete her workday at the inn. Clare would confirm the time Beth left the inn of course, but more, she hoped someone here could tell her where Beth had gone next.

Inside the inn, a door at the end of the hall was open, revealing the kitchen. The blades of ceiling fans whirled, carrying the scent of something sweet baking. A kitchen door, open to the glass, showed Connie in the yard hanging sheets on a clothesline.

Just the person Clare wanted to see. She joined Connie in the yard. A few birds dipped their beaks into a small birdbath set in a rock garden.

Connie’s face was flushed and glistened with perspiration. She straightened her posture at seeing Clare. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to ask you some questions about Beth’s last day at work,” Clare said.

Connie yanked the clothesline hard enough to elicit a screech from the metal wheel and several feet of wire raced along the track. She snatched a sheet and clothes pegs from the laundry basket at her feet and pinned the sheet to the line. “Got nothin’ to say to you.”

“So you told me. By now you might have heard that in addition to being Beth’s sister, I’m also a federal agent. You and I can have a conversation here, or we can take this down to the Bureau office. Up to you.”

Clare knew she had nothing to support her, were she to insist on Connie accompanying her to the Bureau office for questioning.

Connie met Clare’s gaze briefly then lowered her eyes to the laundry basket at her feet. “Got too many chores to waste my day cooped up in an office with you. Let’s get this over with.”

Connie didn’t seem to be as certain of herself as she’d been a moment earlier. Pleased, Clare nodded. “What was Beth’s job here?”

Connie shrugged. “She cleaned the rooms, and helped out in the kitchen.”

“What time did she start work?”

“Six-thirty. We start serving breakfast at seven-thirty.”

“And she worked until?”

“Four-thirty.”

“What about the day she left Farley? Until what time did she work on that day?”

Connie pressed her lips tightly together, puffing up the lower lip. She propped a hand on her hip. “Well, I don’t keep no punch-clock, but to the best of my recollection Beth worked her shift.”

“Did she say where she was going after work?”

Connie sneered. “No. I figured home. Looks like she had another place to be.”

Clare leveled her gaze on the other woman. “That other place wasn’t with the truck driver. She wasn’t having an affair.”

Connie shouted. “It’s all over town—”

“Town’s wrong,” Clare said simply.

Connie bent down for another sheet. Her knuckles bulged with her tight grip on the crisp white cotton. “What? Did she get tired of that poor slob too and leave him already?”

Clare ignored the comment. “Do you have any other employees?” She wanted to know if Beth may have confided her destination to one of her coworkers.

“One. Lil Fisher.”

“Who lives here?”

Connie’s lips pursed, and she didn’t respond.

Her reticence angered Clare. “I’ll get you started,” Clare said. “Yourself. Your mother. Who else?”

Connie crossed her arms. “My husband, Rich.”

“Are Lil Fisher or your husband here at the moment?”

“Too bad for you, there’s no one here right now but me, Mama, and the guests.”

Clare gave Connie a steady look and held it until the other woman swallowed visibly. She would return to speak with Rich Dannon and Lil Fisher. As for Connie’s mother, given the woman’s confusion, Clare didn’t think she’d get anything of value from her.

Clare withdrew a business card and pen from the purse hanging from her shoulder and wrote her cell phone number on the back of the card. She held it out to Connie. “Call me if you recall something Beth might have said about where she was going that day.”

Connie kept her hands at her sides.

Clare leaned slightly toward the other woman and caught a whiff of talcum powder. She steadied her gaze on Connie. “FYI, withholding information from a federal agent is a prosecutable offense.”

Clare waved the business card slowly. Connie snatched it from Clare’s grasp.

Clare left the backyard. She now knew for sure that Beth had been at the inn until four-thirty. Where did you go after that, Beth?

Clare returned to her car. A woman she didn’t know stood by the passenger side door, watching Clare’s approach, waiting for her. She was tall and robust with a head of tight gray curls.

“Can I help you?” Clare asked.

The woman glared at Clare. “I was in my kitchen next door when you was out back with Connie just now. Couldn’t help overhearing you two talking.” She had the rasp of a lifelong smoker. “I got to say, no mistaking that you and Beth are kin. Your looks aside, you both got the same nerve. It’s time someone set you straight about your sister and spoke up for Connie. And I’m just the one to do it.”

In Clare’s experience, Connie didn’t need anyone to speak up for her, and she was in no mood to receive a lecture on the merits of Connie Dannon from one of her neighbors. Still, the woman lived in the area and might have something to add about Beth.

“And you are?” Clare asked.

“Name’s Lil Fisher. I work for Connie.”

The woman now had Clare’s complete attention. Before Clare asked her own questions, she wanted to hear what Lil might offer on her own. “What do you have to tell me, Ms. Fisher?”

“You want to know about Beth? I’ll tell you about Beth.” Lil swung her arms wide. “Ungrateful. That’s one word to describe Beth Ryder. Lazy. There’s another that fits. I’m being polite here. Let me tell you there are plenty others I could mention. I’ve had to pick up the slack for Beth more times than I can recall when she’s left Connie holding the bag. I’m the one Connie has had to call whenever your no-good sister didn’t show up for work.

“When Dean married Beth, out of the goodness of her heart, Connie hired on her new sister-in-law. Beth didn’t know the first thing about working at an inn but she had nowhere else to be so Connie took her on. Beth, though, turned out to be seven kinds of lazy. Oh, she’d come in—didn’t want to miss out on the paycheck —but she didn’t pull her weight. Always slacking, pretending she was ailing so she’d get out of work.” Lil shook her head slowly. “Connie made due, like she had before Beth, but then business picked up and the place got busy and Connie’s mama got sick and Connie really needed a helping hand.”

“Were you working on Beth’s last day?”

“Wasn’t supposed to. But Beth was moving slower than usual that day and it was busy. Two families and a couple of honeymooners checked in. I got a desperate call from Connie to help out. What with looking after her sick ma and the inn being full up with guests, Connie needed all the help she could get. I came right over and worked my butt off. But not Beth, no way. That girl would do what she wanted to do, and to hell with everybody else. She wouldn’t put it in high gear to help Connie out. Forgot that Connie was the boss and not the other way around. Beth never worked a minute past four-thirty. If anything, Connie worked around Beth. Connie fixed Beth’s shift so’s she could get home in time to get supper ready for Dean by six when he got home.”

“Did Beth say where she was going after work that day?”

“Not to me. Didn’t give it no thought. Just figured she was going home.”

The sarcasm in Lil’s tone annoyed Clare and she gave a dose of sarcasm back. “And yet, Connie didn’t fire her?”

Lil scoffed. “Connie would never hurt her brother that way. Beth knew that and used the kinship. Connie was family, but she was also the boss and had a business to run. Beth never gave her that respect. Connie never told Dean nothing about Beth’s work. Dean doted on that girl. And look what she did to him?”

“How did Beth get to work every day?”

“Drove. She and Dean have two vehicles. Beth drove one of them.”

Jake hadn’t turned up a vehicle registered to Beth in his search, but Clare recalled an old green sedan parked in Beth’s driveway when she’d been waiting for Ryder to return to the house. The car must be registered to Dean. “Beth drove their green vehicle?”

“That’s the one.”

Clare figured Beth hadn’t taken the car out of town because she knew it would be easy to trace. Had she intended to drive it to meet Hoag and abandon it? If so, she hadn’t done that either. Clare frowned. If Beth hadn’t gone home after work, then how did the car get back to her house?

Lil pointed at Clare. “Connie was real upset when you showed up here. The last thing she needs is you in her face. She don’t deserve that. She’s been real good to your sister. Like I said, it’s time someone told Connie’s side of things.”

Having said her piece, Lil turned her back on Clare and marched up Connie’s driveway.

Clare got into her own vehicle but didn’t drive away. Instead, she sat, engine idling, absently tapping the steering wheel. Someone had to drive Beth’s car home. Dean?

Clare glanced at the dashboard clock: 2:47 p.m. According to Lil, Dean didn’t get home until six. Unlikely he would be at home now. Clare decided to swing by his house anyway to be sure.

She approached his house slowly. His white pickup wasn’t in the driveway. She parked, left the car and tried the doorbell anyway. She heard it ring inside and waited it out. Dean didn’t come to the door.

On her way back to her own car, Clare stopped at Ryder’s sedan. It was the last place Clare knew for sure that Beth had been. She tried the doors. All were locked; the windows closed. She bent and peered through the glass. The interior was green as well. Clare studied the vinyl seats and carpeting. They were spotlessly clean. Nothing to indicate that Beth, or anyone for that matter, had ever been inside. Nothing readily visible to provide a clue to Beth’s whereabouts.

Clare exhaled a frustrated breath. She continued down the driveway. The Ryders’ mailbox was staked into the trim lawn. She flipped down the lid. She’d welcome a card, letter or flyer addressed to Beth that she could follow up on. She peeked inside. The mailbox was empty.

Clare wanted to wait for Dean so she could ask him about the car. Whoever had driven it home may be the last person to have seen Beth in Farley. Impatience was riding Clare hard.

It was another three hours until six o’clock, however, and it was blazing hot. Sitting vigil at Ryder’s curb made no sense. There was no help for it. She’d have to come back later to ask him about the car.

Back at her rented house, a red truck was parked in the driveway. The driver was Parker Burby. Clare pulled in beside the truck and turned off the ignition. She left her vehicle and Parker did the same.

“Hello, Mr. Burby,” Clare said.

He nodded.

A tree, a short distance from their vehicles, cast a shadow across a patch of the driveway. Clare wanted out of the sun and moved to stand in the shade.

Parker remained by his truck. He removed a worn and stained cap and held it with both hands. His hair was cropped low and his scalp showed through the fine hairs.

“You were asking my wife about Beth and Dean,” Parker said. “There’s something Patty doesn’t know about and I don’t want her to. She’d worry herself sick.”

Clare went to him. “What is it, Mr. Burby?”

Parker lowered his gaze to the cap. He passed it between his thick fingers, turning the cap around and around. “When Beth pulled away from her, Patty took it real hard. I don’t have any use for Dean Ryder, but there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my wife, so I drove over to Dean and Beth’s, hoping I could get him to ease up on our women’s friendship.

“I got to the house, knocked on the door but nobody came to answer it. I was going to go back home and try again another time when I heard a scream. I threw my weight against the door, but it wasn’t locked and it fell open. I ran inside. From the hallway I could see straight into the kitchen. Beth was laying on the floor. Dean stood over her. I yelled something—hey, I think it was—and they both froze and turned to look at me.”

Parker’s features tensed. “Beth said she slipped and fell. That Dean was helping her to her feet. Didn’t look that way to me. I said so. I told Beth to come on home and stay with me and Patty. I can tell you I was hoping Dean would make a move to stop me from taking her.” Parker’s grip on the cap tightened.

“But Beth said I got it wrong. There was nothing wrong. She got mad and told me to get out.” Parker raised his gaze from the cap and gave Clare a level look. “All the while Beth and me were talking, Dean just stood there. He didn’t say one word. I didn’t want to leave her there, but she wouldn’t come with me. She wouldn’t go.” Parker exhaled a deep breath. “Beth is out of Farley and away from Dean, so none of that matters now, I s’pose. But I thought you should know. Dean’s got the whole town believing he’s something he’s not. You’re stirring things up again about Beth leaving him. He won’t take kindly to that.”

Chapter Ten

Clare stood and watched Parker Burby back his truck down the driveway. Gravel crunched under the big tires and dust formed a cloud that hung in the still air.

His account of the scene he’d walked in on between Beth and Ryder had left Clare cold and shaken.

Parker Burby hadn’t actually witnessed Ryder harm Beth, but there was no doubt in Clare’s mind that Parker believed that’s what had happened seconds before he’d entered the house.

Clare wanted to find Dean Ryder and cut off a body part for his mistreatment of her sister.

At six o’clock, when Ryder pulled into his driveway, she pulled in behind him.

Clare met him by the driver’s side door as he stepped out. His eyes narrowed.

“ ‘Golden Boy,’ that’s how I heard you described in town,” Clare said without preamble. Her rage hadn’t cooled in the hours since Parker Burby’s visit. “Wonder what Farley’s residents, your co-workers, and the brass in the Columbia PD would say if they knew the golden boy war hero is really a coward who beat his wife.”

Goading him, she took the steps that would bring them toe-to-toe. Her hand was inside her purse, clutching the gun she kept there, and her purse was leveled at his chest. Their gazes locked and held. Clare’s eyes widened and her breathing quickened in anticipation. Go for it, she thought.

Ryder’s face reddened. A vein pulsed at his temple. But he made no move against her.

“You’re right not to take me on, Dean,” Clare said in a lethal whisper. “I’m not Beth.”

Ryder gritted his teeth. “Get out of here.”

“Beth didn’t leave town with the trucker. I’ve been in touch with that man and Beth didn’t leave with him. She is not with him. You wouldn’t know where she is, would you, Dean?”

“Go to hell.”

“What time did you get home that evening?”

“You hard of hearing?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to answer my question? Is there a reason you don’t want me to know what time you got home on that day?”

“This how you feds treat fellow cops? This what you learned at the Bureau?”

Clare watched him without blinking. “You have something to hide, Dean?”

Ryder crossed his arms. “I got home at six p.m.”

“When did you last see Beth?”

“The morning she left. She went to work. I went to work. When I got back home at the end of the day, she’d cleared out.”

“How did you know she was gone? She leave a note?”

“No note. Her closet was empty. Her suitcase was gone.” Ryder’s tone grew soft and mocking. “Even the FBI should be able to connect those dots.”

Clare ignored the insult. “If she didn’t leave a note, how did you conclude that she left with Hoag?”

“I didn’t until I heard talk of it around town.”

“Beth didn’t take her car?”

Ryder’s glance flicked away from Clare and in the direction of the green sedan. “My car. And you can see for yourself she didn’t since it’s parked in my driveway.”

“How did the car get back here?”

“Beth left it.”

“Doesn’t look that way. No one in town saw Beth after she drove away from Connie’s Inn that afternoon. None of your neighbors saw her. It appears that she never came home that day to return the car, yet here it is. She didn’t meet her ride out of town. You know something about that, Dean?”

“You’re finished here. I’m done talking to you.”

Clare eyed Ryder. “I’m nowhere near finished. I will find my sister. Count on it.”

A siren wailed briefly as a patrol car parked at the curb in front of the Ryder house. Clare looked away from Ryder. A man wearing a sheriff’s star on the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt emerged from the car. He had a trim, swimmer’s build and his features were hard as granite as he made his way up the driveway.

“Got a call from one of the neighbors about a disturbance.” His gaze settled on Clare. “I’m Sheriff Ozzie Petty. Everything all right here, Dean?”

The question was directed at Ryder, but the sheriff’s hard expression remained aimed at her, Clare realized.

Ryder cut a glance to the sheriff. “It’s fine, Oz. She was just leaving.”

“I’ve been asking Dean what he knows about his wife’s whereabouts.” Clare observed Ryder again. “His wife, who allegedly left Farley one week ago, but who I’ve been unable to locate since. Beth is my sister, and I’m—”

“I know all about you, Agent Marshall.” Petty reached up and pushed his uniform cap back a bit off his brow. He sighed. “You’ve caused quite a stir around these parts in the three days you’ve been in town.”

Clare turned to Petty. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid that it is. Let’s just you and me get in our vehicles now and move on.” Sheriff Petty nodded slowly. “You and I can have a cup of coffee in my office. Though, we might want to make that ice coffee. The heat hasn’t let up at all today and looks like the night isn’t going to get any cooler.” The sheriff smiled, wrinkling the skin around his mouth and eyes.

Clare’s anger spiked. “Don’t patronize me. And don’t stretch my patience with the good ol’ boy shit you have going on with Dean Ryder.”

Sheriff Petty’s lips pressed together briefly. “Now, hold on a minute here—”

Clare turned to Ryder once again. She did not have cause to arrest him and nothing would be gained if she pressed the matter now with no more than supposition.

“We’ll talk again,” she said.

It galled Clare to have to say those words. Worse, it took all of her self-control to turn and walk away from him.

She returned to her car. Some of Ryder’s neighbors had gathered on their front lawns. Heads turned as Clare drove by. She ignored them. It was time she took a close look at Ryder.

Jake’s SUV wasn’t in the lot of the Bureau office when Clare pulled in fifteen minutes later. She felt relief and a quick release of tension that had knotted her stomach at the prospect of encountering him. They hadn’t spoken since their argument at the bar yesterday. They’d driven back to Farley in a stony silence. The passage of another day had not reduced her hurt at Jake’s assessment of their past relationship. She’d given him all she had, and he’d summed it up to “great sex.” If only . . . a breath trembled out of her.

She brought the car to a stop, killed the ignition, but remained inside, needing some time to shake off the memory of her encounter yesterday with Jake and bring herself back to the moment. She had a job to do. She needed to get to it.

She made her way through the double glass doors of the small building. The doors opened into a small reception area. An air conditioner kicked on. She was wearing an above-the-knee skirt and cold air blew across her bare legs from a nearby vent.

A young man with a wave of blonde hair that fell across his brow sat behind a desk. He glanced up at her entrance.

“Hello, may I help you?” he asked.

Clare took her ID out of the purse dangling from her shoulder and held it up for him to see.

“Agent Marshall, hello,” the young man said. “Jake told me you might come in to the office. I’m Jonathan, the administrative assistant. Jake’s not in just now but he said you can use his office. I’ll show you where it is.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Jonathan backed a wheelchair out from behind the desk and Clare followed him down a hall.

They passed several rooms before Jonathan stopped outside one of them. The office door was open.

“This is Jake’s office,” Jonathan said. “I can brew a pot of coffee if you like, or something cold?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.”

Jonathan nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

With that, he left her alone.

Clare entered Jake’s office. It was colored in grays and black. On Jake’s desk was a picture of the young girl Clare had seen when she’d taken him home, Sammie, his niece.

Big green eyes. Short copper-colored hair. A wide smile that showed both front teeth missing. The girl sat in front of a cake with the words “Happy Birthday Sammie” written on it in pink frosting. There were four flaming candles. A few other smiling children stood around Sammie. Clare saw that the picture had been taken in Jake’s front yard, by the swing, and some time ago, since Sammie’s hair was short in the photograph. When Clare had seen the child two days earlier her hair was hanging to her shoulders.

It struck Clare as odd that the birthday party would be held at her uncle Jake’s, rather than at Sammie’s parents’ house. But then again, she was hardly an expert on family functions.

She booted up Jake’s computer, entered her access code, and logged onto the Bureau’s database.

* * * * *

A pain in her neck alerted her to the fact that she’d been at it for a while. She glanced at her watch. Two hours had passed.

She’d learned that Ryder had been a marine during the Gulf War who’d been commended and honorably discharged when his tour of duty ended. He returned home, applied for and was accepted by the Columbia PD, and over the years had been promoted to his current position of detective.

Jake had mentioned yesterday that they might be able to poke a hole through something that turned up, but she hadn’t found anything. Except for his stint in the Gulf, Ryder had lived all of his life in Farley. She’d traced him back to birth in very little time and nothing had caught her radar.

Clare huffed out a frustrated breath. She pushed back from Jake’s desk and sent herself and the chair skidding along the wood floor. She was getting nowhere tracing Beth. Her stomach was tight as a fist with fear for her sister.

It was time she reported Beth missing.

Clare’s eyes watered. She blinked quickly. Her hands shook as she went about filing the reports. She registered her sister’s vital information with NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—to be wired to every police department in the country and with VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. VICAP’s computer database would compare missing persons cases from across the country to see if Beth’s disappearance could be connected to any of them. She issued a BOL—Be on the Lookout—with Beth’s description.

In the morning she’d speak with Jake and with Sheriff Petty’s office to coordinate a local investigation.

She shut down Jake’s computer. Minus the hum, she became aware of an acute silence.

She shut her eyes tight, and swallowed a lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. With nothing more to do at the moment, she left Jake’s office and went home.

* * * * *

Clare woke with a start. What was that banging noise? The front door knocker. Someone was slamming it with considerable force.

It took Clare an instant to orient herself. She was in the living room of her rented house. Moonlight spilled in through the open window, across the threadbare rug and bare floor, and the sagging velvet couch she’d fallen asleep on not long ago. She hadn’t been able to shut off her thoughts about Beth until sheer exhaustion had overcome her.

Clare pushed her tangled hair back from her face, and rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. The knocking continued. She sat, then got to her feet and made her way barefoot to the front door.

About to yank it open, she stopped herself. Could her caller be Dean Ryder? If so, she didn’t think he’d be there to shoot the breeze over a cup of tea.

She shook her head to clear the last of the sleep, and spotted her purse where she’d left it on the hall table when she’d come in earlier that night. Her service weapon was still inside.

Dean Ryder had a gun, too, she reminded herself. She should be so lucky that she’d rattled him so thoroughly that he’d take a shot at her. The thought sent a rush of adrenaline through her.

The door wasn’t equipped with a peep hole. She wouldn’t have used it now, if it had been. She retrieved her gun then took up a position to the side of the door and called out, “Who is it?”

“Jake,” came the terse reply.

Not Ryder, but she didn’t welcome Jake’s presence at her door either. Hand on the door lock, Clare debated turning around and leaving him standing out there. What he’d said to her in the bar came back to her, and with it, the hurt. His assessment of how things had been between them felt like a betrayal, but at the moment there was more; she felt battered since filing the missing person’s report on her sister and wasn’t up to sparring with him, wasn’t up to facing him.

It was that last thought—not up to facing him—that had her twisting the lock open. As she did, Jake’s words from yesterday came back to her: When there’s a way to achieve a result that will save pain, most people take that way. Not you.

Clare pressed her lips together at his analysis of her, at his incredible gall. She pulled the door open with more force than was necessary and received a jolt to her shoulder as she stopped the door from striking the wall behind it.

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

Jake’s gaze remained steady on hers. Without consulting his wristwatch, he said, “Eleven-fourteen.”

He wore a dark gray suit and tie. She doubted that he’d put on business attire to visit her at eleven o’clock at night. Had he been working?

If so, she couldn’t imagine what in Farley would require the attention of the FBI this late. The thought flitted through her mind and she dismissed it. She was too wrung out to summon any interest.

Clare rubbed her eyes. “I was asleep.”

His gaze lowered, taking her in. She’d fallen asleep in the clothes she’d been wearing that day, or most of them. She’d removed the jacket but still wore a blouse and the skirt that made up the suit. Both were now wrinkled and the skirt had bunched at her waist, baring most of her legs. She realized she was giving him an eye-full of thigh, but resisted giving the skirt a tug.

“Nice sleepwear.” Jake brushed by her and entered the hall. “You want to tell me why you’re answering your door armed?”

Clare scowled and closed the door with her foot. She placed the gun on the table by her purse, ignoring his question. “What do you want?”

“I got a visit from Sheriff Petty.”

Clare crossed her arms. “And?”

“Thought you’d like to know that Dean Ryder is threatening to sue the Bureau and you personally for harassment unless you lay off.”

Clare shook her head and sneered. “I doubt he has the guts. His kind tends to stick with bullying those who can’t fight back. Like Beth.”

“What?”

“Parker Burby came by here.”

Clare hesitated, not wanting to engage Jake in conversation, but putting her personal feelings about him aside for the moment, she went on and filled him in on her talk with Parker. “When I confronted Ryder, he didn’t deny abusing Beth.”

Something lodged in Clare’s throat. She swallowed to clear it, then went on. “The big mystery is how her car got back to her place if she didn’t drive it there herself. Lil Fisher, who works at Connie Dannon’s inn, saw Beth drive away in it after work that day. Ryder said the car was in his driveway when he got there, yet no one saw Beth drive it home. No one saw Beth at all after she left the inn.”

“May not be a mystery,” Jake said. “I’ll call the sheriff’s office. Ask if they found the car abandoned someplace and notified Ryder about it.”

Clare nodded. “I can get in touch with them.”

“I’d better make that call. You’re not big on tact. What was it you said to Sheriff Petty—oh, yeah—that he had ‘good ol’ boy’ shit going on with Dean Ryder?”

“The son of a bitch. I wouldn’t be surprised if Petty knew about Ryder’s mistreatment of Beth. You should have seen him with Ryder. It was a cliché from a B movie—corrupt sheriff shielding one of his own.” Her gaze sharpened on Jake. “Wait a minute—that’s why you’re really here—you came to neutralize the situation—to try to rein me in. Let me tell you, Agent Sutton—”

Anger sparked in Jake’s eyes. “You know me better than that.”

He was right. Jake’s approach was different than hers, but she’d never known him to interfere with her methods. And she’d never known him to bow to pressure when it came to an investigation.

Her remark had been uncalled for. She sighed. “Why are you really here then, Jake?”

His tone soft, he said, “You filed a missing persons report on Beth.”

Her throat tightened. “You’re up to speed then.”

His gaze became intent on her. “Are you all right?”

She’d been primed for a fight—not his concern—and for an instant didn’t have a reply.

“Fine,” she said, after a brief silence. But her eyes began to burn. She turned away from him, and seized the doorknob. “It’s been a long day, Jake.”

He made no move to leave. Gently, as if he feared she might shatter otherwise, he folded his arms around her from behind. He drew her close against himself.

Despite her efforts to the contrary, hot tears spilled onto her cheeks.

Jake turned her toward him and she offered no resistance. He held her close, with his arms wrapped around her, and she ground her face into the scratchy fabric of his jacket, against his hard, strong shoulder, and let the tears come.

Her arms slid around him and she clutched his waist. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would have fallen.

Jake’s head lowered, resting against hers. His lips brushed her temple. “We’ll find her, Clare.” His voice was deep with emotion. “We’ll find her.”

“Will we?” she whispered. “We both know how many people go missing, never to be recovered. Or recovered alive.” It was her worst fear, and to her own ears the words sounded wrenched from within her. Tears welled in her eyes again. “It’s been ten days. Her trail has gone cold—maybe too cold, irretrievably cold.”

“Don’t.” Jake pulled her back a bit so he could peer down into her eyes. His gaze bore into hers. His grip bit into her shoulders. “Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t over. We’ll find her, Clare. We will find her.”

His hands left her shoulders and rose to frame her face between his wide, warm palms. With his thumbs he brushed away the tears trailing down her cheeks.

“We will find her,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he leaned closer. Clare’s heart thumped. He murmured her name and then his lips touched hers.

His kiss was careful, gentle, tender, giving not taking. It was comfort he offered, comfort and compassion and the message was clear: He was with her; she was not alone. A sob caught in her throat as she responded to him, moving her mouth beneath his.

The kiss began slow and soft, but in the next instant it was red hot. His hand left her cheek and then Jake’s fingers were knuckle-deep in her hair. Need surged within her. She seized his wrists, anchoring his mouth to hers.

Memories of being with Jake—like this—broke free of the chains she’d used to lock them away in the deep recesses of her mind. And with those memories came longing. Her strong reaction to him now was not purely physical. It wasn’t just the touch of his mouth doing all the right things that sparked this fierce need for him, but the emotions his touch evoked—and the emotions were dangerous.

His touch was familiar and welcome—so welcome.

At that thought, Clare pulled back from him as if he’d bitten her.

She broke his hold on her. “Good night, Jake.”

“Clare—”

She opened the door. “I said good night.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Good night.”

Clare closed the door behind him. She heard his SUV start, then the crunch of tires on the gravel drive.

She felt raw and hollowed out. The search for Beth had put them together again. That was the only reason their paths had crossed now. In three years he hadn’t called her, hadn’t missed her, hadn’t needed her. He hadn’t come to a realization that walking away from her had been a mistake and being together on any terms was better than not being together at all.

She would find her sister soon, and then she and Jake would go back to living their lives as they had been for the last three years. Apart. She leaned against the door, pressed her forehead to the scarred wood and closed her eyes tight.

Her head was pounding. She had pain reliever in her suitcase upstairs. She pushed off the door and mounted the steps in search of the tablets.

She’d looked inside the closets of this house and hadn’t been inspired to hang her clothes in any of them. Now, finding the small bottle of pills buried somewhere amid the clothing was a chore. As she rifled through the suitcase, she heard a vehicle in the driveway.

“Dammit, Jake,” she whispered.

The door knocker thudded three times, loud enough to wake even the soundest sleeper. She abandoned the search for the pain reliever and descended the stairs.

As she opened the door, a car sped away. She squinted to see the make and model, but the tail lights were off, and the vehicle blended with the darkness.

A rock the size of a melon had been placed on the first door step. A plain white paper was beneath it.

Clare bent and retrieved it. Bringing it to the light in the hall, she read:

I have information about your sister. Meet me at the entrance to the old mine shaft on Edgar Road at midnight. Come alone.

There was no signature.

Chapter Eleven

The headlights of Jake’s SUV lit up a tree and a squirrel scrambling up the trunk, as he drove away from Clare’s rented house. The radio was on low. Whatever the male DJ was saying was lost on Jake. His thoughts were all about Clare.

She was so hurt. He couldn’t remember a time she’d cried like that—as if her heart were breaking. He couldn’t stand that she was hurting.

At the intersection to Main Street, he pulled a U-turn and headed back to her place.

How many times in the last three years had he thought of her? Of them? Too many times.

He’d been the one who’d walked away, she’d said. She didn’t realize that she’d left him long before he took those final steps.

Now, here she was in Farley. He should be keeping his distance, letting the past lie. Instead, he’d insinuated himself solidly in her life by offering his help in the search for her sister. He wanted to help Clare because he knew what finding her sister meant to her. But that wasn’t all. Helping Clare enabled him to spend time with her. He still loved her, still wanted a future with her.

He reached the house and pulled into Clare’s driveway. Her car was gone. Her front door was open. She could have gone out and left it open herself . . . but Jake thought back to his conversation with Ozzie Petty and to what had gone down between Clare and Ryder earlier. She’d never answered his question about why she’d answered her door armed with her service weapon. Clearly, she perceived a threat from someone. Ryder?

Ryder’s pickup wasn’t in the driveway. Could he have left it parked somewhere, snuck up on Clare . . . Jake’s heart accelerated. He left his vehicle, and gun in hand, went through Clare’s front door.

The hall light was on. The light in the living room was on as well. Jake made his way through and scanned the room. Nothing looked disturbed. It appeared that she really had just gone out and hadn’t closed the front door or doused the lights.

He lowered his gun. He could wait for her. Sammie was at a sleepover. He didn’t need to relieve a babysitter. It didn’t look like he needed to hang around, though. Clare’s pain over Beth had been eating away at him but, if she felt fine to go out, then she was dealing with it. The thought relieved some of the tightness in his stomach.

As he turned away, he knocked a piece of paper off the coffee table. Picking it up, the large, bold type caught his eye and he read the note. He released the paper to fall where it would and ran out of the house.

The SUV’s dashboard clock glowed 11:48. Jake pressed the gas pedal. Despite the air conditioning blowing from the vents, sweat broke out on his forehead. Maybe he was overreacting. He hoped so, but the fear that he might arrive after midnight burned in his stomach.

Edgar Road was on the outskirts of Farley. No other streets branched from it. Anyone driving down this road did so to reach the old abandoned mine. Since the mine had been closed and filled in some eighty years back, following an accident that had cost a dozen men their lives, it was likely that Edgar Road was getting more use tonight than it had in decades.

Jake switched to high beams and light cut through the darkness, illuminating bushes and scraggly undergrowth.

It was a couple of minutes to the hour. His lights spotlighted Clare’s car and then Clare herself, standing by the boarded entrance to the mine. Jake took his first deep breath since finding the note in her living room.

He hit the brakes. The SUV rocked to a stop, spitting up gravel and dirt. Parking beside Clare’s car, Jake cut the engine, but left the high beams on.

The light from his vehicle illuminated his path over the uneven ground as he made his way to Clare. If not for that light, her body would be indistinct. With the entrance to the mine shaft behind her, she would be in shadow, indistinguishable. He was relieved to see she’d taken care to conceal herself.

Clare met him on the gravel path.

“Jake! What are you doing here?” She raised a hand and gestured to where he’d left his vehicle. “You have to get out of here! Go! Now!”

“What am I doing here?”

“Leave! Now!”

“What am I doing here?” he repeated. Fear had been riding him hard and was now being joined by anger. “You answer your front door with your gun primed and ready, and then you come out here—alone?”

“I got a lead,” she said quickly. “Never mind. I don’t have time for this now. Leave.”

“It’s after midnight. I’d say your guy is a no-show.”

She glanced at her watch, then back at Jake. “He must have seen you drive up. You spooked him.” Color flooded her cheeks. “He had information about Beth and you spooked him!”

“Claimed to have. I saw the note.”

“You saw the note.” She shook her head. “Of course you must have or you wouldn’t be here. You saw the note and came charging out here? I had a lead and you blew it!”

Jake’s jaw tightened as he struggled to hold onto his temper. “Did it occur to you that whoever sent the note didn’t really have information to help you find Beth? That the note might have been a setup to lure you out here for some other purpose? Did it occur to you that Ryder may have sent the note?” A muscle throbbed in Jake’s cheek. He was going to find out just where Ryder was tonight.

“Of course it occurred to me. I decided it was worth the risk to find out.”

Jake lost the battle with his anger and shouted, “You came out here—without backup—and you decided it was worth the risk? Dammit Clare, what were you thinking?”

She glared up at him and spaced her words out. “I—was—thinking—that I had a lead to finding my sister. I can’t believe you knew that and came out here anyway!”

“You should have called me.”

“The instructions were explicit to come alone—”

“Since when do we take orders from criminals—”

“I already said I didn’t want to spook him.”

“If this had been any other investigation, you never would have done this,” Jake said. “If this had been any other investigation, I wouldn’t have had to come out here.”

“And cost me the only lead I had. I’m not some damsel in need of rescuing, Jake. I’m a trained, experienced federal agent.”

“Then act like it!” He exhaled a breath and passed his hand back through his hair. “Christ, Clare. You’re too good a cop for this. Too good to take chances like this.”

“It was a judgment call. My call. And I made it.”

“Well, it was the wrong call. Made because you’re too close. You need to take a step back.”

“I don’t like where this is going. Back off, Jake.”

He had plenty more he wanted to say, but he could see she’d closed herself off. He wasn’t going to get through to her. At least not tonight.

“I’ve got a flashlight in my glove box,” he said. “I want to take a look around, make sure whoever sent you that note isn’t lurking somewhere.”

When he returned with the light, Clare fell into step beside him and they trudged over tall grass and weeds that covered the ground around the mine. He aimed the light at a stand of trees that would offer some shelter. The only occupant was an owl.

Jake lowered the flashlight and squinted in the distance. Train track that was still in use ran across this land. Freight trains passed through this one road in Farley on their way to their destinations. Beyond the track was forest. Too much land for them to cover on their own, and at night. By the time a search team could be assembled, whoever had sent the note would be long gone. If he hadn’t already slipped away.

“We’re done here,” Clare said.

Jake agreed.

“I’ll follow you to your place,” he said. “You left your front door open. We need to check the place out.”

He thought it unlikely that whoever had lured her out here would have gone to her place when his plan went south, and now lay in wait for her, but he wasn’t taking the chance.

