SEARCHING FOR THE TRUTH

Coast Guard rescue swimmer Brent Mitchell wants only one gift for Christmas: to find his sister. When he discovers that her disappearance is tangled with the death of private eye Bruce Gallagher, he joins forces with Bruce’s daughter Donna to investigate. Grieving Donna is as tough as the determined military man…and both will stop at nothing to find the truth. But the duo soon discovers that a murdered father and a missing sister merely top a looming pyramid of secrets on Coronado Island. Deadly secrets. These unlikely partners have vowed to stick together until their most important case is closed—but they may pay with their lives.

Pacific Coast Private Eyes: Sisters Fighting Crime

“Was he the one that attacked you at the office?”

“I don’t think so. He sounds different.”

Brent took Donna by the shoulders. “Are you sure?”

Her hands closed over his. “Right now, I’m not sure of anything.”

And there it was, the twin strands of courage and fear shining in her expression. There was such strength in those eyes, yet at the same time she was fragile, vulnerable. He pulled her close.

“You could have been hurt,” he murmured.

He heard her breath catch. For a split second she relaxed into him, her cheek grazing his, lighting a glow inside him before she pulled away.

“I’m okay.”

Two blooms of pink appeared on her cheeks. He looked away at the cloud-cloaked horizon to regain his composure and let her find hers.

“I don’t care what she left or didn’t leave. I need to know what he’s done to my sister.”

DANA MENTINK is an award-winning author of Christian fiction. Her novel Betrayal in the Badlands won a 2010 RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award, and she was pleased to win the 2013 Carol Award for Lost Legacy. She has authored more than a dozen Love Inspired Suspense novels. Dana loves feedback from her readers. Contact her via her website at danamentink.com.

Dangerous Tidings

Dana Mentink

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us

and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.

—1 John 4:10

To the One who left the throne to walk among us.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

ONE

Dark shadows drifted across the tiny office window. Even the lights strung along the ferryboat across the way could not chase away Donna Gallagher’s tickle of unease as she gazed out at San Diego Bay. Rain beaded on the glass, a winter storm. The vessel was already crowded in spite of the weather. In the upcoming three weeks, the number of visitors would swell as eager Christmas shoppers came over from the mainland and overnight guests arrived for the Hotel del Coronado’s holiday festival. Twinkling white lights, ice-skating, fireworks and hot cocoa. The perfect Christmas in the beautiful island town of Coronado.

Every year since she could remember, her father, Bruce, had accompanied Donna, her three sisters and their mother to the festival. Every year, until now.

The pain in her chest started up again and tears pricked her eyelids. In the corner of the office stood a small pine tree, decorated with handmade ornaments. Each daughter had taken great pains to craft the perfect ornament for their father’s office tree, except two years ago when Donna hadn’t made one. The unfairness of it burned in her. This year, she was fully recovered and ready to make up for lost time. It was the holiday that would finally erase her disastrous rebellion, bury it firmly under a pile of happy memories.

The Gallaghers were all healthy, Candace finally on her feet after her husband’s death in Afghanistan five years prior and Donna recovered from the crash, physically, anyway.

She had not yet put the finishing touches on her wooden cable car, a remembrance of their trip to San Francisco, where she’d turned back to God and decided to start living again, thanks to her father. But now it was too late. Christmas held no joy for Donna this year, and she wondered if it ever would again.

Besides the grief, something dark and frightening poked at her instincts. Bruce, her father, her hero, had been murdered, she was certain of it. All around her, on every inch of floor and the sleek wooden tabletop, lay stacks of files that she’d extracted from the cabinet. The answer to his death lay inside, she was positive. Wind rattled the office windows. She jumped.

She could not shake the sensation that someone was watching her, waiting to make sure she didn’t find her answers. Paranoia? Exhaustion? Her sisters would probably say both. They thought she was in denial, her imagination exacerbated by grief and stress. And guilt, her heart added. There was no murder, they insisted, just an accident.

And her impulse to sift through her father’s cases and play the part of a private investigator, as he had been?

A ludicrous attempt to take control of her grief. She was a veterinarian, after all, not a detective. But ever since she’d started looking through Bruce Gallagher’s paperwork, there had been hints of danger.

Nerves, she told herself. The vehicle that appeared in her rearview mirror too often, the repeated hang-up phone calls on the office line. She looked out onto the darkened street. A truck drove slowly along, pulling to the curb outside. Was it the same truck she’d imagined was following her? Heart thudding, she stood behind the screen of the curtain, watching. A soft glow from inside, the flicker from a cigarette. Who would stop for a smoke here? Stomach tight, she watched.

One long minute and the vehicle drove away. The breath whooshed out of her. Paranoid, Donna.

She picked up her father’s most recent file from the “active” tray on his desk. The neat label, Mitchell, P., rang a bell deep down in her memory. Mitchell, P. Her memory supplied the full name. Pauline Mitchell.

