“Are you all right?”

“No.” The tears had stopped. Shelby was drained of everything. How long had it been since they’d abducted her daughter? “I’m not all right, Tim. I want my daughter back.”

“I know you do. But Aimee is fine, Shelby. We have to believe that.” Tim stared at her, his eyes filled with shadows. “The writing said she was safe.”

“I don’t believe that. And neither do you. She was safe here with me, Tim. Happy and healthy and loved. How can Aimee be safe away from the one who loves her most?”

“But, Shelby, you have to have faith. You have to.”

“It’s hard to keep hoping, Tim,” she whispered. “All the terrible things you hear that happen to kids. What if Aimee–”

“No!” Tim jumped to his feet. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it! Until we know differently, Aimee is fine. Do you hear me? She’s fine!”

LOIS RICHER

Sneaking a flashlight under the blankets, hiding in a thicket of Caragana bushes where no one could see, pushing books into socks to take to camp—those are just some of the things Lois Richer freely admits to in her pursuit of the written word. “I’m a book-a-holic. I can’t do without stories,” she confesses. “It’s always been that way.”

Her love of language evolved into writing her own stories. Today her passion is to create tales of personal struggle that lead to triumph over life’s rocky road. For Lois, a happy ending is essential.

SECRETS OF THE ROSE
LOIS RICHER

MILLS & BOON

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Be still and know that I am God.

—Psalms 46:10

This book is dedicated to Cristopher, who keeps

digging until he gets the answers he needs.

Congratulations on reaching your goal.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Finders, Inc.—a place dedicated to finding the truth. The idea for this series grew after a return visit to a city I particularly love, Victoria, British Columbia. While I was sitting in the hotel lobby, a woman stopped in, tossed off a cryptic comment then disappeared. And my story wheels started turning.

Shelby Kincaid is my kind of heroine. She’s tough, strong and competent. But she’s also vulnerable in her love for her only child. As I imagined the pain and terror of a mother whose child is missing, I was drawn to thoughts of God and His suffering when we refuse to walk with Him, to obey His rules. Our human love pales against His. There is no greater love than the Father for His beloved creations, His precious children.

I hope you’ll return for another visit to Finders. Until then I wish you contentment with whatever state you’re in, courage to deal with the future and most of all love—without it we are nothing.

Blessings,

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

But he that dares not grasp the thorn,

should never crave the rose.

—Anne Brontë

Victoria, British Columbia

Monday, April 21

Perhaps it was the date—ten months to the day after Grant’s abrupt, tragic death.

Perhaps it was the hour—that no-man’s-land of black yawning silence in which all the world seemed to die.

Or perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t yet used to being alone.

Whatever the excuse, Shelby Kincaid was wide-awake. She lay on her bed, bathed in a puddle of moon shadows that washed through her balcony doors, and ordered her mind to shut down, to forget the past and focus on the future.

It might have worked—except for the creak of one tired floorboard in the hall.

Shelby sat up, glanced at the greenish-blue hands on the gilt clock Grant had presented on her last birthday: 3:13 a.m. Shadows danced over the walls as a shiver of wind tickled the blossoms of the apple tree outside her window.

Creak.

The hardwood’s protest came again, closer this time. Just outside her door.

The phone on the nightstand sat waiting. All she had to do was pick it up and dial 911. She reached out.

Reech!

Her hand froze. The second squeak was barely discernible over the thud of her heart, but Shelby knew exactly where it came from, had vowed to oil that same hinge a hundred nights before when she’d crept in to check on her baby.

Aimee’s door.

Someone was inside her house and now they were going into Aimee’s room!

Forget the phone.

She twisted toward the security panel on Grant’s empty side of the bed and stabbed the silent alarm. Soon the soundless summons would bring police from all directions of the city. But she couldn’t wait for them. She had to go to Aimee.

Her legs, rubbery with fear, barely held her upright. Shelby pushed away from the bed, tiptoed across the thick butter-cream broadloom and opened her door just a crack, enough so she could scan the hall, perhaps catch a glimpse of the invader.

No one lurked in the shadows. Which meant he must already be inside Aimee’s room.

Her entire body began to tremble. Her stomach squeezed into a knot imagining her five-year-old daughter’s terror waking to a stranger’s face. Shelby reminded herself of her past training with Grant: Assess, then act.

She couldn’t wait for the police, her daughter’s life might be at risk. All she wanted to do was get to Aimee, hold her, keep her safe. Shelby slipped into the hallway, then surged ahead, pausing only long enough to wrap her fingers around the brass candelabra from the hall table, the sole weapon in sight.

Something—a squeal—made her careless and the candles fell to the floor with a clatter. Though quickly hushed, the noise galvanized her into action. She raced to Aimee’s door, thrust it open, and breathed her daughter’s name.

But Aimee could not respond.

Aimee was gone.

The four-poster lay empty. Only the soft organdy curtains moved, billowing in through the window, carried by the night air.

Shelby rushed across the fuzzy white rug, stared down through the glass into the gloom. The cavernous darkness of the garden lay below, silent, brooding. She could see no one.

When she turned, Shelby noticed the red letters scrawled across her daughter’s mirror.

Aimee is safe.

Her brass weapon fell to the carpet.

“Not my baby, God. Please don’t let them take my baby!”

Once they arrived, the police questioned her for hours.

Was the alarm functioning properly? Who would know how to disable it? Was the front door securely locked? Had she heard a car? Did she have any enemies? Was this connected with Grant’s accident?

“I don’t know.” She recited the words over and over again. “I don’t know. Please, just find my daughter. Don’t you understand—they’ve taken my daughter!”

And she hadn’t been able to stop them. The guilt burned through her like acid.

Within two hours the house was brimming with crime scene investigators, their gray-white powder covering every surface in sight. Esmeralda Peabody, who had been the housekeeper first for Shelby’s grandmother and then Shelby, would be furious at having to repolish the intricately carved antiques. But Aimee would have a field day mucking through all that powder. If she ever came home again.

“Mrs. Kincaid? We really need you to concentrate. You’re sure you didn’t hear anything else but the footsteps?”

Shelby closed her eyes, forced herself to replay the scene in her mind, to relive the moment when she saw the bed, knew her child was gone. The moment her stomach hit her toes and her world stopped.

How could this have happened?

“Nothing else.” Shelby gulped down the pain. She couldn’t break down now. She had to help them find answers. “Just the footsteps in the hall, the door creaking. A muffled sound. That’s all.”

She looked up suddenly, her mind honing in on the last memory.

“Do you think they hurt her?” she whispered. “Is that what I heard?”

“No, we don’t think that. Not at all.”

The rush to reassure did nothing to ease Shelby’s anxiety.

“We found a bit of material stuck in the frame. We think it was torn off something—pants, perhaps. You probably heard the thief muttering when he caught them, Shelby. May I call you that?” The lead investigator, a woman, taller than Shelby and about seven years older, kindly wrapped a blanket around her shivering shoulders, then sank down beside her.

“Call me anything.” Shelby huddled into the warmth, wishing it would penetrate to her heart. “Ask whatever you need to. I don’t care. I just want my daughter back. Please, can’t you find her?”

Why didn’t they do something, call someone? Why did they keep asking the same thing over and over?