To his surprise, Clare nodded her agreement. “I was planning on doing that. It will be faster if we both go in.”

Shortly, they reached Clare’s rented house. Falling back into the routine they’d established when they’d worked together, they searched the residence. Jake was relieved to find they were the only occupants.

He retrieved the note from the living room floor. “We’ll see if the lab techs can get anything from this to lead us to who sent it.” Plain white paper. Computer-generated text. He wasn’t holding out much hope. “We need to coordinate an investigation of Beth’s disappearance with Petty.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll schedule a meeting with him for tomorrow. I’ll let you know when.”

Clare nodded.

Jake lingered in her doorway, wanting to make a pitch that she come home with him, and stay with him and Sammie. Knowing she wouldn’t, he said instead, “Lock up after me.”

Jake left Clare then drove to Dean Ryder’s house. The house was dark. Both of Ryder’s vehicles were parked in the driveway. Jake left his own vehicle and went to the sedan and the pickup truck in turn and placed his hand on the hoods. They were cold, which only meant that Ryder had not driven either one of them in the last thirty minutes. He could have delivered the note to Clare, gone to the mine, and still been back home for more than that amount of time.

Jake had to work to keep himself from banging on Ryder’s door and finding out just where he’d been earlier. To find out if Ryder had it in him to harm Clare. If Jake thought he’d get his answer, he’d take Ryder apart. Badge be damned.

With nothing more to do, Jake turned away from Ryder’s house and went home.

* * * * *

Clare was on the road the next morning when Jake called.

“I’m meeting Petty at his office in an hour,” he said.

Clare glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock. “I’ll be there.”

On the other end of the line, she heard Jake rifle papers.

“I checked about Ryder’s car,” Jake went on. “Sheriff’s office has nothing on it.”

“So we still don’t know how the car got back to Ryder. I want a look inside that car.”

“No way a judge is going to grant a warrant to impound the vehicle. Not with what we have.”

Clare chewed her lip. “We have Parker Burby’s account.”

“Which amounts to squat. What did Burby actually see? Dean Ryder standing over his wife—who Burby was told—fell. Burby didn’t witness an assault. Ryder has no history of violence on record against her or anyone else. And we’re missing something significant—motive. We ruled out money. Beth has none for him to inherit. No insurance pay-off on her.”

“If he thought she was leaving him for Hoag.”

“Ryder denies that he found out about Hoag before Beth was gone.”

“Ryder denies a lot of things.”

“Our only shot at sweating him,” Jake said, “is if Ryder would agree to a noncustodial interview.”

Clare snorted.

“Couldn’t have said it better.”

Clare was silent, fuming. Even if Ryder did agree to an interview, anything he said could be thrown out by a good defense attorney, arguing that his client, a decorated police detective, had felt pressured with so much at stake, including his career, and wasn’t of sound judgment during the interview.

She was sure Ryder was responsible for Beth’s disappearance, but she wasn’t interested at this point in trying to find evidence to get a charge against him to stick; all she wanted was to find Beth.

“Okay, Jake. See you at Petty’s.” She disconnected and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat.

She’d been on her way to see Ryder before he left for work when Jake called. She spotted Ryder’s pickup now, pulling into the parking lot of Dawson Foods, and followed him.

She parked beside Ryder’s truck, and left her car before it had completely rocked to a stop.

She stepped into Ryder’s path as he rounded his own vehicle. “The last place we know for sure that Beth was is your car. We want to take a look at it.”

He raised an arm, hailing a boy collecting carts for return to their designated location. “I’ll take one,” Ryder said to the boy.

“Why not, Dean?” Clare stepped between Ryder and the boy, preventing Ryder from accepting the cart. “You have no reason to oppose this. Despite your differences with Beth, her life may be in jeopardy. Why wouldn’t you want to do what you could to aid in the investigation? Unless you don’t want Beth found?”

Other shoppers were making their way to and from vehicles. Some were within earshot of Clare’s conversation with Ryder and stopped, taking in the scene.

“No warrant for a search and seizure?” Ryder asked. “Then get out of my way.”

“Got your note last night, Dean. I waited for you. You didn’t show up. What happened? Ex-marine. War hero. Big, tough Columbia PD detective.” She stepped closer. “Wife beater. Afraid of a woman?”

“You’ve crossed a line here, Agent Marshall.” Ryder spat her name as if it tasted foul.

He was right. She had, indeed, crossed a line with him. If he did decide to claim harassment, at the very least she would be facing an interview with the Bureau’s Office of Professional Responsibility to answer an allegation of misconduct. At the most, her handling of this investigation would cost her career.

Keeping her gaze on his, she proceeded as she’d planned. She smiled and whispered, “I’m just getting started.”

Clare left Ryder. She had a little time before the meeting with Jake and the sheriff. She’d use it to try to track down Rich Dannon.

She drove to the inn. The same two men she’d seen playing checkers the day before on the verandah were immersed in another game.

Clare climbed the porch steps and faced the two men. “Hello.”

The men looked up from the board. One had eyebrows as thick as a caterpillar and at that moment they were drawn together in obvious displeasure at the interruption.

“I’m looking for Richard Dannon,” Clare said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“No,” the man with the thick eyebrows said.

The other man spoke up in a nasal tone. “Mr. Dannon told me that he conducts business meetings out of Charley’s Bar on Main Street sometimes. You can try him there. As a matter of fact, I’ll be meeting him there myself on business this afternoon at two.” The man ended the statement with a smile.

“You going to waste time talking, or you going to make your move?” the thick-eyebrowed fellow interrupted.

Clare thanked the man who’d provided the information then left him and his companion to their game.

When she entered Charley’s ten minutes later, three men were at the bar, laughing and sipping twelve-year-old Scotch, according to the label on the bottle between them. One of the men was familiar. Tall. Toned. Square-jawed. Sun-streaked shaggy hair. This was the man she’d seen at the gas station on her first day in Farley.

Clare approached the trio. “Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Dannon.”

The man from the gas station glanced up from his drink. His gaze fixed on her for an instant, then intensified with blatant interest.

“Not ‘Mr. Dannon’ to you.” He smiled. “Pretty ladies call me Rich, darlin’.”

He wore a sport jacket now that was a knock-off Italian design—and in a blue that accentuated his deep tan. He had a voice that was as smooth as the scotch he was drinking.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re the FBI lady come here looking for her sister,” Dannon added. “I have to say you two sure do look alike. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The two men with him murmured their agreement.

“You know my name.” He leaned over the mahogany bar, closing some of the distance between them. “Now, darlin’, what can I call you?”

“Agent Marshall.” She removed her ID from her purse and held it up for him to see. “May we have a word in private?”

One of the other men whooped out a laugh. He hiked up his pants from beneath his protruding belly. “She’s mighty cold to you, Rich. You sure you didn’t already diddle this one, and forgotten?”

Dannon laughed in good humor. “Now, that’s no way to talk in front of a lady. Besides, I never forget a pretty face. Boys, you know that.” He pushed off the bar and meandered toward her, dropping his arm casually around her shoulders and steering her to a secluded booth at the opposite end of the bar.

“What can I get you to drink, darlin’?” Rich asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“That you are. Hold my calls, Charley,” Dannon called out with a grin to the bartender.

Clare took a seat in the booth. When Dannon was about to slide in beside her, she cut him off with a frosty stare.

He splayed his hand across his heart, but with his smile still in place, moved to sit across from her. He draped an arm across the back of the maroon bench seat.

A radio sat on a dusty shelf above the bar. At the moment, Kenny Rogers was begging Ruby not to take her love to town. With his other hand, Dannon tapped the tabletop in time to the drum beat. Clare got right to the point.

“Mr. Dannon, you’re right that Beth Ryder is my sister and I’m trying to locate her. I’ve been told that she left Farley ten days ago and I’m asking her friends and relatives if she may have mentioned her destination.”

“Your Yankee accent is driving me crazy,” Dannon whispered, and winked at her. “How long you been in the FBI, darlin’? Nothing makes me hotter than a woman doing a man’s job, I’ve got to say.” He paused and his smile spread a little wider. “So tell me, just where do you keep your gun?”

Clare went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “When did you last see Beth, Mr. Dannon?”

“Rich, remember?”

He closed his eyes briefly and moved his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t recall exactly. Beth worked at the inn, so we bumped into each other from time to time when I happened to be there too.”

“Do you also work there?”

Dannon laughed loud. “Hell, no.”

“Where are you employed, Mr. Dannon?”

Dannon’s blonde brows drew together, causing the tanned, previously unlined skin of his forehead to wrinkle. The smile left his face. “I’m self-employed.”

“What is the nature of your employment?”

Dannon’s posture tensed. “I have several business enterprises.” He lifted his sleeve, exposing a replica designer watch.

The man was uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Clare believed she’d lose him if she pushed, and decided the matter of Dannon’s employment could wait for now.

“Did Beth mention plans to leave Farley?” Clare asked.

“Never said a thing to me. I didn’t have much to do with her.” His gaze traveled over Clare. “Maybe I should have spent time talking with her, learning about her out-of-state family.” His gaze fixed on hers again. “You strike me as a woman with fire.” He leaned over the table. “I like a woman with fire.”

“How well do you know my sister?”

“We’re from this same one-horse town, so I saw her around when we were growing up.” He pinned Clare with a piercing gaze. “How about having dinner with me tonight?” He caressed the back of her hand with a fingertip. “We’ll drive into Columbia. I know a great club, The Starlight.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his mouth, where he ran it across his lips. “I could show you the sights. Show you a nice time. Be back at sun-up. Our little secret. No one would know.”

Like his wife, Clare thought. She extracted her hand from his grasp.

“So where can I pick you up for dinner?” he asked.

Clare removed a business card from her purse and scribbled her cell phone number on the back of it. “If you recall anything Beth may have said to you about her departure, I can be reached at this number.” Clare got to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Dannon.”

Dannon didn’t respond immediately, then said, “Hey, easy come, easy go.”

He shrugged but his smile faded, and his stare turned ice cold, belying his comment.

As Clare turned away from him, she thought the easygoing Dannon wasn’t so easygoing after all.

Clare left Dannon and drove to the sheriff’s office for the meeting with Petty and Jake. Jake had already arrived; his SUV was parked at the curb in front of the small building that housed the Sheriff’s office. There wasn’t another space available there so Clare drove a short distance up the street to a vacant spot.

Inside the small lobby, a deputy sat at a desk, pecking at a computer keyboard.

“Help you, ma’am?” the young deputy asked.

“I’m here for a meeting with Agent Sutton and Sheriff Petty.” Clare held up her ID.

“They’re waiting for you, ma’am. I’m to take you right back to the sheriff’s office. Right this way.”

The deputy rose to his feet and ushered her into a small office. Petty sat behind his desk. Jake was in a shiny chair across from the sheriff. A couple of framed commendations hung on the wall behind the desk. A bookcase held several framed photographs of the sheriff with other people.

The sheriff leaned forward to greet her and the worn leather chair creaked and groaned. “Agent Marshall,” Petty said. “Have a sit-down.”

Jake held the chair beside his for her as she complied.

Jake had already discussed the reason for the meeting when he and Petty set it up earlier, Clare knew. She listened now as he updated her and Petty as to the status of the investigation to that point.

“The Bureau hasn’t had any response from law enforcement offices regarding the missing persons report filed on Beth Ryder yesterday evening,” Jake said. “Nothing yet from VICAP.”

The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program searched for similarities in missing persons cases. Clare wasn’t expecting VICAP to turn up anything relevant to her sister. She didn’t have Dean Ryder pegged as a career criminal. She believed his crimes had been perpetuated against Beth alone.

Clare picked up the conversation, and apprised Petty of their efforts locally to find Beth thus far. She told Petty that Beth had not left town with Gil Hoag, despite having made plans to do so. She also mentioned her suspicion of abuse in Beth’s marriage and that she considered Ryder a suspect in her sister’s disappearance. Despite her antipathy toward Petty, Clare held nothing back about her suspicion of Ryder. She had nothing to lose. Dean Ryder certainly knew that she suspected him. She also wanted to bring as much pressure to bear on Ryder as she could. If Petty thought it prudent to look into Dean Ryder as well, so much the better.

Petty nodded. “We’ll do what we can, of course.”

“Do you have a problem with our jurisdiction on this case, Oz?” Jake asked.

The Bureau didn’t normally investigate adult missing persons unless an abduction across state lines occurred or aid was requested by local law enforcement.

Petty shook his head. “No problem, Jake. I have no experience with this kind of case.”

“We appreciate your help, Oz.” Jake stood and shook Petty’s hand. “Let’s keep in touch.”

“Sure thing, Jake. We’re all on the same team here.”

Clare had no patience for diplomacy and was glad the task fell to Jake.

On the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, Jake turned to her. “Where are you headed?”

Clare dug her car key out of her purse. “To see Gladys Linney.”

She wanted to ask Beth’s adoptive mother about Beth’s last visit again. Something may come back to the woman that could provide a lead to Beth’s whereabouts on a second questioning.

Jake glanced at his watch. “I have another meeting to get to. Let me know if you learn anything from Gladys.”

Gladys wasn’t in her room when Clare arrived at the facility. One of the duty nurses informed Clare that Gladys was partaking of her daily physical therapy needed since her stroke.

Clare took up a position at the wall opposite Gladys’s room to wait.

A couple of nurses strolled past Clare. A door was opened briefly, and for a moment the strains of a violin joined the sounds of call bells ringing, and the rumble of a cart laden with empty lunch trays making its way down the hall.

An elevator door opened. An orderly pushed a wheelchair bearing Gladys onto the floor.

Clare gave the orderly some time to settle Gladys in her room. When the orderly left, she pushed off the wall and tapped on Gladys’s door.

At Gladys’s invitation, Clare entered the room. The elderly woman was propped in the bed, braced by several pillows. The robe she’d been wearing when Clare had glimpsed her a few moments earlier had been removed and the nightgown beneath was a match, patterned with bright yellow daisies. Gladys’s sightless gaze remained directed at the window.

“Mrs. Linney,” Clare said. “It’s Clare Marshall, Beth’s—”

“Hello, Clare.” The woman smiled broadly. “Come in. Come in.” She held out a hand in a gesture of welcome that Clare had so rarely experienced, it discomfited her. Rather awkwardly, she reached out and touched Gladys’s hand. When Clare would have withdrawn her hand, Gladys prevented her from doing so. She grasped Clare’s hand, then clasped it with both of her own, drawing Clare onto the bed beside her. Clare complied, and sat beside Gladys.

“Have you found my Beth?” Gladys asked.

The woman appeared to have aged in the few days since Clare had last seen her, and now a cord connected her wrist to a machine beside her bed that beeped and flashed intermittently.

“Not yet, Mrs. Linney. I’d like to ask you again about Beth’s visit on the day she left Farley,” Clare said.

Gladys splayed her hand across her cheek and frowned, puckering the skin around her eyes. “All right.”

“Tell me again what you and Beth talked about that day.”

“Oh.” Gladys’s vacant stare narrowed in thought. “Beth never told me she was leaving Farley. She never said anything about that.”

“What did she say, Gladys?”

Gladys stroked the fold of the sheet covering her. “We talked about the past, as I recall. Birthday parties. Holidays. Her daddy who passed on a couple years back. I know she misses him.” Gladys’s eyes glistened with tears. “There’s a box on the top shelf in my closet with picture albums. Can you get it, Clare?”

Clare wanted to press on with the questioning, but she also yearned to see photos of Beth. She left Gladys’s bedside and retrieved the covered box. Gladys’s arms were outstretched when Clare returned to her. The box was heavy and Clare handed it over carefully, expecting the frail-looking woman to be unable to support it. She did, however, and plopped it onto her lap.

Clare resumed her seat at the edge of the bed. Gladys removed the lid and placed it on the other side of the mattress. Three photograph albums were stacked atop each other. Gladys removed the first and opened it.

“These are pictures of Beth as a baby,” Gladys said.

Her finger tips traveled slowly over a picture of Beth that Clare believed had been taken shortly after her sister’s adoption. She recognized the toddler as her sister and the sight was achingly familiar. Clare leaned forward for a closer look at Beth.

Gladys went through all of the albums. Each chronicled some period of Beth’s growing-up years. Clare felt as if she was getting to know her sister through the photos, treated to a glimpse into the happy life her sister led.

Gladys’s hands never faltered as she passed them over photo after photo. There was no Braille explaining which was which. She knew each picture by feel.

“And here’s her wedding picture,” Gladys said.

It was a typical bride and groom pose for the camera. Beth, dressed in an off the shoulder gown, gazed lovingly up at her new husband.

Gladys’s fingers lightly and unerringly traced Beth’s face. “Do you and Beth look alike, Clare?”

Clare had been silent, enthralled by the photographs. She looked away from them and to Gladys. The older woman’s brows and cheeks had lifted in an earnest, eager expression.

“There is a resemblance,” Clare said.

“May I see?”

Before Clare could reply, Gladys leaned toward her. The thin floral print sheet covering her fell away from her waist. She reached out slowly and her thin, venous hand touched softly on Clare’s cheek.

Clare remained still as Gladys’s fingers roamed her face.

“You have the same shaped eyes.” Gladys’s smile deepened. “And the same stubborn chin.”

She laughed and then sobbed. Her twig-thin arms wrapped around Clare’s shoulders and with strength Clare wouldn’t have credited her with, Gladys hugged Clare to her.

Clare hesitated, unaccustomed to spontaneous bursts of affection, then awkwardly returned Gladys’s embrace.

The old woman’s arms tightened and her body shook. “I don’t know why she had to go away, Clare.” Gladys’s voice was choked by tears. “I don’t know why it had to be this way.”

Gladys’s breathing hitched and the next breath seemed to be too long in coming. Clare’s stomach tightened. She pulled back to peer at Gladys. The elderly woman’s face had turned a shade of purple.

Clare set Gladys against the pillows and sprang up from the bed calling for a nurse. Gladys latched onto Clare’s hand. The door to the hospital room was flung open. A woman in a pink medical uniform strode across the tile.

“It’s not good for your blood pressure to get upset, Mrs. Linney,” the nurse said softly. She withdrew a syringe from her pocket. “I’m just going to give you a little something to help you rest now.”

Gladys kept Clare’s hand in her own as the nurse administered the injection.

When Gladys’s lids drooped and remained closed, the nurse turned to Clare. “She can’t become upset like that. Her heart can’t take that level of stress. We took the photos away from her and put them in her closet, out of her reach. Since her daughter left, every time she has them she goes off.”

Clare released a deep breath. Gladys’s episode had shaken her as well.

“I’ll replace these items,” she said to the nurse, “and be on my way.”

The nurse nodded.

Light from the ceiling fixtures illuminated the closet when Clare opened the door. She returned the albums to the box and the box to the shelf. She set the box down, then noticed one of the tiles in the closet was uplifted. A gouge at one corner showed that the tile had been deliberately removed.

Clare crouched and wedged a finger beneath the tile. A manila envelope lay beneath. Clare took it into the light.

She removed a check book, and bank statements for the same account, from the envelope. The account was the one Beth held in the Columbia bank. Clare flipped the check book open and glanced at the entries. There were four of them. All were for beauty treatments except for the last, which was the one Jake’s search had turned up. A check made out to cash for two thousand dollars, reducing the account balance to zero.

A small folded paper was in the bottom of the envelope. The page was torn from a doctor’s prescription pad. Dr. Mercer in Columbia. His credentials showed him to be an Obstetrician Gynecologist. The patient was Elizabeth Ryder and the paper was dated two days before her departure from Farley. The prescription was for prenatal vitamins.

* * * * *

Beth was pregnant.

That realization had been playing over and over in Clare’s mind since she’d returned to her rented house hours earlier. A baby . . .

Clutching a glass of wine, Clare made her way onto the back porch. She’d changed out of the dress and matching jacket that she’d worn earlier and into shorts and a tank-style shirt that felt comfortably cool in the night air. The front pocket of her shorts bulged slightly with the weight of her cell phone.

She leaned against a warped, but sturdy pole and stared out at the moonlit land. Crickets chirped and an azalea bush that somehow managed to hold onto life in the inhospitable environment of this neglected house gave off its floral fragrance.

Beth was going to have a child. The legacy of Jolene Marie Marshall would live on in another generation.

Clare shook her head at the awful thought. It was how she felt about herself. That Jolene’s legacy lived on in her.

Beth obviously didn’t share that fear. Unlikely she even knew of a Jolene Marie Marshall, let alone her connection to a convicted murderer.

When Clare found Beth, and introduced herself as her sister, all would be revealed.

Fear of how Beth would receive her reared its head again, and more, fear of what her presence in Beth’s life could cost.

Would becoming Beth’s sister again be the most selfish act she could commit?

Clare returned to the kitchen. Hooking the bottle of wine by the neck, she mounted the stairs to her bedroom. Moonlight provided enough light to see by. She got into bed and poured another glass.

* * * * *

Clare awoke with a start. Her head hung over the side of the bed; the empty wine bottle dangled from two of her fingers. Light from the moon streamed across the bed through a separation in the curtains. It was still night.

She coughed, the sound punctuating the dull roar inside her ears. She considered raising her head from the awkward angle that was putting uncomfortable pressure on her neck, but the prospect of doing so seemed too much effort at the moment. And, there was a fear that movement of any kind would increase the throbbing inside her head.

If she raised her head, though, blood would drain from it and should relieve the pain. It sounded like a good plan. Clare remained as she was.

She could count on one hand the number of times she’d drank to excess. Her mother’s addiction and the high percentage of addiction among her colleagues had given her an abhorrence for alcohol.

She coughed again. Oh . . . her mouth tasted foul. She released the wine bottle in disgust.

Then she smelled it—smoke.

Clare rolled off the bed and went to the door. She seized the knob then yanked her hand back from the hot brass. She grabbed a sheet from the bed, wrapped it around her hand, and opened the door.

The hall was engulfed in flames.

Chapter Twelve

Clare slammed the bedroom door closed. No escape that way. She had to think. Easier said than done at the moment. Thanks to the wine, she felt as if she were in a haze. She shook her head in an effort to clear it and ran to the window.

The window was large, with a wide ledge that ran the length of it. It was about a fifteen-foot drop to the ground from the ledge. A tree grew by the window. She didn’t know if she could reach it from the ledge to make her way to the ground, but she had no choice. She had to try.

As she went to retrieve the chair in the corner of the room to climb onto it to reach the window, she dug her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. She gave her address and the reason for the call quickly, then disconnected and dropped the phone in the front pocket of her shorts.

The 911 call made, she couldn’t wait for help to arrive. Heat from the fire raging in the hall was making the room she was in unbearably hot. Smoke was billowing in from the crack beneath the door. Her eyes stung. She coughed.

A sagging and torn screen covered the window. She struck the screen. The wire mesh popped off and spiraled into the air.

She climbed onto the chair and then stepped onto the ledge. Now that she stood on it, it didn’t seem as wide as she’d first thought. Perspiration dampened her skin and she fought a wave of dizziness.

Dark clouds covered much of the moon, casting the yard in deep shadow. Mindful of her step, afraid that she might land on a spot on the old ledge too battered to support her weight, she treaded lightly, keeping her back pressed to the house as she gingerly crossed the curled and rotted planks. The tree that was her destination was a live oak, its branches laden with Spanish moss. It grew a short distance beyond the house, but as she reached the end of the ledge, she saw that the oak was too distant for her to reach.

She peered down. A thick, leafy vine grew by the side of the house, its limbs twisted around a wooden trellis. Much of the trellis had rotted and fallen away. Mostly jagged pieces remained. Clare feared that the vine was holding up the trellis, rather than the other way around.

She didn’t know if her luck would hold a second time this night and the trellis would also hold her weight, but she had no choice. She couldn’t wait any longer.

She stepped onto the trellis. The brittle wood gave. Clare gasped. She seized another piece of wood, preventing the fall, but slid down the trellis. Slivers tore her palms.

She kicked out to gain purchase on two bits of the trellis that crossed each other, but before she could reach them, the wood she was grasping broke.

Clare landed hard. Her head bounced off the unyielding ground.

A whirring sound began in her ears, becoming more shrill. She needed to get away. To get back from the house where flames now licked at the ledge she’d stood on. She couldn’t seem to move. She saw herself as if from a distance. Her vision shrank, growing black at the edges.

The house seemed to shudder and then the center of it collapsed. It was the last thing she saw.

* * * * *

Clare opened her eyes. Her surroundings were a blur. And she hurt. She closed her eyes again.

“Clare. Clare.”

The male voice was unfamiliar. This time when she opened her eyes, she saw a pale man bent over her. Tufts of gray hair stuck up from his head. He had a crease in his right cheek from being pressed against a pillow for an extended period of time. The man appeared to have been awakened from sleep very recently.

He smiled. “Welcome back.”

“Where—?”

“You’re in the Farley Clinic. I’m Dr. Beverley.”

Beverley shone a light in her eyes. Clare squinted then turned her head away from it.

Beverley turned her chin back and then held the light to her eyes again. “Sorry, I need to take a look.” He peered into her eyes briefly, then flicked the light off. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Clare Marshall.” Her voice sounded raspy.

“Do you recall what happened, Clare?”

Her head felt hollow and hurt as if it were being stabbed by ice picks, but her memory was intact. “Fire.”

“Where?”

“The house I’m renting. I fell—from the trellis. How badly am I hurt?”

Beverley was about to answer when a female voice called out from behind the blue privacy curtain of the small cubicle.

“Dr. Beverley, have you finished examining the patient?”

Beverley responded that he had and the curtain slid back. A nurse entered the area with Jake on her heels. He took in the scene, his gaze locking on her. By the concern in his eyes, Clare figured she must look as bad as she felt.

Dr. Beverley turned to Jake. “Been a while, Jake.”

“Glad to say that it has, Joe,” Jake said, his focus still on Clare.

Beverley chuckled.

“How are you?” Jake asked Clare.

Beverley spoke up. “I was just about to tell you, Agent Marshall, that you have a concussion, and multiple contusions. We treated you for smoke inhalation, but it was minimal. Several of the bones in your left ankle sustained fractures. We were able to set them well. I don’t expect any problems. Your bloodwork showed you had a few drinks tonight. No alcohol for the next few days. Because of the concussion, I’m sending you to Columbia General for the night for observation. We’re not set up for overnight stays.”

“No Columbia,” she said. She shook her head to illustrate her point, then sucked in her breath at a sudden, sharp pain. She rode it out, then said carefully. “I’ll go back to the house. I can take care of myself there.”

“Maybe tomorrow, but for tonight, I really can’t release you into your own care in your present condition,” Beverley said. “An ambulance attendant will be in shortly to transport you to Columbia. I don’t anticipate any complications. You should be well enough to be discharged in the morning.”

“I’d prefer to be discharged now, Doctor.”

“I’d prefer that you weren’t alone for the next twenty-four hours.”

“You can stay with Sammie and I, Clare,” Jake said. “As long as Joe doesn’t think you need more care than I can provide.”

Dr. Beverley was scribbling something on a page on a clip board, and humming. “That should be fine. I can talk you through what she’ll need, Jake. Mostly, you need to wake her every two hours tonight, just to make sure she’s lucid. No strenuous activity. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem with her ankle in a cast. If she has someone to observe her tonight, I’m willing to allow her to forego a night in the hospital.”

Clare chewed her lip. It was either Jake’s place or the hospital in Columbia.

“I’ll stay with you, Jake,” she said softly.

* * * * *

On the way to Jake’s place, she asked him to stop by the rented house. She’d wanted to see for herself how extensive the damage was. She intended to spend no more time than was absolutely necessary at Jake’s—preferably this one night—and planned to sleep in her own, albeit rented bed by tomorrow night, if possible.

But one look at the place and she knew that wouldn’t be happening. She recalled seeing the house collapse, and hadn’t been sure if it had been real or if she’d imagined it before she’d blacked out. She hadn’t imagined it. Fire had gutted the house. All that remained were charred, random pieces of the wooden frame. Clare shivered at seeing the devastation, and realized just how close she came to losing her own life.

Jake gave her time to look her fill and when she nodded to him, they drove on to his house.

He pulled up and parked in his driveway. The hospital had provided Clare with a crutch. Jake came around to the passenger side of his vehicle.

He crouched. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Clare would have preferred to walk, but even turning her head caused it to swim and a wave of dizziness swamped her. She swayed against Jake.

“Easy,” he said softly.

She placed her arms around him and Jake carried her into the house. He took her to his bedroom. Clare braced, expecting a fresh assault to her pounding head from bright ceiling light when Jake flicked the light switch. Instead, he made his way across the room guided by moonlight and light from street lamps that filtered in through a separation in the taupe curtains.

He set her on the bed then switched on the lamp on the nightstand. The room was bathed in a soft glow. The room was furnished with the pieces he’d had in his apartment in New York—heavy dark wood armoire, nightstand, his massive bed.

Clare settled slowly onto the mattress. The bed was unmade, but the sheets were fresh and cool. The mountain of pillows looked as fluffy as clouds, but she refrained from resting against them. She and Jake had a history in this bed that Clare found intimidating.

“I can sleep in the spare room,” she said.

Jake went to the window and lowered a blind. “This room’s bigger. You’ll have more room to move with the crutch.” At the armoire in a corner of the room, he removed a T-shirt. “You can sleep in this, if you like.”

She was wearing green hospital scrubs, the only clothes available to her, since her own shorts and tank shirt were torn and filthy from the fall and the fire, and all of her other garments had perished along with everything else in the house. The nurse who’d provided them had also shown Clare where to bathe, so the stench of smoke from the fire no longer clung to her.

She didn’t want to sleep in the hospital scrubs and accepted the T-shirt from him.

“Do you need help changing?” he asked.

The skin on her palms, torn and abraded from the trellis, was coated with salve and covered with gauze that made her hands as awkward and stiff to maneuver as catcher’s mitts. Regardless, she shook her head, refusing him.

It wasn’t modesty that had her rejecting the offer; it was a bid to retain a fragment of her independence in a situation that had made her dependent on him.

“Need anything before I go?” Jake asked.

What she wanted was another of the little blue pills Dr. Beverley had prescribed for pain, but she wasn’t due for more medication yet. “I’m fine.”

Jake nodded and left the room.

* * * * *

She looked good asleep, Jake thought. At peace. He remembered thinking the same on other occasions, times when they’d shared a bed and he would lie awake just looking at Clare while she slept. He’d thought that whatever had been haunting her wasn’t present when she slept. He’d always known that something was driving her—dogging her. He hadn’t wanted to pry, hadn’t been invited to ask questions, to share her worries, her concerns, her hurts, and he’d kept his distance.

Maybe, he’d known all along that if he breached that distance, he’d lose her. As it turned out, he’d lost her anyway.

His plain blue T-shirt never looked that good on him, he mused. A stray lock of hair lay against her cheek. Jake had to resist the urge to brush it back from her face, resist touching her.

A small frown marred her brow. Caused by pain? Or a residual affect from the experience she’d just had?

She’d been drinking. In the time they’d been together, he’d never known her to drink much. He thought it was her need to be in control at all times that had her swearing off booze. Something had set her off. He wanted to know what that was, but now wasn’t the time to ask her.

It was time to wake her.

“Clare.” He tapped her cheek gently with the back of his hand. “Clare.”

Her frown deepened. She mumbled something he didn’t catch. Out of annoyance he thought, and smiled. The first smile he’d had tonight. The call about the fire had scared ten years off his life.

“Clare.”

She batted his hand away and opened her eyes, squinting at him through the light coming from the bedside lamp.

“Jake?”

“Yeah. Time for your wake-up call.” Her eyes were heavy, but the pupils weren’t enlarged. He held up two fingers. “How many?”

“Two. What time is it?”

“Early. Three a.m. How’s the head?”

“Mmm,” she mumbled with a frown.

He took that to mean it hurt.

“Have you been to bed at all?” she asked.

“I’m not tired.”

The truth was he was too wired to sleep.

“Is that coffee I’m smelling?” she asked.

He was holding a steaming mug. “Yeah.”

Clare pushed against the mattress, trying to hoist herself into a seated position.

“Hold on,” he said. “Let me give you a hand.”

He placed the mug on the bedside table and put an arm around her waist, bringing her close. He smelled her, that sexy blend of whatever fragrance she wore and Clare herself, that never failed to make his mouth go dry.

He arranged the pillows behind her with the arm that wasn’t holding Clare, then set her back against them.

She held out her hands. “Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

He handed the mug to her, waited until she had a firm hold before releasing it. She had a deep gash on one elbow and bruises on her arm, visible now as she raised the mug, and his T-shirt fell away exposing the skin.

“You scared me tonight,” he said.

“Me, too. How did you find out anyway?”

“Jonathan from the office called me. He’s married to the nurse who treated you.”

Clare nodded at his response. She rubbed her temples. “I’m ready for another couple of pills.”

Jake handed them to her. She chased them with the coffee then closed her eyes. She didn’t resist when he took the mug from her.

She lay back against the pillows. Jake sat, listening to her breathing.

He’d been crazed to reach her after receiving the call about the fire—crazed to see for himself that she was alive. He wanted to climb into bed beside her and hold her close and safe. Hold her as he hadn’t in three years.

He rubbed a hand down his face, then rose to his feet and left the room.

* * * * *

Clare opened her eyes. The small, round face of Jake’s niece was a few inches from her own, gazing down at her. Clare jerked back, startled.

“Hi,” the little girl said. “Uncle Jake said not to wake you.”

Daylight lit the edges of the blind. Another sunny day, by the level of brightness.

“I’m Samantha Josephine Sutton,” the little girl said. “Everybody calls me Sammie. Uncle Jake said your name is Clare and that you slept over. I like when we have sleepovers.”

Clare blinked at the monologue.

“I asked Uncle Jake if we can get a puppy,” Sammie went on. Her copper-colored ponytail bounced as she nodded. “Do you like dogs? I do. If we got a dog, I’d name her Annabelle. Do you like that name?”

Clare had relatively no experience with children and certainly didn’t know how to uphold her end of a conversation with one. The little girl didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, to mind that the conversation was one-sided.

Jake appeared in the doorway. “Sammie, I asked you not to wake Clare,” he said gently. He joined them at the bed and faced Clare. “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

She still had a headache, but a mild one. Her injured ankle, the muscles she’d strained and the skin she’d bruised were making themselves felt, but it was pain she could handle.

“I’m making breakfast. Are you up to eating?” Jake asked.

She was surprised that she felt ravenous. “Yes.” It occurred to her that Jake should be at work. “Aren’t you going into the office?”

“Stan and Jonathan can manage without me for today.”

“If you’re staying home because of me, don’t, I can manage fine.”

He gave her a level look. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

Moving slowly, Clare went into the bathroom that adjoined Jake’s bedroom. Her face reflected back at her in the mirror. Her eyes looked heavy from the pain killers. A bruise darkened her jaw. If she’d been less limber on the ledge last night, or less lucky . . . she shuddered. She forced the thought from her mind.

She washed, then dressed once again in the only clothes she had, the hospital scrubs. She was going to have to see about getting a few things to wear.

A few minutes later, she joined Jake and Sammie in the kitchen and they sat down to breakfast. Though Clare would have preferred to pass on the family breakfast, she had balked at the suggestion that a tray be brought to her.