It was not Pauline’s face that sprang into her mind but the face of Radar, her German shepherd. Something ticked up deep in Donna’s stomach. She’d treated Radar a month earlier, and when she’d called to check on the dog’s improvement a few days later, there had been no answer and no return of her messages.

Inside the file there was only one sheet of paper, adorned with her father’s nearly microscopic handwriting.

Her eyes wandered to the small picture on the desk—Bruce, in his marine dress uniform, arm slung rakishly around his wife, JeanBeth. What had her father’s interest been in Pauline Mitchell? She must have been a client, but as far as Donna had known, they’d never met.

The office phone rang, shattering the silence and jolting her nerves. Too late for a business call. She blinked hard and went to switch off the ringer.

But what if it was the hospital calling about Sarah? Her youngest sister was stable now, the doctors assured her. Safe after being pried from behind the wheel in the crash that had killed their father.

She reached to pick it up, stopping in uncertainty until the message kicked in. “Pacific Coast Investigations. Please leave a number and I’ll return your call.” Her father’s voice on the recording nearly took the knees from under her. There was the obligatory beep and then a long pause. Could she hear breathing on the other end of the line? She was not certain. The caller ID was unfamiliar. Wrong number?

She picked it up. “Hello? Who is this?”

Silence. There was someone on the line, she was sure. The same person who’d called and hung up a dozen times. “I said, who is this?”

Click.

A creak from the hallway brought her to her feet.

“Calm down, already,” she chided herself.

It was Marco, no doubt, her father’s business partner and a longtime family friend. He had a key and came and went as he pleased. She heaved out a sigh. Now nearly forty, Marco was a former Navy boxing world champion, and she did not have to worry about her safety while he was around. Marco loved her and her three sisters as if they were his own kin, even if her relationship with Marco had been downright prickly at times. He was grieving the loss of Bruce Gallagher, too.

She picked up the file again and the paper slipped out and fell to the floor. She bent over to retrieve it. A shadow flitted through her peripheral vision.

She froze.

Her paranoia again?

Or was someone else there in the empty office?

It was her imagination, she decided, until she heard the creak of a floorboard.

* * *

Brent Mitchell finally felt his muscles loosen. The run had eased the nervous energy that cascaded through him. Even though the coast guard doctor had firmly cautioned him to take things slow during his recovery, Brent figured the four-mile jog fit the bill, since he’d normally run six. The rain didn’t slow him down. Instead, it washed the Southern California air so clean it almost hurt to breathe it.

Another ten to twelve days of leave from his job to rest from a concussion might as well have been an eternity, and a short run seemed like a better option than going slowly insane. Besides, he could not lose a twist in his gut, that same sensation that he’d gotten just before the last time he’d dropped from a helicopter into a heaving ocean. Something wasn’t quite right. He checked his phone again. No messages.

There were plenty of reasons why his sister, Pauline, might have split town for a while, leaving calls unanswered. She could be mad at him, which he richly deserved. He was probably in the running for the “worst brother of the year” award. Still, he felt a niggle in his gut. Pauline had a temper, but she was also quick to forgive and this period of radio silence had lasted longer than usual. He’d even gone so far as to let himself into her house, but found nothing out of place. Still, the uneasiness continued, so he’d snatched up an address tacked to her bulletin board and followed it to the front walkway of a neatly tended little building on Coronado Island at eleven thirty on a crisp December night.

His cell phone vibrated. “Brent Mitchell.”

No answer at first. “Where...where is she?”

He stiffened. “Who are you looking for?”

The breath on the other end was short, panicky. Click. Disconnect.

Brent stared at the phone. Wrong number? Or someone who was also looking for his sister? He pushed Redial and waited. Endless ringing. No answer.

Focus on the now, he told himself, though his nerves were firing like a rifle volley. Follow up on that call later.

Of course the business he’d sought out was closed, dark, except for dim light that shone through the shutters upstairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe for the beat-up truck parked in front. Not a neighborhood for trashy vehicles.

He headed up the walkway to read the lettering on the front window just as a big man with a crew cut stepped out from the shadows.

“Help you?”

His arms were muscled, damp with sweat, as if he, too, had been out for a run. He kept his hands loose, slightly away from his body, alert. Coronado Island was home to North Island Naval Air Station and across the water from Brent’s own coast guard base. The area was thick with military types. This guy could be anyone from a navy SEAL to a petty officer. Brent figured the guy was too old to be petty officer, and, since it was just plain stupid to antagonize a navy SEAL, he tried for a friendly tone. Brent could be a smart-mouth, but he didn’t have a death wish. “Just out for a run.”

“In the rain?”

“That’s the best time to run. The tourists are all inside.” He shot a look at the darkened building. “What kind of business is this?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Brent raised an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You’re trespassing.” The man eased forward a little.

Brent tensed but did not back down. If it was going to come down to something physical, he wouldn’t run from it. “Public place.”

“Private property.”