Shelby felt her world spinning and knew she needed to reach for the focus that had kept her centered during key investigations she’d handled in the past. But she’d been out of the workplace too long, her training gone rusty with disuse these last ten months. Besides, those had been other people’s loved ones.

This was Aimee, and Aimee was all she had left. All Shelby could do was silently implore God, the police, anyone who would listen—beg them to bring Aimee back where she belonged.

“Please, Detective. We need to find my daughter. She’ll be afraid. She’s only five.”

“We’ll find her. We’ve already started searching.” The smile was grim, but it promised results. “Please call me Natalie. Natalie Brazier,” she repeated, as if unsure whether Shelby had heard her say the same thing five minutes earlier. “I haven’t lived in Victoria very long, so I’m not familiar with your history. I’d like to learn a little more about you, Shelby.”

Detective Brazier resembled a starlet more than a policewoman. She arranged her long, lean body on the sofa beside Shelby with a natural grace and elegance, her black silk suit molding itself to every curve. Shelby recognized the designer—and it wasn’t a knockoff. Whatever her job, this woman had expensive taste.

Shelby found it odd how her brain had never stopped storing details, even though she hadn’t returned to work after Grant’s death. Height, weight, hair color, body language. Once that had been vitally important to her job. But that was before Grant—

“I understand you lost your husband a short time ago.”

The sting of reality dissolved her memory of those halcyon days in the past. Though the reminder hurt, it helped Shelby center herself, refocus. She nodded, pinched her lips together to stem the prick of nearby tears.

“Grant died ten months ago. Ten months tod—yesterday.”

“Ten months to the day?” Natalie lifted an eyebrow at her nod. “Well.” She made a notation. “Can you tell me what happened to him?”

What would Grant say if he knew she’d lost their precious child? Or did he already know? Was Aimee with him?

No! Please God, not Aimee, too.

Come home, sweetheart. Please come home to me.

Shelby closed her eyes, drew several deep breaths, then dashed away the storm of tears.

The policewoman studied her as if she wasn’t sure what to do next, then she reached out for the tissue box and held it toward Shelby. Another detail to store—the woman was good at reading people. But then she would be, in her job.

Shelby took one, wadded the softness into a ball and forced herself to go back in time.

“I’m sure this is all in your files,” she muttered, unable to quench the bitterness that always boiled up at the unfairness of it. “You’d only have to read it.”

“I’d rather you told me.”

“Fine.” Shelby unclenched her fists and began. “We owned—I own a business called Finders, Inc. Someone asks us to recover something they’ve lost—stolen art, heirloom jewelry, that sort of thing. Or they ask us to find someone they need to get in touch with—a friend, a brother, heirs. We employ a team of specialized investigators who are trained to discreetly locate these things or people and, if possible, restore them to the client. At the time of his death, Grant was working on a project.”

The utter silliness of those words struck Shelby as she said them. Grant was always working on a project. He loved nothing more than the thrill of the chase, the rush of tracking down a special order and presenting it to a buyer with that grand flourish only he could pull off. He would never do it again.

Would it be the same with Aimee?

No! She wouldn’t think that. Stabs of pain radiated from behind her eyes. She squeezed them closed, breathing deeply to regain control. Focus, she ordered her brain.

“Can you go on?”

“Yes.” Shelby forced herself to speak of a time when life had been simple, happy. “The thing you need to understand is that I didn’t work Grant’s case.” She struggled to pull up whatever scant details her brain possessed. “Anything I say is secondhand information. I don’t know many of the particulars, but that he’d been hired to find something a client had lost years ago—in Europe, I think. At one point Grant had information that the object was in Greece, but the lead never panned out. He’d returned and was following something new when the ex-explosion took place. He was killed in the fire.” She bit her lip, the loss bitter still.

“I see.” Natalie wrote something on her little black pad in precise letters. She tapped a pencil against the paper. “Can you tell me what the object was?”

Shelby and Grant had created two rules when they’d developed their plans for Finders, Inc. He’d insisted that in order to protect themselves, they must refuse to be involved in anything illegal. The second rule was Shelby’s idea—once accepted, Finders would always finish the case. Underlying both rules lay the implicit understanding that a client’s identity would never be revealed.

Finders never broke a confidence. Never.

“Why would you need to know that?” Shelby took a second assessing look at the detective who appeared more like a model. “My husband is dead. Are you implying that Aimee was taken because of something he couldn’t find? Are you implying that she, too, might be dead?” She could barely say it. Only by clenching her fists could she force the unspeakable words past her lips, even while steeling herself for the worst.

“I’m not saying that. No! Not at all.” Natalie’s warm hand closed over Shelby’s. “Please don’t think that for a moment. But if we knew who his client was, what he was searching for and why, we might have an idea about who may be behind Aimee’s abduction. Perhaps your client was angry that your husband didn’t find his or her item. Perhaps your husband did find it and sold it elsewhere.” She held up a hand as Shelby began to protest. “It’s all supposition, but barring any other leads, I have to consider every angle. We want to find your daughter, Mrs. Kincaid.”

Was this woman trying to smear Grant’s reputation? Would that help her find Aimee? Shelby hated her sudden suspicion of everyone, of every situation. Grant would never have endangered her or Aimee. Never.

If Aimee was all right, then she was being held by someone. But there had been no ransom request. Nothing made sense. Who would steal a child from her home, from the mother who loved her beyond anything else in the world, for no reason?

“I can’t imagine what any of Grant’s work would have to do with Aimee’s abduction. And remember, my husband died ten months ago. Why wait this long?” She saw Natalie’s lips part and realized she was wasting time by arguing. “Never mind. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“Just tell me what you can recall.”

Shelby thought for a moment, organizing the bits of information her brain had retained.

“I never knew exactly what my husband was trying to recover. I was busy, working my own cases. When we were home, we deliberately focused on each other and our child, not on work. I do remember that Grant said his client was an older woman—over ninety, I think.” Was that what he’d said? Shelby reconsidered. “Or maybe the client hired him to find someone over ninety. Anyway, age was one reason why he wanted to conclude his investigation quickly.”

She reached toward the phone.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the client’s name offhand, but I can find out if you must know. Though I can hardly imagine she’d be a threat.”

Natalie frowned, shook her head.

“No. You’re probably right, a woman that old wouldn’t be involved in kidnapping. Perhaps something else connected with the business then? Some new client whom you’ve offended in some way?” she asked hopefully.

Shelby shook her head.

“Not me. Since Grant’s death, I haven’t even gone in to the office. Daniel, that’s Daniel McCullough, is in charge now. He was one of our operatives, but he’d ceased most of his fieldwork and begun to fill a role as coordinator when the business grew too much for Grant and I. Since Grant’s—well, lately Daniel’s been handling everything. If you want to know about other clients, you’d have to talk to him.”

“Okay. I’ll call him later. He’s trustworthy?”

“Completely.” At least there Shelby had no hesitation.

“Good. Now, I have more questions for you.”

Shelby rose, her mind moving into the automatic mode it would have used if this had been someone else’s child she’d been hired to find.

“Yes. You’ll want a picture, of course.” She started toward the door, but was prevented from moving by a firm hand on her arm.

“It’s okay, Shelby. We already have one. Your neighbor came over a few minutes ago. He woke up, saw the cars and was worried about you. He found a photo of himself and Aimee. We’re using that. For now.”