Clare stretched out her left leg, shifting until she found a comfortable position for her injured ankle.

The clown face clock in the kitchen showed the time to be a few minutes before nine. With Sammie assisting him, Jake made pancakes and eggs. When the pancakes were done with a platter of them on the table, Sammie carefully transferred one to a plate then gripped the maple syrup dispenser and poured syrup on a pancake, drawing a happy face. She gave the pancake to Jake, then proceeded to do the same with another one for Clare.

“Ah . . . thanks,” Clare said, at a loss, as Sammie slid the plate to her.

“You’re welcome.” Sammie smiled, showing what looked to be her entire mouth full of teeth.

“Uncle Jake, can I go over to Heather’s and play?” Sammie asked as she decorated her own pancake.

“If it’s okay with Heather’s mom.”

“Heather asked, and her mom said okay.”

While Sammie spoke on about Heather, and Heather’s cat Fluffy, who was about to have kittens, Clare took a careful bite of the pancake and discovered to her surprise that it was good. At some point in the last three years, Jake had learned to cook.

“I’m going to be a peach in the Farley birthday parade next week,” Sammie said. “Want to see my costume, Clare?”

Clare was forking up another piece of the pancake and glanced up at Sammie, only just realizing that the girl was addressing her.

Without waiting for a reply, Sammie bounced up from her seat. “I’ll get it!” She hit the floor running.

The telephone rang on the counter. Jake left the table and went to answer it. From Jake’s side of the conversation, Clare gathered the caller was the mother of the aforementioned Heather, confirming the girls’ plans for the day.

By the time the call ended, Sammie was back, dragging a puffy, plush outfit behind her. She held the costume up for Clare.

“I have leotards that match and shiny shoes that make noise so you can hear me dancing.” Sammie said.

“Tap shoes,” Jake said, his gaze warm on Sammie.

“Tap shoes,” Sammie repeated with a brisk nod.

“Heather’s mom called,” Jake said. “You can go next door anytime.”

“I have to go to Heather’s now, Clare, but I’ll see you later.”

Sammie bounded out through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the living and dining rooms.

Jake trailed after his niece. “Be right back.”

He left the door open, affording an unhampered view of the front of the house, and Clare watched him watch Sammie make her way next door.

When Jake returned, he went to the coffee maker and came back to the table with the pot. “More coffee?”

Clare nodded. While Jake poured, she asked, “What are you doing in Farley? Last I recall, you were in line to head up one of the Bureau’s field offices.”

Jake returned the pot to the warming plate, then leaned back against the kitchen counter.

“That’s right. After you and I stopped seeing each other, I’d accepted a post to Washington Headquarters.”

A prestigious appointment. “And you came here?” Clare was certain her surprise was mirrored in her expression.

“You remember me mentioning my brother, Dan, Sammie’s father?”

She nodded.

“Right after you and I split up, Dan and his wife Marly were in a car accident. Marly died in the wreck. Dan lingered. He died a month after the accident.”

The pain of that was still evident in Jake’s voice. She wasn’t immune to it. Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jake said softly. “Dan wanted me to be Sammie’s guardian. He met Marly in college. She was from Farley and intended to move back home after school. So after they got married, they moved here. Sammie was born here. When Dan and Marly died, Sammie was three years old. Marly is an only child. Her only remaining relative is her father who lives in the same nursing facility as Gladys Linney. That’s how I happened to be at the place when you were visiting Gladys. I was picking up Sammie who was spending the afternoon with her grandfather.

“Marly’s father and I are all the family Sammie has. And Sammie is the only family Marly’s dad has. He’d just lost his daughter. I couldn’t take Sammie away from him. Or him from Sammie. A position was available in the Columbia office. I took that instead of the post in Washington and I put in a request for a transfer to the resident office in town when a position became available so I could be local for Sammie. A couple of years later, the Supervisory Special Agent at this office transferred out. I got the job. Here I am.”

To avoid uprooting the child, and separating her from her grandfather, Jake had put his own wants aside. He’d shelved his own ambitions to raise his brother’s child.

“Sammie was in the car with her parents during the accident,” Jake said. “Not a scratch on her. I was told it was a miracle. Since that time, though, she suffers from nightmares and wakes up screaming and calling for Dan and Marly. That’s what happened a couple of days ago after my talk with Cal Dawson.”

Clare recalled the frantic phone call Jake had received.

“She was so young. Doctors don’t know what she remembers from that accident, but something has stayed with her.”

His concern was evident in his tone and in the lines that now wrinkled his brow.

“Most times I feel like I’m in over my head,” he said. “What do I know about raising a child—and a little girl at that.” He shook his head. “Just what is the deal with barrettes, anyway? How do you get them to stay up?”

He smiled and Clare could see he’d have it no other way. He could have washed his hands of the situation, allowed Sammie to be put into foster care. Clare believed there were many who would have shirked the responsibility. Instead, Jake had made a home for her. Clare bit her lip to suppress tears.

“You haven’t told me how after a decade of searching for Beth, you managed to track her here,” he asked.

Clare cleared her throat then told him of her encounter with Theresa Sands during the convenience store robbery and the subsequent events that had brought her to Farley.

“What do you recall about the night of the fire?” Jake asked.

Someone knocked at the door. Jake went to greet the caller. Clare saw Sheriff Petty enter the hall.

“Hey, Jake. How’s our patient?” Petty asked.

“From what I saw of the house, lucky to be alive, Oz.”

Clare propped the crutch under her arm and hobbled into the living room to join the men. They turned as she reached them.

“Hey there, Agent Marshall. Should you be up and around?” Petty asked.

“I’m fine, Sheriff,” Clare said. “I hope you’ve brought word about how the fire got started?”

“We found a pan on the gas stove,” Petty said. “Looked like it had been filled with cooking oil. The knob on the burner was set to high. Did you forget that you were going to cook yourself something to eat?”

“I was not going to cook anything, Sheriff. In fact, I hadn’t lit the stove all day. I did not cause the fire, and from what you’re telling me, the fire was no accident.”

Petty removed his uniform cap and scratched his head lightly as he exhaled. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’m just going to say it straight out. I talked with the paramedic who responded to the call to the house, and with Dr. Beverley who attended to you. You had a degree of alcohol in you when you were taken to the hospital.”

Clare could see where he was going with that and her temper spiked. “Just a minute—”

Petty tilted his head. “Since you’d been drinking, it’s possible that you may not be remembering things right. Maybe you don’t recall setting things up to cook.”

“Hear me, Sheriff. Whether or not I had taken a drink is irrelevant since I did not turn the stove on yesterday. Where was Ryder last night?” Clare asked, an edge to her tone.

Petty’s mouth tightened. “You can’t be thinking . . . Dean is a respected member of our community and a fellow officer . . . Jesus, you’re thinking he could be the cause of this.” Petty’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t know where Dean was last night, Agent Marshall, and frankly, I don’t have cause to be asking him. What we got here is a kitchen fire that got out of hand. Thanks be to God that there were no fatalities. As far as my office is concerned, the matter is closed. Since there’s nothing here for me to require or request the input of the Bureau, we can put this to rest.”

Clare eyed Petty. “An attempt was made on the life of a federal agent last night. This matter is far from closed.”

“You got nothin’ to support that, and you know it,” Petty said. “Glad to see you’re not doing too poorly. Y’all have a good day now.”

Petty placed his cap on his head and made his way out.

“I did not leave a pan on a lit stove,” Clare repeated when she and Jake were alone in the living room.

“I know that. The question is who did. It wasn’t Ryder, Clare.”

“What?”

“There was a rehearsal last night for the participants in the events scheduled for the town birthday celebration next week. Sammie mentioned to you that she’s dancing in the parade. I took her to the rehearsal. The Little League team is also participating. Ryder is the coach. The thing didn’t let out until eleven-thirty. Ryder was there until the end. I saw him. I got the call about the fire while Sammie and I and others, including Ryder, were heading to our vehicles. It wasn’t Ryder out at your place last night, Clare. Believe it.”

Clare didn’t want to let Ryder go as the perpetrator of the fire. If it had been anyone but Jake who’d seen Ryder . . .

“So, if not Ryder,” Jake continued, “who started the fire? And why? Was it connected to Beth’s disappearance? Who else have your questions about Beth pissed off?”

Clare lowered herself onto the couch, reluctantly accepting that Ryder had an alibi. If not Ryder, that meant they were now searching for an unknown subject—an unsub. Leaning her head back against the cushion, she closed her eyes. “Looks like that’s now the million-dollar question. We still don’t know who sent me the note to meet at the abandoned mine. I tossed the blame at Ryder. He didn’t deny it, but neither did I get the impression that I’d struck a nerve. I’m not sure that Ryder was the one behind the note.”

“Well, we’d better find out what’s going on here fast. Someone tried to kill you last night. I have no intention of giving him an opportunity to try again.” The anger in Jake’s voice was unmistakable.

Clare opened her eyes and focused on Jake. “Staying here wasn’t a good idea.” For so many reasons she refused to get into with him. For the moment, she focused on the one that was worrying her most. “My being here might present a danger to you and to Sammie. I don’t want—”

“No way am I going to let you leave with whoever did this at large. I doubt he’d attempt another fire. That would be too coincidental, and as for Sammie, you have no ties to her, there’s no reason anyone would think they could get to you through her. No one here knows of our personal history. The way things stand, I’m just providing a room for a colleague.”

Earl Lowney had made clear to Clare when he’d rented her his deceased uncle’s house that there were no other properties for rent in Farley. With the house gone, and Connie’s Inn closed to her, her overnight stay at Jake’s had just become an extended visit. If she wanted to remain local, what choice did she really have but to stay at Jake’s?

“You’re not a drinker,” Jake said. “Why last night?”

Clare didn’t want to elaborate on her personal feelings, but what she found out about Beth may be relevant to her sister’s departure. “I found out that Beth is pregnant.”

Clare went on to explain about her visit to Gladys Linney and her discovery of the prescription.

“I plan to get in touch with the ob/gyn,” Clare said. “I want to know if Beth is still seeing him or if he gave her a referral to a colleague in another city or town. Beth had obviously been hiding that prescription along with her check book among her mother’s things. I’m guessing she didn’t want them at home where they could be seen by Ryder. It appears Beth didn’t want her husband to know about the pregnancy. The baby may have been the catalyst to her leaving him.” Clare shook her head slowly. “I’m thinking maybe Ryder found out somehow, and that Beth was going to leave him . . . .” She let the sentence hang.

“If Ryder did find out about the baby, he couldn’t hurt Beth without hurting his own child.”

Jake was trying to offer some degree of comfort, but Clare knew as well as he did that concern for an unborn child didn’t always factor into abusive relationships.

“Someone other than Ryder is responsible for the fire,” Jake said. “We need to widen the net. Move beyond Ryder.”

“Though Ryder has an alibi for the fire, I’m not ready to clear him in Beth’s disappearance. That said, though, it does look like there’s someone else involved in all this. Someone who’s worried enough to try to take me out.”

“We’re going to have to set up some perimeters. Some precautions.”

“The hell with that.” Clare pushed off the couch. “I’m onto something. This guy doesn’t want me to find Beth and is willing to kill me to keep that from happening. He’s running scared. Has to be to try to take out a federal agent. I have to keep up the pressure. Keep him on edge.”

“Let’s see what we can do about finding out who he is.” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll put a call into Columbia. Have our crime scene people examine the scene of the fire. We need to go over Beth’s last day again. We’re missing something.” He shook his head and said softly, “Someone.”

Chapter Thirteen

Jake ended the call with Special Agent Angie Petrillo who worked out of the Columbia field office. He’d requested a crime scene team to go over the scene of the fire, and further asked Petrillo to pay a call on Beth’s Columbia-based obstetrician to ask about a possible referral to another doctor. He hadn’t wanted to make the drive into the city himself, knowing that he’d never make it out of the house without Clare in tow. No way she’d sit back and get the rest she needed while he worked the investigation.

Petrillo had followed up with the ob/gyn. Doctor–patient privilege would have prevented him from speaking with Petrillo about Beth at all, but the fact that Beth had been reported missing had secured the doctor’s willingness to divulge that information without a court order.

Beth was in the first trimester of her pregnancy. When Petrillo asked about follow-up appointments, the doctor had returned with the response that Beth hadn’t made any. No, he had not referred Beth elsewhere, hadn’t known that she’d planned to relocate and no longer intended to be his patient.

Jake had hoped for a follow-up appointment that would give them a time and place to track her.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t learned anything useful from the doctor.

Jake had checked on Sammie before calling Petrillo. His niece had been asleep, tired from the late night at the rehearsal. He’d also checked on Clare and found her asleep, as well. She’d been making notes on a pad, and had fallen asleep holding a pen. He’d removed it from her loose grasp.

The low battery signal on his cell phone flashed on. The spare was in his bedroom in a charger. He crept up the stairs to retrieve it, mindful not to wake Sammie and Clare. He was surprised to find they were both awake, and both in his room, seated on the bed. Sammie was talking, telling Clare about her bedroom, from what Jake overheard.

“. . . and Uncle Jake said I could get any bed,” Sammie said. “I picked Barbie ’cause she’s my favorite.”

Jake smiled. He was about to enter the room, when Sammie added, “I asked Uncle Jake about you. He said you work at the same place.”

“That’s right,” Clare said.

“I want to work with Uncle Jake too when I get big.”

Jake entered the bedroom. “Then you need to eat all your vegetables!” He scooped Sammie up, and tossed her onto his shoulder. She squealed with delight. He circled the room, then set her on her feet and she ran out.

It was getting on six o’clock Jake realized as he changed the battery on his phone. “I’m thinking barbecue for dinner, Clare. How does that sound?”

“Great. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Take your time.”

He was in the yard when Clare joined him on the patio. He had steaks marinating in a deep dish he’d placed on a table beside him and was now firing up the grill. A soft breeze carried the scent of the honeysuckle bush by the fence. His neighbor’s radio was on. At the moment, the station was airing a commercial to buy toothpaste.

Jake turned away from the grill and watched Clare hobble over the stone porch, alert, should she put a foot or the tip of the crutch wrong.

He’d set out two deep cushioned chairs in anticipation of her arrival and she carefully lowered herself onto one of them.

He twisted the knobs on the grill, adjusting the temperature. “I thought we’d eat out here.”

“Sounds good. What can I do to help?”

“It’s covered. I got a call back from Petrillo at the Columbia office,” Jake said. “Beth never made a follow-up appointment with the obstetrician, and never asked the doctor for a referral. She never said anything to him about leaving town.”

“Another dead end.”

“Yeah.”

Jake’s cell phone, on the patio table, rang. The caller was Jonathan.

“Report came back on the note,” Jonathan said to him. “There wasn’t much to work with but basic phrasing and accuracy in the grammar suggests the writer graduated high school. Printer used was a standard laser. Untraceable, standard twenty-pound bond paper. No prints.”

“Okay, Jonathan. Thanks.” Jake disconnected, then summarized the call for Clare.

She shook her head. “Well, we weren’t expecting much.”

Jake went about placing the steaks on the grill. He glanced up to check on Sammie. She stood in the shade of a Cyprus tree, at a small table she now shared with an assortment of dolls and teddy bears. At the moment, she was setting plastic dishes onto the lemon yellow tabletop.

“I need to retrieve my car from the house,” Clare said.

“Keys?”

“They were in my purse in the bedroom I was using. They’re gone. I called the rental company a few minutes ago, and they’re going to overnight a replacement set. They should be here tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. When you’re feeling up to it, we can drive over and get the car. Or, I can drive over with Stan from the office.”

“I’d like to get it tomorrow, if you have time to drive me over. I need to go into town. To the bank. I reported my bank cards lost in the fire and replacements have been sent to the Farley branch. I also need to stop in at a jewelers. Is there one in town? I cracked the glass on my watch when I fell.” Clare held up the wrist with the watch on it.

“No jeweler. We can get it repaired in Columbia. What about your Glock? You didn’t have it on you when you were taken to the clinic. I assumed it was lost in the fire?”

“Yeah. I reported it. I was told a replacement can be issued through your office?” At Jake’s nod, Clare said, “Good.” She heaved an impatient breath. “I hate all this. The waste of time attending to these things, time that could be better spent working.” She shifted her injured leg to another position then plucked at the pant leg of the hospital scrub uniform she was wearing. She frowned. “I need to stop at the clothing store in town. Buy a few work clothes.”

Jake grinned. “Hospital scrubs and haute couture a la Sutton not to your taste?”

Clare rolled her eyes. “This look won’t be featured at the next Paris fashion show.”

He laughed.

“Jake.” She shifted position in the chair. “I haven’t thanked you. For this.” She waved a hand. “For letting me stay here with you and Sammie.”

There were a lot of things he could have said to that. Keep it light, he thought. “You can thank me by not hanging nylons all over the bathroom.”

One corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. “Deal.”

With an effort, he turned away from that smile. “So, how’s everyone in the New York office?”

Clare shrugged. “Same, I suppose. Job keeps us busy, as you no doubt remember. We don’t talk much outside of the job, or have much time for socializing.”

Clare, he remembered, hadn’t socialized with anyone from their workplace, other than for a brief time with him.

A shout came from the yard next door. “Jake!” Mike North called out. “You’re grilling on a week night. Dude, you’re gonna get me in trouble over here with Laura.”

Jake laughed as Mike hopped the fence dividing their properties and ambled into Jake’s yard. He had a broad smile and a round, open face. His salt and pepper moustache twitched with his smile.

“Pull up a chair, Mike,” Jake said.

With a loud contented sigh, Mike dropped onto the chair beside Clare. Jake made the introductions, adding that Mike was little Heather’s father. Mike shook Clare’s hand then linked his fingers and rested them on his belly that bulged slightly beneath a University of South Carolina T-shirt.

Mike sighed. “I have to be getting back. Laura has her hands full this week. My sister’s kids are visiting and I promised to help out.”

Having said that, Mike made no attempt to leave.

“Catch the game last night, Jake?” Mike asked.

Jake shook his head. “Heard it was something.”

Mike launched into a play by play of the baseball game.

The squeak of the hinge on the yard gate heralded the arrival of Mike’s wife, Laura, a slim woman with blade-straight black hair. Her deep blue gaze honed on Mike like a laser.

“So this is where you snuck off to.” She was frowning, her tone stern, but her lips curved in a small smile.

“Just came to give Jake here some pointers on barbecuing, honey.”

“I’ll bet.”

Jake introduced Clare to Laura North.

After the greetings, Laura turned to Jake. “You going to be bringing Sammie to me in the morning, Jake?” To Clare she said, “I watch Sammie during the days while Jake’s at work.”

Clare acknowledged the information with a nod.

Jake turned the meat. “Yeah. We’ll be there.”

Laura returned her attention to her husband. “If I don’t get you moving, you’ll root to that chair, Michael North.”

She went over to Mike and playfully tugged him to his feet.

“Clare, if you’re around next Wednesday,” Laura said. “I’m having some friends over. You’re welcome to join us. Nothing fancy. Just an evening of gossip and Margaritas.”

“Thank you,” Clare said. “I’ll have to let you know.”

“They tell sex stories is what they do, Clare.” Mike wiggled his brows.

Clare smiled at the comment.

“Sure we do,” Laura said with a laugh. “Come on, Romeo. We got a houseful of kids waiting on us.”

Mike held out his hand to his wife. She clasped it and the Norths made their way from Jake’s yard.

Clare’s head turned toward him, and Jake felt her penetrating stare.

“Small-town life looks good on you,” she said.

“I have to tell you, it was iffy for a while. I thought the quiet would drive me crazy.”

Laura shouted, “Robbie, time for supper!”

“The Norths eliminated that fear,” Jake said.

Clare laughed.

* * * * *

The dinner conversation was, for the most part, filled by Sammie who talked on about Fluffy the cat who had not yet had her kittens, much to her disappointment.

After, with the table cleared and the dishwasher loaded, Jake went to run a bath for his niece. Clare heard the sounds of water splashing and Sammie’s shrieks of laughter coming from the bathroom in the hall as she climbed the stairs. She wasn’t fully recovered yet, and for tonight was going to observe the same bedtime as Sammie.

The note pad she’d used earlier to document Beth’s movements on her last day in town was on the nightstand. A few scribbled lines was all she wrote with a question mark after Connie’s Inn. The clock was ticking and they still had nothing.

Clare settled more deeply into the pillows. Her eyes grew heavy and she closed them.

* * * * *

Clare awoke with a start. The edges of the blind were dark. It was still night. She wanted to close her eyes and return to sleep, but her muscles were tense, on alert. Something felt wrong. And then she heard it. A soft, mewling sound.

Her crutch leaned against the bed post. She propped it under her arm and limped to the hall. She heard Jake’s voice—low and urgent—coming from Sammie’s room.

What was wrong with Sammie? Clare’s heart thumped harder.

By the time she reached the little girl’s room, Jake had his niece in his arms. Sammie was sniffling. Her eyes were damp, but she seemed to be over the worst of it. Clare recalled Jake saying that Sammie woke up some nights calling for her parents.

Clare didn’t want to intrude, and remained outside of the bedroom. Jake had the situation well in hand. There was certainly nothing she could contribute to help. She knew nothing about children.

Jake murmured to Sammie, words Clare couldn’t hear. He stayed with her until she fell asleep and when she did, he just stayed by her bedside, watching her.

After a time, he rose to his feet. Clare thought he was moving like an arthritic, just then. His face was ashen, lined with worry. Clearly, Sammie hadn’t been the only one affected by the nightmare.

When the girl was breathing deeply and evenly, Jake left her bedside. His gaze met Clare’s.

“How often does this happen?” Clare whispered when he joined her in the hall.

Jake rubbed his hands down his face. “Too often. I don’t know what to do for her when she’s like that.” His voice was low and rough. “I feel so useless. Christ, so helpless.” He exhaled deeply. “I’d do anything to stop it for her.”

Sammie mumbled something. Jake wheeled toward her and returned to her bedside.

Again Clare thought she knew nothing about children. She did, however, know about nightmares:

Mama points the gun at Owen and fires.

The acrid odor of gunpowder fills Clare’s nostrils.

Owen’s blood sprays her face.

Then, Mama turns the gun on Clare . . .

Clare closed her eyes.

The many platitudes she’d heard over the years on overcoming them and moving on came to her mind. Empty words. She wouldn’t offer them as consolation to Jake, and he certainly didn’t need to hear her own experience in living with the dreams, living with them because, after twenty-five years, she still dreamed of that day, still awoke drenched in perspiration, trembling, and shivering. Jake didn’t need to hear that, or that this innocent child was alone in the battle. He couldn’t fight it for her. He couldn’t make it all go away for her.

“Uncle Jake, will you read me the story again?”

Clare opened her eyes at the sound of Sammie’s voice. Jake lowered himself gingerly onto the low stool by the bedside. Decorated in red and white gingham, Sammie had referred to it as Miss Muffet’s Tuffet, when speaking of her bedroom with Clare earlier. Jake took a book from the nightstand and opened it.

Clare’s cheeks warmed. She did not belong there and feeling like an interloper, backed away from the family.

She intended to return to bed. But she only took a few steps, then stopped, unable to force herself to move on. Unable, in that moment, to shake off the feelings of sadness and emptiness over her own lack of family.

She took up a position in the hall and, resting her head and shoulder against the wall, listened as Jake began to read:

“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Eloise . . .”

Chapter Fourteen

When Clare went downstairs the next morning, Sammie was seated at the kitchen table.

The little girl greeted Clare with her usual wide smile. Clare smiled herself, relieved that Sammie appeared fine after the troubled night she’d had.

During breakfast, Jake left the kitchen to answer a knock at the door. The keys to Clare’s rented car had arrived.

As they were leaving the house, with Sammie in tow, to retrieve it, Jonathan called. Jake listened to Jonathan, his posture growing tense. When he ended the call, he met Clare’s gaze.

“VICAP got a hit,” Jake said. “Another woman was reported missing from Farley.”

Clare took a step toward him. “Who? When?”

Jake shook his head. “I’ll take Sammie over to Laura’s. We’ll talk when I get back.”

Clare fought back her impatience and nodded. A few minutes later, Jake returned from Laura’s. He joined Clare in the living room.

Clare launched into speech. “When did the woman go missing?”

“Four years ago.”

She held up her hands. “No one said anything about that.”

“Ozzie Petty wasn’t sheriff here at that time,” Jake said. “Could be no one on his staff recalled it or made the connection.”

She fell silent, taking in Jake’s information.

After a moment, she asked, “Who reported that woman missing? What do we know about her? Any connection to Beth?”

“We need to look into all of that. We need to see what NCIC can tell us. Jonathan has requested the data associated with that investigation faxed to the office.” Jake jiggled his keys in his hand. “Do you still want to pick up your car before we go to work?”

Clare shook her head. “The car can wait.”

At the Bureau office, while Jake returned a number of phone messages, Clare anxiously awaited the data from the National Crime Information Center. She paced, the tip of her crutch tapping the dark wood floor, casting anxious glances at the printer on a credenza behind Jake’s desk.

After what felt like an eternity, Jake’s computer signaled an incoming fax and the printer began spewing papers.

When Jake finished his calls, some ninety minutes later, Clare was seated across the desk from him, pouring over the faxed pages.

The woman reported missing, Sara McCowan, was a college student from the University of Colorado. She’d been on a two-week summer vacation, traveling with three other girlfriends. They were all staying at an inexpensive motel in Columbia, frequenting the bars and clubs in the area. Their second night in the city, she’d told her girlfriends she’d met a man and that she’d see them back at the motel in the morning.

Reading on, Clare learned that Sara had returned from that evening, and went on to see the same man a second night without incident. She went on a third outing with him and never returned.

Clare summarized the victimology for Jake. She added that Sara McCowan had been twenty-two years old at the time of her disappearance.

“McCowan’s friends didn’t know anything about her mystery man to pass along to the investigators in her disappearance,” Clare added. “Sara hadn’t introduced him to them, which they found unusual. Sara liked to flaunt her dates.

“She made a habit of picking up men in bars and clubs, spending a night with them, and then moving on to someone else. Not so with this man,” Clare said. “Prior to this, they’d never known her to see a man more than once. According to a statement from one of the girlfriends, the girls teased Sara that maybe she’d found ‘the one’ and urged her to introduce him to them. Sara declined and became upset. The friend suspected Sara’s lover was married.”

“How did law enforcement place Sara in Farley?” Jake asked.

“Sara told the girls that she was going to surprise the man. She called a cab to drive her to the destination. One of her friends recalled the name of the cab company, and it was confirmed that she was driven to Main Street in Farley. She paid the cabbie and sent him on his way.”

“Cabbie checked out, I take it?”

“Yeah, and people in town recalled seeing Sara McCowan when questioned by Columbia PD.” Clare held up a sheaf of papers. “Here are statements from three local witnesses.”

“A new face in town wouldn’t go unnoticed,” Jake said.

Clare could well attest to that.

She slid a copy of a photograph across the desk to Jake. It was one of several they’d received from the family. In this one, Sara McCowan leaned back against a brick building. Blonde hair, with becoming highlights, fell in waves to her shoulders that were bare and tanned. A strapless white mini dress showed her long, tanned legs.

The picture had been taken on this trip, the day before her disappearance, according to the date recorded in the corner by the camera.

“The investigation didn’t stay in Farley, though,” Clare said. “It was moved to Columbia when Sara’s cell phone records were checked and showed calls made from there.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Then, she’d left Farley.”

“Two kids—thirteen-year-old boys—found a purse outside a club in the city. The cell phone was inside the purse. One of the boys gave the purse and its contents to a girlfriend, but they kept the phone for their own use.”

“How long did they have the phone?” Jake asked.

Clare held up her hands in a shrug. “The boys claimed a couple of weeks.”

“How did Columbia PD get it?”

“The parents of one of the boys found it, knew it didn’t belong to their son. Got the story of how the boy came to have the phone, and turned it in at one of the cop shops.”

Jake released an audible breath. “Where it sat a while longer, no doubt, since tracing the owner of a lost cell phone wouldn’t be a priority in a busy law enforcement office.”

Clare nodded. “Once the phone was linked to the missing Sara, law enforcement went over the area where the boys had found the purse. But, if she’d been there, and abducted from there, it would have been far too late to establish a crime scene.” Clare rolled her shoulders to relieve a knot of tension. “Here we are four years later and Sara is still missing. There’s no sign of her and no body’s turned up.”

“When was she reported missing?”

“Three days after she left to carry out her surprise, her friends became concerned, tried her on her cell. When they got no response, they eventually went to the police.”

“Three days,” Jake repeated.

“According to the friends, it was not uncommon for Sara’s dates to carry over for a day or two. They didn’t think anything of it, at first.” Clare tapped her finger on the statements taken from the Farley locals who’d seen Sara. “We’re going to want to talk with the Farley people again.”

“It was concluded, I take it, that Sara’s disappearance was believed to have happened in Columbia, not Farley?” Jake asked.

“Yes, but no one saw Sara leave. The investigators weren’t able to determine how she got out of town.” Clare fixed Jake with a hard stare. “No mention of her taking a cab again. Is that because she didn’t and someone confirmed that, or because no one checked it out?

“It’s also possible,” Clare went on, “that she got a ride back to Columbia with her lover. Who no one’s been able to identify, and who didn’t come forward when Sara was reported missing.” Clare waved her hand at copies of newspaper clippings. “Sara’s face was all over the media at that time, yet her mystery man never came forward to offer help. He may be the last person to have seen Sara. Why didn’t he come forward? Because he was married and wanted to protect his reputation, even at the cost of finding her? Or, because he knew exactly how she disappeared because he made it happen?

“The last place anyone actually saw Sara was in Farley,” Clare said. “No one saw Sara in Columbia since the day she left to surprise her lover. It was her purse and contents that were seen.” Clare felt a chill go through her. “The last place anyone saw Beth was also in Farley. I don’t want to think what may have happened to Sara McCowan also happened to Beth. Four years later, and that woman still hasn’t been found.”

“We’re a long way from linking that disappearance to Beth. That said, I’ll call Frank Nobleton.” Jake glanced at his watch. “He was the sheriff here four years ago. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting for today.”

* * * * *

Former Sheriff Nobleton agreed to speak with them that morning. Nobleton lived in a red brick single-story house in town with potted plants thriving on the porch. Jake pulled into the driveway, alongside a pickup truck. The cab had a sticker in the window which read: “Gone Fishin’.”

Jake knew Nobleton casually from town functions. By the time Jake had moved to town and been assigned to the Bureau resident office, Nobleton had retired.

A man wearing a wide-brimmed canvas hat decorated with fishing lures opened the door.

Jake extended his hand. “Hello, Frank.”

Nobleton shook Jake’s hand and nodded, making the lures on his hat jiggle. “Jake.”

“Frank, this is Special Agent Clare Marshall.” Jake turned to Clare. “Clare, Sheriff Frank Nobleton.”

Nobleton accepted her handshake.

“Well, come on in,” Nobleton said. “I want to get this over with while the catfish are still biting.”

He stepped back from the door and led them a few steps through a hall and into a dark wood paneled living room. A glass pitcher of what appeared to be iced tea with a crocheted doily over the top had been placed on a tray, in the center of three glasses.

Nobleton did the honors without asking if anyone would like to partake of the refreshment. A plate of sliced lemon cake sat on a polished coffee table.

“Help yourselves,” Nobleton said, gesturing to the plate. “My wife won the prize for her lemon cake three years running at the Farley Fall Fair.”

Clare joined Jake on a burlap couch. She left the cake and the tea untouched, anxious to learn what Nobleton had to offer about the investigation. Jake appeared to be of the same mind.

Nobleton took his glass of iced tea and settled onto an arm chair that matched the couch. “Okay, Jake, you said you wanted to talk with me about the girl who was reported missing a few years back. Something going on with the case?”

“We’re looking to see if there’s any connection with another disappearance,” Jake said. “That’s all at this point.”

Nobleton nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“Walk us through the investigation, Frank,” Jake said.

Nobleton drank from his glass then passed the back of his hand across his lips. He nodded somberly. “I’d been Sheriff here for going on fifteen years when this happened. In all that time, the biggest crime we’d ever had was kids taking cars for joyriding and the odd disagreement that got out of hand at Charley’s Bar. I was on my way out, going to retire, but no way that little girl was going to go missing on my watch. I made sure that we were in the clear here.”

“How did you determine that for certain?” Clare asked.

“By the time Sara McCowan’s friends reported her missing, a couple or three days had passed. As I recall, they didn’t think nothing of it when she didn’t show up the first night back at their hotel room. She’d told the girlfriends that she’d met someone and she had a history of staying over with her men friends. She didn’t call the next day or return to the room. The third morning when they’d had no contact, the girls got antsy. Sara, they’d said, was a party girl, but three days without any of them hearing from her while on vacation was unprecedented.

“The girls did a little checking for Sara on their own. Looked around the city. Went back to the places they’d gone to.” Nobleton shrugged. “With no result. That’s when they went to the Columbia PD and filed a report. Girls claimed that Sara was paying a surprise call on her new man who lived in Farley.

“Columbia PD issued an alert,” he said. “We followed up here. Two detectives from the precinct come out here, talked to me. The way I remember it, the girl was confirmed to have found her way to Farley’s Main Street. That’s how Columbia PD ended up in our town. I rode along with them while they went about Main Street, flashing a picture of Sara to our business folks and asking if anyone had seen her. As I recall, we had a few takers.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin and squinted in thought. “Clem Potter at the drugstore remembered the girl. Earl Lowney, too. I think there were one or two others, though I’d have to check the file in my old office to get the names.”

“You conducted the interviews with the witnesses yourself?” Jake asked.

“I did some of the talking, along with the investigators from Columbia PD. I told the detectives Farley people would talk better with me than with outside cops and hell, Farley was my jurisdiction. No way I was going to step aside and let the two city boys run roughshod over the people in my town.

“Some time after we’d finished the interviews,” Nobleton continued, “word came down that the missing girl’s cell phone had turned up in Columbia. Looked like she had made it back from Farley to the city after all. I never did believe one of our people had anything to do with what happened to that little girl.” Nobleton shrugged. “Case closed in Farley.”

“Except that Sara McCowan was never found,” Clare said.

Nobleton nodded. “Sad thing.”

“From what we read in the reports, it was never concluded that Sara was the one who left the cell phone in Columbia,” Clare went on.

“You’d have to ask the Columbia PD about that,” Nobleton said. “My part ended when the investigation moved out of Farley. I retired six months later and Oz took over for me. You might want to ask him if he received any follow-up after that, though I doubt it. Like I said, the girl’s disappearance was no longer our jurisdiction.”

Nobleton’s eyes widened and he looked from Jake to Clare. “Anything else or is that it?”

“Clare?” Jake asked. She shook her head and Jake added, “Thanks for your time, Frank.”

As they got into his car, Jake said, “Let’s hear what Columbia PD has to say about the investigation.”

Chapter Fifteen

Jake had called ahead and arranged an appointment with the Columbia Police Department detectives who’d been assigned to Sara McCowan’s disappearance.