The obstinate mule inside him kicked to life. “You don’t own this sidewalk and it’s an innocent enough question. Don’t see why you’ve got your back up about it.”

The guy looked him up and down. “You’re persistent. Navy?”

“Coast guard.”

A slight derogatory smile. “Puddle jumper, huh?”

Brent answered through gritted teeth. “Rescue swimmer.”

He humphed, but there was a slight relaxing in the posture. “Knew a coastie swimmer.”

“Yeah?”

“Got my buddy out of a jam after Katrina hit. You work that mess?”

“Fifteen saves in one night.” Including a three-day-old infant whose panicked father had shoved the baby into Brent’s arms while they were in a rescue basket at 150 feet in the air and Brent was struggling to operate the hoist. His fingers tensed automatically with the memory. That fragile life in his hands. All on him whether the child lived or died.

They stayed silent a moment.

Brent jutted his chin. “You military?”

“Navy.”

“Swabbie, huh?”

No smile this time.

“I worked Katrina, too. Helped out building Camp Lucky. Know it?”

Brent nodded. It was the makeshift facility built by the military to collect the animals rescued from the hurricane. “We pulled out a golden retriever who ended up there. There were plenty we couldn’t get.” Plenty of helpless lives all around him then. They’d lost people and animals alike. It stuck in his craw.

The big man shook his head and Brent saw that he, too, understood about rescues gone bad. Losses that neither one of them would admit to.

“Wanted to take all those animals home with me.”

Something squeezed tight inside Brent. Pauline had said the same thing after the Loma Prieta quake when she’d helped with rescue efforts and come home with Radar. He straightened. “Brent Mitchell.”

“Marco.”

“You always this hostile to passersby?”

“We’ve had some trouble.”

“Do tell.”

Marco remained silent, no doubt weighing how much to confide. The sensation in Brent’s gut kicked up a notch. Trouble seemed to be going around.

Where is she? The desperate voice stuck in his mind.

“That your ride there?” Marco gestured to the truck parked at the curb.

“Nope. Came on foot.”

“Got to go check something out.” Marco turned, stopping to throw a comment over his shoulder. “We’re a private investigation business. Now get lost, Coastie.” He took off at a brisk walk toward the building.

Private investigation? Why had Pauline been interested in such a service?

Where is she?

He mulled it over for a minute. Good sense would dictate that a guy with a concussion, confronted by a burly navy type, should turn around and go home. Then again, normal men with common sense would not dive into the heart of a raging ocean in high winds to snatch up a victim moments away from death. Pauline always said he had a decided lack of good sense.

Semper Paratus was the coast guard motto.

Always Ready.

“Ready or not,” he said under his breath as he followed.

* * *

Donna whirled around so fast she upset the empty water pitcher she’d left on the table. It clattered to the floor but did not break. She ignored it, still tingling with fear over what she’d thought she’d seen out of the corner of her eye behind the bank of file cabinets. The creak of the floor had not repeated itself. Her eyes were playing tricks. Must be.

The cell phone shook in her hands as her finger hovered on the buttons to call 911. Breath in her throat, she tiptoed toward the cabinets. She crept slowly until she got within a step of the cabinet’s edge, then quickly poked her head around, ready to summon help.

No one. She heaved out a breath. There was no one there in the office, save one silly, frightened, grief-stricken twenty-seven-year-old woman.

Her sisters were right. Her mountain of sorrow and regret was causing her to imagine things. She retrieved the pitcher and walked it back to the conference room, the file folder tucked under her arm. She settled into a chair at the side. The head of the table would always be her father’s spot. Her throat thickened. Had it really been only two weeks since he was sitting there, strong and solid, thumbing through files and drinking the ultra-strong coffee he enjoyed? Only two weeks of anguish and grief so strong she’d had to take a leave from her veterinary practice? The Gallagher family had spent endless hours listening to the detailed police findings. It was an accident that took their father’s Lexus over the guardrail and down a rocky slope along Highway 1. Days had been spent wondering whether Sarah would recover and watching their mother remain at Sarah’s bedside, deep in prayer.

Suppose they were right and it had been an accident. Sarah, the driver, had been rear ended, causing the Gallagher’s car to plunge over the side. The other driver had not stopped. Maybe Sarah would regain her memory of the accident and confirm that it had been nothing more than a horrible, tragic mistake.

But something did not feel right—she had the feeling she got sometimes when a dog’s symptoms told one story but her gut supplied another. Odd that the driver had not stopped to call for help.

Before his death, her normally cheerful father had been preoccupied, working late hours, investigating some case that he had not wanted to discuss.

Or, she thought with a pang of guilt, had they all been too busy to listen? She had her own career, her sister Sarah had a busy life as a surgical nurse, and Candace was grieving over the loss of her marine husband with a child to raise. Most worrying of all was Navy Chaplain Angela, struggling to recover from a devastating tour in Afghanistan.