There was a look on Natalie’s face that Shelby didn’t understand.

“Tim? Tim is here?” She looked around, then realized that they would keep him away from her until they had all their answers. “Thank you, Lord, for Tim.”

“How well do you know Tim Austen, Shelby?”

Some flicker in the detective’s midnight-blue eyes added a waver of unease to the moment. Shelby frowned. There was something suspicious in her question.

“How well?” She shrugged. “As well as I know most people. Better, actually. He’s lived next door for about six months. No, maybe it’s been longer than that.” She drew a hand through her mussed-up hair and realized she hadn’t combed it, hadn’t yet showered. As if that mattered.

“I don’t remember exactly when Tim bought the house. But he never knew Grant. He came after that.” She smiled. “Aimee loves Tim. And he loves her. Tim often used to watch her playing while I was busy arranging details for the garden.”

“The garden?” Natalie stood at the window, her eyes on the newly tilled earth beyond the windows.

Shelby sucked in a breath of courage. Rehashing all these details seemed futile to her, but she supposed the police had to start somewhere.

“The rose garden. Yes.” She walked to the doors, pulled them open and motioned to the area beyond. “My husband loved roses. This was his garden. I’m working on plans to make this house and its grounds a public attraction, as a sort of memorial to him. He’d want to share the beauty he and Gran planned. Grant was my grandmother’s soul mate when it came to roses.” She couldn’t help the little smile that bubbled up at the memories.

Natalie scribbled in her book.

“The two of them had this saying: ‘The secrets of the rose can teach you about life.’” Clear as a bell, she heard Grant’s voice repeating the familiar phrase, his hands grimy with soil, face flushed from the sun, his grin radiant. He was so real in that moment, she could have believed he was standing there.

Then, like a mirage, the image dissipated, and she was alone.

Again.

Shelby swallowed, stared at the bush nearest the doors, the last one Grant had planted. Deep Secret he’d named it.

“Anyway, that’s my plan,” she murmured. “Aimee and I don’t need all this room.” Not anymore. Not with just the two of them.

Or would there now be only one person living in her grandmother’s home? She pushed away the ugly thought, concentrated on the detective. “Anything else you need to know?”

“You grew up in this house?” Natalie Brazier seemed surprised.

“With my grandmother, yes. My parents died when I was young. Gran took me in, cared for me, loved me. She helped erase—” Just in time Shelby stopped herself. There was no point in rehashing her childhood. “I was a researcher. This was home base. She told me it would always be mine. That was after I’d come back from Istanbul. I was hired to retrieve a painting for a museum. I met Grant in Istanbul.”

Shelby watched the men moving methodically across her lawn, knew they were police, scouring the ground for any clue they might find.

“Look, none of that past history matters, does it? I just want to find my daughter.” Her arms ached to hold that squirming little body, to feel those pudgy hands cup her face, kiss her cheek with a sticky sweetness that mere water couldn’t wash away. Would she ever feel that again?

“We’re trying, Shelby. Humor me, will you?”

As if she had a choice? Shelby let her glance slide around the room, felt a stab of anguish when it came upon the Christmas portrait they’d had taken the summer before, while the roses still bloomed. Aimee, beautiful beyond description in her white fairy-princess dress, as she called it. Grant, brown and fit from that trip to Greece, with his arms around “his girls.” Herself, grinning, blissfully happy, totally unaware her world would soon shatter. In the weeks and months that followed, Aimee was the reason she’d hung on, kept it together. The Christmas cards with the picture sat in the basement yet, still boxed, never to be sent. But this one photo she kept up here. It helped ease the loss of Grant somehow, helped her remember to be grateful she had his child to love.

Aimee. Her baby. If Aimee didn’t come home…Fear for her beloved girl clawed at her. She was so tiny, so innocent. Shelby’s heart shuddered. She could no more stop her tears than the rush of love that welled up inside her.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized over and over, “I can’t seem to stop crying.”

“You go ahead and cry if you want. Believe me, I understand.” Obviously uncomfortable, Natalie got up, walked around the room. “This is an interesting old house. How many rooms are there?”

“H-how many rooms?” Shelby considered it a most dubious inquiry to make at this particular time and began to wonder about Natalie’s experience in cases such as this. Shelby’s patience was running short, she wanted action. “I don’t know how many rooms there are. I never counted them.”

“Did your husband mind living here?”

Shelby blinked. She’d always assumed Grant had loved the old place as much as she. But she realized now that she’d never outright asked him. Something else there hadn’t been time to do.

“He always said he liked this room the most. We couldn’t have bought anything like this house, not at first, certainly not until we got the business off the ground. But it was my grandmother’s home and she didn’t want to leave. It seemed easier to move in with her when she started to fail, give her those last few years in the place she loved, among her roses. Of course, when Aimee came, we were glad she was near, that she could watch her great-granddaughter grow up.”

She knew she was babbling and grasped for control. Suddenly a new thought hit. Shelby felt her eyes widen, knew she was staring at Natalie. She should have expected this!

“What’s wrong, Shelby?”

“I know how this works,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s the percentage of parental involvement in cases of missing children—eighty per cent?” She glared at Natalie. “You suspect I may have had something to do with my daughter’s disappearance. That’s why you questioned me about the garden. You think I buried her?” She stopped, regained control, then continued. “Well, I didn’t! Search every room, go through every yard of the grounds. Tear them up if you want to. I don’t care. But you’re wasting time and I don’t know how much time Aimee has!”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything.” The hollowness of the words echoed around the room. “It’s standard procedure.”

“I don’t care about procedure. Just find my daughter,” she ordered through clenched teeth.

“Shelby, I wasn’t trying—”

“Listen to me, Detective. I love my daughter more than my life. I’ll give anything I possess to get Aimee back, do anything I need to. I don’t care how much it costs, I don’t care what extremes we have to go to. I just want her back—safe. Do you understand?”

Natalie didn’t answer immediately. Instead she walked across the room, sat down, leaned back against the sofa, her face inscrutable. Finally she broke the silence.

“All right. Let’s find Aimee.”

TWO

“I hope I’m not intruding. I saw you sitting out here, and wondered if there was something I could do.”

Tim Austen’s quiet voice roused Shelby from her contemplation of the hedge beyond. She blinked away the shadows, watched him shift from one foot to the other, hands thrust into his pants. In all the time she’d known him, her neighbor had always looked perfectly comfortable here. Now he seemed oddly fretful and that surprised her.

Of course, this wasn’t any ordinary day. Tim’s sandy-brown hair stood in bed-head tufts all over, as if he hadn’t taken time to comb it. His rumpled beige corduroy pants bagged at the knees. The worn flannel shirt he favored now hung partially untucked, a clear sign of his distress. Normally Tim was fastidious about his clothing. Sympathy tugged at her. He was missing that effervescent five-year-old as much as she was.

He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then finally spoke. “Are you all right?”

“No.” She motioned to the chair opposite. The tears had stopped. Now she was drained of everything. The first few hours after an abduction were crucial. How long had it been since they’d taken her?

“Shelby?”

She glanced up, saw his concern. “I’m not all right, Tim. I want my daughter back.”

“I know you do. But Aimee is fine, Shelby. We have to believe that.” He stared at her, his eyes filled with shadows. “The writing said she was safe.”