Detective Chad Brownley met them in the precinct lobby. He glanced at their Bureau IDs then shook hands with Jake and Clare in turn. The detective’s gaze lowered, taking in her outfit, Clare figured. Once again, she was wearing the green hospital scrubs, though freshly laundered. Hardly usual attire for the Bureau.

With a friendly instruction to follow him, Brownley wheeled around and strode down the long tiled hall, his unbuttoned suit coat flapping behind him.

He led them to a room used for interviewing witnesses and suspects. The room had a film on the beige walls and ceiling that looked to be caused from smoking, back when smoking was allowed in the building, and an odor that had permeated the cushions in the four chrome chairs. There he introduced his partner, Detective Willie Stokes.

After the preliminaries had been dispensed with, Stokes said, “It’s been a while. Brownley and me have been reviewing the case file since you called, Agent Sutton.”

Stokes was a rail-thin man with dark, curly hair cropped close to his scalp.

“Don’t know what to tell you, here, Agents,” Stokes went on. “Unless you got a break in the case, something new to add, this trail is colder than my mother-in-law’s smile.”

“Was there a connection between the two boys who found the phone and Sara?” Jake asked.

Brownley shook his head. His hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that trailed halfway down his back.

“The two boys who had Sara’s cell phone were just kids, thrilled that they’d found a new toy,” Brownley said. “Both thirteen at the time, I think. It’s in the reports.” He shrugged. “No connection whatsoever to Sara. We asked if they’d seen her or anyone for that matter drop or lose the purse. Hell, we asked them if they’d stolen it from her and told them we wouldn’t prosecute if they had—that they’d be in the clear—that’s how desperate we were to get a lead. The boys said they just found the purse laying on the walkway in front of the club. What really caught their eye was the cell phone tucked into the back compartment. When they tried it, it worked, and they kept using it.

“One of the parents found it hidden somewhere,” Brownley went on. “Knew it didn’t belong to their kid and turned it in. When ID came back to Sara McCowan we were all over it, and the two boys. Of course, by the time the phone was turned in and checked, another couple of weeks went by. Checking phone IDs isn’t a priority here.”

“What about her cell phone records?” Clare asked. “Calls to Farley?”

“We tried to get a bead on her through her cell phone use as soon as we had cause to get the records released from her service provider,” Brownley said. “Cell phone use showed the boys had run up a hell of a lot of calls to 1-900 numbers and to European and Asian countries—who the hell knew why. When we got through their muck and to Sara’s calls, there was no one we couldn’t identify. And zero calls to or from Farley. We found nothing at all about this man she claimed to have met, and been seeing. It was like he was invisible. We thought who takes such great care to make sure he can’t be linked to a woman he’s seeing. We figured either the guy was married, like one of Sara’s girlfriends suggested, or he was into something illegal. Thinking that though didn’t help us find him.”

“Sara’s parents had been hoping for a ransom demand,” Stokes said. “Sara didn’t come from money, but still, the possibility wasn’t ruled out, at least not until so much time passed and no one got in contact with the McCowans.

“Brownley and me were afraid that Sara’s disappearance was going to be the first of others—that we had someone targeting young, pretty college girls,” Stokes continued. “But no one else went missing under similar circumstances. To this day, we don’t have a clue what happened to Sara. Why she was singled out. Or by whom.”

Brownley shook his head slowly. “We made an appeal through the media, asking the man that Sara had been seeing to come forward—that we just wanted to talk with him—that he could be instrumental in helping us find her. No one responded. We appealed to the public, with the same spiel—saying the guy wasn’t wanted for anything—we just wanted to talk with him—to ask for his help. Nothing.”

“Sara’s parents put up a reward.” Stokes shrugged. “Again, nothing.” He looked to Jake. “You said Sara’s disappearance was flagged in connection with the recent disappearance of a woman from Farley?”

“Yes,” Jake said.

“What about the cab companies?” Clare asked. “There isn’t one in Farley. Was it determined if Sara called a cab company outside of Farley and used that same mode of transportation out of town?”

“We didn’t find the one that drove her back,” Stokes said.

Clare took that as a no, it had not been determined.

* * * * *

Back at his house, Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to hit the shower. If you want to start nuking the food, I won’t be long.”

They had picked up Chinese takeout from a place in Columbia that Jake knew of. He cleared a space on the kitchen table, where Sammie had left crayons and paper that morning, then set the two bulging bags down. Clare removed a carton of egg rolls from one bag, emptied them onto a plate, then placed it in the microwave. She set the timer, then leaned back against the counter to wait.

Jake finished showering then went to the Norths. Clare had everything warmed by the time he returned with Sammie.

Later, after the dinner had been eaten and the dishes cleared, Sammie bathed and down for the night, Jake and Clare sat down at Jake’s dining room table with the notes and files from Sara McCowan’s case. Papers pertaining to Sara’s missing person investigation were spread end-to-end on the table. Stokes and Brownley had given them a copy of a file they’d compiled. Among the documents was a map of the areas singled out for investigation both in Farley and Columbia, and the surrounding areas. Red marker circled significant sites, the location where the cab had dropped Sara off on Main Street, the drug store and surplus store where she’d been seen.

The search for Sara shifted to Columbia when her cell phone records showed calls made from that city after she’d been seen in Farley. Most of the information contained in the file covered the Columbia leg of the investigation.

The area where her purse was found was combed, but if Sara had been abducted there, it was far too late to establish a crime scene.

Jake was seated beside Clare at the table. She turned to him. “We don’t know for sure that Sara ever returned to Columbia. I keep coming back to that. It’s possible that she had not been in the area where her purse was found after her sighting in Farley. Also possible that whoever took Sara had simply left her phone there to muddy the waters of the investigation and focus the attention out of Farley. It’s possible the investigation was taken out of Farley prematurely.”

Jake glanced up from a page he was reading. “The last call on her cell phone that we can attribute to her, rather than to the boys, was made on the day she was seen in Farley—the call to the cab company from her motel in Columbia to arrange the drive to town. I don’t like that we have no proof of Sara’s return to Columbia, either.”

“We need to retrace her steps on the day she arrived in Farley,” she said. Clare’s cell phone rang. “Hold that thought.”

She read the caller ID and frowned. Her caller was Supervisory Special Agent Miles Cohen, her boss. Why would he be calling?

Clare flipped open the phone. “Hello, sir.”

“Agent Marshall,” Cohen said, “it’s been brought to my attention that you recently reported your sister missing. How is the investigation progressing?”

“We’re pursuing a number of leads.”

“I’ve read the missing person’s report you filed,” Cohen went on. “At this point, you have no evidence of foul play in her disappearance, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir—however—”

“The Bureau has received a complaint about your conduct in Farley,” Cohen interrupted. “Specifically, as it pertains to the investigation into your sister’s disappearance. The complaint alleges harassment.”

The complainant had to be Dean Ryder, Clare thought. “It is still to be determined what role my sister’s husband may have played in his wife’s disappearance.” Clare was struggling to hold onto her temper, which would do her no good to lose with Cohen. “One man’s interpretation of events.”

“Not one man, Agent Marshall. There is a corroborating statement. The complaint is supported.” Cohen’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass.

“Supported by whom?” Clare asked.

“The sheriff from the town,” Cohen said. “This matter has been brought to the attention of the Office of Professional Responsibility and the department will be reviewing the allegation.”

“I see,” Clare said.

“I understand there was a fire at your accommodation and you were forced to flee the burning building. How are you feeling?”

“I sustained only minor injuries and I’m recovering well.”

“I’m glad of that. This is undoubtedly a difficult time for you, Clare. I’d like you to have a talk with Dr. Amedes. She’s a psychologist working out of the Columbia field office.”

Clare’s throat tightened. “With all due respect, sir, it isn’t necessary for me to speak with a therapist. I’m fine and perfectly capable of addressing any questions the OPR may have.”

Cohen went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ve scheduled an appointment for you for tomorrow at one o’clock in the afternoon. I realize that you’re on personal time and may wish to delay this until you’re back in New York. I would prefer, however, that you speak with Amedes tomorrow.”

And to hell with what she wanted, obviously, Clare thought. She wanted to refuse—and not just tomorrow’s appointment. Whether in Columbia or New York, she did not want to speak with a psychologist at all. She’d been poked and prodded by psychologists throughout her childhood and teen years. She didn’t want to speak with another one as long as she lived.

She felt railroaded and worse—caged. If she refused to speak with the shrink, however, that would be another strike against her. Cohen may already be gearing up to pull her from active duty for poor job performance based on the allegation of misconduct.

A silence drew on while Clare fumed. Cohen waited her out. They both knew what her decision would be if she didn’t want to jeopardize her field position with the Bureau.

Finally, Clare said, “Very well, sir, I’ll see Dr. Amedes.”

“There are good people looking into your sister’s disappearance,” Cohen said. “Let them do their jobs, Clare. You focus your attention on your recovery. You still have six days before you’re due back in New York. I’ll be in touch with you prior to your return and we’ll discuss if you’re feeling well enough to resume your duties.”

The “if” was not lost on Clare. Cohen did not wait for her to reply. His decision delivered, he ended the call.

Clare set her phone down on the tabletop slowly.

“Well?” Jake asked.

“I was wrong when I said Ryder didn’t have the guts to go to the OPR.” She gave Jake the highlights of the call. “Cohen is afraid I’m flipping and will cause more trouble for the Bureau. He’s now made it his business to keep tabs on me.”

“An investigation that involved one of his agents was sure to attract his attention.”

“Added to that, a complaint of misconduct.” Clare chewed her lip briefly. “I can’t believe he wants me to see a shrink.”

A muscle throbbed in Jake’s jaw. “Just what the hell did Ryder put into that complaint?”

Clare made a face. “I guess I’ll find out when I’m back in New York. Cohen didn’t give me a date for the OPR interview but he went ahead and booked an appointment with the shrink for tomorrow.”

Jake regarded her with a steady gaze. “You can refuse.”

“Sure and let Cohen and the Bureau draw its own conclusions about my mental health. They don’t want me to become an embarrassment. Easier to make me go away. I’d end up at some dead-end post, counting paper clips all day. Cohen already told me to expect a call from him in the next six days to discuss if I’m well enough to resume my duties.”

“You can fight that, Clare. I would help you fight that.”

It frightened her how much his support meant to her. Her heart was beating too hard. It was a wonder he couldn’t hear it. But the problem was hers. She wouldn’t drag him into this mess with her.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to drag this out. I’ll see Amedes tomorrow.”

* * * * *

The next morning, Jake drove Clare to his office where she picked up her replacement weapon. From there, they drove to Main Street. She retrieved her bank cards and while he waited in his vehicle, she went into the women’s clothing store.

Her need for underthings, work, and casual clothing was desperate. The selection was good, but she may as well have been buying sackcloth for the joy she took in the experience. She was fuming over the time she would have to spend primping for her session with the Bureau shrink. Wasted time that she should be spending searching for Beth.

On the way back to Jake’s place, they went by the house Clare had been renting and picked up her car. It was her left ankle that had sustained injury. She was able to drive herself to the appointment in Columbia, but Jake said he would drive her. She didn’t put up much of a fight to dissuade him. He knew Columbia a lot better than she did, but she wasn’t thinking of the drive. Given the choice, she would have preferred a summons from the OPR. Her strong aversion to psychiatry made her feel as if she were going into a lion’s den.

She’d sat on so many therapist’s couches since that day when her mother had killed Owen and tried to kill Clare and Katie/Beth, that she should be used to them by now. But she’d never gotten used to it, in fact, as more than one counselor had pointed out, she was decidedly hostile and averse to therapy.

Her hostility had been blamed for her not getting the intended result out of the therapy. Just what the intended result had been, she was never able to determine.

By the time Jake drove into the parking lot of the Columbia Bureau office, Clare was wound tighter than a ball of yarn. He gave her ice-cold hand a squeeze and they made their way into the building. While a receptionist ushered Clare into the therapist’s office, Jake remained in the waiting room.

The Bureau psychologist, Dr. Julie Amedes, was a fifty-ish woman dressed in a bright summer suit. Her hair hung in loose curls. By the fullness of the style, Clare believed the curls were natural.

Amedes smiled. “Agent Marshall, nice to meet you.”

Clare clasped the hand Amedes extended and the therapist pumped Clare’s hand enthusiastically. Clare did not return the other woman’s exuberance. She knew how this meeting needed to go in order for her to stay on the job, but she’d never been adept or inclined to pull her punches. Just being in the psychologist’s presence had already stirred old resentments.

Pastels and soft fabrics made up the decor in Amedes’s office. Amedes sat in a plush chair. She gestured for Clare to take the seat opposite her own. “So, tell me, what brings you to my office today?”

Clare found the question insulting. Psychologists were available to employees of the Bureau if they wished, and some must make use of the service or Amedes and her colleagues would be out of a job here, but for Clare this would be the last place she would choose to be. Amedes would know that this consultation had been arranged by Clare’s superior. Was the woman trying the friendly routine, or to pretend ignorance? Neither of which Clare welcomed.

“Were you not informed that SSA Cohen set up this meeting?” Clare said with some bite to the words.

Amedes didn’t respond to Clare’s remark. She reached behind her to her desk and retrieved a file folder, which she opened and laid across her lap. “Supervisory Special Agent Cohen is concerned you may be under a great deal of stress. I understand that you recently filed a missing person’s report on your sister.”

Clare took the question as rhetorical, and did not respond.

Amedes consulted the folder. “You went to Farley to reunite with your sister, whom you’ve been searching for, and when you arrived you discovered that she was not in the town. Do I have the information and the sequence of events right?”

“Your information is accurate.”

Amedes placed the folder on the coffee table between them, leaving it open. “Tell me, have you been able to find out anything about where your sister might be?”

Clare resented that she was expected to speak of her private life and offered only, “We’re following up on a number of leads.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Your sister left town a little over a week ago. I understand you’re looking at her husband for some involvement in her disappearance. Standard procedure, I believe, is to look to the husband first.”

“Yes,” Clare said.

“That can’t sit well with him, I’d imagine, or his friends and neighbors. I’d imagine you’ve found yourself in hostile territory lately. How have you been feeling, Clare?”

“I’m fine.”

Amedes smiled. “Fine may be an overstatement with what you’ve had to cope with recently, I’d say. I know about the OPR inquiry.”

“I expect that you would,” Clare said caustically.

“What do you do to unwind?”

The question struck a raw nerve. “I’m not a drinker, if that’s what you’d like to know.” Clare gave Amedes a frosty look. “Never have been.”

“I didn’t mean that.” She smiled again. “I looked into your mother’s history. I know about her alcohol and drug use.”

Clare nodded. “Of course.”

“Please don’t resent my interest. I’d like to help you cope with the recent stresses you’ve been forced to deal with. Your mother’s execution was a few weeks ago. Did you attend?”

Clare had to struggle to keep her expression bland at the ludicrous question. She reminded herself that Amedes was trying to elicit some emotional reaction from her that she could likely use to recommend she be removed from active duty and responded with a simple, “No.”

“Have you visited with your mother at all during her incarceration?”

“No.”

“Have you had any contact at all through phone calls or letters?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the day of the fire,” Amedes said.

“What would you like to know?”

Amedes tilted her head and regarded Clare. “What did you do that day?”

Clare recited the events of the day, beginning with when she awakened and what she ate for breakfast in the monotone she used to recite details in a report. She omitted learning of Beth’s pregnancy.

“Tell me about the fire,” Amedes said.

“The damage to the house was extensive. The fire originated in the kitchen.”

“How did you feel about the fire?”

That gave Clare pause. “I don’t understand the question.”

Amedes folded her hands neatly in her lap. “What were you thinking while the fire was raging and you were trapped inside?”

“I was thinking of a way to get out.”

“Do you have any memory of how the fire started?”

“It’s not a question of memory. I have no knowledge of how the fire began. I’ve been told that a pan containing cooking oil was found on the stove in the kitchen and that the gas burner was lit, igniting the oil.”

“I understand that the fire was deemed accidental.”

“That’s what the local investigators concluded, yes.” Clare arched her brows. “Though, I suspect you’re leaning in another direction.”

“Not leaning.” Amedes shook her head. She spread out her hands, palms up. “Merely inquiring. I’d like to know your state of mind that day. I’d like to make sure that you didn’t start the fire as a means of ending your life. Have you ever thought of suicide, Clare?”

It was not the first time Clare had been asked that by a therapist. It never failed to anger her when they judged her life, and found it so lacking that suicide seemed a viable option. No matter how bleak her life had been at times, she’d never considered ending it. She’d awakened in a hospital with the horrific memory that her own mother had tried to kill her. Shortly after, she’d learned that her brother was dead. That her baby sister was out of her life. Clare had been five years old. But at no time then or during the difficult years that followed had she wanted to be dead herself.

If she were dead, how would she find her sister?

Clare met the doctor’s gaze. “I have no thoughts of suicide, do you?”

Amedes hesitated as if involved in an internal debate, then appeared to come to a decision. “Actually,” she said softly, “I did go through a dark period when I thought death was better than life.” Amedes slowly pushed up the sleeves of her suit jacket, then unbuttoned the cuffs of her silk blouse and bared her wrists. Jagged scars crisscrossed the thin skin there. Amedes left her wrists exposed and said, “My husband and our two children were killed in a car accident twelve years ago.” She went on, her tone gentle, “What did you expect coming here, Clare?”

Amedes’s personal disclosure took Clare by surprise. She didn’t want to know anything about this woman she regarded as the enemy. Clare reverted to anger. “I expected that you would evaluate my mental competency and then rule on whether or not I am to be permitted to continue to work in the field. Does that sum it up?”

“How do you feel about that?”

Clare eyed Amedes. “This evaluation is intrusive. I drank a little heavily one evening. On my own time. When I was off duty. While on vacation. In fact, I’m not on active duty at all at the moment. I’m still on vacation and as such, my choice of beverages is of no concern to the Bureau nor does it reflect on my ability to perform my duties as a federal agent.”

“You’re right,” Amedes said. “Who wouldn’t feel resentful and angry at having their privacy invaded because they tied one on while on vacation. I’d like to see you again, Agent Marshall.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I think there’s a lot you’re dealing with. I can understand why you haven’t confided in me. Aside from the fact that you don’t know me, since we’ve only just met, and I work for the Bureau so the belief is that I am nothing but a spy for the powers that be, I know that you received mandatory counseling throughout your childhood and into your late teen years. It can’t sit well with you to be forced to speak with me today. I’d like to see you again,” Amedes repeated. “I believe we’d work well together. I won’t recommend it, though, in my report. I’ll leave that up to you to come back to see me. I’m going to recommend that you be permitted to continue at your assigned post.”

Amedes stood. She extended her hand. She had not buttoned the cuffs on her blouse and her lower arms remained exposed. The slight tension in the arm she held out made the scars on her wrist pucker, making them bolder.

“I hope we meet again, Clare,” Amedes said.

Clare accepted the handshake, then left without comment.

* * * * *

Jake was seated in the waiting room when Clare entered it. He stood and studied her as she went to him, his expression grave.

“You all right?” he asked.

Clare nodded.

“Let’s get out of here.” He placed his hand at the small of her back and urged her to the elevators that would take them back down to the lobby and the exit.

Once in Jake’s vehicle, he started the engine, then pulled out of the parking lot. She felt the weight of his stare.

“You’re quiet,” he said. “Sure you’re okay?”

“She wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Who? Amedes?”

Clare nodded.

“Sounds like that isn’t a bad thing.”

Clare didn’t reply.

“You want to talk about it?” Jake asked, as he pulled into the late afternoon traffic.

Clare shook her head.

He didn’t push. “Okay. Back to Farley.”

His statement drew Clare’s attention away from Amedes. “I’d like to make one more stop while we’re here in Columbia. I want to see where Sara’s cell phone was found.”

Chapter Sixteen

As Jake placed a call to his office, Clare glanced out the passenger window. Late afternoon traffic was building. They drove past the interstate. Vehicles on the exit ramp leading out of the city were bumper-to-bumper. It was Friday, and it appeared that many had left work a little early, anxious to begin the weekend.

Jake was now speaking into his phone. “Jonathan, can you look up where Sara McCowan’s cell phone was found?”

Clare turned to him.

He fell silent, waiting, then took a scratch pad and pen from the storage compartment between the bench seats and jotted down an address in a bold scrawl. Jake ended the call.

When he didn’t enter the address into the vehicle’s GPS for directions, Clare asked, “Know the place?”

“Yeah. It’s a rough district.”

Jake drove on, leaving behind the office buildings and condos, university campus, and the Five Points shopping neighborhood. Their surroundings changed drastically. The streets now were made up of public housing, and run-down store fronts. Crabgrass near to the size of bushes thrived in the cracked asphalt and cement walkways. The crabgrass and the weeds were the only sign of vegetation or plant life. There wasn’t a tree or flower to be seen.

Jake drove at a crawl, then pulled in at the curb in front of the Doubles Bar.

“The boys who found the purse said it was laying on the sidewalk near the bar,” he said.

There was an arcade across the street from the Doubles. It appeared to be a popular hangout for kids. As Clare watched, a group of adolescent boys charged through the twin doors. The laughter and conversation coming from them, even with the air conditioning on, penetrated the SUV.

“If someone wanted Sara’s purse found they picked a good place to leave it,” Clare said. “Someone wanting to throw the investigation off the scent of Farley, and turn it elsewhere—like Columbia—could have easily dumped the purse here. Authorities would work on the assumption that Sara’s last known location was Columbia, and that she’d lost her purse when she was abducted. The fact that kids found the phone inside the purse and used it made it look like Sara wasn’t missing. The cell phone use delayed authorities from obtaining the phone records, delaying the search and buying time for whoever abducted her.”

She was thinking out loud, but it all made sense. Clare believed authorities had been searching for Sara in the wrong place all along.

“It’s also possible that Sara decided to come out to one of these dives and lost her purse here during a struggle with her abductor,” Jake said.

“Yeah, but the deeper we dig, the less likely that seems to me,” Clare said.

* * * * *

Back at Jake’s house, the light on his answering machine was blinking. The message indicator showed thirty-three messages.

Though status reports from law enforcement agencies would go to the field office, Clare felt a frisson of excitement. Jake knew personally state police and federal agents and one or more of them, knowing his personal interest in this case, may decide to call him at home directly with information.

Jake played the messages.

“Agent Marshall, this is Janet Rawlings from the Columbia Examiner. I’d like to speak with you about the search for your sister. I’d like to do a human interest piece—daughters of executed murderer separated—”

Jake hit delete. The next message began.

“Yeah, this is Tyler Brockman, Columbia Post. I understand Clare Marshall can be reached at this number. I’d like to ask her some questions about how her mother’s recent execution prompted her to start looking for her sister—”

Jake ended the message.

“Lauren Duval calling from Rise and Shine Columbia. I’m calling to speak with Agent Clare Marshall. We’d like to do a segment on her search for her sister ending with an appeal for help. Call me at—”

Jake pressed stop, cutting Duval off in mid-sentence. “I’ll listen to the rest of them alone later.”

“Looks like I started a feeding frenzy when I reported Beth missing,” Clare said with a scowl.

Jake’s cell phone rang. When he got off the phone he said to Clare, “That was Jonathan. Ryder okayed a search of his vehicle.”

Clare drew back in surprise. “How did that come about?”

“All Jonathan knows is that Ryder told Petty we can go ahead and search. Jonathan is having the car taken to our lab.”

“I don’t trust Ryder’s sudden decision to cooperate,” Clare said. “Is that because he’s already removed anything that would incriminate or implicate him in his wife’s disappearance? He is a cop after all, and an accomplished one by the commendations he’s received. He’d know how to cover up and destroy evidence.” Clare sneered. “Maybe he had a change of heart and thought it would reflect well with the OPR if it appeared that he was cooperating with the investigation despite being harassed by an agent.”

“I don’t trust Ryder’s motive, either.” Jake drummed his knuckles on the table. “I asked Jonathan to put a rush on the search. We’ll know something shortly.”

Clare gazed at the case files on Sara McCowan’s disappearance that were spread across Jake’s dining room table. How had Brownley phrased it? The case was as cold as his mother-in-law’s smile. As far as Brownley and Stokes were concerned, Sara’s trail was dead and the detectives felt there was nothing new in evidence to go digging through the ashes.

Clare disagreed. The location of the cell phone had her convinced that the phone had been dumped there as a means to throw authorities off the scent. Clare believed that Sara had disappeared in Farley.

“I want to talk with the local witnesses again,” Clare said.

“Who do we have?” Jake asked.

Clare had committed the names and addresses to memory. “Clement Potter. Joan Bass. Earl Lowney.”

“Four years is a long time to remember a conversation,” Jake said. “Given the circumstances, though, Sara McCowan would be hard for people around here to forget.” Jake glanced at his watch. “Let’s go now.”

* * * * *

Earl Lowney was arranging a display in the window of the surplus store. Fatigue background set the stage for a pair of night vision goggles and a replica of a World War II German helmet.

Clare exchanged a glance with Lowney while she was on the sidewalk, about to enter his store, and he was in the window, preparing the display. She hadn’t spoken with him since the fire and expected he wouldn’t be cordial to her now—even though the fire wasn’t her doing.

“Hello, Mr. Lowney,” Clare said as she preceded Jake into the store.

“Agents,” he said.

Lowney stepped down from the window and slapped his hands against each other. Dust swirled in the bright sunlight streaming in through the glass.

“I’m glad to see you’re up and around Agent Marshall,” Lowney said.

His welcome was a pleasant surprise. “Thank you.”

Lowney nodded. “The insurance adjustor handling my claim on the house wants to talk to you about the fire. I gave him your cell phone number.”

“I’ll expect a call.”

“Of course, under the circumstances, I won’t be returning your security deposit,” Lowney said.

“Of course,” Clare said dryly.

Lowney huffed out a satisfied breath. “Now, what can I do for y’all?”

Clare put the matter of her lost deposit out of her mind and returned to the reason for the visit. “We’d like to speak with you about the disappearance of Sara McCowan.”

“Sara McCowan?”

Clare showed Lowney a head and shoulders photo of Sara.

“Remember her, Earl?” Jake asked.

“The girl that went missing. That’s going back a ways.” Lowney glanced up from the picture to Jake. “What do you want to know?”

“In the statement you gave following her disappearance, you said that she’d been in your store.”

“That’s right.”

“What did you talk about while she was in here?” Jake asked.

Lowney removed his wire-rimmed glasses and held them up to the ceiling, toward the dim light. He went to the glass display counter, then returned with a cloth to where Jake and Clare stood and began to polish them.

“As I recall,” Lowney said. “I was setting out some new stuff I just got from an estate sale. She—Sara McCowan—I found out her name later when the police came in asking about her—anyway, she came in. I asked her if she needed any help, like I do with all my customers. Seems to me I recall that she said she was looking for a present for her younger brother, and thought I might have something he’d get a kick out of.”

Lowney lifted the glasses, put them to his eyes and squinted through them. He lowered them and again began to wipe the lenses in slow circles. “I asked her how old the boy was. Don’t remember what she told me, just now. I do remember though that I made a point of showing her the new stuff I just got in. While she was in here, I asked her where she was from, how long she was going to be in town—you know, the usual chit-chat, talking up the tourists. I always ask what brings them to Farley and how they heard of our town. That’s my attempt at market research to attract more tourists. I keep after the town council about doing more to increase Farley’s profile to expand our tourist trade.” He waved a hand in a quick gesture. “I just get the same rhetoric about not enough in the budget etcetera.” He replaced his glasses with a rough, impatient movement.

“What did she say when you asked what brought her to Farley?” Jake asked.

Lowney frowned. “I don’t recall what she told me. Sorry, it’s been some time.”

“Did she mention that she was meeting anyone in town?” Clare asked. “That she knew anyone from Farley?”

“I don’t think so.” Lowney shook his head slowly. “Anyway, I don’t think she ended up buying anything and left.” He shrugged. “That’s the last I saw of her. Some time later, not sure how long, detectives from Columbia came in asking about her. Sheriff Nobleton was with them.”

“How long was she in the store?” Clare asked.

Lowney puffed out his cheeks. “Can’t say to the minute, but it wasn’t long.”

“Did you notice where she went when she left here?” Clare asked.

“Out of my store is out,” Lowney said. “If there’s no chance of a sale, I don’t pay any attention.”

“Did anyone else come into the store while Sara was in here?” Jake asked.

Lowney plucked at his lower lip in thought. “No one that I can recall at this moment. Like I said, it’s been some time.”

“Anything else, Clare?” Jake asked.

She shook her head.

“Earl, if you remember anything else about your conversation with Sara, we’d appreciate a call.” Jake left a business card on the display counter.

Lowney’s eyes widened in blatant interest. Clare recognized that look when he’d been seeking to exploit her need for a place to stay.

“I gotta ask,” Lowney said. “After all this time, why the interest? That mean you are reopening the investigation?”

His eyes were round and avid, his gaze darting between Clare and Jake with a speed that reminded Clare of a bouncing ping-pong ball. Looked like he wanted to be able to spread some gossip. Whoever was responsible for Sara’s disappearance—if he was from Farley—might react to hearing that the investigation was being reopened, Clare thought.

“That’s exactly what it means, Mr. Lowney,” Clare said.

Clare made her way to the door. Jake was already at the door and swung it open for her to precede him.

As Clare reached the sidewalk, Rich Dannon passed by the surplus store. He glared at Clare, then continued down the street at a brisk pace.

“You know Rich Dannon?” Jake asked as he stepped up behind her.

“I questioned him about Beth.”

“Didn’t go too well, I take it. He looked pissed.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “He hit on me and I turned him down. Bruised what has to be a monumental ego if he’s still angry about it.” She squinted into the sunlight at the row of stores across the street. “The pharmacy, next.”

Clare hobbled across the street, alongside Jake. The day was winding down and was still a scorcher. Perspiration matted Clare’s dress to her back. She was feeling the heat and the exertion and was panting by the time she’d made the short walk to the pharmacy.

“You okay?” Jake asked.

She took a breath. “Fine.”

The glass door to the pharmacy was propped open with a chunk of dark wood. Two tall fans oscillated inside, making a soft hum. A middle-aged woman, pushing a broom across the tile floor, sang an off-key rendition of “Satisfaction,” the Rolling Stones tune.

“Hello, Roberta,” Jake said.

“Hiya, Jake.”

The woman stopped sweeping and cupped her hands atop the broom handle. Jake made quick introductions.

“What brings you ’round?” Roberta asked after exchanging a greeting with Clare.

“Need a word with your dad,” Jake said. “He in?”

“In the back. I’ll get him.”

A few minutes later, Roberta returned. A man wearing a lab coat followed in her wake. Clare judged him to be about seventy, though his brisk stride was that of a much younger man. He was very tall and walked with his head tucked slightly into his neck, tortoise-like, Clare thought.

“Hello, Clem,” Jake said.

“Something I can do for you, Jake?”

Jake introduced Clare.

“Good morning to you,” Clement Potter said with a slight nod.

Jake stated the reason for the visit. Clare handed Potter the photograph of Sara. Potter removed a pair of glasses from the pocket of the lab coat and put them on. His gaze lowered to the photograph and the man’s thin face pinched further.

“I remember her,” he said.

“What do you remember about her, Clem?” Jake asked.

Potter’s wrist jerked as he practically flung the photograph back at Clare.

“I was getting ready to close for the day when she entered,” Potter said.

“Why was she in here?” Clare asked.

“She came to me,” Potter went on, “and asked where I shelved the prophylactics.” His lips compressed briefly.

“Go on, Clem,” Jake said.

“Not much more to tell, really.” Potter’s posture straightened, bringing him to his full height. “Prophylactics are contrary to the teachings of the bible. I don’t carry that product and told her so.”

“How did she react?” Clare asked.

“I believe she found my response amusing. I told her that I was closing the store and directed her to the door. Her time here was very brief and that was the extent of my dealing with that young woman, I’m very pleased to say.”

“Did she mention where she was going?” Jake asked.

“No.”

“Did you notice what direction she took, Clem?” Jake asked.

“Absolutely not. I could not close the door behind her fast enough. I had no more time to waste on the likes of that young woman.”

“I don’t suppose she mentioned who she was planning to use the condoms with, Mr. Potter?” Clare raised her brows.

Potter glared at her. “Certainly not. As I said, my dealing with the woman was very brief. I was elated to see the last of her.”

Clare leaned toward Potter. “You did hear that she went missing, didn’t you, Mr. Potter? That she’s been gone for four years? You’ve got family, a daughter.” Clare gestured to Roberta. “Doesn’t hearing that a young woman disappeared give your gut a little twist?”

Flushing, Potter addressed Jake. “Your partner has no call to go talking to me like that. She’s trying to intimidate me.”

“I’d think hearing of a young girl who’d been in your store going missing would unsettle you, Clem, no matter how you were told.” Jake slapped a business card on the counter. “If you recall any other details about your conversation with Sara, give us a call.”

* * * * *

The last person on their list was Joan Bass, a school teacher on summer vacation. The woman who answered Clare’s knock at the Bass residence was a trim forty-something who was wrapping a towel around her waist. Water trickled from her hair and sky blue bathing suit down a long, tanned body. She wore an assortment of jewel-toned rings, and a neck chain of ruby red stones.

“Well, hello,” the woman said and greeted Clare, and then Jake, with a bright smile.

“Good morning, we’d like to speak with Mrs. Bass.” Clare showed her ID.

“FBI?” She widened her eyes and her smile. “I’m Joan Bass. I can’t imagine why the FBI would come calling, but it’s been a slow day. Why don’t you come on in and tell me?”

Joan’s reaction to having the FBI at her door was a new one in Clare’s experience. It was unusual to receive an exuberant welcome once she introduced herself as a federal agent. Clare caught Jake’s eye. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. He looked amused. Though whether his amusement was at what Joan Bass had said or at Clare’s surprise at the comment, Clare wasn’t sure.

Joan led them through a spacious hall, her bare feet slapping softly against the tile. The hall was in deep shadow, making the room cool. She went through the kitchen and to a sliding glass door that opened onto a cement patio. Two young boys wearing swimming trunks and life jackets sat on lounge chairs.

“Okay, Trevor, Thomas, I’m back. You can go back in the water now,” Joan called out.

The two boys, one a bright red head, the other dark-haired, jumped into the pool that took up most of the small yard, splashing water on the backs of Clare’s legs.

Joan Bass narrowed her eyes at Clare in a sympathetic look, her gaze lingering on the crutch. “You might want to take a load off.” She pointed to the chairs the boys had vacated.

When both Clare and Jake were seated, Jake explained to Joan why they wanted to speak with her. Clare offered Joan the photograph of Sara. Joan cradled it in her palm and took some time gazing at it. When she handed it back, she nodded slowly.

“I remember her,” Joan said. “I talked with Sheriff Nobleton and two detectives down from Columbia about this girl. Since you’re here asking about her again, I guess she hasn’t ever been found?”

“No,” Jake said.

“Some of my students aren’t that much younger than this girl,” Joan went on. “A parent’s worst fear, I think, to have your child disappear. I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Jake took Joan back to that day. “You saw Sara,” he said. “In the pharmacy?”