They’d all been happy that Bruce Gallagher had started up his private investigation service. It gave him purpose, and he’d enjoyed solving cases only for people with military connections. It filled that part of his soul that had never stopped being a marine. Semper Fidelis was not just a motto to her father. He had been faithful to his family and the corps until the last moment of his life. He’d always done the right thing, the difficult thing, even when she’d openly despised him for it.

She opened the file again. She’d removed the folders from the cabinet methodically and this was the only one from the drawer labeled Current that she had not gone through thoroughly. Pauline Mitchell’s file. Inside, there was only a list of names.

Curious.

The others were crammed full of statements, detailed bank information and even photographs, but this one had nothing except a list of names.

3. Darius Fields

2. Jeff Kinsey

1. Brent Mitchell

The shadow caught her eye. Her head jerked toward the door. Again, nothing. Only the pounding of her heart, the rasping of her own breath. Then she thought she caught the sound of someone moving along the front walkway. Clutching the file in her hand, she shot to her feet. She’d lock the door to put her mind at ease.

As she pushed the chair out, a man’s hand reached from under the table and wrapped around her ankle, the fingers slick with sweat.

TWO

Brent trailed a step behind Marco as they sprinted up the steps. He finally caught the name on the front window as he passed.

Pacific Coast Investigations.

Why hadn’t Pauline mentioned it? His heart sped up a notch, but there was no time to indulge the feeling. They arrived in a well-appointed office cluttered with files. A Christmas tree occupied the corner, and he caught a whiff of pine.

Marco scanned the room.

“What are you looking for?”

“Thought I told you to beat it.”

“I don’t take orders from swabbies.”

Marco’s eyes swiveled to the conference room just as the door slammed shut. He raced to it and tried the handle.

“Donna?” he yelled, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”

Brent opened his mouth to ask a question, when Marco picked up a chair and crashed it into the door. Bits of wood splintered everywhere, but the door didn’t budge.

He didn’t waste time questioning. If there was a woman in there not responding... “Is there another way in?”

“One exit door to the outside.”

“On it.” Brent sprinted back down the hall and out the front door, then rounded the corner of the building.

He reached what he supposed was the correct door. Locked, but there was a large window to catch the bay view. He pressed a hand to the glass and peered in. A guy with a ski mask knelt, his knee on the back of a prostrate woman. He saw only her cascade of wavy blond hair, her hands splayed away from her body, fingers balled into terrified fists. Across the room the door vibrated as Marco attempted to force it, probably with his booted foot this time. Despite Marco’s muscles, it was going to take a while and the woman on the floor had no time to spare.

Brent tore his eyes away from the horrifying scene and hunted for something solid and heavy. No rocks or handy blocks of wood. He’d do what coasties did best: improvise.

Time to do some damage.

* * *

Donna lay on the floor stomach-down, as the man in the ski mask had directed after he’d locked the door. Her heart thundered in her throat. He must have seen something in the window, because he eased off her for a moment to look. Instantly, she was on her feet, scanning the room for a weapon with which to protect herself. There was nothing in the perfectly ordered space except for the pitcher, which she snatched up.

The intruder’s mouth twisted into a smile.

Notice the details, she heard her father say. Most witnesses can’t offer anything helpful to catch the offender.

Dark eyes, Caucasian, tall. But was she going to live to be a witness?

He stepped close and she swung the pitcher with all her might at his head. With one hand he batted it away. It spiraled through the air, hit the corner of the table and broke. He grabbed her by the arms, forcing her down into a chair.

Tears of pain trickled down her face. Terror left her limbs thick and lifeless.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

He loomed closer, dark eyes glittering, lips inches from hers. “You.”

Fear turned to adrenaline. She twisted and writhed in the chair, but his grip did not loosen.

“Your pops was a big-shot marine-turned-investigator,” the man said. “Are you a private eye, too?”

She shook her head, teeth clenched together.

He tangled his fingers through her hair. “That’s right. You’re not a detective.” Leaning close, he spoke into her ear. “You’re just a scared little girl.”

Each word shot through her, his hot breath searing her temple.

He pulled a knife from his belt. He was going to kill her.

Again she struggled, striking out at his chest, clawing at his face, pulling at the ski mask until he jerked out of reach.

He smiled, teeth harsh white against a tangle of facial hair, the hint of beard. “I guess you think you’re tough, don’t you?” He wrapped a strong hand around her throat, the other grasping the knife. “Little girls who think they’re tough like men. You know what happens to them?”

She tried to loosen the fingers around her throat, but he was cutting off her air.

“I said,” he hissed, “do you know what happens to those little girls?”

She kicked out, missing him.

Now his mouth was pressed against her forehead and he kissed her.

Revulsion nearly made her gag. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let him see her completely lose it.

“Those little girls...” he whispered in a tender singsong voice, “die.”

* * *

Brent saw the guy pull a knife just before he found what he was looking for, a small stone bench. Not more than a stool, really, but heavy.