He must know how ridiculous that sounded. To believe a promise scribbled on a mirror? Frustration at his gullibility nipped at her heart and tumbled out in the tone of her words.

“I don’t believe that. And neither do you. She was safe here with me, Tim. Happy and healthy and loved. How can she be safe away from the one who loves her most? That’s ridiculous!” The angry words emerged harsh and bitter, but it felt good to finally unleash some of the violence that whirled inside her.

Tim jerked back as if he’d been stung, eyes wide with surprise.

Shelby knew she should apologize, but she couldn’t. Not now, when she’d been waiting on tenterhooks all day and all night for something, some tiny ray of hope to cling to.

“You really want me to trust the scribblings of a kidnapper?” She shook her head, her freshly washed hair bouncing from shoulder to shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

“But Shelby, you have to have faith. You have to. You’re the one who said God…” Clearly worried by her angry glare, he flopped into her white wicker chair, crossed one leg over his knee, then took it down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I saw you sitting here and knew you couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d keep you company but I’m making things worse. You look tired.”

Tired? If only that’s all it was.

The mirror hadn’t been kind earlier. Shelby knew her hair was a mess, unstyled, frizzy, dangling around her face like a mop. Pushing it behind her ears only emphasized the lines under her eyes, the down-turning pull of frustration at the corners of her mouth, but she hadn’t wanted to waste time on makeup or hairstyling. She’d made it in and out of the shower in four minutes, lest she miss the kidnapper’s call for ransom.

Only there hadn’t been any call.

“I heard them talking, you know, Tim, the police manning the phones.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see the pity on his face. “I went down around midnight to get a drink. They thought I was upstairs resting so they were talking openly. They’re just as worried as I am that no demand has been made.”

He frowned, glared over one shoulder at her house, as if he could transmit his thoughts through the walls.

“I don’t imagine they know that much about kidnapping,” he offered. “I don’t think it happens all that often in a city as quiet as Victoria.”

“It’s not just the local police involved now. They’ve called in the RCMP, a missing persons unit, and I don’t know who else. I don’t really care who they call, as long as they find my daughter. But how can that happen when they have no leads, no suspects, nothing to go on? The neighbors weren’t even awake.” She lifted her head, caught a strange expression on his face. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”

He was about to answer, but Shelby forestalled him, held up a hand. She already knew what he’d say.

“No, of course you didn’t. You were asleep like the rest of the world.” Bitter disappointment nipped at her. No chance of a lead here. “Anyway, I’d imagine the police have already asked you that question, haven’t they?”

“Several times.” Tim reached out, touched her arm. “But I’d answer it a hundred times if I thought it would help. I’d do anything to spare you this pain.” He gulped, swallowed. “I love that little girl, too. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Shelby covered his hand with her own, moved by the tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry I sound so cross with you. I’m just…afraid.”

His fingers squeezed hers but didn’t let go. The warmth transmitting from his hand to hers eased the sense of loneliness she’d felt earlier. The hushed night sounds slowly died away. To the east, the horizon began to lighten with its first predawn glimmers. Shelby had always loved the early morning. It was as if God was saying, “Here, I’m giving you another chance. A new day, fresh and clean. Do something wonderful with it.”

What was He saying this morning? Would today bring Aimee home?

“It’s hard to keep hoping, Tim,” she whispered. “All the terrible things you hear that happen to kids—they come back when the night is quiet and there’s nothing to hold back the fear. They replay over and over.” She caught her breath, fought to steady her voice. “In my mind I keep hearing those news reports about that little girl that was abducted last winter. What if Aimee—”

“No!” He jumped to his feet, his color high, eyes blazing. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it! Until we know differently, Aimee is fine. Do you hear me? She’s fine!”

Startled by his vehemence, Shelby stared as Tim paced across the patio. Then he seemed to regroup.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his face drawn in a tight mask. “But I can’t bear to think like that. Please, have some faith, Shelby. Just a little bit of faith.”

She wondered if his reaction had something to do with his past. He’d never told her more than that an accident had caused the scars covering his face and hands. His words penetrated.

“Faith? What exactly does that mean, Tim? I’ve always wondered. Do you keep hoping when everything seems to be telling you there is no hope?”

He shook his head. “It’s not what you hope. It’s Who you hope in. Isn’t that what Aimee’s always singing about?”

The reminder resonated within her. If ever there was a child of hope, that child was Aimee. They’d waited so long for her—five long years when Shelby had secretly feared she and Grant would never have a child. And then Aimee arrived. From her very first day, she’d been a happy, contented baby. She’s spoken earlier than usual, her voice a soft musical tone to her parents’ ears.

By two she was repeating everything she heard, accompanying the words with a tune she composed inside her brain. Oh those songs! Songs of joy, of happiness, of wonder. Songs of hope. Shelby had to believe that precious voice would not be silenced.

She heard a sound behind her, twisted to see who was there. Natalie stood tall, silent, hands hanging at her side. She had an odd look on her face, as if something had surprised her.

“Is anything wrong?” Shelby asked the detective.

“I’m not sure. There’s a man here, Daniel McCullough. I believe you told me he runs your company.” Natalie’s elegant demeanor appeared barely disturbed by her night on the sofa after she’d refused to accept one of the many spare bedrooms Esmeralda kept prepared. “He says he must see you.”

“Daniel’s here? At this hour?” Shelby rose. “Where is he?”

“I’m here, Shel.” He’d trailed behind Natalie and now eased past her. “I know the police don’t want me here, that you’re expecting to hear something. Or maybe you already have?” One bushy eyebrow rose expectantly.

Shelby shook her head, swallowed the lump lodged halfway down her throat.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” One hand reached out to brush her shoulder. His thin body sagged at the news, as if he, too, felt the loss of the small, bustling girl who’d called him “Unca Dan” from the first time she’d spoken.

Shelby cleared her throat. “You said you needed me. What is it, Daniel?”

“This.” He thrust out a small, brown padded envelope toward her. “I don’t know when it came in. I’ll check as soon as the regular staff gets in, but I found it on your desk this morning when I arrived. I figured it might be important, maybe something about Aimee.”

Daniel always arrived at work in the early hours—that was nothing new. But going into her office without calling to ask—that was unusual. Still, she’d called him last night, told him about Aimee. Maybe he’d had an idea to help. She glanced down.

“Who would send me something via Finders?” she murmured, turning the envelope over and over. There was no return address, no markings of any kind, other than the scribbled letters of her name. “I haven’t been in my office in months.”

“Which is why I don’t think it came through the mail. There’s no postage, for one thing. And Joanie knows to route all your stuff here.”

Daniel often neglected to eat, so that his body had learned to run on adrenaline. Shelby recognized the telltale signs from his glittering eyes and knew adrenaline was pouring through his veins now. He shifted from one foot to the other, shoved his hands into his pockets, then reversed his action and dangled them at his sides. Finally he clasped them behind his back. His amber eyes, framed by the narrow black glasses he’d begun wearing lately, honed in on the envelope like a missile locked on target.

“Could it be important?”

Shelby shrugged, glanced at Natalie for direction. But the stylishly competent officer seemed confused by her scrutiny of Tim.

“Natalie? Am I supposed to open it, or wait for fingerprints, or what?” Shelby prodded.