Joan nodded. “That’s right.” She pitched her voice to be heard above the laughter and shouts of the children in the pool. “Both my boys were down with the measles. Maybe that’s why I remember it all so well. I went in to get some calamine lotion from Clem. I was supposed to be just in and out. Tom, my husband, was minding the boys while I dashed out to get the stuff, and I promised him I wouldn’t be too long.” She laughed and gave Clare a conspiratorial wink. “Darned if I didn’t end up having a flat tire on the way back and had to wait for roadside assistance from the Tucker boys service station.” Joan wiggled her fingers, the bright-colored stones in the rings glittering in the sunlight. “What I really had was a need to get out of the house after being cooped up with the boys for four days. So, I took myself off to get a manicure.”

“Did you encounter Sara while having the manicure as well?” Clare asked.

That hadn’t been in Joan’s statement and Clare’s heart thudded at the prospect of new information.

Joan waved a hand and shook her head. “Mercy, no. I’ve gone off the topic. I saw her at the pharmacy and just at the pharmacy.” Joan tucked her tongue in her cheek for an instant. “She had Clem going, let me tell you. She asked him for condoms. If you know Clem, that’s akin to blasphemy.” Joan gave a hoot of laughter. “I tell you it would make life easier for Tom and me, and I suspect a lot of other folks here in Farley, if Clem would just stock them. He thinks people don’t use contraceptives because the only reason they’re having sex is to make babies.”

“Did Sara mention her reason for being in town?” Clare asked, steering Joan Bass back to the subject at hand. “Did she mention that she was meeting anyone?”

“Not to me.” Joan shook her head. “We didn’t talk at all. I just overheard her conversation with Clem. It was just me, Clem, and her in the pharmacy at that time. I wouldn’t have paid much attention if not for her getting Clem all bothered.”

“Did you notice which way she went when she left the store?” Clare asked.

“Sorry, I figured Tom was at about the end of his rope with the boys by that time and I was busy reading the labels of the different types of lotion to pay her any more mind. The only thing I really remember about the girl was that she was giving Clem a time and the ring she was wearing.”

Clare nodded. She recalled that Joan had mentioned a ring in her statement to Brownley and Stokes.

“I really like jewelry, as you can see for yourselves.” Joan waved her hands as she had when speaking of the manicure. Again, the many rings she wore reflected in the sunlight. “I might forget a face, but I never forget a piece of jewelry. The girl was wearing a thick silver band with a large octagonal-shaped lapis lazuli stone. It was likely a fake. I think a stone that size would cost the earth. But, fake or not, that ring was a stunner. I regretted later that I hadn’t asked her where she got it. Then I heard about her going missing.” Joan shook her head. “Something awful like that really puts things in perspective.”

Clare thanked Joan and she and Jake left the house. They walked slowly over the sidewalk as they made their way back to Jake’s vehicle. The sharp tang of asphalt, baking in the sun, hung in the air.

“That was a bust.” Clare released an impatient breath. “I hoped someone might remember something they hadn’t when they were first questioned.”

A neighbor was in his driveway washing a van. Clare moved carefully through the soapy water flowing on the sidewalk.

“It has been four years,” Jake said. “Witness accounts are sketchy right after an incident.”

They reached his SUV. He opened the door for Clare, gave her a hand up as she slid onto the seat, then closed the door for her and took his own seat.

Jake drove to Main Street and pulled into the gas station there. While he filled the tank, Clare came to a decision. They’d gotten no new information from the interviews. They were no closer to determining who Sara’s mystery man was or what happened to her. They were no closer to finding Beth. Clare needed to smoke out the unsub.

She dialed directory assistance and got the number for the television station in Columbia that produced the program, Rise and Shine Columbia. A few moments later, she had voice mail for the program’s host, Lauren Duval.

“Ms. Duval, this is Clare Marshall. You called me requesting an interview on my efforts to locate my sister. If you’re still interested, I can be reached on my cell phone.” Clare recited the number then disconnected.

Her phone rang again almost immediately. Caller ID showed Lauren Duval.

Clare flipped open the phone. “Hello, Ms. Duval.”

“To answer the question you left on my voice mail, Agent Marshall, I certainly am still interested in speaking with you on the air. Because of the timeliness of this story, I want to do a live show and right away. How soon can you come in?”

“I’m on vacation, actually. Just let me know where and when.”

“I’ll shift tomorrow’s show if you can be here at the studio tomorrow morning at seven a.m.” Duval recited the address.

Clare wrote the information. “I’ll be there.”

Duval said, “I’ll leave word at the gate of your arrival, since you’ll need a pass to be admitted.”

Clare nodded. “See you then.”

Chapter Seventeen

Clare arrived at the studio. After some time spent fitting a microphone to the lapel of her navy pin-striped suit, she was whisked onto the stage and sat on one of two deep tufted rose-colored chairs on the platform. A small footstool was brought out for Clare to rest her injured leg on. Mugs of coffee and frosted glasses of ice water were placed on the cherry wood table that sat in between the chairs. Then Lauren Duval burst onto the scene and flew to Clare.

Duval’s shoulders and arms had an attractive pumped look that came from weight lifting and she wore a form-fitting dress that accentuated her excellent muscle tone.

“I’m Lauren, Clare. A pleasure to meet you,” Duval said, then turned toward a woman bearing a compact who trailed her. After a pat to her nose with the powder puff, Lauren took her place beside Clare.

Lights flashed on the stage, making the background completely black. A male voice belonging to someone in the darkness called out, “In ten, Lauren.”

A countdown began.

“No cause to be nervous, Clare,” Duval said. “I’ll steer you through this. Just follow my lead and it’ll all be over before you know it.”

Clare didn’t respond. There wasn’t time before the man called out again and the green light on the camera in front turned to red, signaling that they were now live. She hadn’t planned to respond anyway. Doubtful Duval would have appreciated Clare telling her that she had no intention of being “steered.” Clare had an agenda of her own.

“Rise and Shine, Columbia,” Duval said in her smooth tone.

Duval’s accent was subtly southern, just enough to hear the south and make her hometown to her audience and to endear her to them, and yet not enough to label her a hick or backwoods girl.

“Today we’re going to break from our usual programming to take a serious, hard look at something that is going on right around us,” Duval began. “A woman went missing a little over a week ago. Here to tell us about her is Agent Clare Marshall of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Not only is Clare here with us today in her official capacity, but more, she’s also the missing woman’s sister—a sister Clare hasn’t seen or heard from since they were separated following their own mother’s attempt to try to kill both girls.”

Clare tuned Duval out as she elaborated on the sensational aspects of Jolene’s story. Clare hated this, hated having her past aired when all of her life she’d worked to keep it under wraps. But it was for the greater good to find Beth.

Eventually, Duval turned to Clare.

“Tell us, Clare, how do you feel after having finally located your sister to Farley and discovering that she is missing, and gone just one week before your arrival? One week.” Lauren shook her head carefully, tossing her blonde strands artfully so that they swung away and fell back into place.

“Actually, Lauren, I am very close to finding my sister,” Clare said.

Duval frowned slightly at the upbeat tone Clare infused into her words. Clare believed the other woman had hoped for despair in her voice, possibly tears as she responded to the question.

“My sister’s disappearance from Farley is not an isolated incident,” Clare added. “Another woman disappeared from the town four years ago. That woman was Sara McCowan. I believe there is a link between my sister’s disappearance and Sara’s.”

Lauren’s eyes had widened to full moons. She glanced at the list of questions she’d prepared and held loosely in her grasp, then back at Clare. She appeared to be at a loss, but recovered quickly.

“Sara McCowan? I’m not familiar with her disappearance,” Duval said.

Clare described the case briefly. “New evidence has shown that Sara did not disappear in Columbia, but actually went missing in Farley. The investigation has been reopened and is now directed at Farley. Anyone with information pertaining to the disappearances of Sara McCowan or Beth Ryder can contact me at the following number.” Clare recited her cell phone number. “I will not stop until I have found my sister. I will not stop until I have apprehended the one responsible for her disappearance.”

Clare focused on the lens of the camera without blinking. “It’s come down to you and me. You’re nothing but a coward. A cockroach. You hide in the dark. Afraid of the light. Afraid to take me on.” She gave a feral smile. “You should be afraid.”

The studio fell silent. Dead air reigned. Eventually, a gap-mouthed Duval turned away from Clare and back to the audience.

“Thank you, ah, very much, ah, Agent Clare Marshall.” Duval stuttered. “For being with us this morning to share your heart-wrenching story.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Our thoughts and prayers are with you for the immediate and safe return of your sister.”

Duval didn’t give Clare an opportunity to respond, perhaps fearing that Clare would again break with the programming and venture on her own topic.

“Our next guest is diet guru Norman Plane,” Duval said. “Stay tuned.”

The red light flicked off. Duval turned to Clare.

“That wasn’t what we talked about,” Duval said. “You blindsided me, Agent Marshall. I don’t appreciate that. Don’t expect to be invited back.”

Since hell would have to freeze over before Clare would ever agree to return to Duval’s stage again, the threat did not concern her.

Her face a mask of outrage and anger, Duval picked up her glass and gulped water. The woman who held the powder puff scurried onto the set. It was a testimony to Duval’s anger that she sent the woman away with an impatient wave.

A stage hand rushed to Clare. “We need to get you off stage,” he said. “Our next guest is waiting.”

The solicitous treatment she’d received was over. Clare got up from the chair and limped off the set.

After the interview, Clare drove to the motel where Sara and her friends had stayed. Brownley and Stokes had questioned the motel manager and staff, but Clare wanted to cover the ground again. She was hoping to trigger a memory that would lead to Sara’s mystery man. She learned nothing new.

She planned to canvass the shops and restaurants near the motel as well. There were several. She considered calling Jake to let him know that she was working Sara’s case and expected to be out late. But he’d mentioned a budget meeting via conference call with his boss set for the dinner hour. From what Jake had said about the tendency for such meetings to drag on, it was likely she’d return to his house before he would. She didn’t make the call and proceeded with the canvass as planned, but learned nothing new at the shops and restaurants either.

It was dark when Clare returned to Jake’s house. With her mobility hampered, the canvass took longer than she’d anticipated. Jake wasn’t home yet and she let herself in with the key he’d given her.

She was tired. The stars were out. The patio beckoned. Clare leaned more heavily on the crutch than she had at the start of the day and made her way outside.

She lowered herself onto a lounge chair, sighing as she eased onto the cushions. Crickets chirped. A soft breeze was lulling her to sleep when the yellow bulb above the patio door lit. The door slid open and Jake joined her outside.

“Hi,” Clare said.

Jake’s face and shoulders were tense. He loosened his tie as he stood over her.

“I saw your interview,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Jonathan’s wife is a fan of Rise and Shine Columbia. She was watching it when you were introduced and called him at the office.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “Guess you forgot to mention it?”

“I didn’t feel the need to.”

Jake laughed without humor. “Bullshit, Clare. You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want to hear my thoughts about it. You knew I wouldn’t agree.”

“It was the right thing to do, Jake.”

“Was it? What did you think was right—the fact that the Bureau will be calling for your head shortly? That you jeopardized an ongoing investigation—”

“You don’t need to read me the riot act about the Bureau. I’m sure I’ll hear it from Cohen when he catches wind of this. There’s more at stake here than the reputation of the FBI.”

“That’s the first thing we agree on. You dropped a bomb, Clare. It’s possible that the story has been picked up across the nation.” He gave her a level look. “The Bureau aside, did you happen to consider what seeing that broadcast will do to Sara McCowan’s family?”

Clare shifted her position in the seat. She’d wrestled with her conscience over doing the interview, not wishing to cause Sara’s family undue pain. God knew, they’d been through enough. But in the end, she’d had to go with what she believed to be the best course of action.

“I thought of Sara’s family. Of course, I did,” Clare said. “But Sara has been gone for four years while Beth has been gone for days. The truth is it’s unlikely we’ll find Sara alive. But there’s still a chance for Beth. I weighed that—saving a life—against the hurt I’d likely be causing, and I did what I felt was right.”

Anger flared in Jake’s eyes. “What you did was set yourself up as bait. You issued a challenge to the unsub. Waved a goddamn red flag.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done the interview while I’m in your home. Brought this to you and Sammie. I regret that.” Clare crossed her arms. “But only that. I don’t regret what I did. I already told you I’d find another place to stay.”

“Is that the next step in your plan? Move out of here and make yourself more of a target? If Lowney had another place for you, I have no doubt that’s exactly what you’d be doing.”

“I think you’ve said enough.”

“Baby, I’m just getting warmed up!”

Clare lifted her chin. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Jake!”

Jake swung out an arm, encompassing the surroundings. “Hell, no! You don’t need my advice. My help. You don’t need anyone’s help. You’re Super Agent!”

The insult stung and she lashed out at him. “If not for me, you wouldn’t even know that you have someone abducting women living among you.”

“Great job, Special Agent Marshall. Thanks for coming to town and forcing all of us yokels to get our heads out from our asses on this one. Gee, ma’am, here’s hoping you don’t end up in a body bag!”

Clare’s face heated. “You’ve said it yourself over and over, we can’t find any commonality in the victimology of the two cases. Sara is a twenty-two-year-old co-ed, Beth a housewife almost a decade older. Sara is a blonde; Beth a brunette. They are from different parts of the country with no friends or family that we can match. No one we’ve found knows both women. No time their paths may have crossed. But they’ve both been in Farley. That links them, and today, I told our unsub that we’ve made that connection. And I gave our unsub something he can connect to Beth and Sara—me.”

Jake’s eyes went so dark that Clare saw herself reflected in them. “There was a better way to flush him out.”

“How? When?” Clare leaned forward in the chair. “Just when were we going to enact this ‘better’ way? We have nothing to identify the unsub. In the meantime the clock is ticking. I don’t have to tell you that each day that passes and Beth is not found reduces her chances of being found alive. How long could we afford to go through proper channels and sit and wait?” Her voice throbbed with emotion.

Jake set his teeth. “We haven’t been sitting or waiting. Aside from the reactions of the McCowan family, and the Bureau, I hope your maverick action doesn’t backfire and if someone does have Beth, he doesn’t decide to go underground, cut his losses, and anything that links him to Beth’s disappearance.”

Get rid of Beth. Clare knew that’s what Jake meant. She didn’t know how to respond to that. It was possible that she may end up being responsible for costing her sister her life.

Jake shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Clare didn’t comment. Goosebumps sprang on her arms and she crossed them against the sudden chill. She gazed through the glass door to the files and notes spread across the dining room table. Most were from Sara McCowan’s disappearance. What they had on Beth was painfully small. Nothing had come through from other law enforcement agencies. Beth got into her car the afternoon at Connie’s and not been seen or heard from again. Beth was simply . . . gone.

Clare fell silent with that thought and stared into the night. She drew out a silence, then said, “There’s no MO for NCIC to pick up.”

“What?” Jake asked.

“NCIC. There’s no MO to match between Sara’s disappearance and Beth’s.”

One of the functions of the National Crime Investigation Center was to cross-reference crimes with the modus operandi of criminals, searching for commonality. What did they have that was common to both Beth and Sara? Nothing.

Or at least on the surface there was nothing in common.

Assuming both women were abducted, a certain methodology was common to the crime of abduction. But what, other than the crime itself, was similar in these two cases? What about the abductions was alike?

“If Beth was taken from her car,” Clare said, “and Sara from the cabin, what about the execution of the crimes makes them unique to one person? What makes them personal to the guy we’re after?”

“Maybe nothing.” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s the coincidence of Farley that has us considering that there’s a link between both disappearances. Again, we could be all wrong here, Clare. Yes, they’ve both been in Farley. Remember, though, Sara’s cell phone was found in Columbia. The investigators weren’t able to find anyone to place her in Columbia after her visit to Farley, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. Your theory that the cell phone was a plant, is just a theory. You also need to remember that solving Sara’s disappearance may not solve Beth’s.”

Clare glared at Jake. “Don’t you think that I’m praying Beth is on a beach somewhere and whatever happened to Sara has not also happened to Beth? I don’t believe Beth is on a beach and I will do anything I have to, to find my sister.”

Jake regarded her again, his eyes burning like hot coals. “You can’t find her if something happens to you.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“What you’re doing is thinking like Beth’s sister, and not like a cop. Beth doesn’t need her sister Clare right now. She needs Clare the cop.” He rubbed his brow where deep lines were now etched in the skin. “I’m going to bed,” he said, the words bitten off in his anger.

Clare watched him stalk into the house, fuming herself.

She made her way slowly inside. She locked the kitchen door behind herself. She stopped at the fridge, and poured a glass of lemonade. The air conditioning was welcome, both the cold air it provided and the hum, which for some reason Clare found soothing. A perfect background noise for working.

At the dining room table, she fanned out the few pages of notes she’d written on Beth’s disappearance. Pitifully few.

She drew a family tree–type diagram with Beth’s name in the center and all of the people that could be linked to her in some way, either as family or friend or neighbor. Names included Dean Ryder, Patty Burby, Parker Burby, Connie Dannon, Rich Dannon, Gladys Linney, Lil Fisher, Gil Hoag, Cal Dawson. She added her own name to the list.

She went a step further and placed a star beside the names of those known to have seen or interacted with Beth in some way on the day she went missing.

As she looked it over, she considered the relationships good and bad. First and foremost was Dean Ryder. Clare tapped the pen she held against the diagram. Again she wondered why he’d agreed to allow a search of the sedan. And again she considered if the reason was that he’d already removed anything that would incriminate or implicate him in his wife’s disappearance.

Clare wondered if she’d tipped him off when she’d told him she wanted a look inside the vehicle. She didn’t think so. He already knew that the car was the last place Beth had been seen. If he’d had a hand in her disappearance, he would have taken steps to rid the sedan of anything that could tie him to Beth’s last time in it.

Connie Dannon had seen Beth on her last day. Lil Fisher had seen Beth drive away in her vehicle.

Clare felt like throwing her notes against the nearest wall in frustration. There was something here that she was missing. If Beth really had gone missing from Farley, and that was what Clare believed, then someone in town was responsible for her disappearance. Someone wanted her gone. Someone on Clare’s list?

She shook her head then selected one of the interview statements at random. She’d been over them all, and more than once. She’d been over every piece of paper associated with Sara’s disappearance that they had, and had come up empty. She and Jake and the two Columbia detectives and every other law enforcement officer who’d looked into Sara’s disappearance. But crimes didn’t happen in a vacuum. This criminal wasn’t invisible or omnipotent or infallible. Someone had to have seen something. Somewhere among all the paper this case had generated was a clue to finding who abducted Sara.

She opened the file on the McCowan disappearance. She reviewed the interviews conducted by the Columbia PD detectives of the three girlfriends who’d traveled with Sara on her last fateful trip. Brownley and Stokes had been thorough, conducting interviews more than once. Clare selected one Brownley had conducted with Sara’s friend Kelly Price and began to read:

BROWNLEY: Did Sara ever mention to you anyone following her, sending her presents, any obscene calls or hang-ups? Some guy who wanted to take her out that she didn’t want and wouldn’t take no for an answer?

KELLY PRICE: No. Sara loved dating. She didn’t turn down many offers. I never heard her say that anyone was hassling her.

BROWNLEY: No one back home?

KELLY PRICE: No.

BROWNLEY: Did you notice anyone hanging around her? Maybe someone she was unaware of? Someone who’d tried to get her attention and she’d blown him off?

KELLY PRICE: No. There wasn’t anyone like that.

BROWNLEY: Any of the other girls complain about someone giving them unwanted attention?

Clare glanced up from the statement. She knew where Brownley was going with that. It was possible that one of the other girls had been targeted, but the abductor hadn’t been able to get to her, so took Sara instead. She read Kelly’s response.

KELLY PRICE: No. Nothing like that was going on. If there was, we would have told each other. Not only for safety, but also ’cause, you know, we’d talk it out. We’re each other’s best friends. We talk stuff out. If we’d known someone was out there watching us or wanting to hurt one of us, do you think we would have let Sara meet up with that guy alone?

BROWNLEY: Which clubs did you girls go to?

KELLY PRICE: Aces. The Starlight. Flicker. Moutons. The Red Door. I can’t think of any others right now.

BROWNLEY: I need you to remember those names, Kelly. Think about it. We’ll go back to it.

KELLY PRICE: Sure. I’ll think on it.

Clare frowned. Something about those places seemed familiar to her. Though why that was, she couldn’t say. She’d only been to Columbia since her arrival in Farley and those visits hadn’t included the bar or club scene. Clare put it out of her mind and returned her attention to the interview.

BROWNLEY: Where did Sara say she met this guy?

KELLY PRICE: You asked me that before. I don’t know. Like I already told you, we hit a lot of clubs and bars in the three nights before Sara disappeared. We were all having a good time. Got pretty wasted. Sara wasn’t the only one who went home with a date on those nights.

The interview ended there. Brownley noted that the witness had broken down and was unable to continue.

Brownley had followed up with the men Kelly named that she and the other girls had gone home with. At least the ones the girls had gotten names from. They had all been cleared. Michelle Stephens, another girl in their group of four, had met someone and arranged a date for Sara with that man’s friend. There were multiple interviews with him, a twenty-three-year-old college student from NYU named Adam Marsh. Sara had spent one night with him then abruptly dropped him, saying she’d met someone else.

Brownley had gone over it many times with Marsh, asking how Marsh felt about being jilted. Did that make him angry?

Marsh had said pretty much the same thing each time Brownley raised the subject:

Hey, I wasn’t looking for forever. I only wanted to fuck her.

Marsh had gone on to say that Sara moving on had saved him the hassle of ending it. By the time she’d told him she wanted to call it quits, he’d already set his sights on another girl he’d met.

Marsh had no idea who the new guy in Sara’s life was, he’d said. She didn’t say; he didn’t ask. He was just glad that he was out.

Marsh’s story about the new girl had also checked out. That went with the rest of Brownley’s investigation of him. Marsh had been cleared.

Clare rubbed her eyes. She took a swallow of the lemonade and picked up the transcripts of Brownley’s interviews with Marsh. She read through each one. Marsh had no prior arrests. Nothing more significant than a few speeding tickets. She scanned the background information that had been assembled on him. In the end, she concluded as Brownley had. Marsh wasn’t the guy they were looking for.

She picked up the next statement . . .

* * * * *

She blinked. Her eyes felt gritty and she rubbed them. It wasn’t just her eyes that were tired. Jake’s words that she was still recuperating came back to her.

She’d stopped taking the pain medication. The pills, she’d found, impaired her ability to think. The sedating properties made her want to stay prone and hampered her ability to focus. Given a choice between thinking or the headache, she opted to live with the headache.

Her head was pounding now. She reached for the lemonade glass and pressed it to her forehead. Condensation had pooled in the coaster she’d placed on the dining room table. Clare dipped her fingers in the water and smoothed the lukewarm liquid across her brow. As she did so, she reached for the next statements in the file.

She was looking for one that held interviews with Michelle Stephens. Adam Marsh, who’d dated Sara, was a friend of Michelle’s date. It was possible that Michelle’s date had fixated on Sara.

Clare found Brownley’s interview with Michelle. For the most part, Brownley had asked the same questions of her that he’d asked Kelly Price. In fact, he’d been careful to include the same questions to each of the girls. Clare would have done the same as a way to confirm answers and to gain more information. No two people remembered incidents in exactly the same way. You could never tell what insights may be gleaned by asking two people the same question about something.

Here, as well, Brownley and his partner had been thorough. Michelle’s date, Jeffrey Marcotte, roomed with Adam Marsh at NYU. They’d looked carefully at Marcotte. There’d been nothing to suggest his involvement in Sara’s disappearance either.

Clare’s cell phone rang. She glanced at her watch. Two a.m. Not wanting to disturb Jake and Sammie, she retrieved it quickly. She glanced at the screen to identify her caller. Unknown. Whoever it was had blocked their number. Clare felt a rush of adrenaline. She’d scratched out her office number in New York on her business cards and replaced it with her cell number. She’d been spreading business cards around like seeds at planting time.

Clare clicked on. “Agent Marshall.”

The response was a long, heavy breath. Well, she had to know that making herself accessible could subject her to the interest and enthusiasm of the crazies who had nothing better to do with their time. She ended the call.

It rang again. And again, the number was blocked. She had no time to waste on some moron who got off panting to a woman over the telephone. It could go to her voice mail, but even as she thought that she answered the call.

“Clare Marshall,” she said.

“Hello, Clare.”

The voice was a whisper.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Clare said. “You know me, but I don’t know you.”

“All in good time, Clare. For right now, I just wanted to let you know that I’m watching you.”

Clare laughed. “Watching me? Like some low-life peeping Tom?” She panted loudly. “Does the sound of my voice turn you on?”

The caller’s tone grew angry. “Looks like you’re healing well. In no time at all you won’t need to keep that crutch within easy reach. I hope you can reach it now, though. From this angle, I can’t see it. I can only see you.”

The caller disconnected.

Clare’s gaze had lowered to where the crutch lay beneath the table, out of plain view. A lucky guess or was the caller really close enough to see inside the house?

She turned quickly to the windows. Sheer curtains covered the window in the living room. The door leading to the kitchen was open and she hadn’t drawn the vertical blind over the screen door when she’d come inside. Sitting at the table as she was, she was readily visible outside from both the front and back of the house.

She flicked off the light. Jake and Sammie were upstairs.

Clare called Jake’s cell phone. He picked up on the third ring, his voice husky from sleep.

“I’m in the dining room,” Clare said. She quickly apprised Jake of the phone call. “If the caller was outside, it isn’t likely that he hung around, but we need to check.”

“Stay put. I’ll look in on Sammie and I’m coming down. I’ll call Stan and the Sheriff’s Department.”

Clare got to her feet. Damn her lame leg that prevented her from moving swiftly to help Jake secure the perimeter. She would be useless at that kind of stealth. But she could protect Sammie.

“I’m coming upstairs, Jake,” Clare said. “I’ll meet you in Sammie’s room. I’ll stay with her while you and Stan look outside.”

Clare retrieved her weapon from her purse on the table then made her way to Sammie’s room. Jake met her there. The little girl was asleep, oblivious to what was going on around her. Clare nodded and Jake left.

With the air conditioning humming, and Sammie’s soft snores, Clare couldn’t hear Jake as he made his way down and outside. She didn’t expect to hear his movement anyway. Jake could move like a panther if need be.

Time seemed to drag on, though, in reality, Clare knew that only a few moments had actually passed.

“All clear, Clare,” Jake called up from the foot of the stairs a short while later.

With a last glance at Sammie, Clare went to meet Jake. He was no longer at the bottom of the stairs, but stood in the hall, in the glow of the ceiling light, with a man she assumed was Special Agent Stan Doyle.

Jake made introductions. Special Agent Doyle was lean, like a marathon runner, and was battling a nicotine addiction. A smoker’s patch showed beneath the cuff of a Yankees T-shirt. In his haste to arrive at Jake’s, he’d worn two different shoes.

“If whoever called you was outside, he left,” Stan said.

She’d expected that, but of course had to take every precaution, particularly for Jake and Sammie’s sakes.

“There’s nothing that looks like he was even at the house,” Jake said. “I’ll take a good look when it’s light, but it doesn’t appear that the grass below any of the main floor windows has been trampled.” Jake scowled, looking into the darkness. “It’s not a surprise that you’d get that kind of call, Clare. You’ve been all over with the TV thing. That’s bound to bring out some of the nut jobs.”

“I’m thinking the same,” Clare said.

“Doesn’t make sense that our unsub would call you,” Jake said. “He’s been anonymous until now. I can’t see him breaking pattern and showing himself.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be anonymous any longer.” She made the comment without any conviction. “But I agree, it doesn’t feel right. The unsub responsible for Sara’s disappearance isn’t into headlines and fame. If so, he’d have shown himself in the last four years.” Clare shook her head as she thought it through. “If this guy decides I’m a threat, he won’t warn me, he’ll just strike.”

Jake gave her a hard look at the comment. “Could also be someone you put away. Someone who saw you in that interview or read about you and your past, and is taking the opportunity for payback.” Jake’s tone was as hard as his expression. His anger was palpable.

“Could be,” Clare conceded.

Jake addressed Stan. “Thanks for coming out, Stan.”

“Hey, anytime.”

Stan left and a deputy from the sheriff’s office arrived. Jake met him on the driveway. They spoke briefly, then took another turn around the house.

Clare stood at the door, peering out at the houses across the street. Lights were on in a few of them, the neighbors awakened by the arrival of a sheriff’s deputy. The other houses she could see farther down the street were dark.

Clare watched as Jake and the deputy returned to the driveway. When the deputy drove away, Jake was greeted by a few of the men from the neighborhood.

The house phone rang. Clare tensed and turned toward the answering machine on an end table. Jake’s voice came on, inviting the caller to leave a message. Clare stilled, holding her breath.

“. . . yeah, Jake, it’s Barry. Saw the cruiser out your way. Just checking to make sure everything’s okay.”

She relaxed her shoulders. A call from a concerned neighbor. Nothing that pertained to Beth or Sara McCowan.

Clare rubbed her brow. Her headache had increased. She needed to shut down for a few hours.

The home phone rang again. Another call expressing concern, or just plain interest, her cynical side thought. But no, the caller on the line was Mike North. He and Laura were good people. Clare wondered if she’d had so little contact with the good people that she automatically tossed everyone in the same mix? Or, had she simply stopped seeing the good? Had she become that jaded?

She must be more tired than she realized to be self-analyzing.

Jake was still talking with his neighbors. She left him to it, and went to bed.

Chapter Eighteen

The information on Clare’s late-night caller came through the next day. Clare had made a pot of coffee, then took a cup to go and retreated to the dining room, to the case files. It was getting to the lunch hour when her cell phone rang. Not Jake. It was Jonathan.

“Jake’s tied up right now and asked me to give you a call,” Jonathan said. “He’s at a meeting with the town council and Sheriff Petty. The council is pretty stirred up about the possibility that Sara McCowan went missing from this town.”

“They should be stirred up. I hope that means they’ll do whatever they can to help. What did Jake want you to call me about?”

“The call you got last night came from a land line in Idaho,” Jonathan said. “I’m guessing the guy hadn’t known the call could be traced. Local agents are being dispatched to the caller, an Evan Hollis. Our office in Idaho will be in touch after the interview with him.”

The name Evan Hollis didn’t ring a bell. Clare couldn’t recall crossing paths, though it was possible he was someone she’d apprehended. She didn’t hold out any hope that Hollis knew anything about Beth’s disappearance, though, all the way out in Idaho. Sounded like he’d caught her recent press and gotten a sick thrill from messing with her. The Bureau agents in Idaho would put Hollis through the paces and they would know for sure.

“We didn’t expect this guy to be our unsub,” Clare said to Jonathan now. “He didn’t feel right. Still, we’ll need to find out if he has ties to anyone in Farley.”

“Got it,” Jonathan said. “I’ll pass that along to the Idaho office. I also have a message for you from Supervisory Special Agent Cohen. He called here a short while ago and asked me to ask you to get in touch with him. He’s made a couple of attempts to reach you on your cell phone without success. He’s concerned that your phone may not be working.”

Sure, that’s exactly what he’s concerned about, Clare thought grimly.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” she said.

They said their goodbyes and Clare disconnected.

Cohen had left another message for her. That made two. She had no doubt he’d seen or heard of the interview with Lauren Duval and was calling to rake her over the coals. She winced. She had to call him back, but in truth she didn’t know what she would say to him. If he wanted her to pull back from the investigation, or worse step out of it altogether, she couldn’t do that. He could order her off. Agents weren’t usually involved in investigations that were personal to them. But, even if ordered, she would not let this go. She was going to force him to either suspend her or get rid of her. Either way, that conversation wasn’t going to end well. Her career would be damaged at the end of it. She decided to delay calling him back.

She left the table and went in search of more coffee. As she was refilling her cup, she glimpsed Sammie and Heather in the Norths’ yard. The girls were seated beneath a Palmetto tree, surrounded by a pageant of dolls. One of them wore a costume that glittered like stars.

Stars. Stars.

Clare hobbled quickly to the table in the dining room. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, dousing her knuckles. “Damn!”

She plopped the mug onto the table then, with her fingers still dripping and smarting from the hot liquid, grabbed the file on the Sara McCowan disappearance and began rifling through the pages. She skimmed them quickly, the papers snapping beneath her fingertips.

Something. She’d read something in one of the statements the other night. It seemed familiar. She hadn’t known why then. An instant later the statement she’d been seeking was in her hand. It was Kelly Price’s interview with Detective Brownley. Clare scanned the pages.

She grabbed her cell phone from the table and called Jake. Belatedly, she remembered Jake’s meeting with the town council. She was about to disconnect and proceed alone, when he picked up.

She wasted no time getting to the point. “The other night I read something in one of the statements that seemed familiar. I didn’t know why then. I do now.”

“Which statement?” Jake asked.

“Kelly Price’s interview with Brownley. Something about the clubs she mentioned seemed familiar. My second day in town I met Richard Dannon.”

“Connie Dannon’s husband. You mentioned he hit on you.” Jake’s tone went cold as he said that.

“Part of his pitch was that he’d show me around Columbia. He knew all the hot spots. Blah, blah, blah. But he mentioned one in particular: The Starlight. Could be nothing more than a coincidence. The Starlight is a public place, no reason Rich Dannon and every other man in Farley couldn’t go there. But, the fact is we don’t know about every other man; we do know about Dannon. I want to ask him about Sara McCowan.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” Jake said.

* * * * *

Rich Dannon had agreed to speak with Jake and Clare at the Bureau office. It seemed to Clare that Dannon preferred to speak there, rather than where they’d found him thirty minutes earlier, at his regular haunt, Charley’s Bar. In this instance, he’d opted to be out of the prying eyes of the other patrons.

Outside an interview room at the Bureau office, Clare turned to Jake. “I want to take the lead with Dannon.”

Jake nodded.

Clare entered the interview room. She set her crutch on the floor and took a chair at the table, across from Dannon, who was dressed as Clare usually saw him, in casual businesswear. A sport coat in beige over a crisp white shirt made the most of his tanned good looks. Jake took up a position against a wall, leaning a shoulder against the faded gray paint.

“What can you tell us about Sara McCowan?” Clare asked.

“Sara McCowan?” Dannon’s voice cracked. Sweat broke out on his brow. “That the case you talked about on the TV show? The girl that went missing a few years back?”

“That’s the one.” Clare kept her eyes on his. “How did you meet Sara, Rich?”

Dannon gave a nervous laugh. “Hey, do I need a lawyer here?”

He was sweating profusely now, perspiration dripping down the side of his face and into the collar of his shirt.

“It’s certainly your right to have an attorney,” Clare said. “We can call your wife if you’d like, and she can make arrangements for one to join us here.”

Her mention of his wife had the desired effect; Rich Dannon blanched.

“No.” Dannon bobbed up, coming halfway out of the chair. “We can just clear this up here and now and be done with it. No need to get formal. Lawyers just muddy up the waters anyway.”

“Once again, then, how did you meet Sara, Rich?” Clare said.

“It’s been four years. I only saw Sara a couple of times.”