He pulled it from the shrubbery, heaved it above his head and hurled it into the window. It shattered with a crash. He dragged it in a circular motion to swipe away the glass. Then he was up and over, clearing the threshold just as Marco smashed through the opposite door.

The man looked from Brent to Marco and made his decision. He went for the door.

Brent pursued. He managed to grab some of the guy’s black sweat jacket, just enough to knock him off-balance. He stumbled, but he did not go down.

Brent lunged for him again, but the guy surged forward, tackling Marco, who went over on his back. The assailant rushed by and clattered down the hall. In seconds, Marco was on his feet and chasing after him.

Should he follow or stay? It wasn’t even a contest. Brent’s heart was always with the victim. He turned back to the woman. Her thick lashes framed wide eyes, so blue, so vibrant. He flashed on Carrie, long dead, his fault. Knock it off, Brent.

“Are you—?” he began.

He didn’t finish the thought before she picked up a glass shard from the pitcher, wielding it like a knife.

“Get away,” she said breathlessly, face wild with fear. “Don’t touch me.”

He held up his hands, palms out. Panic could be as dangerous as any emotion—he knew from having rescued many people on the brink of drowning. Rational thought always took a backseat to the primal need for self-preservation. Many times he’d had to physically subdue a victim in order to save both their lives. The thought rippled across his mind before he could stop it. Had Carrie felt panic in those last few moments before she drowned? With an effort, he blinked the thought away. He kept his tone light, reassuring. “It’s okay. He’s gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her skin was dead pale except for two spots of color that appeared on each cheek. “Get away.” Drops of blood dripped from her palm where a glass shard was cutting into her skin.

He stayed still, hands where she could see them. “My name is Brent. I work for the coast guard.” He pointed to her hand. “You’re bleeding. Why don’t you let me help you with that?”

She blinked, still gripping the glass. Slowly she looked at her hand as if she hadn’t known what was in it.

“The man...” she stammered.

He nodded. “I saw him. He ran away and he’s not coming back. Marco’s chasing him.”

“Marco.” The dazed look in her eyes subsided and he could see her body begin to tremble like a leaf in storm-tossed water.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He pulled a chair out, careful not to touch her. “I’ll stay here with you until Marco comes back, okay?”

She still didn’t assent, but neither did she pull away when he pushed the chair toward her. Her trembling was violent now and she collapsed into it.

“I’m just going to call the police.” He did so, eyeing her the whole time, checking to make sure that she was not slipping into shock.

“What’s your name?” he said as he finished the call and clicked off the phone.

“Donna.”

“Nice to meet you, Donna.”

He took a knee and slowly, very slowly, touched her wrist with his finger. “Can you open this hand for me?”

“Are you a doctor?” she whispered.

“Rescue swimmer and an EMT. I’ve been known to try my hand at doctoring a time or two. I’m a whiz with bandages.”

Her fingers opened like a flower and he flicked the glass away. Taking a pile of napkins from the sideboard, he pressed them to the cuts on her hand. “Squeeze, okay? Not too bad, just some shallow wounds. Probably won’t even need stitches.” Her fingers were elegant, long and tapering, strong. He found himself glad she would likely not bear a scar from the attack, not a physical one, anyway.

Mentally he’d been measuring the time, wondering about Marco. Shouldn’t he have returned by now? Her eyes, which he now saw were true navy blue, never left his face. She was, he realized, now that the terror was ebbing slightly from her expression, lovely. Like Carrie, only not.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Won’t be long.”

“Where’s Marco?” she said, only a slight tremble in her voice now.

He eyed the door. “As soon as the cops get here, I’ll go find him.”

She caught her full lower lip between her teeth.

“Don’t worry—from what I saw, he’s a big gorilla.”

Marco appeared in the doorway. “The gorilla’s back.”

Brent’s gut relaxed until he saw the ragged edge on Marco’s shirt and the blood seeping into the waistband of his jeans.

* * *

Donna leaped from the chair, brushed aside Brent’s restraining hands and ran to Marco. “You’re bleeding.”

“Minor. Did he hurt you?”

“No. Just scared me. Sit down. This man...” She looked at Brent. “He’s got some medical training.”

Brent raised an eyebrow. “You should do what she says. I’m certain she’s smarter than you.”

Marco reluctantly sat in the chair and Brent took a look at his wound. “Long and shallow.”

“Minor, like I said.”

Donna snatched up more napkins and handed them to Brent, who placed them on the wound. When he tried to hold them in place, Marco swatted his hands away.

“I can do it.”

“What happened?” Brent asked. “You forgot to duck?”

“Sliced me, and made it to his truck.”

Donna knew she should be terrified that the crazy attacker was out there somewhere, but at the moment, she could feel only relief. Marco, a man who was like a brother to her, was not seriously hurt.

She turned to Brent. He was tall, a good six feet, with broad shoulders and the required military short haircut. Dark eyes, thick brows, an old bruise healing on his forehead. “Thank you, for what you did.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”

Marco huffed. “That’s what I was trying to get out of him.”