Natalie metamorphosed as she straightened her shoulders, the in-charge persona firmly back in place.

“I suspect Daniel’s prints, and yours, have already obscured whatever was on it, and that whoever sent this was very careful not to leave a trace, but we’ll try all the same.” She drew two surgical gloves from her pocket. “Let me open it.”

Shelby had to force herself to hand it over. She wanted to rip the envelope open and examine its contents. One part of her warned that they were probably nothing. The other part of her wanted desperately to believe that something inside that thick brown paper would lead them straight to her daughter.

Natalie examined the envelope in minute detail.

“Too thin to be a bomb,” Tim told her, his voice quiet.

Natalie quirked an eyebrow at him. Shelby saw the flash of sparks, knew that neither completely trusted the other. It was odd, really. Tim was usually so easygoing.

“And you know this because…?”

“I’ve read up on it. I had to do some research.” His chin thrust out in a belligerent jut meant to resist her attitude. “I do a lot of research. It’s crucial to my work.”

Shelby ignored the scowl. “You read about bombs to write children’s books?” Now she was curious about her unusual neighbor.

“Can we just open it?” Daniel had obviously lost patience. He reached out as if to wrest the envelope from Natalie.

“Sure. But I’ll do it out here.” With one lithe twist, Natalie moved out of his reach, strode to a patch of grass, fifty feet from the house. “Ready?” She slit the package, turned it upside down.

Something small and gold slipped onto the grass. Something very familiar.

Shelby flopped onto the grass, reached out to gather Aimee’s locket into her hands.

“Don’t touch it!”

The warning came from two sets of lips. Tim looked chagrined, Natalie furious. He stood silent as the cop grabbed the radio from her belt and called headquarters to request a fingerprint technician. That done, she pulled off one glove, handed the locket to Shelby and told her to look inside.

She didn’t have to look, of course. She knew that locket, had helped Grant choose it for their daughter’s fourth birthday. The tiny scrolled lettering in the heart on the front read Aimee. Inside were two pictures, hers and Grant’s. But there was also a slip of paper, much like the one found inside fortune cookies.

“There’s something here,” she mumbled, unnecessarily as it happened, for the others were already gathered around her, watching.

“Finders, Inc.?” Daniel scowled at the name on the paper. “Someone’s playing a trick We didn’t take her.”

“Finders, Inc. That’s the name of your business, right? And they took the trouble to print it and stick it inside the necklace.” Natalie pinched the paper between two gloved fingers and turned it over. The same words appeared on the back. Finders, Inc.

“Yes.” Shelby was just as puzzled as Daniel, but she picked up on the speculative tone of Natalie’s voice. “Why, I wonder?”

“Look inside the envelope. Maybe there’s something else.” Tim squatted beside her, his face inscrutable as he watched the way Natalie carefully examined the interior. “There’s a note.”

“I can see that, Mr. Austen.”

Everyone’s attention focused on the envelope as a slip of paper fell out. Shelby stared at the sprawl of childish letters across notepaper with the Finders logo printed across the top.

Aimee is safe. Don’t worry.

“Don’t worry?” Shelby snorted. “As if!” She watched Natalie turn the paper over, scrutinize the back. “Why is this written on company stationery?”

“Exactly my question. This handwriting looks like a child’s.”

“It’s not Aimee’s. She always makes the A in her name very decorative.”

Natalie’s intense inspection seemed completed. She replaced the paper in the envelope and put both it and the locket in a plastic bag she had pulled from her pocket, then looked at Shelby. “I think we’d better begin investigating your company, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“Us?” Daniel shook his head. “But why? What possible reason could one of our employees have for taking her child? We return things, we don’t steal them.”

“Can you tell me who else would have access to your letterhead, your company notepaper? The general public?”

Flustered, Daniel opened his mouth, closed it, then finally spoke. “N-no. But—”

“Actually, a number of people could have found a sheet of it.” Shelby rose. “I have several pads of that very notepaper in the house. I know there’s a pad on Grant’s—that is, the desk in the study. And probably one by the phone in the kitchen, as well.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I used to scribble notes to myself on them and I often carried a pad home with me. There must be a number of them around. Whoever took Aimee could have easily taken a single sheet, or a whole pad, for that matter—if they’d been in this house before. And they must have, to get in so easily. Don’t you think?”

“This case is a puzzle within a puzzle.” Natalie’s epithet was terse and short, spat out in a whorl of frustration. “No apparent motive, no ransom note or call, no tracks. No fingerprints. No clues until today, and now this one is tainted.”

Then, as if suddenly aware that she had an audience, she straightened, called over a waiting technician and handed him the evidence.

“So what do we do now?” Shelby asked when it became clear that Natalie wasn’t going to volunteer any opinion on the state of her investigation.

“We wait. If your, er, manager?—will give me the names of your employees, I’ll have someone check them out.”

Daniel glanced at Shelby, and in one imperceptible movement of his head transmitted a no. That could only mean that right now he had someone conducting a sensitive search. Police investigations would mess that up.

“I’ll go you one better. I’ll check them out myself.”

The idea had burst upon Shelby only a moment before when she’d seen the company logo on that slip of paper, but it was a good one. She was sick and tired of sitting around, waiting. She needed to do something, anything, to help find Aimee. Checking out employees who had already passed an extremely thorough investigation would be little more than busywork, but at least she could prove that her employees were trustworthy.

“You? But we need you here.”

“Why?” She faced Natalie head-on, saw the confusion in her eyes and realized she had to soften her tone. Natalie was not the source of her frustration. “You and I both know there isn’t going to be a ransom call, Detective. Not after this long. Anyway, I don’t think taking Aimee was about money. It’s about something else. Right now, I don’t know what that could be, but maybe I’ll uncover something at work.”

She knew it sounded weak, as if she was running away. But she had to do something!

“I can’t sit here, waiting for the phone to ring, asking myself a thousand times why I didn’t rush in there and stop whoever did this, blaming myself for her disappearance. I have to act. Can’t you understand that?”

“I can.” Tim stepped forward, patted her on the shoulder. “And I think it’s a good idea.” He turned to Natalie. “Surely you and your team wouldn’t turn down whatever help Shelby’s company can offer? After all, Finders has a sophisticated system dedicated to finding people and recovering lost things. Maybe they could help your…er…department?”

The faintly challenging note in his voice puzzled Shelby. What was he implying?

“You don’t think my office or the police department is handling this case properly?” Natalie’s tone was icy.

“I never said that.”

“You’ve hinted at it more than once.” Natalie shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I don’t really care what you think, Mr. Austen.” She laid heavy emphasis on his last name. “I’m in charge here and I intend to find that little girl.” She nodded at Shelby. “Go ahead. Do your checks. You’ve got files on everyone, I imagine?”

“We have.” Daniel smiled.

“I’ll want to see them.”

“I can arrange for copies to be sent to your office, but you don’t have to bother. If anyone can find out something that’s not obvious, it’s Shelby. Research is what she does best. No stone unturned.” He held out his arms. “I know it’s not the best of circumstances, but welcome back, Shel.”

“Thanks. I think.” She returned his hug. Already Shelby felt better, as if she could somehow come to grips with this by doing something to help Aimee.

Natalie watched them, her veiled glance hiding her true feelings.