“What happened to her, Rich?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Tell me about the night you met Sara.”

Dannon stretched his neck, as if the collar of his shirt was too tight. “We were in The Starlight. She was pretty and looking for a good time. I’m always ready for a good time. I went over to her. Bought her a couple drinks. We partied some more and then we got a room at one of the motels on the street.” He shrugged. “After, I went home.”

“When did you see her again?”

“Who says I did?” Dannon’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a ship in a storm-tossed sea.

Clare knew she had him and didn’t respond to his question.

“Okay. Okay. Before I left, we made plans to get together again. Not at The Starlight. For dinner. Sara wanted a real date.” Dannon leveled his shoulders, sitting straight in the chair. “I showed her that I’m not like those piss-ant college boys she’s used to seeing. I took her to a restaurant.” He jutted out his chin. “A nice place.”

“Go on.”

He shrugged. “She had a few drinks. Took a hit of Ex and was in party mode again. We almost didn’t make it to a room. She was something. I have to tell you.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the next day, she came to Farley. I never told her where I lived. I never do. But we’d been fooling around and she got hold of my wallet and my driver’s license and it was all laid out for her.

“When she showed up in town,” Dannon said, “I was shocked. I was not expecting her. She was walking on Bridge Road when I drove by heading for Charley’s. She was on her way to my wife, Connie’s Inn, to rent a room. Shit, I couldn’t have that. I offered to drive her back to the city. She asked me if there wasn’t some place where we could go to be alone together and then I could drive her back in the morning.” Dannon licked his lips. “My daddy, who passed on, had a fishing cabin in the backwoods. I use it sometimes to—ah—fish.”

Clare didn’t think fishing was the sport Dannon indulged in at the cabin, but kept the thought to herself.

“I wanted her out of sight so I drove her there,” Dannon went on. “No one else uses it; it’s mine and I keep it stocked. I planned to talk with her and then drive her back to the city, but we had a couple drinks. Sara popped a couple pills and we didn’t end up talking. After, I left, telling her I had to get home but I’d be back early the next morning to drive her back to Columbia. I was thinking before anyone could see her with me. But when I showed up at the cabin about six the next morning, she wasn’t there. She’d cleared out.

“I tell you I felt relieved,” Dannon said. “Sara had the makings of getting clingy. I couldn’t afford the hassle. I didn’t want Connie to find out, and I had the feeling that Sara wasn’t going to go away quietly with a small token of my affection.” He swiped the sleeve of his jacket across his glistening brow. “But she was gone. And with no hassle. I was in the clear.”

“You didn’t wonder where she’d gone from your remote cabin? In the middle of nowhere?” Clare asked.

“Maybe she called one of her girlfriends to come get her. Frankly, I didn’t care. All I cared about was that she was gone. I’d dodged a bullet with that one.” He pushed damp blonde hair back from his face. His hand trembled. “Sara said she’d be going back home end of the next week. I stayed away from The Starlight. I stayed out of Columbia altogether. I didn’t want to take a chance of maybe running into her again somewhere.”

“And when you heard that she’d turned up missing?” Clare said. “You didn’t come forward?”

Dannon huffed out a breath and flung out his arm. “Hey, she wasn’t reported missing for I don’t know how long after I’d last seen her. Didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“We’ll have to see about that, Mr. Dannon,” Clare said. “What about Beth? Did you think it might be exciting to get it on with your wife’s sister-in-law? Did you also take Beth to your cabin?”

“Whoa!” He held up a hand. “I don’t know anything about Beth! I told you that!”

Clare sneered. “Yeah, and you’ve proven that your word is golden.”

She left the interview room, muscles tight. Dannon was the last person known to have seen Sara McCowan. He feared that she would expose their affair to his wife. He had motive and opportunity for wanting Sara to disappear.

Clare was waiting in the hall when Jake emerged from the interview room. Stan, who’d been observing through the two-way glass, joined them.

Jake addressed Stan. “Get the warrants going to search the cabin and Dannon’s property.”

Stan nodded. “Which judge do you want me to call? Ivanson’s in the hospital with a heart thing, I heard.”

Clare left them to their decision and made her way to the kitchen. Jonathan had made a fresh pot of coffee and set out a plate of sticky buns. The scent of cinnamon blended with the aroma of the coffee, but her stomach was too tight for food. Leaning on her crutch, she bent to the water cooler and filled a paper cup.

She was sipping slowly when Jake went to her.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’m fine. This could all be over very soon. We may find what we need to lead us to Sara and Beth in Dannon’s cabin.”

Before Jake could reply, Jonathan wheeled in. “Pardon me,” he said. “Jake, you have a phone call on line one. A reporter from L. A., asking about the Sara McCowan case.”

Jake faced Jonathan. “Tell him the investigation is ongoing. We have no comment at this time.”

Jonathan nodded. “And a David McCowan is holding on line two. He said he’s Sara McCowan’s father. What do you want me to say to him?”

“I’ll talk with him,” Jake said quietly.

Jake followed Jonathan out of the kitchen.

Clare made her way to the garbage can by the door to dispose of the paper cup that was now falling apart in her tight grasp. A door was slammed. Then another. Clare was about to find out what the commotion was, when Connie Dannon charged into the kitchen.

Connie advanced on Clare until only inches separated them. “First you go gunning for my brother,” Connie shouted. “Now, you’re after my husband.” She pointed to Clare, her finger jabbing the space between them. “I’m warning you. I won’t let you destroy my family.”

“I recommend that you exercise caution before issuing threats, Connie,” Clare said.

Connie’s lips curled in a sneer. “You don’t scare me with your Yankee accent and your fancy talk. You don’t scare me and you don’t fool me. You got yourself some Northern schooling, and some uppity job, but I know all about you now.” Her eyes glittered with malice. “You’re nothin’ but white trash. Putting your nose up around me and mine when all the while you’re the daughter of a killer the state of Texas had to put to sleep like a rabid dog.”

Clare kept her anger banked. “You want to leave now, Connie, before you’re charged with causing a disturbance.”

“You’re the one doing the disturbing. It’s all over town how you and the FBI man took Rich out of Charley’s Bar when he was conducting business. My husband don’t know nothin’ about that girl. You’re just looking to pin something on him, on account of your slut of a sister, always shaking her bony ass at my Rich, wanting to get his attention. Having my brother wasn’t enough for her. One man wasn’t enough for her.”

“So, I was right. Rich did make a move on Beth.” Being right gave Clare no satisfaction. Given what they now suspected about Rich’s involvement in Sara’s disappearance, his interest in her sister chilled her.

“He made no moves on Beth! She was all over him, every chance she got. If not for Dean keeping her in line with the back of his hand, that girl would have stepped out on him with every man who gave her the nod.”

Hearing that Connie knew of Ryder’s abuse of Beth, and that she condoned it, hit Clare hard. “You knew what your brother was doing to her and you let it go on?” Heat surged to Clare’s face.

“She got nothin’ more than she deserved.”

In that moment, it took all of Clare’s self-control to keep herself from striking Connie.

“Get out,” Clare said. “You make me sick.”

Jonathan wheeled into the kitchen and addressed Connie. His face was flushed. “I’ll escort you out.”

“I know the way.” Connie looked to Clare. “I’m telling you this ain’t over. We ain’t gonna roll over and play dead.”

Connie turned and stalked out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Clare,” Jonathan said. “I was in the supply room. I didn’t know she was here ’till I heard her yelling.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clare said. “I’m going to see how Jake’s making out with the warrant.”

Chapter Nineteen

Within two hours, a warrant had been granted for the search of Rich Dannon’s cabin. Four years had passed. Any trace evidence of Sara McCowan’s presence in the cabin would have long been destroyed, but perhaps Rich had kept or overlooked something.

To find Sara alive? Clare held out no hope of that. To find the young woman’s remains, if they were lucky. And more, to find something that would tie Rich to Beth’s disappearance.

Though what would a link to Rich mean to Beth? Clare pressed her lips together. Nothing good, she feared.

The lab in Columbia called with the results from Ryder’s vehicle. Clare was at the Bureau office and took the call. Hair found in the vehicle matched samples taken from a brush Beth had left behind at the Ryder house and from Ryder himself. Fibers also were consistent with fabrics found inside the Ryder home. There was nothing to suggest that Beth had been forced from her vehicle.

Dean Ryder. Rich Dannon. Clare massaged her throbbing temples. She was no closer to finding out what had happened to her sister.

Clare was seated in the outer office with Jonathan. She’d barely hung up with the lab when another call came in. She and Jonathan had spent the last few hours on the phones, responding to calls about sightings of Beth.

Unfortunately, none of the callers had any real leads to share. This latest call was no different. A couple of minutes later, Clare ended the conversation with a woman from Arkansas who claimed to have seen Beth dancing in her cornfields the night before, under the light of the full moon. For reasons of her own, the caller had chosen to call Beth’s hometown, rather than contact her local police department about the sighting. Clare passed the information to the Arkansas PD who would dispatch an officer to speak to the woman, but Clare held out no hope that Beth had really been seen.

Clare’s cell phone rang. It was Jake. He was at Dannon’s cabin, overseeing the search. She had wanted to be present, and hated being excluded. Reluctantly, though, she’d conceded that her injured leg would hamper her usefulness.

She flipped open her phone. “Jake?” Her voice was tight.

“Yeah, Clare.” Jake didn’t make her wait for it. “We found a CD, printed photographs of the pictures on the CD, and videotape—all of Sara McCowan.” Jake paused, then must have decided there was no point in holding back since she’d see the photos and film for herself. “The pictures and footage show Sara being tortured. Raped.” Jake’s tone was low with anger and disgust. “Some of the photos were taken of Sara’s body in a grave. Videotape, as well, panned the body in the grave. The background in the shots is trees and forest area. Looks like he buried her somewhere in these woods.”

Clare swallowed a lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. “The photos and footage were all of Sara?”

“Yes.” He stated it with more force. “Yes.”

Relief weakened her and Clare grasped the desk for support. Guilt stabbed her that she felt relieved it was Sara in the photos and not Beth.

“We got him.” Clare said. “We need to find out if Dannon had anything to do with Beth’s disappearance. Time is running out, Jake.”

“We’re wrapping up here. I’ll meet you at the office and we’ll have another talk with Dannon.”

* * * * *

When Jake and Clare entered the interview room, Dannon was on his feet, pacing the tile floor. He’d retained an attorney from Columbia. Harold Gentry, a thin man in a suit that fit too loosely, had taken a place at the table.

Dannon swung around to face Clare and Jake. “You can’t hold me here. I haven’t done anything. I want out.”

Jake took up a position behind Clare, one shoulder propped against the wall, as he had during the first interview. Again, they’d agreed that Clare would take the lead with Dannon.

“Have a seat, Mr. Dannon.” Clare pointed to a chair then lowered herself onto one. She placed her crutch on the floor by the chair leg.

“I don’t want to have a seat,” Dannon said. “I want to go home. I already told you people that I don’t know what happened to Sara. I didn’t see her after I left the cabin.”

“Any questions you have for my client, you can address to me, Agent Marshall,” Gentry said. “Take a seat, Rich. We’ll have this cleared up in no time.”

“I’m afraid not,” Clare said. “We finished the search of your cabin, Mr. Dannon. You have quite an interest in photography and filmmaking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dannon plopped onto the chair. He was a mess. Unshaven. Suit wrinkled. His once-crisp white shirt showed damp circles at the breast bone where his tie hung loose.

“We found your footage and stills of Sara McCowan’s body,” Clare said.

“You’re bluffing.”

Clare shook her head slowly.

“This interview is over,” Gentry said.

Clare kept her gaze and a small smile on Dannon. His jaw dropped as if he’d received a solid blow to it. He sagged in the chair as if he were deflated; defeated, Clare thought. She leaned forward to press her advantage.

“You have an opportunity to help yourself, Mr. Dannon,” Clare said. “Tell us where Beth Ryder is and we’ll inform the district attorney of your cooperation. Help us, and we’ll help you.”

“I want to confer with my client,” Gentry said. “I said this interview is over, Agent Marshall, Agent Sutton.”

The attorney slammed the lid of his briefcase closed with a loud snap as the locks engaged.

“You did this!” Dannon shouted. “You bitch!”

He sprang from the chair and lunged at Clare, knocking her and the chair to the floor. He straddled her and his hands closed around her throat.

Clare gasped, choked. Dannon’s grip was tight as a vice. She struck him, jabbing the heel of her hand against his nose. His blood spewed, spraying her, but he did not release her. Red dots popped in her vision.

She heard the roar of an ocean. The sound grew louder, drowning out Dannon’s panting breaths and Jake shouting her name.

Dimly, she saw Jake grab Dannon, raise his arm and strike her attacker on the back of the neck. Dannon’s hands fell away from her and his eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness. Jake flung Dannon away before he could land on top of her.

Clare coughed and choked. She tried to roll onto an elbow, then Jake was on his knees beside her. His arm wound around her, lifting her, pulling her tight against his chest.

“Clare,” Jake said.

“I’m fine.” She coughed again. “I’m okay.”

She pushed against Jake’s hold to stand, but fell back against him. Jake’s hold on her tightened.

“Stay put. Don’t move yet,” he said.

The door to the interview room sprang open. Stan Doyle charged in. He exchanged a look with Jake then bent over Dannon. Jake had subdued Dannon. Clare’s attacker lay unconscious where he’d landed against the wall.

Dannon’s attorney approached Clare and glanced down on her. The man had lost the color in his face and appeared pasty.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Agent Marshall,” Gentry said quietly. The lawyer appeared shaken himself as he slowly left the room.

Clare braced her hand against Jake’s arm in another attempt to gain her feet.

“Take it slow,” Jake said.

With Jake’s help, Clare made her way to a chair, the chair Gentry had vacated, since both Clare’s chair and Dannon’s had toppled to the floor.

Her jacket was dotted with Dannon’s blood. Repulsed, she couldn’t get it off quickly enough. The dress beneath had no sleeves and the room was now too cold. She shivered. Jake removed his jacket and draped it across her shoulders. Clare clutched the two ends tight around her.

Jonathan wheeled in. “Ambulance is on the way.”

Clare shook her head. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

But her words were ignored as a few moments later two paramedics arrived. One man bent to examine her while the second crouched over Dannon.

“You’re having a hell of a week, Agent Marshall,” the young, curly-haired man said.

Clare couldn’t dispute that.

Jake placed his arm around Clare’s shoulder and crouched beside her. “I’ll drive you back to my place, then I’ll come back and take care of the paperwork here.”

Clare pushed the medic’s hand away from her neck. “I’m not leaving.”

“Clare—”

“I’m fine. Let’s get this done.” She regarded Dannon who was now beginning to stir. “I want this bastard to go away for a long time.”

* * * * *

When they returned to Jake’s house night had fallen. Jake went next door to get Sammie. The child was bouncing with excitement over the arrival of Fluffy’s kittens.

“Can I sleep over at Heather’s tonight, Uncle Jake?”

Jake was distracted. And edgy, Clare noticed. He’d hardly spoken a word since they’d left the Bureau office.

He faced Sammie. “I don’t know, honey. Heather’s mom is pretty busy this week with Heather’s cousins visiting.”

Sammie tilted her head and fixed Jake with the full force of her endearing six-year-old gaze. “Her mom said it was okay.”

“I’ll talk with Heather’s mom then.”

Sammie raced into the yard and called out to Heather. The phone rang at Jake’s a few minutes later. It was Laura North. The sleepover was a go.

Jake packed a few overnight essentials for his niece then escorted Sammie back to the Norths’ house.

Clare was still wearing Jake’s jacket. She rubbed her arms. She couldn’t get warm.

A glass with an inch of soda left in it was on an end table in the living room. Clare wanted a bottle of water and retrieved the glass as she went by on her way to the kitchen. The moon lit the kitchen softly and she didn’t bother with the ceiling light as she placed the glass in the dishwasher, then went to the fridge.

A casserole was on the top shelf, ready to be heated. Clare didn’t feel like eating, which was likely a good thing, since her throat felt raw. Her hands were still a little shaky and it took longer than it should have to uncap the bottle.

The back door opened and Jake entered the house. His gaze landed on her with the weight of a truckload of bricks. “What are you doing in here?”

His muscles were tensed. His features taut. She raised an eyebrow at his harsh tone, but held up the water bottle.

“Want one?”

He didn’t respond. He moved away from the door. He was a couple of steps from her now, illuminated by the fridge light. His height and breadth blocked her view of all behind him. So close that she had to tilt her head back to continue to look him in the face. His hard jaw was set and shadowed with dark stubble. His dark hair was a little mussed from where he had just ran his fingers through it.

His eyes lowered to her neck, his gaze intent. She knew what he was looking at. The press of Dannon’s fingers marked her throat in vivid red bruises.

“First the fire and now this,” Jake said.

She’d cheated death twice. Clare winced. If she were superstitious, three would be the charm or, in her case, the end.

Recalling Dannon’s hands squeezing her throat chilled her. The experience had left her more shaken than she would admit. As always, she hid behind bravado.

“It’s over. Don’t think about it,” she said.

Jake shook his head and said softly, “There was an instant. Your head fell back. I thought I was too late getting him off you. I thought that son of a bitch had snapped your neck.”

Jake reached out and brushed his thumb across the column of her throat as if to reassure himself that her neck was indeed intact.

“It’s over,” she repeated, but tears burned her eyes. Her mouth trembled. She felt perilously close to breaking down and turned away from Jake. He set her crutch against the fridge then drew her into his arms and held her tight against him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

It sounded as if he were assuring himself of that fact as well as Clare.

He drew back. Their gazes locked. Clare’s heart began to beat harder. She knew where this moment was leading.

She’d just been through a near-death experience and told herself that sex was life-affirming. She needed to lose herself with Jake. She needed that excuse. How else could she justify taking a path that had left her shattered before?

A “no” from her would end this. Instead, as Jake drew her close again, she was already moving to him.

His arm slid around her, bringing her flush against him. His body was hot and hard and her breathing quickened.

His breathing was ragged as well, as his hands lowered to her waist and he lifted her away from the front of the fridge and onto the counter. She released the water bottle she still held and it thudded into the sink.

She parted her knees. He stepped between them. Keeping one arm around her, he removed his jacket from her shoulders and released it to fall behind her on the counter. He unzipped her dress and snagged the hem. She rose slightly off the counter and he drew it up and over her head. It landed somewhere on the floor.

He’d given her his suit jacket, but still wore the shirt and tie. Clare wanted to be skin to skin as well. She yanked off the tie, made short work of the shirt buttons then removed the shirt itself and pressed her palms to the warm skin and hard muscle of his chest.

He found her mouth again, parting her lips. Their tongues met and she dragged her fingers through his thick hair, down his neck, and dug them into his shoulders.

He removed her bra, filled his hands with her and Clare sucked in a breath. His lips left hers to trace the contours of her body. She bent forward, desperate to run her lips over his body as well. She wanted him with an urgency that had her panting.

His back grew slick with perspiration. His muscles taut as bow strings. Jake murmured her name then lowered her carefully onto himself, kissing her again. Harder, deeper. They fit together in the way she remembered. Found their rhythm as if they’d never been apart. She knew his touch. Welcomed his touch. Craved his touch.

When they found their release, his name was an echo in her head.

They held each other tight as they drifted back to the moment, as their heartbeats slowed and their breathing regulated.

Jake kissed her, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss she returned. She was still wrapped around him, and didn’t move away. Nor did he move from her. They remained entwined, their hands and mouths still seeking the other.

He swept her up into his arms and took her up the stairs and to his bed. The blinds were open. Clouds moved across the sky, partially covering the moon. The remaining light did little to dispel the darkness, and the room was in deep shadow.

He placed her gently on the mattress then joined her there.

“I want you, Clare,” he murmured.

In response, demonstrating her own urgency, she drew him closer and whispered. “Hurry, Jake.”

He shook his head. “Not this time.”

He began a slow, systematic exploration of her body. Stroking and kissing. Taking the time he hadn’t when they’d made love earlier in the kitchen.

He kissed her lightly at first. Kept the pressure of his mouth on hers a caress. He slid his mouth to her neck, kissed her there, softly, mindful of the bruising. Stroked her earlobe with his tongue.

Clare would not remain passive, and began to match him, kiss for kiss and caress for caress. His mouth returned to hers. A little more urgent. Their breaths mingled. His breath came a little harder than it had an instant earlier. Perspiration dampened his skin. Beneath her touch, his muscles quivered as he became as lost in passion as she.

In the near darkness, she couldn’t make out his features. She took comfort in that; if she couldn’t see him, then neither could he see her. More than her body was laid bare. If he looked into her eyes, what would he see?

Bodies entangled, they went on and on touching, tasting. Clare reached another level of sensation, another level of need.

Jake rolled her beneath him. Moved over her. Inside her. She wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeper, and he groaned.

He murmured something. Words she couldn’t make out through the haze of passion. Then he began to move within her. Slowly. So slowly. Drawing out the moment. Clare’s head fell back and her eyes drifted closed.

He drove deeper then. Hard. Fast. Her breath caught. She dug her fingers into his back. Jake kissed her as his body tensed, then shuddered as she did.

* * * * *

After, Clare pretended to sleep. Her emotions were too close to the surface, too raw. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Jake kissed her brow tenderly, then covered them with the sheet. Holding her in his arms like that, he fell asleep.

Listening to his deep, even breathing, Clare opened her eyes and gazed out the window of his bedroom. It would soon be dawn. Rain now pattered the glass, the sound soothing. They seemed alone, the only two people in existence. The world was so far away.

Clare focused on the drops, trickling down the glass. From what she’d observed while in the south, tomorrow’s heat would soon remove all trace of this night’s rain. Other thoughts filled her mind. Thoughts she didn’t want to ponder. Better to focus on the rain.

She didn’t want to think about the last hours with Jake. Didn’t want to think how wonderful she felt being in his arms again. She didn’t want to think about the repercussions of this night.

Jake stirred in his sleep, drew her closer. It still wasn’t close enough for her. Clare curled up against him. And focused on the rain.

Chapter Twenty

The next morning Jake led a team made up of agents, state police, and Farley law enforcement into the woods behind Dannon’s cabin to search for Sara McCowan’s grave.

Clare had wanted to be on the team, but had been forced to remain behind. Her crutch was not ideal for trudging over the uneven grounds and would only slow the others down.

Though she couldn’t take part, there was no way she could sit still and wait at Jake’s place or the office for the results. He seemed to understand that, and grim-faced, agreed to leave her in his SUV to sit on the periphery.

She sat tight-lipped, staring at dense trees. The videotape of the grave had panned the area around it, revealing that Dannon had left signs marking the location. Trees were notched. A birdhouse, of all things, had been placed in a tree near the site. It was as if Dannon didn’t want to risk forgetting where the grave was.

Still, it was a formidable task covering the area. The men and women had moved deeper into the woods in the hours she’d been waiting, and she could no longer see or hear any of them.

The sun was low in the sky when she spotted Jake coming toward her. Clare’s heartbeat felt as if it tripled. She didn’t blink, watching his steady progress to her and the vehicle.

She popped the latch on the door and left the SUV. She lurched toward him. She wanted to call out to him, but her throat had tightened, making speech impossible.

“We found the grave,” Jake said when he reached her. He gripped her shoulders. “Skeletonized remains. Dental records will give us a positive ID, but there’s a necklace on the skeleton with a name plate that reads ‘Sara’.”

Since Beth had been gone for only a couple of weeks, her body could not have been reduced to a skeleton. Clare felt a terrible sadness for Sara but clutched Jake’s forearm. “No bodies?”

“No bodies.” He held her gaze.

“Take me there.”

She needed to see for herself that Beth wasn’t in the grave.

Jake nodded as if he’d anticipated her request.

He retrieved her crutch from the back of the SUV and taking her arm, led her back the way he’d come.

When they reached the grave site, it was a hive of activity. Men and women bustled about processing the crime scene, collecting samples, and taking photographs.

The remains had not yet been removed. Clare went to the open grave and peered into the hole. One skeleton that was obviously not Beth. Some of the tightness in Clare’s stomach eased.

Jake cupped her shoulders and tugged gently, but Clare didn’t turn away. It had become important to her that Sara’s killer be brought to justice—Sara whose tragic disappearance she’d learned of only recently while searching for Beth.

Sara’s remains were clothed only in a black leather thong, matching bustier, and stiletto heels. The tough leather had held up well over the years of exposure to the moist soil, hot climate, and breakdown of the body itself. The setting sun illuminated the gold filigree necklace Jake had noted that bore the name Sara, and steel manacles around the bones at the wrists and ankles.

Clare took it all in and her resolve built. She would remember it all, and she would see Rich Dannon prosecuted.

“I’m not finished here,” Jake said, “but there’s no need for you to stay, Clare. Take my truck.” He handed her the keys. “Drive yourself home and I’ll get a ride back.”

Clare nodded as she took them.

* * * * *

Clare returned to Jake’s house. The image of Sara McCowan’s remains was strong in her mind. So far, her best efforts had not resulted in provoking Dannon to speak of Beth. He maintained that he knew nothing about her whereabouts. Of course, he’d said the same about Sara.

They hadn’t found anything of Beth’s at the cabin. No videotape or photos to remember her by. Clare hoped that meant Beth was still alive. That Dannon had wanted her available to him.

The manacles on Sara’s wrists and ankles flashed before Clare’s eyes. She hadn’t watched the videotapes, but she’d viewed the photographs found at the cabin. They were shots of Sara in life and in death. In the pictures taken while she was alive, Sara wore the necklace found on the skeleton. She was clothed in what appeared to be the same black leather thong, matching bustier, and stilettos she’d been buried in. Rouge gave her cheeks a soft blush. Liner and lipstick extended the natural lines of her lips, enlarging them, creating the illusion of a pout. Her eyes had been outlined in black for a dark, exotic look. Rich Dannon had gone all out to satisfy his sexual tastes.

Sara had been slender before her abduction. Photographs showed her deterioration as her captivity progressed. Her body had become emaciated, whittled down to bone. Bruises, welts, and burns marked the girl’s skin, skin once spotted with tiny freckles. Several close-up angles caught Sara open-mouthed, in the throes of screaming, her eyes nearly opaque with pain and terror.

Being available to Dannon likely meant he was brutalizing Beth as he had Sara. Tears burned Clare’s eyes.

Copies of the photographs Sara’s family had provided to police when she’d first gone missing were on the dining room table. Clare wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then picked them up. In one, Sara was smiling. Dressed in a low-cut party dress, she clutched a box wrapped in gleaming paper with cartoon faces of Santa Claus. In another, Sara in jeans and a thick wooly sweater crouched, hugging a spotted hound. The contrast between these photos and the others squeezed Clare’s heart.

Someone knocked on the front door. She turned toward the living room window and saw Laura North and Sammie standing on the porch.

“Hi, Clare,” Sammie said.

“Hi,” Clare said carefully as Sammie brushed by her and entered the house.

Laura’s face, Clare noticed, was pale. Her hands were clasped tightly at her waist.

“Sorry, Clare,” Laura said. “I tried to reach Jake. No luck.”

Clare figured that out in the middle of nowhere, it was likely Jake’s cell phone had no signal. “He’s in the field,” she said as Sammie started up the stairs.

“Oh, God.” Laura shook her head, took a breath, then went on. “My mom called from the city. My dad is at the hospital. She thinks he’s had a heart attack. I need to go to the hospital. I can’t stay with Sammie until Jake gets home. Can you watch her?”

Clare recoiled from the suggestion. Jake would likely be gone for hours yet. Hours she would need to take care of Sammie. Alone. Clare’s stomach fluttered.

“I’m not really—” But she didn’t finish the sentence. Laura had her own emergency.

Clare swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. She faced down armed criminals. Surely, she could watch one little girl for a short while. And besides, what choice did she have? “Okay. Sure. You go ahead.”

“Sammie had dinner.” Laura blew a kiss to Sammie. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie,” she called out.

Sammie stopped and waved to Laura, then Laura turned and raced down the drive where Mike North and their kids waited in a van.

Sammie continued up the stairs. Clare closed the front door with what she considered an ominous thud. The floor above where Clare was standing creaked. Sammie’s room was directly above that section of the hall. Okay, the child had gone to her room. After a few minutes, all became quiet in the house. The ball of tension in Clare’s stomach eased somewhat. She returned to the dining room and focused on the photos again.

“What are you looking at?”

The little voice startled Clare. She glanced up. Sammie stood on the stairs.

“Pictures,” Clare said.

The photos Clare held were the holiday shots of Sara, so when Sammie moved in for a closer look, Clare allowed it.

“What’s her name?” Sammie asked.

“Sara.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Yes.” Clare stacked the photos and placed them on the table. “Do you need something, Sammie?”

“Is Uncle Jake home?”

Clare shook her head. “Not yet.”

“It’s time for bed.”

Clare glanced at the wall clock. An hour had gone by. She sat straighter in the chair. “Oh. Goodnight.”

“Uncle Jake reads me a story.”

“Yes.”

“I know what story I want.”

Clare cleared her throat. “Oh—okay.”

In Sammie’s room, Clare settled on the stool. Sammie presented her with Goldilocks and The Three Bears.

Clare began to read. Sammie giggled and mimicked the voices and antics of the bears as Clare imagined Jake must do when reading the story to her.

“I don’t have a mommy and daddy like Baby Bear,” Sammie said.

Clare glanced up from the page.

“Uncle Jake isn’t my daddy,” Sammie went on. “Uncle Jake says my mommy and daddy went to heaven.”

“It’s sad when that happens,” Clare said softly. “I didn’t have my mommy and daddy with me either when I was growing up.”

Clare wasn’t sure what had prompted her to say that. She never spoke of her parents to anyone.

Sammie’s eyes widened and she moved a little closer to Clare. “Are they in heaven too?”

Clare didn’t know who her father was, let alone where he was. Over the years, Jolene had entertained a battalion of men in the many places they had lived. As for Jolene, Clare couldn’t say if she’d found a warm place to rest or not. When the penitentiary had contacted Clare, asking if she’d like to make burial arrangements for her mother, Clare had declined. She didn’t know where her mother had been interred.

To Sammie now, Clare said carefully, “I don’t know where they are.”

“Were you bad, is that why your mommy and daddy went away?”

Clare sensed that the question was no longer directed at her. “No. I didn’t do anything to make them go away. There isn’t anything a little girl or boy could do that would make their mommy and daddy leave them.”

Sammie’s fear was so like her own, Clare felt an ache in her chest. She too had once been a little girl afraid that she’d done something to make her mother pick up a gun and shoot at her. It had taken her a long time to stop blaming herself. Jolene was who she was and Clare was not the reason for her mother’s actions.

A silence dragged on. The air conditioner sent a fresh blast of cool air into the room. Clare kept her gaze on Sammie’s; it seemed important that she did.

“Uncle Jake says families don’t always have mommies and daddies,” Sammie said. “Uncle Jake says we’re a family ’cause he loves me and I love him.”

Clare reached out and gently smoothed Sammie’s tousled hair. “Your Uncle Jake is a very smart man.”

Sammie scooted back and plopped against the pillows. “In the next part, Goldilocks sleeps in Baby Bear’s bed. Read some more, Clare.”

Clare cleared her throat and found where she’d left off on the page.

“You have to turn the book more, so I can see the pictures,” Sammie said.

“Oh. Sure.” Clare did that, but then couldn’t see the text to read. She tilted her head, straining her neck.

Sammie slid across the bed, making space. “You can lay down too, if you want.”

After a brief hesitation, Clare got into the bed.

* * * * *

That was how Jake found them, nestled in Sammie’s small bed.

Laura had left him a voice mail message, letting him know that something had come up and that Clare would be watching Sammie that evening. He’d been surprised. Clare usually appeared uncomfortable around his niece. Apparently, not any longer.

He removed two open books from the foot of the bed, placed them on the nightstand, then kissed Sammie.

He bent over Clare. His gaze lingered on the necklace of bruises Rich Dannon had given her and his jaw clenched. She was an officer of the law and bruises happened sometimes in the line of duty. He couldn’t be casual about that when it came to her. Couldn’t be detached. He’d wanted to pound Dannon into dust for putting his hands on her.

She wouldn’t have appreciated that. She’d fight her own battles, she’d say. He’d learned this week that she’d been doing just that since she was barely out of the cradle. Lauren Duval hadn’t glossed over the details of Clare’s past. He couldn’t stand that Clare had been so hurt. Her pain felt like his own.

Jake rubbed a hand down his face. She wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be. She showed the world a hard shell to keep from exposing what lay beneath, an abandoned little girl who didn’t believe anyone could want her, and who trusted no one.

He didn’t know what he was going to do about that. For either of them. Last night, making love with her, he’d felt complete for the first time in over three years.

He leaned closer and kissed Clare, softly. She mumbled something, but didn’t stir. He could wake her. A few kisses. A few caresses and the haze of sleep clouding her eyes would become a haze of passion, but he didn’t have the heart to disturb what looked like a sound sleep. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be doing much sleeping in the days ahead as the search for Beth intensified.

After the day he’d had in the woods, he needed another shower. He’d hoped to take it with her. Looked like he’d be showering alone. He winced. Make that a cold shower.

He tucked the sheet around the two people he loved most in this world, then went to take that shower.

Chapter Twenty One

The autopsy on the skeletonized remains of Sara McCowan was set for nine a.m. There was no longer any doubt that the remains were Sara. Jake had received confirmation from the odontologist who’d examined Sara’s dental records.

Clare glanced at her watch. It was a little before eight. While she cleared the breakfast dishes, Jake had gone upstairs with Sammie to get her dressed to go to the Norths. Laura North had called a short while ago with the good news that her mother had been wrong about her father’s condition. The man had been suffering from a case of indigestion and had not had a heart attack. Laura was back at home.

Jake and Sammie had been upstairs for some time. Another few minutes went by. What could be keeping them? Clare propped the crutch under her arm and mounted the stairs slowly to find out.

She reached the upstairs hall and heard Jake. “Okay, honey,” he said to Sammie. “You have to decide what you want to wear today.”

There were a few thuds, which Clare thought was Sammie yanking open dresser drawers.

“This!” Sammie called out.

“Are you sure?” Jake asked.

Clare couldn’t see what Sammie had chosen, but she heard the doubt in Jake’s voice and smiled.

“I’m sure, Uncle Jake.”

“Okay.”

Clare suppressed a laugh as she turned away and made her way back to the stairs. She recalled Jake saying that most of the time he felt in over his head raising Sammie. At breakfast a few minutes ago, Sammie had said something about wanting her hair up for the parade next week. Jake had stammered his agreement. Clare didn’t think he was ready for that challenge. Maybe, she could lend a hand in getting Sammie ready for the event? If she was still staying with them next week . . .

Of course, she didn’t expect to be. By then she hoped to be reunited with Beth, and she and Jake would be out of each other’s lives.

Clare came to a stop on the stairs. Her breath caught. She let it out slowly, facing what she hadn’t wanted to the other night in Jake’s bed, facing that she was back where she had been three years earlier.

It had been so hard not to think about Jake in the last three years. To lock away the memories. Now, in a few days, and one glorious night, she’d come full circle. She touched her lips, imagining she could still feel his kiss.