The police arrived then, sirens blaring. Three officers raced in, hands on their guns.

Marco filled them in.

The tallest one, a uniformed woman, introduced herself as Officer Huffington. Donna knew her even before the introduction. She’d been the one to show up in the hospital after her father was pronounced dead. Professional, unemotional. Donna felt anything but. Huffington listened intently to the three as they related the story as best they could.

“Now do you see what I’ve been saying? Someone was after my father. He came here trying to scare me.” And it worked, she said to herself. Her knees were still shaking, palms ice-cold.

“We’ll investigate, I can assure you, Ms. Gallagher, but what would his motive be, this guy?”

“To stop me from investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

Brent edged forward. “I’d like to hear that, too.”

Officer Huffington gave him the once-over. “So I guess this is the part when you tell me why you happened to be here at eleven thirty on a rainy night.”

Marco grunted as a paramedic cleansed the wound.

Brent’s eyes darkened, all traces of a smile gone. “I found the address to this business at my sister’s apartment. I haven’t heard from her recently. I was worried. I came here.”

“Who is your sister?” Officer Huffington said.

Brent pointed to the name on the file sitting on the conference table.

“Pauline Mitchell. Seems like Bruce Gallagher was looking into something for my sister.” He looked squarely at Donna. “I’d like to know what that was.”

THREE

After a volley of questions and answers, Officer Huffington moved to speak with her officers. Brent wanted to talk to Donna, but Marco fielded most of the questions in a maddeningly brusque manner. Brent realized that Marco was trying to get rid of him. Reasonable. It was going on 12:30 a.m. The man was obviously family to Donna, and the woman had just been through a violent attack on the heels of losing Bruce Gallagher. He was sorry to have to press, but the roaring of his instincts would not be quieted now.

“My sister is missing,” he stated again calmly. “She obviously went to see Bruce Gallagher on some private matter.” Too private to tell her brother. He swallowed the guilt. “I want to know what it was about.”

Donna looked him over, pale but resolute. “Mr. Mitchell, I know your sister. I’m a vet. She brought her dog, Radar, in to see me a month and a half ago, but I don’t know what she discussed with my father. I remember chatting with her that Dad was an investigator, but I had no idea she was his client.”

“What’s in the file?”

She jerked her head toward the manila folder still sitting on the conference table. “Nothing, really. Just some names.”

“What names?”

Officer Huffington rejoined the conversation. “What makes you think your sister is missing, Mr. Mitchell?”

“Haven’t heard from her for three weeks.”

“Is that unusual?”

He rolled a shoulder as a new wave of guilt hit. “No, but I’ve left messages that she hasn’t returned.”

Donna nodded. “I’ve repeatedly called to check on Radar, her dog, and she didn’t return those calls, either.”

“Any discussion about her taking a trip?”

Brent shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Actually,” Donna said, “when she brought Radar in, she mentioned a trip to Carmel.”

Brent sighed inwardly. Of course she hadn’t told him. He’d never made the time to listen. She did not take priority above his coast guard duties. Be the hero to everyone but your own sister, Brent.

“Okay,” Huffington said. “Give me Pauline’s address and I’ll send someone over to look at her place after our search for this guy is concluded.”

Brent provided the address.

She looked at Donna. “And I’ll need a copy of what’s in your father’s file.”

Donna went to the copier in the corner. He noticed she was careful to screen his view. She was protecting some sort of information because she didn’t trust him. Gratitude for his catapult through her window went only so far. He suspected the Gallaghers and company were a tight-knit clan.

Fine. He’d get the information he needed one way or another, and he wasn’t about to wait until the cops made time to search Pauline’s home. The Mitchells could be tight-knit, too, just the two of them. “All right. I’ll be going, then, if you don’t need anything further.”

“Got your info,” Huffington said, looking up from her discussion with another officer.

Donna followed him to the front door, looking as though she was puzzling through something.

“Thank you,” she blurted. “I appreciate what you did for me.”

He stepped onto the porch, a patter of raindrops falling around him. “No problem. Is there a reason you don’t want me to know what’s in that folder?”

The lighting didn’t allow him to see it, but he had the sense her face flushed a rosy red.

“There’s not much, I told you.”

“But there’s something, and I think I have the right to know. She’s my sister.”

“And I think I have the right not to tell you. You’re a stranger and he’s...” She swallowed, a little gulp. “He was my father.”

The vulnerability in that little gulp was the only thing that kept him from pressing. It spoke of irretrievable loss, a phenomenon with which he was familiar. He thought again of his fiancée, Carrie, gentle, trusting and the woman he had been unable to save. Focus, Brent. He would check out his sister’s place again first. Then if he needed to push Donna Gallagher, he’d do it. He extended his hand, grasping her uninjured fingers, still cold to the touch, between his palms. She squeezed back for a moment before pulling away.

“Good night, Donna,” he said.