“Anything, however small, that could connect your daughter to someone in your company is what we’re looking for.” She waited for Shelby’s nod of understanding. “We’re patched into your phone here in case something comes through, but I expect you to contact me immediately if you find anything. Anything,” she repeated with emphasis.

“Of course. We have worked with the police before, you know, Natalie. We also have a very secure method of screening incoming calls to Finders, Inc. I’m not unfamiliar with the way things are done.” Shelby frowned. “I certainly wouldn’t dream of holding anything back that could jeopardize the safe return of my child.”

The detective’s cheeks flushed, but all she said was, “Right,” before she turned and walked back inside.

“Bossy, overbearing, pushy…” Tim ran out of words.

“What’s going on with you two?” Shelby was curious about his attitude. “You’ve been at loggerheads ever since you met.”

“Something about her bugs me. I don’t know what it could be, other than the aforementioned attribute of pure bossiness.” Tim shook his head. “Forget about our personality differences, Shelby. Go and do what you have to do.”

“I’ll do it,” she agreed. “But I hate it. We screen very carefully. Once our staff have been cleared, we do periodic updates and yearly investigations. It’s all part of the very specialized work we do. I don’t see how anyone in our offices could be implicated in this.”

“Nor do I.” Daniel walked along beside them, his forehead pleated in a frown. “But I’ll be glad to have you there, Shelby. I’d like to keep this as low profile as we can.”

“Is something wrong with the company, Daniel?”

He appeared to debate his answer. Finally he spoke, his voice soft, reflective. “Now’s not the time to burden you with work, Shel. Let’s just concentrate on Aimee. The rest can wait for a more appropriate time.”

He wasn’t telling her everything, and she knew it. But for now, Shelby wouldn’t press him. Daniel might be holding his own counsel until they could speak freely. Or he might not yet be sure of his facts. One thing she knew—Daniel was as loyal as any of her employees. Grant had trusted him implicitly. So did she.

Daniel may not want to bother her now, but if something was seriously wrong at Finders, she intended to find out during her own probe. Finders, Inc. had gained its reputation because of its specialized capability to locate and recover without eliciting undue attention. One rotten apple could spoil the entire business; seriously threaten their ability to handle confidential work, especially those government contracts they periodically won. So she’d do whatever she could to ensure that Daniel’s investigation would stay hush-hush. For now.

Shelby left home to the tune of Esmeralda’s grumblings about the policemen who’d moved into the house she’d lovingly cared for these past twenty years, men who couldn’t get enough of her double chocolate cookies, men who left footprints from the rose garden on her clean carpet. Shelby left, knowing the older woman was just as upset about losing Aimee as she was. Looking after the officers would keep Esmeralda busy.

But as Shelby drove through the security gates and onto the lot of the company that she and Grant had built, a shiver of trepidation crept up her spine—which was probably natural. After all, she hadn’t returned to Finders since Grant’s death. Perhaps that accounted for the foreboding she felt as she watched the security camera track her steps, punched in her pass code to transmit the secure sequence that sent the elevator to the top floor. The feeling didn’t lessen when she unlocked her office door.

Everything was as she’d left it, though Joanie, her secretary, had already pulled the files and placed them on her desk. And apparently the cleaners had also been in for there wasn’t a speck of dust on the clear glass surfaces. When she caught a glimpse of the photo on her desk, a snapshot of her and Grant laughing at each other on a catamaran off the Sicilian coast, her heart took over and she struggled to remain calm.

He’d died here, on these grounds.

The knowledge stabbed anew, but time had taught her how to handle the pain. Shelby drew in deep breaths, forced herself to turn away, focus on the names numbered on a list beside the files. She sank down in the comfortable chair and began an intense scrutiny of each. When Shelby glanced up two hours later she was not a whit closer to finding a betrayer.

Aimee’s photo on the window ledge stared at her, the image so real she reached out to touch it before reality impinged.

Why had she thought she’d find an answer here?

Whoever had taken Aimee had gone to incredible lengths to leave no trace.

Her field staff were skilled at concealing themselves in any situation. She and Grant had trained them to be resourceful and as far as she could tell no one had stepped over the company line by even a feather. In fact, during the past ten months they’d honed their skills, adapted, changed, while she’d remained at home. Now she needed to be sharper than they. It was possible that Shelby had lost the edge that had once made her the best tracker in the world.

But she intended to get it back.

THREE

“I must see her now.”

The strident voice from the hallway drew Shelby’s attention from the information she’d found. She glanced at the door, blinked several times to refocus her eyes, bleary now from studying her computer screen. But when the noise outside didn’t abate, she got up, walked over and pulled the heavy door open. So much for soundproofing.

“Joanie?” She looked for her secretary, saw her face-to-face with Russ Carson.

“I’m sorry, Shel. Apparently he doesn’t understand English very well.”

She knew Russ had taken Joanie’s words as an implied slam against his foreign birth because two spots of angry red colored Russ’s sharply chiseled cheekbones. If ever there were prototypical face and body features for a spy, Shelby had long ago decided that Russ had them. He didn’t possess the suave debonair style of a spy from a movie, but with his gaunt body and sharply honed features, he certainly looked like someone who’d come in from the cold and never warmed up. Of course, Russ dressed specifically to enhance the tough-guy effect with lean-fitting jeans, a black turtleneck and always a black leather jacket.

“Have we got a problem here, Russ?” Shelby modulated her voice to its mildest tone. With the company since its inception, Russ would no doubt recognize she barely controlled her temper, but right now Shelby didn’t care. She needed to make progress if Aimee was to be found and thanks to his interruption, she was getting nowhere fast.

Russ assessed her from between narrowed eyes. Finally he shook his head, his shoulders dropped their arrogant slant. But he didn’t back down.

“There is no problem here. But I must speak to you, Shelby. It is very important.” As usual when Russ was excited, his accent became more pronounced in spite of his attempts to cover it. Each word he spoke was precisely enunciated, but doing so slowed his sentences to a stilting structure that only emphasized his language difference.

“I’m busy right now, Russ. I’m sure Joanie told you that.” She turned, moved toward her office. “We can reminisce later.”

“Reminisce?” He shook his head. “I do not speak of the past. The present is what concerns me. You cannot find the little Aimee without help, Shelby. I am that help.”

Something in the timbre of his voice stopped her. She turned, scrutinized him.

“You? What do you know about Aimee’s disappearance?” she demanded, mentally running through his history with the company.

Russ Carson—Grant’s partner in past covert operations that neither had ever openly discussed—knew exactly how to get in and out of a building without being detected and his means did not employ disguise. Perhaps Natalie was right to suspect Finders’ staff. Russ certainly had the training and know-how to carry out an abduction. But it made no sense for him to take Aimee. He loved her, she’d seen that for herself a thousand times over.

Shelby told herself to get a grip. Suspecting every person who crossed her path wouldn’t help. Answers, not speculations, she reminded herself.

“What do you know about my daughter, Russ?”

“Probably less than you, right now.” He shrugged. “But I do know the police are not as efficient as we are in these matters.”

“By we, I’m assuming you mean Finders?”

“But of course.” He stepped closer, dropped his voice. “I have been doing this work for years. I know my record, and so do you. I get results.” The proud arrogance was back. “I’ve found a hundred items, located people no one else could find through sources no one else can use.” His voice dropped, his accent grew more pronounced. “I can find the little one, Shelby. Give me the chance. For Grant’s sake.”