Jake believed in happily ever after. Clare’s heart clutched with a sudden yearning to have that with him. She felt a chill on the back of her neck, and the hair there rose as if her mother now stood behind her . . .

Clare shuddered and closed her eyes. There could be no happily ever after with Jake for Jolene’s daughter.

If not for the search for Beth, she and Jake may have passed the rest of their lives without seeing each other again. That was the reality of their situation.

In three years, he hadn’t called, hadn’t told her he’d rather be with her on any terms than not at all.

Nothing had changed between them.

The pain of that ripped through her, leaving her empty.

“Clare, why are you standing there?” Sammie asked.

Clare opened her eyes. Jake and Sammie had joined her on the stairs. Sammie was wearing a caterpillar costume and carrying a plastic pumpkin with the words “Happy Halloween” stenciled above the jack o’ lantern’s grin.

Jake reached around Sammie and seized Clare’s arm in a grip as tight as a vice. His face was taut with worry. “You okay?”

“Fine. I just want to get going.”

She tugged her arm. He held firm for an instant longer, then released her.

* * * * *

The autopsy was performed in Blane County by Coroner Tina Devoe. Jake was acquainted with the coroner. Tina Devoe was a six-foot-tall redhead. The heels she wore brought her eye-to-eye with Jake. Devoe introduced her assistant, Anthony, then Anthony went to a CD player on one of the tray tables by the wall and pushed a button. Classical piano played softly through the speakers. Clare and Jake took up positions a short distance from the autopsy table.

Clare had attended many autopsies. In this case, it was likely she could have foregone attending. They had Sara’s murderer in custody. There really wasn’t anything they needed to learn to help them identify her killer.

For Clare, though, it wasn’t what she hoped to gain that had her standing by while Devoe examined what was left of Sara McCowan. For Clare, it was what she felt she needed to give. She believed that Sara’s killer had also abducted Beth. Sara and Beth had become linked for her and Clare needed to stand vigil for Sara, to lend her presence now in the only way she ever would be able to.

Anthony went to the X-ray viewer on the wall opposite the autopsy table and inserted a film. He flicked on the light switch then remained by the viewer. Devoe regarded the film as she studied the bones on the table. With her foot, she started a Dictaphone to record her findings, pausing only to ask Anthony to remove one X-ray and insert another.

After some time passed, Jake said to Devoe. “Cause of death, Tina?”

Devoe tapped on the Dictaphone, stopping it. “Hard to say. There isn’t one definitive cause.”

“Can you explain?” Jake said.

Devoe nodded. “Given the photos you showed me of this young woman before her abduction, and then the ones taken by the killer showing her emaciated condition when he put her in the ground, my best guess is that she died of starvation, and not by any one specific wound or trauma.

“See here.” Devoe’s gloved fingers touched on several bones. “The condition of the bones tells us a lot. It’s hard to stab someone without hitting a bone. Worse with a bullet. I’m looking at bone fractures here. According to the X-rays, they’re all over. None, though, resulted from a knife or a bullet so we can safely say she wasn’t stabbed or shot to death.

“I’m awaiting medical records for Sara McCowan that would tell us if she’d broken any bones during childhood or later, so I can eliminate those,” Devoe said. “But what I’m seeing here look like deliberate breaks. Blunt force trauma is extensive. Some of the bones in the little fingers are fragmented. This young woman’s limbs are a mess. The breaks, though, appear controlled. Like here in the tibia and fibula.” Devoe’s hand went to the lower leg. “Some of the fractures are minute, and in the same bone. None of them, though, in any part of the body, were traumatic enough to be fatal. Look at the skull where a blow could be fatal. No fractures. This killer knew what to break and to what degree to maximize pain and I’d say, to prevent death. This guy did his research.”

“Or he’s had enough practice to get good at it,” Jake said.

Devoe nodded. “Yeah.”

She snapped off her gloves, then removed her mask and gown and dropped them in the laundry basket by the door. “I’ll have my report out to you in a couple of days, Jake.”

“Thanks, Tina.”

“Hey, my daughter has a piano recital next month,” Devoe said. “Can I twist your arm into buying a ticket?”

“Put me down for two,” Jake said.

Clare added her thanks to Tina Devoe.

As they left the building and stepped into the sunshine and heat, Jake said, “I’m thinking about what Tina said that the fractures were controlled. What if the guy had gotten good enough to know just how hard to hit for his intended result?” Jake’s voice was tight with tension. “If that’s the case, then Sara wasn’t his first victim. How many other women are buried in those woods? Short of digging up every particle of dirt out there, how the hell do we find them?”

Jake was right. At times it was only through the killer that bodies were recovered. It came down to striking a bargain. To offering a reduced sentence or the removal of the death penalty to a murderer in exchange for the location of victim remains. It was obscene to Clare that they may be forced to offer Dannon a plea.

When they returned to Farley, Jake pulled into his driveway and parked, to let Clare off at the house. He’d told her earlier he had a meeting with the Assistant District Attorney about a case that was coming up for trial, and that the meeting would likely run for the rest of the afternoon.

Now, he turned in the seat and faced her. “You haven’t said ten words since we left here this morning. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clare said, and popped the door latch.

His regard changed, became scrutinizing. He wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t linger to give him an opportunity to question her further.

Inside, Clare resumed her study of Sara’s photos, searching for some clue to finding Beth. In each of the pictures, Sara’s hands were shown—no—that wasn’t accurate—in the picture with the dog only her right hand was shown. Sara wore a ring—silver or silver color on that hand. The same was true of the Christmas photo.

Clare scanned the other pictures. In each one where her right hand appeared, Sara wore a ring on her middle finger. Clare frowned. She’d looked at the photos retrieved from the cabin, but couldn’t recall seeing a ring. Joan Bass, the school teacher who’d seen Sara at the pharmacy, had mentioned a ring. Clare dug out Joan’s statement and confirmed the description.

Clare found the pictures of Sara’s captivity. There were two full-length shots of Sara wearing the thong, bustier and stilettos she’d been buried in. Sara’s arms were at her sides. Clare squinted, but in these, she couldn’t see the hands clearly enough to determine if there was any jewelry.

She was about to take a look in Jake’s desk for a magnifying glass to view the photos of the hands, when she came across two more pictures, taken from the waist up. In them, Sara wore a ring on her right hand.

She reached for the report from the search of Rich Dannon’s cabin. Scanning the list, she read over what had been found. No ring.

Clare shook her head. It hadn’t been found on the skeleton. She thought back to what she’d seen. No, there hadn’t been a ring. Sara had not been wearing a ring. Where was it?

The list of Sara’s effects was here somewhere. Clare looked over the papers, then finding the one she wanted, reviewed it. After a moment she looked up and stared into the distance. No ring.

She tapped the corner of the page against the table. Dannon went to the trouble of recording the crime in photographs and on video. He was into souvenirs. It fit that he would want a trophy to remember Sara by. Keeping her ring for himself fit.

She picked up the photo of Sara taken the day before she disappeared. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the ring visible. She had it the day before she was abducted. Had she lost it in her struggle with Dannon? Did the location of the ring even matter? How would this help to find Beth?

Clare slumped in the chair. She was fresh out of ideas, out of options, and had no thoughts of where to go from there to find her sister.

* * * * *

Jake unlocked his front door, then hung back as Sammie ran inside. Clare was hunched over the files in the Sara McCowan case. She glanced up at their entrance. It was now after six o’clock. Likely, she’d been at it all afternoon. The injuries she’d sustained in the fire and the stress of the investigation were taking a toll on her. She was pale, her eyes haunted. This morning, on the stairs, she’d looked . . . destroyed. It was killing him to see her like that.

Sammie dropped the small purple backpack she was clutching on the carpeting as she dashed to Clare. “Friday is movie night! We’re having popcorn and pizza. I like pineapple pizza. Do you like pineapples, Clare?”

Clare’s lips curved. She touched Sammie’s button nose gently. “Love ’em.”

Sammie gave Jake a radiant smile. “See, Uncle Jake!”

He held up both hands in surrender. “The women win. Pineapples it is.”

“Lots!” Sammie declared.

He winked at his niece. “You got it. While I call in the order, go wash up, sweetie.”

Sammie took off at a run. Jake took his cell phone from his pocket, and called the pizza place in town. The order would be ready for pickup in twenty minutes.

He ended the call then glanced back at Clare. She averted her gaze, rubbed her brow with what looked like enough force to remove skin. He went to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and began to knead knots of tension.

“Easy, honey,” he said.

She stepped back from him.

“Clare?”

“I’m finished!” Sammie called out from the stairs.

* * * * *

When Jake got back from picking up dinner, Clare and Sammie were setting the kitchen table.

“. . . and Heather’s brother Willie ate all the cookies in the cookie jar,” Sammie said, “. . . and then he threw up! Yuck!”

Clare winced and placed a glass on the table. “Sounds like Willie won’t want to eat cookies for a while.”

Jake entered the room. He set the pizza on the counter. Steam rose from the box, carrying the aroma of ham and cheese, and the sweet scent of pineapple.

“Uncle Jake!” Sammie whirled around to face him. “I just told Clare that Willie threw up!”

Jake had heard about Willie earlier when he’d brought Sammie home from the Norths. “Did you?”

She nodded. “I told Clare how he got it on his shoes and everything!”

Jake rubbed his hands together. “On that note, let’s eat.”

After dinner, with a huge bowl of popped corn on the coffee table, and a Disney DVD in the player, Jake dropped down onto the thick cushions of the sofa. Sammie scooped up a handful of popcorn. She fed him a kernel, then another. The musical score for the animated flick began and she crawled into his lap, munching and humming.

He looked to Clare. Instead of sitting beside him, she chose to sit in an arm chair. Jake frowned.

Halfway through the movie, Sammie began to snore softly.

“She’s worn out,” Clare said.

The first words Clare had spoken since dinner. Jake welcomed them. “Big day over at the Norths. I’ll take her up.”

In Sammie’s room, Jake draped a sheet over her arms and legs. Breathing in the scents of baby shampoo and popcorn, he kissed the top of her head. He closed the bedroom door softly behind himself and returned to Clare. She’d moved to the dining room and was looking at a photograph.

“We need to talk with Dannon again,” Clare said.

Jake hadn’t planned to get into the investigation with her tonight. He planned to take her to bed and wipe all thoughts of it from her mind.

“I intend to talk with Dannon again,” Jake said.

Clare looked up from the photo. “We need to push him about Beth.”

Jake rubbed his forefinger back and forth beneath his chin. “I’m not sure about that. Something doesn’t feel right about this case. I’m wondering if everything is just a little too neat.”

“What do you mean?”

Jake frowned and rolled his shoulder. “I’m wondering if the case against Dannon came together too easily.”

“You’re questioning if we have the right guy?”

“Yeah.”

Clare lowered her gaze. She seemed to be mulling that over. “I want to be at the interview.”

Jake took in the bruising at her neck. This time Dannon would be chained to a table. Jake nodded to Clare. “Of course.”

He blew out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m calling it a night. You ready for bed?”

“Yes.”

But she remained in the chair, stacking photographs she was holding, and tapping them on the table to align the edges.

He watched her fuss with them for a time, then said softly, “Those edges couldn’t be any straighter.”

She nodded and set them down. She got to her feet and made her way to his bedroom. Jake trailed her, mindful of her injured leg. He took a detour to check on Sammie, then joined Clare where she stood at the window. It was a clear night, the sky alight with the moon and the stars. Cool air rose from the floor vent nearby and carried Clare’s fragrance. His body warmed and hardened.

Jake reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her skin. He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers in a long, slow kiss. She didn’t return it. Rather, she tensed. Her gaze narrowed. The look in her eyes wasn’t the welcome he’d hoped for.

Jake drew back. “Clare?”

“I want to go to sleep.”

She looked beat.

“Sure.” His voice was soft.

He went to the bed, stripping off his T-shirt, then unbuttoning his jeans.

“I meant I want to sleep alone,” she said.

Her tone was ice cold. The woman with him now bore no resemblance to the one who’d burned with passion in his arms two nights ago. This wasn’t about the investigation. No, this was something else.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

She turned on him. Her look was as cold as her voice. “I don’t care for your presumption that because we had sex once that’s the way it would be from now on.”

“As I recall, it was more than once,” he said with a smile.

She held his gaze.

He tried again. “Not presumption. Hope.” Again, she ignored his humor. He regarded the rigid set of her shoulders and wondered about them. “Your call, Clare.”

He could feel waves of tension coming off her. Whatever she was thinking had her wound tight. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“In the morning I’m going to take a hotel room in Columbia.”

“Why?”

“Because I shouldn’t have stayed here in the first place.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“Jake, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if my search for my sister hadn’t brought me here. We went three years without a word. In all likelihood, we would have grown old without our paths ever crossing again.”

“You’re here now.”

“And in a few days, or a week, I’ll be back in New York and you’ll still be here. You didn’t pick up the phone or hop a plane because you want us to be together on any terms than not be together at all. We’ve been down this road. I won’t go down it again.”

Jake struggled to hold onto his temper. “So that’s it? You made the decision and I have nothing to say about it?”

“No more than I had when you ended things.”

“Payback, Clare?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “I’m saying that three years ago, I had to abide by your wishes. I expect you to do the same now.”

He held up a hand. “How the hell did we get here?” He shook his head. “It boggles my mind that we’re having this conversation.”

“I think it’s best we don’t talk about this anymore. We’ll just end up saying things that will stand between us on the job. We still have to work together and we need to be amicable.”

Jake stared at her. “Oh, yeah, absolutely, we need to be amicable!” he said with thick sarcasm. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty Two

Clare was parked in front of what remained of the house she’d once been renting. She’d left Jake’s place before dawn. With no destination in mind, she drove around town for a while, ending up here. The house was crumbling, losing bits and pieces of itself to the elements. The search for Beth and the situation with Jake were tearing chunks out of Clare, and like the house, she was losing pieces of herself.

The sun cleared the horizon, illuminating the skeletal structure and the piles of ash that littered the ground.

Skeletal structure.

The unfortunate choice of words brought Sara McCowan to Clare’s mind. The detail of the missing ring pinched Clare like a sliver under her skin. The ring should have been with the videos and other souvenirs Dannon had saved of Sara. Yet, it wasn’t there.

What did they know for sure?

Dannon picked up Sara McCowan at The Starlight Club. Had sex with her on separate occasions, at different locations, the last at his cabin. Dannon claimed he left the cabin with Sara alive and well. Then Sara had gone missing. Four years later she was found dead.

Jake was rethinking the case against Dannon. If not Dannon, then there was someone else in Farley who’d abducted Sara and buried her in the woods behind Rich Dannon’s cabin. Was the location of the grave to the cabin a coincidence or a deliberate attempt to implicate Dannon in Sara’s murder?

Clare exhaled deeply. Where was she headed with this? They had Dannon neatly wrapped up like a Christmas package. That thought reminded her of the photo of Sara taken at Christmas time, and to the hand that wore the lapis lazuli ring. The ring that was missing. She was back to that.

She leaned back against the car’s headrest. Was she grasping onto the ring and the idea of another unsub because if it were Dannon, and he didn’t tell them where he was keeping Beth, then Clare had nothing to find her sister? The promise of someone else involved gave her new hope: Find the unsub. Find Beth.

Clare didn’t deny her desperation in finding her sister, and that she could not be objective when it came to Beth. It was possible that she was making something out of nothing to resurrect her flagging hope.

Sara had allegedly been kept at the cabin. The cabin was remote, but it was not unknown. Could Dannon have concealed a woman there for the length of time needed to kill her as Coroner Devoe had described, slowly by starving her to death? Others knew the place existed, which risked detection.

If the cabin was Dannon’s secret hideaway and he’d taken Beth, she hadn’t been there when they’d gone in. So where was she?

Jake was considering that the case against Dannon had come together too neatly. Was he right and the reason they hadn’t found Beth at the cabin was because someone else was holding her?

Round and round they went, getting nowhere.

Clare had left the car engine off when she parked. The windows were down. It was early enough in the day that the air outside was still cool and the car was comfortable without air conditioning. That wouldn’t last long, Clare thought, as the sun rose a little higher and she dug in her purse for her sunglasses.

Jake would be up soon. He’d look for her. In short order, he would put it together that she’d left. She hadn’t wanted to risk another altercation like last night. When she’d told him it was only the search for Beth that had brought them together, he’d said nothing. His silent acknowledgment had hurt. She’d felt as if something inside her had dried up. There was nothing more to be said now. They’d been over that same terrain so many times, they’d ground it to dust beneath the weight of their tread.

Clare’s lips trembled and she closed her eyes tight against a sudden rush of tears. She was so in love with him. Hadn’t stopped loving him.

Her cell phone rang. Jake said he’d call with the time of the interview with Dannon. She hesitated briefly, the thought of talking with him daunting at the moment. Of course, she would take his call because of the investigation, but her heart thumped as she checked caller ID.

It wasn’t Jake trying to reach her. Her caller was Earl Lowney. She frowned. She’d answered the questions from his insurance adjuster. What could Lowney want now?

Clare pressed her fingertips to her damp eyes, then drew a deep breath and answered the call. “Yes, Mr. Lowney.”

“Morning, Agent Marshall. I hope I didn’t wake you or Jake and the little one?”

“No. I’m not at Jake’s house at the moment. What can I do for you?” Her tone revealed her impatience.

“I was wondering if you’re going to be staying on at Jake’s or if you’re looking for your own place again.”

Clare bent forward a little at the question. “I am looking for another place.”

“I was worried that you might be.”

Worried my ass, Clare thought. No doubt Lowney was on the scent of a nice payoff.

“I take it you have something for me?” she asked.

“That’s why I’m calling. I do. Owners retired, packed up and moved to Florida recently. They don’t have any family. I’ll be going out to the place every few weeks. Check things out, you know. Part of the service. Being a good neighbor and all. I have the place listed for sale, but in the meantime they’re interested in renting. I have to tell you it’s a sweet place. I need to open the store in a little while. If you got the time, I could show it to you right now?”

He was giving her the hard sell and Clare could hear his excitement at the prospect. He didn’t need to convince her. She was just as eager as he was. She could no longer stay with Jake. She’d resigned herself to Columbia as her only option out of Jake’s house, and was glad at the alternative.

“I can meet you now,” she said. “Where?”

Clare obtained directions from Lowney. She drove away from the burned house. The route Lowney had instructed her to take went on and on. Clare left residences and farms behind. She was out of Farley, now in Blane County. The sun was now noticeably higher. She hadn’t seen anything but trees for some time and glanced at the directions she’d hastily scrawled in the notebook she carried in her purse. She hadn’t made any wrong turns. On the heels of that thought, she spotted the road that would take her to the house, and turned there.

The road was actually a long dirt driveway. She hadn’t wanted to be staying this far out of town. Columbia, then? No. Given the choice, she was better off at Lowney’s rented property. Even with the distance she’d driven, she would still be closer to Farley staying here.

When the house came into view, Clare stared, pleasantly surprised. The property was well maintained. Flowering plants flourished in a rock garden on the front lawn. Windows gleamed in the sunlight.

She parked in front of the residence to wait for Lowney. She lowered the windows then turned off the ignition. Even with the windows lowered, it was too hot to wait inside the car and she stepped out of the vehicle. She retrieved her crutch from the back seat then leaned back against the driver’s side door to wait for the man.

Another vehicle lumbered over the ruts in the road that led to the house and a sedan appeared and pulled up beside her car. Earl Lowney was behind the wheel.

“You made good time, Clare,” Lowney said as he stepped up beside her.

“Yes, well, we’re both pressed for time this morning. Can we get on with this?”

“I’m thinking the very same.”

But Lowney remained in place.

He covered his mouth with his hand. His eyes sparkled with excitement and color suffused his cheeks. He looked positively giddy, like a child with a new toy or a secret.

Clare narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Lowney?”

“Shame on you, Clare, thinking that pretty boy buffoon Rich Dannon could have taken Sara. I saw her after she left my store. Getting into Rich’s car on Bridge Road. When he left his cabin later that night, I went in and took her. Rich could never do what I’ve done.”

His lip curled in derision, and in a blink his excitement and giddy expression were gone, the childish mirth replaced by rage. His eyes darkened and went flat, like a shark’s. Just that quick his mood turned.

Lowney was the unsub? Clare was taking in his words when he reached for her. She struck out with her crutch, catching Lowney hard in the mid-section. With a howl of pain, he went down on his knees. She followed that up with a solid jab to the groin with the tip of the crutch and Lowney rolled in the dirt.

She was now in a fight for her life. She turned away from him, got the car door open and dove onto the car seat, scrambling for her purse. Her gun was in her purse. Lowney was on her before she could reach it. Panting and groaning, he yanked her out of the car by her hair, flung her to the ground, and stomped on her injured ankle.

Clare cried out. Tears sprang to her eyes and her vision blurred with the pain. As it cleared, Lowney swung her crutch like a baseball bat.

Pain exploded in her head. Blood trickled into her eyes. Her stomach heaved and her eyelids fluttered. She feared she was going to pass out and fought a tidal wave of nausea. She struck out with her uninjured foot, putting all she had into delivering another strike to Lowney’s groin. He gasped for breath and fell back from her.

He wouldn’t be down for long. She had to get her weapon. She had to get up. Clare’s vision went gray. She needed to take him down, but she couldn’t make her limbs move again. She couldn’t stand and fight. As she thought that, Lowney advanced again. And again he had her crutch in his hand. She watched his arm descend to deliver another blow, and then all went black.

* * * * *

Jake entered his office. Messages were stacked on his desk. He ignored them and called Clare’s cell phone again. He’d been trying that number since he awoke, alone, in his bed two hours ago, then found her gone from his house. Last night she said she would be taking a room in Columbia. His mouth tightened. She’d wasted no time moving out.

He listened as her phone went to voice mail again. It wasn’t like Clare to remain out of touch and put her personal feelings before an ongoing investigation. It annoyed him that she was doing just that.

He waited out her message then said, “Clare, it’s now nine-fifteen. We’re meeting Dannon and his lawyer at noon. Call me.” His message was curt.

Jake disconnected. Clare knew where the meeting would be held. Dannon was in a holding cell in the sheriff’s office. A bail hearing was set for four o’clock that afternoon.

No doubt when they spoke to Dannon at noon, they would be treated to more protestations of his innocence. Every criminal Jake had put away had been innocent, according to them. Still, something wasn’t right about this case. The thought needled him again and again. After four years of searching for Sara, everything had come together in a rush. Had it all been too neat?

He drummed his knuckles on the desktop, then went to find Jonathan. The administrative assistant was finishing a call and replaced the phone in its cradle when Jake reached him.

“Jonathan, see what you can do about tracing the label on the outfit Sara McCowan was buried in,” Jake said. “We need to find out where that outfit was bought.”

Jonathan scratched a note onto a pad of paper by the phone. “By the pictures, it looks like some specialty fetish place. I’ll get right on it. Jake we’re getting more calls from reporters wanting to know about the arrest in the Sara McCowan case.”

Jake gave Jonathan the same response he’d given him before. “Tell them the investigation is ongoing. We have no comment at this time.” Jake glanced at his watch. “I’ll be at the sheriff’s office if you need me.”

* * * * *

When Clare regained consciousness, Lowney was hoisting her out of the trunk of his car. He set her on her feet. He hadn’t tied her hands or feet. Clearly, he didn’t think she posed any threat. She would have loved to prove him wrong, but she couldn’t find balance. Didn’t know what side was up, and the pain in her head was extreme, undermining her ability to think.

She didn’t have the use of her crutch and as soon as Lowney removed his hands from her, she crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He’d stomped on her ankle earlier and while the cast had cushioned some of the blow, it hadn’t protected her fully. From the level of pain, she feared he’d caused another break. Bile tickled the back of her throat and she fought off the urge to vomit.

“Come on, Miss FBI agent,” Lowney said, his eyes twinkling. “You got to have more in you than this.”

Clare didn’t respond. On her hands and knees, her head bowed, she inhaled the fresh air, and tried to orient herself. She was on Edgar Road, she realized, as she heard the train whistle blow. At the boarded-up entrance to the mine.

He hauled her up by the upper arm, then released her. She wobbled on her feet, but managed to stay on them. She needed to get away from him, but even if she could manage it, at the moment her own escape was farthest from her mind. It was Earl Lowney who’d abducted and killed Sara McCowan. Clare had to play this out with him. She needed to find out if Lowney had Beth.

Without her crutch, she dragged her lame ankle. She fought off the urge to lie down and forced herself to keep moving.

He pulled her across the dry and pitted ground. Scraggly weeds and grass sprouted in patches, some large, some small. Old gnarled trees grew in others. She couldn’t imagine where he was taking her. Everywhere she looked was only more wild growth.

They hadn’t been walking long when he came to an abrupt stop and released her. Unprepared, Clare stumbled, fell against a tree, then went down. Breathing hard, she kept herself still, trying to stop the world from spinning.

Lowney paid her no attention. He crouched over a grassy area and grabbed hold of something. From her vantage point, Clare only saw grass. She was no more than three feet from Lowney and yet she wasn’t seeing what he was seeing.

Lowney bent and pushed something, then walked back to Clare. He latched onto her arm and dragged her to her feet, then back to where he’d been standing. A four-foot square made of wood lay on the ground. It was hidden by the thick grass and sturdy weeds and if she hadn’t been standing above it, and knew where to look, she would have never seen it.

The square was a cover, a lid, she realized, and when Lowney pushed it aside, it bared a hole.

“The old mine shaft,” Clare whispered.

Lowney nodded and smiled. “It’s been my secret place for years.”

For years. Clare swallowed hard at the implication.

Lowney’s grip bit into her elbow, squeezing hard. Clare suppressed a cry, not wanting to give Lowney the satisfaction of acknowledging that he was hurting her.

He pushed her toward the hole. “Go on down now.”

A wooden ladder leaned against the dirt wall of the shaft.

“How am I supposed to climb with the use of only one leg?” Clare said.

“You won’t like the way I get you down there.” He sneered.

Lowney shoved her to the ground. Clare heaved herself up onto her elbows. When she looked up, her vision distorted, she saw two Lowneys. Now that she knew his hiding place, she needed to take him down and get help, but the strength went out of her arms and she crumpled to the ground.

Lowney hoisted her roughly over his shoulder and stepped into the shaft onto the top rung of the ladder. Grunting a bit, he shifted her weight on his back then began the descent to a bottom that was at least twenty feet down.

Clare had never suffered from claustrophobia, but as the narrow dirt walls extended above her head, it was as if she were being buried alive, and she had to fight to keep a feeling of being smothered from overcoming her.

As she was on Lowney’s shoulder, she saw that the narrow shaft they were descending opened and widened at the bottom. The sunlight lessened the farther down they went, and she couldn’t make out all of the shapes in the dimness. By the time Lowney stepped off the ladder, Clare was squinting in an effort to make out her surroundings.

Lowney removed a flashlight from his pocket. The small beam of light cut through the darkness as he walked on, taking them deeper into the mine shaft.

When he reached his destination, he plopped her onto the hard earth. The ground was cool and felt slightly damp beneath her cheek. Stones jutted into her stomach. Clare couldn’t lift her head, and brushed her cheek across the dirt and pebbles to turn and bring Lowney and the surroundings into her line of vision.

He went to a small wooden table, where a lantern stood. Lowney lit it, then held the lantern aloft. A DVD recorder was on a tripod. A digital camera sat on a small footstool. Both were directed at a section of the mine shaft where someone huddled against the stone, someone who drew into a tighter ball when the light struck them. It was a woman by the shape of her. Her wrists and ankles were shackled to a post dug into the ground.

Clare’s heart pounded. Could this woman be Beth? Clare forced her head up, as much as she was able, a mere inch or two, striving for a better look. The woman’s face was hidden both by her posture and by a curtain of tangled and matted brown hair that fell to her shoulders. She was garbed in a variation of the outfit Sara McCowan had been buried in. A leather halter top bared more than it covered. A triangle of the same material held in place by strings tied at the hips formed a panty of sorts. Open-toed black stilettos covered her feet. And, like Sara in the photos taken during her captivity, welts, bruises, and burns mixed with dirt and blood marked the woman everywhere that Clare could see.

Lowney bared his teeth in a chilling smile. He closed the short distance between himself and the woman, and grabbed a fistful of her hair. The woman whimpered.

“Bet you can’t wait to find out just who I’ve got down here with you, can you Clare?” Lowney paused, drawing out the moment, then he jerked the woman’s head back so her face was now visible. The woman’s eyes were squeezed shut. Makeup on the lids, cheeks and lips had caked and smeared but despite the cosmetics, there was no mistaking her resemblance. Clare’s breath caught.

“The moment you’ve been waiting for, Clare,” Lowney said. “Say hello to Beth.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Jake called the Bureau office. When Jonathan answered, Jake asked, “Has Clare been there?”

“No, Jake.”

“Did she call?”

“No. Is everything all right?”

Jake was in the small lobby of the Sheriff’s Office. One of Petty’s deputies turned up the radio and Jake moved away from the sound. “She didn’t show up for the meeting with Dannon.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said.

“If she does call, let her know Dannon’s lawyer has a family situation and we’ve postponed until two o’clock.”

“Will do. Jake, I traced the label on the outfit. The manufacturer supplied a list of his retailers. Many of them have online websites. I found the exact outfit that Sara McCowan was wearing for sale on a lot of these retailer’s sites.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “We need a warrant for the customer lists of each retailer, Jonathan. I want to know which one sold that outfit to someone in Farley.”

“Rich Dannon, you mean?”

“Maybe not.”

* * * * *

“Beth?” Clare’s voice came out on a shaky breath.

Lowney laughed as he released Beth. Beth’s eyes dropped from Clare’s and she hunched her body, assuming the same position she’d held when Clare had first entered the shaft.

“I wish I could stay and watch y’all get acquainted,” Lowney said. “but I got a business to run.”

Clare’s thoughts were reeling from being with Beth. With some effort, she focused on Lowney. “How long do you think it will take before I’m missed?”

He snagged Clare’s wrist. He flicked his finger across the cracked crystal of her watch then twisted off the silver band, and jammed the watch into his pocket.

“Not too long, I imagine,” Lowney said. “But then, I won’t be keeping you long.”

Clare wondered what Lowney meant by that. “After I spoke with you on the phone, I called Jake and let him know that I was meeting you and where. He’s going to be all over that rental house. All over you.”

Lowney brought his fist down on her temple. Clare hit the dirt face first. Her teeth cut into the inside of her lip and blood filled her mouth.

“Don’t play that game with me,” Lowney said. “You’re out of your league.”

He yanked her arm, pulling hard enough that it threatened to pop from the socket. Clare stifled a cry. He bent her arm at an awkward angle to shackle her wrist to a post cemented in the ground beside her. The chain was short and when he released her, her arm hung in the air.

Lowney flicked the switch on his flashlight then doused the flame in the lantern. He left the shaft, taking all of the light with him. Though she couldn’t see him, Clare imagined him sliding the cover slowly over the hole. She went up onto her knees, as if by doing so she could stop him from entombing them in the shaft.

Sweat soaked Clare’s skin and her breathing was instantly rapid and ragged. She yanked at the shackle in a futile attempt to free herself. All she managed to do was spend the little energy she had. Even if she had managed to free herself, she needed to climb the ladder to get out, and if she accomplished that, in her present condition, she didn’t know if she would be able to move the cover from atop the hole.

She closed her eyes, taking in that reality. Willing herself to stop struggling with the shackle, she took a deep breath. Then another. The air was musty but there was enough of it and for the moment, she was in no immediate danger. And, she was with Beth.

Clare spat blood from her mouth and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She said just above a whisper. “Beth?”

No response.

Clare tried again. “Beth, my name is Clare Marshall.” Clare waited and when the other woman failed to speak, added, “I’m with the FBI. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Still no response from Beth and another thought struck Clare. “Beth, are you able to speak?” Clare went cold thinking of Lowney’s mistreatment. “Beth, please let me know that you can hear me.”

Time passed. Clare believed she would not get a response. Then Beth said, “I—I hear you.”

At the sound of Beth’s voice, tears sprang to Clare’s eyes. It was more than Beth’s reassurance that had Clare in tears, it was hearing her sister’s voice for the first time in twenty-five years.

Clare swallowed to clear her throat. She didn’t want to scare Beth with the force of her own emotion, or have Beth misinterpret her tears of joy as tears of hopelessness for their situation.

“People are looking for us, Beth.” Clare thought of Jake and her heart thudded. “We’re going to get out of here.” When there was no response, Clare prompted, “Beth?”

Beth did not respond.

There was so much Clare wanted to say, but she held back, afraid to overwhelm or worse frighten her sister, so she said only, “It’s going to be all right. I promise you.”

Clare was still on her knees. She inhaled carefully. Each breath brought a fresh wave of pain. Her head felt too heavy for her neck and the darkness began to swirl. She had to lie down, but before she could, her stomach heaved and she vomited. Weakly, she picked up dirt and dropped it on the mess, but the sickness and the movement left her shaking and she lowered herself to the ground again. She closed her eyes, concentrating on keeping what remained in her stomach in there.

Somehow she needed to turn the tables on Lowney to wrest the power from him. To do that, she needed to level the playing field. Clare tried to remember what she’d seen in the shaft. What could be used as a weapon against Lowney? How could she remove the shackle?

“Beth,” Clare said. “Does Lowney ever unshackle you, even for a brief time?” Clare stopped speaking and the silence dragged on. “Beth?”

No response came and Clare’s heart broke, thinking that Beth may be retreating into herself as a result of what she’d endured from Lowney.

“We’re going to get out of here,” Clare said. “It will be okay.”

Her sister began to cry softly.

“I will get you out, Beth.”

“You can’t.” Her voice was raw and weak. “You can’t do anything to stop him.”

“I will stop him,” Clare said. “I promise you.”

“You can’t stop him. You can’t.”

Beth’s voice trailed off. The despondency and the hopelessness in Beth cut Clare like a knife.

“Listen to me, please. You can trust that I will make sure you leave here alive. Nothing is more important to me than that. Nothing, Beth.” Clare’s tone rang with conviction.

“FBI agent or not, you’re caught just like me and you can’t stop him!” Beth cried.

“I will stop him because I’m your sister,” Clare said.

“What?”

Clare hadn’t meant to blurt that out, had decided the truth could and should wait until they were away from Lowney, but there was no going back now.

“I’m your sister,” she said. This time the words came out in a choked whisper.

“I don’t have sisters or brothers.”

Clare got out the rest. “You were adopted by Hank and Gladys Linney.”

“Why are you lying to me? Earl is going to kill us. Why are you telling me these things!”

There was hysteria in Beth’s voice now. Clare kept her tone even as she said, “It’s the truth. We are sisters, Beth.” Clare scrambled for a way to prove her claim, then remembered something. “You have a birthmark high on the back of your neck, at your hairline. It’s shaped like a cloud.”

“How do you know that?” Beth’s tone was sharp.