He felt her eyes follow him as he walked out into the rain.

* * *

Donna’s sisters arrived in short order. Younger sister Angela wrapped her in a smothering embrace. She was a good four inches taller than Donna’s five-six. Donna was so grateful that Angela had been given leave from her job as navy chaplain to minister to her own family after her father’s death.

Angela sat Donna down at the table and listened in that quiet way of hers. Her silence had only intensified since her return from Afghanistan. Their oldest sister, Candace, arrived halfway through the story, her mass of dark curly hair mussed and windblown. Candace’s mothering instinct kicked in.

“You should go to the hospital,” she said to Marco, with a frown of concern. She touched his cheek with her hand. Donna saw a flicker of tenderness flash in Marco’s eyes. She wondered why Candace never seemed to see it.

He ducked his head. “Aww, I’m all right.”

“Try letting someone help you for a change. Let me see how well they bandaged the wound.” Candace inspected, grudgingly agreeing that the paramedic’s work was passable.

“I thought you were catching a flight today, Marco,” Angela said.

“I am. Red-eye.”

It was a difficult time. Marco was flying to Georgia for the funeral of a woman he’d loved since he was a teen and probably always would, even though she’d died of a drug overdose. And this following on the heels of the memorial service for Bruce, the man who’d been his best friend.

Candace sighed and gave him a hug. He reached one big hand around her as if to gather her closer but didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Candace said. “Please go if you need to. We all understand.”

“Not until this situation is under control.”

Angela helped herself to a cup of coffee. “I heard everything you said, Donna, but I see in your face that there’s something more, so tell us.”

“This attack wasn’t random. The guy wanted something in Dad’s files.”

She caught the look Candace leveled at Angela. The “she’s going off the deep end” look.

Angela spoke carefully. “What do the police think?”

“Their position hasn’t changed. They think Dad’s death was an accident.”

Candace laid a hand on Donna’s shoulder and squeezed. “Honey, is it easier to think that Dad’s death was intentional because then you can do something about it? Get justice for him somehow? Or maybe...”

It would help you forget the hurt you caused Dad? The way you flouted his advice and took up with the wrong guy? Donna stood abruptly. “No, that’s not it. The circumstances confirm what I’m thinking. Pauline disappears. Dad dies. Someone breaks into the office. That’s not coincidence.”

Angela sipped from her mug. “Why did Pauline come to Dad in the first place?”

“I don’t know. I wonder if she was afraid someone was after her and the names in the file are Dad’s suspect list.”

Marco cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell the coastie what was in the file?”

She wanted to brush aside the question because she was afraid her answer would make her sound even crazier to her sisters, but Marco would not let her look away.

“Because Brent Mitchell’s name is number one on the list.”

* * *

Brent jogged back to the Glorietta Bay Marina and boarded the boat he was taking care of for a buddy. His friend’s 1988 Bayliner motoryacht had seen better days. It was small, but then, so was his studio apartment near the San Diego Naval Base. He didn’t particularly care where he slept so long as it was near the beach and plenty of places to run and train. Coronado would not be his first choice, since he’d learned that Dan Ridley, Carrie’s ex-boyfriend, had been hired as the island’s newest cop. Ridley blamed Brent for Carrie’s death six years before. The guy was right. If it hadn’t been for Brent, they would never have been up in that small plane in the first place.

“I don’t like flying,” Carrie had said. “And it’s stormy today.”

He’d embraced her. He was a brash twenty-two-year-old new coast guard seaman who wasn’t afraid of anything in the world. “I’ll be right there in case something happens, but it won’t. Planes are safer than cars,” he’d teased.

Only this Cessna 152 hadn’t been, and a perfect day of whale watching had turned into the worst day of his life when the engine failed and the plane slammed into the Pacific Ocean. The sound of Carrie’s screams and the pilot’s frantic Mayday still echoed in his ears after six long years. Both had died on impact. Brent, for some reason that he could not fathom, had not. Brent pressed down the throbbing in his gut, threw on some dry clothes and hopped on his motorcycle, grateful that the rain had slowed to a mist.

As he drove to his sister’s home not far from Coronado Beach, his thoughts thrummed through him with growing urgency.

Where is she? And what had Donna’s father known about it?

He tried to keep his thoughts positive without success. Being the sole survivor of a plane crash tended to strip the optimism out of a person. He struggled with the tragedy, and the God who allowed it, every moment of his life. And every rescue mission he went on, every time he geared up and strapped into that helicopter, he resolved to defeat the ocean and God in order to get that victim out alive. Most of the time, he won. Sometimes not. This time, he was not about to lose.

He parked the bike in the driveway of Pauline’s quaint Tudor home. White icicle lights decorated the eaves, reflecting sparks on the rain-soaked grass. Up and down the block, strings of lights gave the houses a holiday glow and he thought of his sister’s enthusiasm for Christmas. Pauline insisted on putting out her festive decor the day after Thanksgiving and went so far as to burgle his apartment one year to install a tree on his kitchen table, complete with tinsel and popcorn strings and some creepy elf thing.