She’d just spent four grueling hours sifting through a plethora of documents, and nothing, not one single clue had emerged. She was no closer to finding her daughter than the police were. There was no way to tell how much longer she had before the kidnappers did something drastic.

If they hadn’t already.

Shelby made up her mind in that instant. “Come in here, Russ.”

He followed her into her office, his kid leather boots making no sound on the hard tiled floor. Russ was like a panther, he could move faster, quieter, than anyone she’d ever met. His passport might say American, but thanks to his foreign birth and his father’s diplomatic status, he also had more connections than any other agent they employed. Maybe, just maybe…

“I’m quite sure the police wouldn’t appreciate the aspersions you just cast on them, Russ.” She smiled. “But you’ve got a point, and right now I don’t care about what the police think. I want my daughter back. This is where we are so far.” She laid out the sequence of events for him in crisp, concise points, knowing that even though he took no notes, his brain would absorb every detail. When it came to information, Russ’s mind worked like a microcomputer.

“So the police think that because this note was written on our company paper, the abductor is one of us.” He raised one eyebrow. “This is also what you think?”

“I can’t afford to write anyone off. I want my child back. That’s my primary goal here.” She met his gaze, held it. “I won’t lose her, Russ. I will not lose another member of my family. Do you understand me?”

His eyes flickered, lost their clear blue sheen and turned the gray of a Russian blizzard.

“I understand.” His confident voice changed, the inflection soft, entreating. “The death of Grant changed all of us. But I am here to help, Shelby. I would never allow his child to be hurt. Never.” He muttered something unintelligible, probably one of the foreign idioms he often used but seldom explained.

Shelby knew the decision was hers. She could authorize him to go ahead and conduct his search, or she could reject his help. Which probably meant he’d keep right on looking anyway. Russ didn’t give a fig for authority figures. But his search might go faster if she approved it.

Shelby was reminded of Russ’s visit to their home last Christmas, how he’d comforted Aimee with tales of his grandfather and the things he’d done to make Russ’s childhood Christmases special.

He must have seen the decision in her eyes.

“All right. We begin now. You will tell me all, please, Shelby. The police, what have they done?”

She told him what she knew, which wasn’t much.

“Imbeciles.” He kissed his fingers into the wind. “I could get more from a stone. No prints, no tracks, no knowledge of how the security was breached? It is preposterous!” He turned, strode to the door and yanked it open.

“Where are you going? What about these files?” she demanded, frustrated by his whirlwind exit. But then Russ had always ignored the usual routes, had always forged his own way. In the past, Grant had sometimes chastised him for rushing in. But Russ got results. At the moment, Shelby wasn’t about to question him on his methods. That could come later. If he found something.

Russ held the door open with the toe of his boot.

“I do not believe the answers lie in your files, Shelby. But before I know where to begin, I must have more information. I will get it. Now.” He disappeared out the door.

“Well, thanks for the help.” She sighed. Personally she, too, was less than convinced that the abductor was among her staff but she wouldn’t quit until she’d ruled everyone out. It was boring, lonely work that she despised. These were her friends, her coworkers. Or they had been. It seemed disloyal, even hateful to suspect one of them of doing this.

Shelby flopped down in her chair, staring out the window at the fading sun. Her glance landed on the picture on her desk and she picked it up, stared into the cherubic face with its feathery-blond hair, button nose and Grant’s wise eyes.

“Where are you, sweetheart?” she whispered. “Please help Mommy find you.”

She longed to feel those chubby fingers tickle her neck, yearned to hear that high-pitched voice squeal with delight. It had taken so long to accept Grant’s death as part of God’s plan. Even now she still had questions. But taking Aimee, too—surely God didn’t want that?

“I love her so much, God. I want her to come home so we can make our double fudge strawberry peach sundaes.” The tears would not be stopped. “I want her to come home because I don’t think I can look after our butterfly garden without her help. I don’t think I can go on if she’s not there, God. Please send her home.”

The silence in her office was exactly what she’d craved earlier. But now Shelby would have gladly exchanged it for just one of Aimee’s giggles.

“God, you know what’s happening. You know where she is. Please keep her safe. Please don’t let anyone touch—” She gulped down the words, refused to say them. “You love her more than I ever could. Please bring my child back to me.”

Shelby opened her eyes, stared at the beloved face once more. As she did, she felt the band of tension around her heart begin to ease. God knew what she was going through. He understood. In the depths of her mind, she comprehended that He was in complete control of everything that happened to her. But somehow she wished she understood why He’d allowed this.

She remembered Tim’s words. A little bit of faith.

Right now, that’s about all she had.

She replaced the photo and, with a sigh, turned back to the computer. God would do His part. Now it was time for her to do hers.

By the time Shelby had completed the last of the files, the clock on her computer read 10:45. She’d checked in twice with Natalie. No call had come in regarding Aimee’s whereabouts, no ransom call had been made. No note had been delivered, no new evidence reported. Natalie sounded curt, as if she were holding back her temper when she said Russ had dropped by the house. So had Tim.

In an odd way, Shelby understood Natalie’s frustration, knew exactly how she felt. They had all gone over and over the same things. If there had been some tiny clue to latch onto and ferret out, she could sink her teeth into it, bury herself in figuring it out. But there was nothing. Whoever had done this knew exactly what he was doing and had left no trace evidence, no witnesses to their silent departure, not even any footprints in the freshly turned soil below Aimee’s window. Natalie must be as frustrated as she.

For Shelby there was no reason to go home. The house was empty without her daughter. But she did need to rest, shower, change clothes. Besides, if she hung on to that crumb of faith, maybe tonight the nightmare would end.

Reluctant to stop, but well aware that she’d made little progress, Shelby logged off, secured the file with her password and waited while the machine shut down. It seemed to take longer than usual and she made a mental note to have the company technician check for malfunctions. She locked the files in her desk, pocketed the key.

She was almost at the door, about to leave, when a knock halted her actions. Her nerves inched up a notch, though she knew the company’s security system would be on, that no one who didn’t have the correct security clearance would be able to get into the building. But…

“Come in,” she called, fingers clenched around her purse.

“So you are still here.” Daniel stuck his head in. “I’m not sure it’s good for you to be working such long hours your first day back, but I am glad you’re here. Have you got a moment for me?”

She wanted to go home, to see if her faith had worked, if someone somewhere had found out where Aimee was being held. But Daniel’s serious expression stopped her.

“I was leaving, but I can spare a few minutes. Nothing to rush home to,” she tried to joke, then bit her lip.

“We’ll find her, Shel. Just keep hanging on.” He moved toward her, patted her shoulder. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I heard about the ruckus with our resident bad boy this afternoon. I’d have been here, but I only found out a couple of hours ago, too late to be of assistance.”

“It’s all right, Daniel. Russ just wants to help.”

“And you’re letting him?”

The tone of his voice bothered her.

“Why not? You two used to be best friends. Has something happened to change that?” Shelby watched the guarded look cloud his eyes. “Have you argued with Russ about something?”