“One time when you were a baby, I colored that mark blue with a crayon.” Tears burned Clare’s eyes at the memory. “I’ve been looking for you for years. I promise I will answer all your questions about how and why we were separated, but for right now, you can believe me when I say that now that I’ve finally found you, I won’t let Lowney or anyone separate us again.”

A silence ensued. Eventually Beth’s voice came out of the darkness.

“You’re my sister?” she asked.

The doubt in Beth’s voice was fading. Clare’s throat constricted, and her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

* * * * *

Jake followed the sheriff’s deputy to the interview room where Rich Dannon waited with his attorney. Dannon’s attack on Clare was fresh in Jake’s mind and the urge to hurt Dannon was strong. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t about Clare. Not to make this about Clare.

As Jake was about to enter the room, he turned to the deputy. “If Agent Marshall arrives, bring her right in.”

The deputy nodded.

Dannon and his attorney were seated when Jake entered the room. Dannon’s hair was matted to his scalp with sweat. He’d sweated through his clothes and his rank odor filled the room.

“This is a mistake,” Dannon said. “I didn’t do anything!”

“We have a shitload of evidence that says you definitely did do something,” Jake said, his tone sarcastic. “At this point, you’ll never set foot outside of a prison again. You have a chance, a small window of opportunity, to help yourself, Rich, and perhaps change that. Tell me where Beth Ryder is.”

“I already told you, I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw Beth?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“What did you do on the day Beth disappeared?”

“Don’t answer that,” Gentry said.

Dannon’s brows lowered, and he reared back from his attorney. “The hell you say!” Dannon shouted. “What have you done to get me out of this! I was at Charley’s.” Dannon’s voice was shrill. “Like I am every day. Ask Charley. Ask the others who are in there every day like I am. I don’t know what happened to Beth!”

Jake went on, asking questions at intervals. When he asked where Dannon had purchased the outfit Sara McCowan had been buried in, Gentry advised Dannon once again not to respond, and this time, Dannon heeded his lawyer’s advice. He slumped in the chair and said nothing, but the look of confusion on Dannon’s face at the question spoke volumes and further fueled Jake’s belief that Dannon was not Sara’s killer.

Without concrete proof of Dannon’s innocence, however, Jake kept at the man, asking about Sara, and about Beth, until Gentry glanced at his watch and calmly announced that his client was due in court for his bail hearing.

Jake intended to be present at the hearing. Clare was due to sit in the courtroom as well, while the Assistant District Attorney added Dannon’s attack on a federal agent to the crimes against Dannon and request that bail be denied.

As Jake left the sheriff’s office, he checked his cell phone for messages. There were several. None from Clare.

She’d missed the interview with Dannon. Where was she?

As he made his way to the courthouse for the bail hearing, he called her cell phone again. Again, she didn’t pick up.

He pulled into the Blane County courthouse parking lot some twenty minutes later. Clare’s car was not in the lot. He remained in his vehicle. The appointed time for Dannon’s hearing came and went. Clare didn’t show.

Instead of going into the courthouse, Jake left the parking lot. He rubbed a tightness in his shoulder. Clare had left his house before seven that morning. Approximately nine hours ago. She was a grown woman and nine hours without contact with her should not be cause for alarm, but alarm bells were ringing in Jake’s head just the same.

No matter their personal differences, Clare would not remain out of touch with an investigation pending, particularly one that was personal to her. He needed to find her. Now.

Jonathan was at his desk when Jake entered the Bureau office.

“Did Clare call?” Jake asked.

Jonathan shook his head.

“Clare was going to check into a hotel or motel in Columbia this morning. I need to find out where she is.”

Jonathan nodded briskly. “I’ll get right on it. Customer lists from the retailers just came in. Wainscott is expecting them. I was just going to send them.”

Andrea Wainscott was a technical analyst at the Columbia field office.

“Go ahead,” Jake said. “I’ll call her now.”

Jake placed the call. Wainscott came on the line.

“Agent Sutton,” she said. “I just got the lists from Jonathan. What can I do for you?”

“We need those lists cross-referenced with the residents of Farley, Blane, Arkenwood, and Grave counties and the city of Columbia.”

“Will do.”

Jake waited on the phone while Wainscott checked her databases for a possible match. After a few moments, she said, “Nothing, Agent Sutton. I can branch out if you like?”

“No.” Jake exhaled a quick breath. It didn’t make sense that the unsub would live far. He was pushing it by extending the perimeter as far as he had. “I’ll need you to cross-reference another list shortly.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Stan entered Jake’s office as Jake ended the call with Wainscott.

“No match with anyone from Farley?” Stan asked.

“No one who gave his Farley address to one of those companies. Our unsub may not want packages from one of those retailers delivered to his home and may have rented a P. O. box. Post offices would have the billing addresses of its clients. We need to flag anyone in Farley, Blane County, Grave, Arkenwood, and Columbia who has a P.O. box.”

Stan nodded. “I’ll get the warrants for the post offices.”

While Stan attended to the warrants, Jake checked his watch again. Clare had been out of touch for almost ten hours now. Jake called Jonathan’s extension number.

“Yes, Jake,” Jonathan said.

“Have you found Clare?”

“Nothing yet.”

* * * * *

Clare heard the pad of footsteps on the hard-packed ground. The sound overrode the scratching and squeaking of the rodents who shared this space with her and Beth. Lowney was back.

The beam from the flashlight appeared. Lowney went to the table and lit the lantern once again.

“Hi girls, did you miss me?” He grinned at his own humor.

He went to the tripod where his DVD recorder was set. He aimed it in Clare’s direction, then flicked a switch and a light came on, indicating that it was now recording.

“Smile pretty for the camera, Clare,” Lowney said, his own smile wide.

“Why Beth?” Clare asked.

“Why Beth?” Lowney repeated. “Why not ‘why Sara’ or ‘why Jane’ or ‘why Marissa’?”

So many. Clare forced herself not to think of the others and pressed on. “Why take a risk by abducting a woman from your own town?”

Lowney grinned. “Beth made it so easy for me.” He glanced over his shoulder at Beth. “Didn’t you, Beth?”

He turned back to face Clare. “I was driving by Connie’s when Beth pulled out. At that moment, she just looked so pretty. In a way she hadn’t before. I just had to have her. I pulled in behind her and followed her out to the county road. When she pulled the car off the road, and got out to walk, I pulled out in front of her. She didn’t even try to run. She wasn’t afraid. Didn’t think she needed to be since I wasn’t a stranger. She knew me. At that time, I didn’t know that up a ways on that road, she was planning on meeting that trucker.” Lowney laughed. “If she’d taken a few more steps, she’d have seen him parked on the roadside. And he’d have been able to see her. I would have had to kill him.

“But, she didn’t go those few steps, and he got to live on.” Lowney smiled. “I planned on driving her car back to her house, and not call attention to it by leaving it on the road, and then I found Beth’s suitcase in the back seat of her car. She was fixing on leaving old Dean. No one was going to be looking for her, because they thought she was already gone.

“I picked Beth for the same reason I picked all the others. I . . . wanted . . . them.” Lowney shook his head slowly. “I can just imagine the way your brain is spinning right now, trying to analyze me. Trying to fit me into some FBI profile. Let me let you in on something, Clare.” He leaned in close. His eyes that had been animated an instant earlier dimmed and his lids lowered. “My daddy didn’t beat me. My mama never fondled my privates. I didn’t come from a dysfunctional family. My parents were good, salt of the earth, God-fearing, law-abiding people. There’s nothing wrong with me. I just like to hurt things.”

The hair on the back of Clare’s neck rose at the matter-of-fact way he said it.

“I grew up on a farm,” Lowney went on. “On weekends when I didn’t have school, I’d go out to one of the traps I set in the woods and get the squirrel or stray cat that was caught in it. Then, with a book of matches or a knife or both, I’d play with those animals. For years, I played with whatever got caught in my traps, or a stray dog, but when I was thirteen, there was this girl.” His lips curved in a smile. “Her name was Janey Black. I met her at summer camp. She was staying at the girl’s camp down the road. She’d sneak away and meet me.”

His gaze fixed as he looked inward. His smile widened with the fond memory. “There were so many things I wanted to do to her. I wanted to see just how long I could keep her alive, how much she could take. My technique was rough, though, and I didn’t get done nearly all I wanted to.” He pouted. “To be fair, though, she was weak and didn’t last nearly as long as she should have. But, hey, she was my first. I’ve heard it said that you always remember your first.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke. “After her, well, let me tell you, Clare, there was no going back to squirrels and cats and dogs.”

“I’ve gotten so much better since Janey. Isn’t that right, Beth?” he said, keeping his bright gaze on Clare.

Beth uttered a plaintive cry.

“I really want to keep you, Clare.” Lowney’s eyes slowly roamed her body. “I really want to be able to play with you. Miss Tough FBI Agent. I want to find out just how tough you really are.”

Beth drew her knees tight to her chest. Her shoulders shook as she began to cry. If Lowney noticed Beth’s reaction to his words, he gave no indication.

“I can’t keep you, though,” Lowney went on. “I guess we all have our disappointments. I have to kill you, Clare. Soon.”

Clare’s mouth went dry. “Killing me will only focus attention on you.” She struggled to keep her tone neutral. “Dannon is in custody. If I go missing or turn up dead, you’ll prove Dannon’s innocence. Your only hope is to let Beth and I go and to turn yourself in.”

Lowney crossed the distance between them. He drew back his foot. Clare covered her head with her unshackled hand. The blow connected and a bone in Clare’s middle finger snapped. She cried out.

He crouched, placed his hands on either side of Clare’s head and squeezed. “I could crush your head like a melon.” His voice was soft, intimate, as if he were speaking to himself, and fantasizing about the experience.

Clare grabbed Lowney’s arms as best she could and pressed her thumbs to the inside of his wrists. Her strength was waning and she was unable to apply enough force to override his grip. In fact, he seemed not to notice her feeble grasp at all.

“I can’t do that, though,” he said, more to himself than to her, and abruptly he released her.

He rose to his feet. “It would have been easier if Jake hadn’t shown up when I sent you that note. I planned to get rid of you that night. Or, easier if you’d just died in the fire.”

Lowney’s words penetrated the fog of pain in her head and hand. “You burned your own house?”

“To kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of the house that I couldn’t sell and stop you from poking around. Except that it didn’t stop you. Not even when I gave you Rich Dannon you wouldn’t let go.” Lowney shook his head. “You thought you were so smart. That you’d get me. But here you are. I got you. Now, all that’s left is to get rid of you.”

“If I don’t return,” Clare said, “you’ll never know a peaceful moment again. I’m a federal agent. My disappearance will not go unsolved.”

“Oh, you aren’t going to disappear.”

Clare narrowed her eyes in confusion at his statement.

Lowney tilted his head and regarded her without blinking. “Poor Clare,” he began, his voice low and rhythmic. “Distraught over her inability to find her sister, she lapsed into depression and despondency. Drinking too much. She even set the house she was staying in on fire while drunk. Career in shambles. Love affair down the toilet. Unable to find the sister she’s been searching for. Clare can’t go on any longer. She pops a handful of downers, gets into her car, and eats her gun.”

Lowney’s lip curled. “That’s how it will go down. A tragic end, but then you had a tragic beginning. Isn’t that what your mama planned all those years ago? To take her own life after she killed her children? Like mother like daughter, Clare.

“Rich Dannon will go away for Sara’s murder. If one day, someone happens to take a shovel out to those woods and digs up another girl, or two, or ten.” Lowney laughed, then shrugged. “Well, they’ll just blame old Rich. And as for Beth, with no proof of foul play in her disappearance, folks will continue to think what they want to think, that she just run off.”

Lowney bent and brought his face close to Clare’s. “The search for Beth will die with you, Clare.” He bared his teeth in a chilling smile. “But not tonight. We still have time, and I’m in the mood to play.”

He rubbed his hands together. He went to the table that held the lantern and removed a bucket from beneath it, then bent and wrapped his arms around a large glass jug. It was filled with water, and as Lowney lifted it, the water sloshed against the sides.

“Wouldn’t do for a coroner to find damage on any part of your body other than your head, Clare. My options are limited.” Lowney pouted. “But we can still have some fun.”

He filled the bucket with water then carried it to Clare. He seized her by the hair and pushed her head down to the bucket. “Let’s see how long you can hold your breath under water, Clare.”

Chapter Twenty Four

Jake had called Laura North and arranged for Sammie to spend the night. Jonathan ordered sandwiches and coffee from the Farley diner. That was hours earlier and Jake’s meal still lay uneaten on his desk.

Clare had not checked in at any of the hotels in Columbia, and Jake had sent her description and the particulars of her rental car to law enforcement across the state. He was hoping that the reason she’d been out of touch was something simple, like a dead phone battery, and some eager cop in a neighboring town would pull her over, getting her pissed as hell at Jake for sounding the alarm.

“Jake?”

Jake stood at the window in his office that overlooked the building parking lot. Night had descended and stars winked in the sky. At the sound of Stan’s voice, Jake turned toward the other man.

“Wainscott ran the P.O. box renters lists we got from the various post offices,” Stan said. “We got a name from one of the post offices in Columbia. It’s Earl Lowney.”

“Let’s go.”

Stan, in the seat beside Jake, rattled off the address, and Jake drove there. Lowney’s house was dark. His car was not in the driveway. Jake left his vehicle at the curb and he and Stan got out.

A dog in the yard next door barked. Someone had put out the trash and the ripe odor filled the night air.

A vertical window ran the length of Lowney’s front door. Jake peered into the house. The hall was in shadow but he could make out an area rug, a table with a vase on it, and a stack of mail.

They returned to Jake’s vehicle and drove to Lowney’s store. The store was in darkness and Lowney’s car was nowhere in sight. Jake drove back to Lowney’s house.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Jake murmured. He wanted to get inside and had to quell the urge to break down the door and charge in. He had to make sure the search, and the subsequent arrest, were legal. He turned to Stan. “Call the judge.”

While Stan arranged for the warrant, Jake called the Columbia field office. He needed help to conduct a search for Lowney and an evidence team to be dispatched to go over Lowney’s residence and business. His next call was to Petty. He needed to let the sheriff know that an operation was going down in his town.

The sheriff answered with a groggy, “ ‘Lo.”

“Oz. Jake Sutton. A team of agents are enroute to Farley. We’re picking up Earl Lowney for questioning in the Sara McCowan murder.”

“What? Hold on there, Jake, I was asleep. Not sure I heard you right. Did you say, Sara McCowan?”

“That’s right.”

“But Rich Dannon is up for that.”

“New evidence has come to light. We need to talk with Lowney.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at Lowney’s residence awaiting a team from the Columbia office.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

With that done, there was nothing to do but wait. Stan fiddled with the nicotine patch on his arm and popped a wad of chewing gum.

By the time the warrant came through, agents had arrived at Lowney’s residence, as had Petty and his deputies. Jake had agents at Lowney’s store. Petty and his people secured the perimeter around Lowney’s residence and Jake led Stan and the team into the house. Two agents went upstairs with Stan while Jake and another descended to the basement. It was one open room and it didn’t take long to determine that Lowney wasn’t in the basement.

Dusty work boots stood side by side against one cement wall. Jake turned them over. Dirt was caked into the soles.

The lid of the washing machine was open. An unwashed shirt and pair of pants were the only items inside. As with the work boots, the clothes were dusty. There was a faint musty odor to them.

Jake left the basement and went upstairs. Stan greeted him.

“All clear. Lowney isn’t in the house,” Stan said.

Jake exhaled a frustrated breath.

Footsteps thudded against the wood floor as the evidence team began their tasks. Lowney had a desktop computer in one of the rooms. Jake powered it up. There was a password on the system. Jake’s knowledge of computers was basic and he would have to pass the computer to the techs at the Bureau to get in.

Stan poked his head into the room. “Jake, you’re going to want to see this.”

Jake looked up from the monitor and followed Stan into Lowney’s bedroom. One of the female investigators was holding a cardboard shoe box.

“Got this from Lowney’s closet,” the investigator said.

She passed the box to Jake. Inside was a stash of trinkets. Among them was the ring that had been missing from Sara, and a gold bracelet with the name “Beth” engraved on it.

“It’s Lowney, then,” Stan said.

Jake examined the items. A hairbrush. A compact. A pen engraved with the name Rita Johnson. A watch with a crack in the crystal. He knew that watch. His chest tightened.

“He has Clare,” Jake said.

An image of Sara’s tortured and emaciated body sprang to Jake’s mind. He rubbed his hands down his face.

“Jake . . . Jake?”

After a moment, he glanced at Stan who’d spoken.

“We found DVDs, videotapes, and photos,” Stan said. “We popped one into Lowney’s VCR. The same nature as was found in Rich Dannon’s cabin. Recordings of women being tortured.”

“Clare?” Jake asked, his voice hoarse.

Stan shook his head, then added. “Not in the one we saw.”

Jake closed his eyes briefly, then followed Stan to a room with a recliner couch that housed a sophisticated entertainment center. State-of-the-art DVD and photographic equipment for best viewing of what were better than a hundred tapes and DVDs stored in a closet. Jake fingered Lowney’s collection. All were labeled and dated with the earliest one going back fifteen years. Lowney had been abducting women since he’d been in his twenties—or—to be accurate—he’d been recording his victims for that long.

“Do you want us to send this collection to the office?” Stan asked.

A technical analyst would go over the tapes when they reached the Bureau office. By that time, it could be too late for Clare and Beth and anyone else Lowney had in his hideaway.

Jake shook his head. “I want to see what’s on them now.”

Stan stuck a tape into the VCR, then took a seat on the couch and pressed play.

Jake stood, tense and straight as the tape began. The screen filled with the image of a brunette, staked out on a stained blanket. Lengths of chain at her wrists and ankles shackled her to four posts.

Behind her, providing background, and reflecting the light, was a white screen. She was dressed similarly to Sara McCowan, in a leather skirt variation that barely covered her bottom. The narrow bands of some kind of cut-off top or bra criss-crossed her front.

Jake studied the video. He was looking for something to identify the woman’s surroundings, but all that could be seen other than her was the white screen. There was nothing of the background in the shot to be able to identify it. Doubtful Lowney had ever anticipated these tapes would be viewed for the purpose of trying to determine his surroundings. The bright white of the screen eliminated any distraction from the main attraction—the woman—and was likely the reason Lowney had chosen that background. The fact that the screen also served to conceal the details of the location appeared incidental.

The woman was brightly illuminated, though the source of the light couldn’t be seen. The camera zoomed in, panning her body, slowly, taking time to pass over all of her. Her complexion was sallow. Her cheekbones, sunken. Her ribs, left bare by the cut-off top that ended above her midriff, protruded and Jake was reminded of Coroner Devoe’s belief that the cause of Sara’s death had been by starvation.

“Marissa.” Lowney’s voice, soft as a caress.

The woman made a keening animal sound.

“Smile for the camera, Marissa.”

The camera moved in for a close-up of her face. She wore thick makeup. Her eyes were huge, opaque with fear. She was crying. Mascara ran in rivulets down her bruised cheeks. Her lower lip was split and bleeding. Welts marked her flesh.

Lowney stepped into the frame. He was holding a lit cigarette. The woman—Marissa—began to make low, guttural sounds of terror as she began jerking the manacles, trying to shrink back from him and huddle into herself.

Lowney broke into a wide grin. “Cigarettes are such a filthy habit, aren’t they?”

He reached Marissa and removed her bra. Giggling now, he touched the cigarette to the tip of her breast.

Marissa screamed.

Lowney moved the cigarette to her other breast.

The screen went black as the tape ended.

“Sweet Jesus,” Stan muttered.

Jake’s rage felt like a living thing inside him. But the rage ebbed, overcome by fear that left him shaking. He was terrified that Lowney was making one of those tapes of Clare.

He left the room to splash cold water on his face, then returned and fed another tape into the machine.

This one was filmed in the same manner as the other, focused on the woman in them and the torture inflicted on her with only the white screen visible in the background. There was nothing to determine just where she was being held.

Jake was watching the screen intently for a visual clue. Lowney’s voice was by turns excited, exuberant like a child at Christmas, and then petulant, condemning, shouting expletives at his victims.

The man was ranting when Jake heard another sound. It was low, barely audible. A rumbling. At first Jake thought the noise was coming from the camera equipment or from the DVD player they were running. But, no. It went on for a short while and then was gone, and Lowney’s ranting returned in full volume.

Jake moved away from the wall he’d been standing against. “Play that back, Stan.”

Stan complied.

“Listen to that.”

Stan shook his head. “I can’t make it out.”

Neither could Jake. He sighed in frustration.

Jake took a seat beside Stan. The tape resumed. Lowney went on ranting. The bastard hadn’t returned to the house or been picked up elsewhere. Where are you?

A member of the evidence team knocked on the open door. Stan hit pause, silencing Lowney.

“We’re finished here,” the female agent said. “Good night.”

Jake nodded. Stan started the tape again.

With the evidence team gone, only Jake and Stan remained inside, and the house grew quiet but for the screams and moans of agony emanating from the tape. Two tapes later, Jake heard the rumbling again. It grew louder. Not rumbling—chugging.

Jake leaned forward. “Listen. Hear that?” He was on his feet, moving quickly to the television. “Chug—a—chug—a.” he said. “A train. There’s only one train that runs through Farley.”

“The freight train?” Stan said. “Sure.”

Jake tapped the television screen. “It only runs through Edgar Road. Where the old mine is.”

Was it possible that Lowney was there? Jake thought. The mine would have been dug before the mining commission of South Carolina had been formed. Still, there had to be a plan of the mine.

Jake wheeled away from the screen and toward Stan. “Wake up whoever you have to. Get me a blueprint of that mine.”

* * * * *

A woozy county clerk provided a plan of the mine that had last been used eighty years earlier when the mine accident occurred. Jake had also requested a report of the accident. An engineer from Blane County was brought in to examine the plan.

Jake shook hands with the two men. “Thank you both for coming in.”

They were meeting in Jake’s office and the clerk spread the blueprint across Jake’s desk.

“None of the shafts shown on the map still exist since its been filled in,” the clerk said, scratching his head.

Jake studied the blueprint. The mine had been one mile deep and almost that long. It was unlikely that it had been completely filled in. More likely that the entrance had been buried and blocked and the shafts leading from it had gone on undisturbed.

The boards to the entrance made it clear that Lowney was not entering the shafts from there. He had either found an air tunnel, or dug down and created a branch to a tunnel. It was the perfect hiding place.

Jake’s gut clenched thinking how Lowney had gone undisturbed there for years.

Jake turned to the engineer, Ralph Simpson. “Can you tell us where the cave-in caused by the accident occurred?”

Simpson yawned hugely. He consulted the yellowed pages of the old accident report, then bent over the blueprint and placed his finger tip to a spot in the northeast section of the mine. “Somewhere in here is as near as I can tell from this report.”

Those shafts no longer existed and Jake eliminated that section. Lowney had no need to attempt to forge a place for himself among the rubble of the accident. There were too many other locations for him to choose from.

“I also have to point out,” Simpson added. “It’s been eighty years. We don’t know if there have been other cave-ins. It’s impossible to know what all is left down there.”

“Thanks for your input,” Jake said to the men.

Thirty minutes later, Jake, Stan, a squad of agents and the Farley PD, led by Ozzie Petty, walked the property on Edgar Road. Dogs were sent for, but they’d been used at a crime scene in another state and were two hours away. The clock was ticking, and Jake didn’t want to delay the search until the dogs arrived. Armed with flashlights, teams set off in appointed directions in search of a shaft that would lead into the mine.

“Okay, Stan,” Jake said, his voice tight. “You’re with me.”

* * * * *

“Time to go, Clare.” Lowney grinned. “It will be light in a couple hours. Of course, you won’t be seeing that.”

Clare watched his approach. Water dripped from her sopping hair into her eyes—eyes narrowed in hatred. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d dunked her, keeping her under water longer each time, her lungs burning with the need for air, holding her down until she stopped flailing, stopped resisting him, until she lost consciousness.

Beth was curled in a fetal position, rocking. She hadn’t made a sound in a long time.

Clare would have one chance to escape. One chance for her and Beth. But Clare’s limbs felt like lead weights. She couldn’t lift her head.

The butt of a gun stuck out from Lowney’s pocket. Her gun, Clare realized. Her gaze flicked to it.

Lowney laughed. “You know I can’t shoot you here, Clare.” He took the gun and aimed it at Beth. “I can shoot Beth, though. I can start with her little toe. That’s a new game for me and Beth to play.” He beamed. “Go on, Clare. Give me a reason to shoot Beth now.”

The glee in his voice struck terror in Clare. One chance. One chance.

Lowney now had a key in his hand. Clare’s vision was swimming in and out, and she hadn’t seen from where he’d obtained it. He bent and unlocked the shackle around Clare’s wrist. She had been laying on her stomach and her arm, stretched to its limit for several hours, had gone numb. Released now, it fell to the dirt.

Lowney clenched his teeth. Impatient to get on with his plans, his fingers clamped on her shoulder. “Up, Clare.” He swung out with the gun barrel, striking Clare hard in the face. She felt the skin tear and blood pooled on her cheek.

Clare filled her fist with dirt and rubble from the ground and as he began to haul her to her feet, she flung the dirt into Lowney’s eyes. Lowney dropped the gun. Clare grabbed it, and holding it in both hands, aimed at Lowney.

He smirked, but maintained his distance.

Keeping her gaze and her aim trained on him, Clare made her way slowly to her feet.

“Beth. Beth! I need you to stay with me,” Clare said. “Please. Beth.”

Beth raised her head.

“Cover your face,” Clare said. “Do it now.” When Beth did, Clare shot the chain binding Beth to the post. “You’re free. Go. Take the flashlight on the table. Go. Get help.”

Beth sobbed. Clare feared her sister was too weak and injured to leave on her own. But Beth staggered to her feet. She lurched, regained her balance and headed in the direction Lowney had emerged from.

She disappeared into the darkness. And Clare breathed a short sigh of relief. Her grip wavered on the semi-automatic. Lowney swam in and out of her vision.

“I am going to cut your heart out,” Lowney said.

His gaze was unswerving. He didn’t blink. The venom in his eyes and in his words, spoken without inflection, made the fine hair on Clare’s arms and on the back of her neck rise.

“Since I’m the one holding the gun, you should take care not to make me angry,” Clare said.

Brave words.

Her strength was ebbing fast. If she didn’t sit down, she would fall down. She needed to hold on a little longer. Had enough time passed for Beth to have exited the shaft? Beth needed time to bring help. Clare didn’t know. Her sense of time was muddled.

Her arm lowered fractionally. Her eyelids drooped.

Lowney lunged for her. His hand closed over her gun hand and he turned the gun to her chest.

* * * * *

Jake kept his flashlight pointed at the ground as he trudged over the wild growth. He’d set a swift pace for himself and Stan. He could no longer see the other men and women who made up the search teams. On and on he walked, his gut getting tighter with each passing moment.

There had to be an entrance to a mine shaft here somewhere. Jake prayed that in his desperation to find it, he hadn’t overlooked it.

“Where the hell is Lowney hiding?” Stan muttered.

Jake didn’t respond, just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Mosquitoes and other small insects hovered around the light as Jake swept the beam in small arcs.

So far, he’d seen nothing but wild growth and a rabbit, but . . . what was that? Jake held the light steady and squinted. A square piece of wood . . .

Stan came up behind him as Jake removed the wood. Beneath it was a hole . . . a narrow mine shaft.

Heart pounding, Jake aimed the light into the shaft. A woman stood on a ladder, sobbing, her arms above her head as if she’d been pushing against the wooden cover in an attempt to move it, and failing.

Her gaze met his and her eyes filled with terror. She stumbled back and if Jake hadn’t reached down and caught her shoulders, she would have fallen.

“I’m a federal agent,” Jake said. “You’re safe now.”

The woman looked like Clare and could only be her sister, Beth. His heart lurched at the resemblance. He dropped the flashlight by his feet and lifted Beth the two steps, bringing her out of the shaft. Her strength gave out and she fell against him. He set her gently on the ground. Her physical condition enraged him and terrified him since Clare was still down there with Lowney.

“Beth, where’s Clare?” He clutched Beth by the shoulders. Her gaze was glazed. She was in shock. She was trembling in his grasp and he wasn’t sure he’d gotten through to her. He removed his jacket and wrapped it around her. “Beth. Beth, where is Clare?”

Beth’s mouth quivered, her split lip began bleeding again. “Down there. Through the tunnel. It opens up into a shaft. She got me out.” Tears left tracks in her dirty and bloody face. “She stayed there so I could get out. You have to get her.” Beth clutched Jake’s arm in as fierce a grip as she was capable of. “You have to get her.”

“I will.”

Stan crouched beside them, and Jake released her into Stan’s care.

Jake snatched up his flashlight from the ground. As he climbed onto the ladder, a gun shot rang out.

For an instant, Jake thought his heart stopped, then adrenaline kicked in. As he raced down the ladder, he heard Stan yell for backup.

Jake took out his weapon and ignoring procedure, ran through the shaft. He saw a light and with no further need of his flashlight, dropped it. He saw Lowney atop Clare. Her face was turned toward Jake and her eyes were closed.

“Clare!”

With his weapon aimed at Lowney, Jake ran to her. He jammed the barrel of his gun into the hollow at the back of Lowney’s neck and seized the man by the shoulder. Jake pulled him back from Clare. There was a hole in Lowney’s chest. His eyes were wide and staring. He was clearly dead.

Jake flung Lowney off Clare. She was covered in blood. Jake dropped to his knees beside her, frantically feeling for a pulse.

“Clare!”

She opened her eyes. “Jake . . . ? Where’s Beth?”

“She’s safe. She’s fine.” He moved his hands over her, desperate to find where she was hurt. “You’re bleeding. Don’t move, baby.”

“Not my blood. Lowney’s,” Clare said, and lost consciousness.

Chapter Twenty Five

The clock in the Burby living room showed one-oh-six in the afternoon. Clare sighed. Time to leave.

“Gotta go?” Beth asked.

“Afraid so.”

Beth nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

At the front door, Clare turned and hugged Beth, holding her tight. Beth’s grip was as strong and they stood like that, holding each other, until the clock chimed the quarter hour.

“Now I really have to go,” Clare said.

They both laughed and then Clare stepped onto the porch. The Burbys’ yellow lab snoozed in his usual position, head on forepaws. His eyelids opened a crack as Clare turned and waved to Beth before she closed the door.

After spending one week in a hospital in Columbia, Beth had gone to stay with the Burbys. Patty and Beth had renewed their friendship, and Patty had opened her home to her friend. Clare had spent most of her time in the week since Beth’s release at the Burby house as well, getting to know her sister.

Her sister. As they always did lately, those words brought on a smile.

Beth had not rejected the notion of a sister. Beth had not rejected Clare. Even when Clare had told her where they’d come from, Beth had not turned her away and every day, Clare could feel the bond between them growing stronger.

She opened the door to her rental car, then took a step back from the heat emanating from the inside. In five minutes or fifty, the car would still be hot, and just got inside.

She drove slowly away from the Burbys. She had a plane to catch back to New York, but first she had one stop to make.

Jake’s house came into view. He was on a ladder, painting another section of the eaves trough. Clare remembered that he’d first abandoned the task on the day they’d gone to view a body they’d feared had been Beth.

He looked away from the eaves trough as she pulled into his driveway. He continued to watch her as she left the car and made her way to the hood where she leaned back against it.

His eyes narrowed on her. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

Clare had spent three nights in a hospital herself. A look in the mirror that morning had shown her an assortment of cuts and bruises. Lowney had damaged her ankle again when he’d stomped on it and she’d be using the crutch for some time to come.

Her first night in the hospital, as she’d drifted in and out of consciousness, she’d opened her eyes and saw Jake. She’d jerked awake several times that night, fighting pain and fear, and each time she opened her eyes, Jake had been there, holding her hand, murmuring that she was safe.

“How’s Beth?” Jake asked.

Clare smiled. “Mother-to-be and her unborn child are doing well.”

Jake nodded. “I’m glad.”

A group of neighborhood children ran down the sidewalk, in pursuit of a long-haired white dog. Clare frowned as the breeze carried the dog’s scent. By the smell of him, the animal had recently met up with a skunk.

Clare pushed back the cream-colored jacket she wore and jammed her hands into the front pockets of matching walking shorts. “I came by to tell you I’m going back to New York.”

His mouth tightened. “Today. I know. Word travels in Farley.”

His warm tone when he’d asked about Beth was gone. His voice was now cold, and Clare’s stomach fluttered. “My plane leaves at four.”

“Have a safe trip home.”

Clare shifted her weight on the crutch. “I called Cohen. He told me that you’d spoken with him on my behalf.”

“You’re a good cop, Clare. I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t true. I take it he gave you the okay to resume your field post?”

She nodded. “He did, but I asked for a leave of absence instead. I need some time.”

“That son of a bitch Lowney.” A muscle pulsed in Jake’s jaw. “I’d like to drown him.”

Clare would not be forgetting that horrific experience soon. “How’s it going tracking down the other women on the tapes?”

“Tapes date back fifteen years. We’ve matched a couple of the women with missing persons reports that were filed. We’ll be trying to find bodies next. Lowney suggested to you that he’d buried the women in the woods, but there’s a lot of ground to cover.” Jake released a frustrated breath. “We’ll see.”

They would also see about Rich Dannon. He had been cleared of the murders, but not the assault against Clare.

“Beth is filing for divorce,” Clare said. “She’s been opening up about what her life has been like with Ryder. Physical and psychological abuse.” Clare shook her head. “He was controlling her life. He’d forced her to work at Connie’s so he would know where she was all day. Beth is terrified of him. She was afraid to accept Parker Burby’s help the time he’d walked in on one of Ryder’s beatings. She was afraid that Ryder would harm Patty and Parker. I’m going to make sure Ryder doesn’t hurt Beth or their child.”

“Going to be tough to do that, living in New York.” Jake’s cold tone was back. He wiped his hands with a rag laying across the top of the ladder, then when he’d finished flung it back.

“I’m going to New York to pack up my apartment and then I’m coming back here. I made an appointment with Dr. Amedes.”

Jake’s gaze on her sharpened.

Clare drew a breath that came a little hard due to the tightness in her chest. “I thought when I found Beth, my life would be complete. But it isn’t. Something is still missing. You, Jake. What’s missing is you. I don’t know if forever is possible, but I want to find out. If you still want that.” She took a chance. “If you still want me.”

Jake descended the ladder slowly and went to stand in front of her. Clare’s heart drummed, waiting for him to speak.

He reached out and framed her face between his palms, drying the tears trickling down her cheeks with his thumbs. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I met you. Do you remember when that was?”

“Training session. We were paired off.” Clare’s lips quirked. “I kicked your ass.”

Jake smiled. His eyes glinted as he teased. “Since you’re a girl, I held back.”

Clare laughed. “Those are fighting words, Sutton. Rematch. Take your best shot now.”

Jake pressed his lips to hers.

Clare wound her arms around his neck, holding him as if her life depended on it, and kissed him back.

About the Author

Karen Fenech is the author of romantic suspense novels Betrayal and Unholy Angels. She lives with her husband and daughter. Visit Karen’s website at www.karenfenech.com.