“Not really. I just thought you and I agreed that I would head up things here. But now Russ has practically taken over, countermanding my orders—”

“Daniel.” She stepped closer, laid her hand on his arm. “You know that I’ve depended on you, and will continue to depend on you to keep Finders going. You have my full support. But this is my child, and she’s missing. I can’t afford to turn down anyone’s help.”

“Ah, but why should she refuse my help, eh, Daniel?” Russ stood in the doorway, hands on his hips. “I am the only one who seems to get results.”

His arrogance had once made Shelby laugh. But now, the word results took her breath away. “You found something.”

“Ja. I found—something.” He strode in, leaned one hip against her desk. “This Natalie, the oh-so-elegant police detective. You know her well?”

“I don’t know her at all. Except that when I called the police, she came. Why?”

“Curious.” He shrugged. “The lack of clues, that is surprising, yes?”

“I guess they were very careful.” She nodded. “But yes, to answer your question. I would have thought there would be something they could use.”

“Yes, I think that, also. But Miss Natalie—she says there is nothing. The security panel has only one code entered for that night, a code which the good Natalie says belongs to you. The fibers from a snip of cloth left in the window belong to material in men’s pants sold by the thousands. It may have been there for months. These police find no fingerprints, though they have thrown their powder all over the house. Even the handwriting on the mirror is childish, like that of a thousand kindergarten children—and so virtually untraceable.”

“Stop being melodramatic and tell us what you found.” Daniel’s eyes blazed with anger. “Can’t you see how you’re upsetting her?”

Russ glanced once at Daniel, his face hardened. He seemed about to say something, but after a glance at Shelby, changed his mind.

“I apologize, Shelby. I do not mean to act inadvisably. But before I say more, I must ask a question. When you stood at the window that night, you did not hear a car, did not see someone drive past? Perhaps you heard footsteps below, running away?”

She shook her head.

“No. Russ, you talked to the police. You’ve been to my home. You know Aimee’s room is at the back, above the garden. Grandmother owned a huge section of land behind the house, which I’ve kept undeveloped. There’s no road back there for a very long way.”

“Exactly so.” He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest. “Yet this thief, this abductor, he steals this child, not a tiny sleeping baby, you see, but a little girl who is liable to awaken when picked up by a stranger. And yet, there is no sound. Why? Does he drug her? C’est possible. But I do not think there is time before Mama Bear arrives. And he has no getaway car waiting for him at the back, therefore he must carry the child around to the front of the house.” He shook his head. “Very strange.”

Russ had been partly raised in France. Perhaps that’s why he fell into the language whenever he spoke of Aimee. Shelby said nothing, simply stood, waited. Russ was onto something, she could see it in the glint of his eyes.

“He is a wonder, this phantom of ours. In truth, our thief is so accomplished, he does not even leave footprints in the flower beds below. How is this possible? Is he a ghost? I do not believe in ghosts.”

“The police said there was no evidence of footprints.” She glanced at Daniel. Clearly he didn’t understand what Russ was getting at, either.

“No, there is no evidence. This I checked for myself.”

“And?”

“There is no evidence of footprints because someone has raked the area.”

“Raked it? But how? When?” Shelby shook her head. “I was there, Russ. I hit the alarm as soon as I heard someone in the hall. I couldn’t find Aimee. The police came almost immediately and they were all over the place. Surely they would have noticed if someone had worked in the garden.”

“I am not so sure of that. You yourself were there but a few hours before, no? Your neighbor said he saw you raking the ground under some bushes near the house.”

“Yes…” Tim. It would have been he who’d seen her. The old carriage house he rented was the only thing near enough their yard, since originally the two properties were one.

“And yet, on this freshly worked soil, there is no outline of a shoe, no markings whatever.” Russ shook his head. “No.”

“So someone came along behind and raked over his tracks? Is that what you’re saying? But what does that tell us? That there was an accomplice?” Shelby couldn’t wrap her mind around whatever he was intimating. The entire thing seemed like a nightmare, something that would happen to someone else. Not to her. Not to Aimee.

“Yes. I’d like an answer to that question myself. What exactly are you trying to say, Russ? You insinuated that you had something big to tell us. Well, let’s hear it. Or is this another one of your hot air dances? Promise the world, deliver nada.” Daniel’s lips curled in a derisive smile.

“I always deliver. And you would do well to watch what you say, my friend.” The words were spoken calmly enough, but it was the steel threading through them that made the impact. “I have nothing to apologize for. My record is clean. Can you say the same?”

“Why don’t you come right out and accuse me of Grant’s death?” Daniel demanded, his jaw locked so tightly it grew white with strain. “Why pretend to be a friend when all the time you blame me for not being here, for not backing him?”

Shelby gulped. The gloves were off now, and she had no idea how to stop this. They looked like two raging animals, each daring the other to step past an invisible line. But what was it all about? Daniel mentioned Grant. What had he to do with this feud? Did he feel guilty for his friend’s death?

“Yes, you are right. I do blame you, Daniel. You should have been here. He was on a case that only you knew about. If you could not be there for him, you should have phoned me. I would not have left him here alone. To die.”

“Stop it!” Shelby stepped between them. “No one knew the fire would start, Russ. Daniel wasn’t here because Grant insisted he simply wanted to check out something. Who could have imagined he would get caught….” She stopped, drew a breath. “You have nothing to be guilty about, Daniel. The fire was an accident. Grant is gone. But I cannot, I will not lose Aimee. So say whatever you’re getting at, Russ, and let’s get busy trying to find her.”

“Very well.” Russ stepped back. “This is my opinion. The person who took Aimee knew exactly what he was doing. It was a professional job by someone who knew your routine, the house, the grounds, the security code, everything. Our ‘ghost’ left nothing to chance.”

Shelby tamped down the questions.

“If you know, tell me!” she demanded. “Who did it?”

“I do not know that. Yet.” He glanced up through his black lashes at Daniel. “But I believe it was someone close to you.”

“You’re hinting at me? This is ludicrous! Pure supposition with no facts on which to base it.” Daniel turned his back and strode to the door. “I do need to speak to you, Shel. But I can wait until tomorrow.” He twisted to look at Russ. “I suggest you wait till then also. In the meantime, find something solid on which to base your ideas.”

He walked out, slamming the door behind him. Shelby turned on Russ.

“Daniel did not do this, Russ. I can’t believe you would think he did. You, he and Grant were friends not very long ago.”

“Yes.” Russ held her gaze. “We were friends. Once. But things change. The person who stole your daughter had personal knowledge of things an ordinary thief wouldn’t know. He left nothing to chance, not even his footprints in the garden. Either he or someone helping him knew the freshly worked ground would imprint and was prepared to cover those tracks.”

“And you believe that person was Daniel?”

“I do not say exactly that. I say merely that you must be wary of whom you trust. I will keep digging, but you must be alert. These are people who wish you harm, Shelby. Be very careful.”

While she stared after him, Russ walked out of the room, leaving her door ajar. A moment later she heard the elevator doors whoosh close.

She stood alone in her office, staring out the windows into the blackness while the sounds around her magnified a thousandfold.

The words of the Psalm she’d repeated over and over in the wee hours of the morning now echoed through her mind. She couldn’t remember all of it, but one line sang through, sharper, more poignant than the rest.

“May He grant your heart’s desire and fulfill all your plans.”

Her heart’s desire was known to Him. He alone could help Aimee now.

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