“You’re a grinch, Brent,” she’d said. “The holiday is supposed to be filled with rejoicing.”

Rejoicing wasn’t something he’d ever made time for. Fun, sometimes. Mischief, certainly. But now he wondered if he’d missed the mark. Lives were so fragile, blown out in a moment like a candle in a strong wind. His heart thumped hard.

Quit going to the worst-case scenario. You’re going to find her.

He upended the stone rabbit sculpture where Pauline had always hidden a spare key and where he’d replaced it after his visit last week.

Pausing before he fitted the key into the lock, he noted a car driving slowly by. He stepped into the shadows. It was not the vehicle he’d seen at the Gallagher place. The vehicle continued on. He waited. Another three minutes and it came by again, this time, pulling to a stop.

A familiar figure got out.

“Busy night for you,” he said.

Donna jumped. “You scared me.”

“That’s because you’re the trespasser now. I’m surprised Marco let you come here alone.” Even in the dim light, he could see the chagrin on her face.

“He’s traveling,” she mumbled.

“And you waited until after he left, didn’t you?”

She flipped her hair away from her cheeks, her posture straight, defiant. “I need to know.”

Brent noted how her skin shone luminous in the moonlight. “Thought you were a veterinarian. Decided to take up the family business?”

She stiffened. “Shouldn’t we take a look inside?”

Brent considered. “We? I didn’t think you were interested in working together on this.”

She stayed quiet for a moment. “Figuring out what happened to Pauline may shed some light on why my father was murdered. We’re both after the same thing.”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go inside, then. I’ve already checked it out, but maybe I missed something.”

Donna considered the house. “This is a nice place. What does your sister do for a living?”

“She’s the activities director for a group home for mentally challenged adults.”

He read the expression, the one that said, “And how does someone who makes that kind of money afford a house like this in Coronado?” “She was married, briefly. Her husband died. She bought this house with the life insurance money.” Not that it’s any of your business, he felt like adding.

They entered the kitchen and Brent turned on the lights. Spotless. It was always spotless, even during his last visit on Thanksgiving, when they’d eaten take-out chow mein after she’d burned the turkey and they’d watched an old Abbott and Costello movie. Everything was painted in soothing ivory, complementing the marbled counters. Fat red Christmas candles sat on the kitchen table, unburned.

Just like last time, he saw nothing unusual, until he noticed the corner of a plastic bag sticking out from the kitchen drawer. Inside, he found a plastic zip-top bag containing travel bottles of shampoo, conditioner and hand lotion. A Post-it note was stuck to the bag. Stop mail.

His heart surged as he held it up for Donna to see. Pauline really was on a trip. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed the bag sticking out of the drawer on his last visit.

“Everything looks neat and tidy,” Donna said. She opened the refrigerator. For some reason, the intrusion into Pauline’s privacy bothered Brent. “There’s nothing left to spoil. That seems to confirm she’s traveling. Her car’s not here, either. What does she drive?”

“Old orange Toyota. I tell her she looks like she’s driving a pumpkin, but she loves the color.”

“Where’s Radar?” Donna pointed to an empty food bowl next to a nearly dry water dish.

“Pauline never leaves Radar behind. If she’s on a trip, she’s probably taken him along,” Brent said.

“Or she might have boarded him in a kennel,” Donna said. “I can check into that.”

The kitchen phone rang, jarring in the silence of the house.

Brent picked it up, recognizing the number, the same caller who had contacted his cell earlier. “Who is this?” He put the phone on speaker.

“I want to know where she left it.” High voice, shaky, nervous.

“What? Who is this?”

There was a muffled sob. “I told her he was dangerous.”

Brent found himself holding his breath. “Who is this and what do you know about my sister?”

“I’ve gotta get out of here.” The man’s voice dissolved into more crying.

“Stay on the line,” Brent commanded, his skin prickling. “Tell me what you know about my sister.”

But the caller had hung up.

Donna’s lips were pressed together in a thin line. “That number,” she said, pointing to the number on the phone’s tiny digital screen. “It’s not the same person who called the office.”

“Was it the voice of the man who attacked you?”

“I can’t say for sure. I don’t think so.”

Two guys?

He stared at the phone, jaw tight.

“Did you hear that?” Donna cocked her head, and he noticed for the first time that her long hair was spangled with raindrops.

He listened. A slow scraping sound teased his skin into goose bumps.

“Where’s that coming from?” he murmured.

“Below,” she whispered, looking to the narrow staircase in the corner of the kitchen. “There’s someone down there.”

He heard it then, a long slow movement, the sound of someone dragging a dead weight.

In the basement.

FOUR

Donna tensed as Brent started for the stairs at a sprint. “Wait here,” he said.

“Not likely.”

He flashed her a roguish smile that made her want to smile back and then eased open the door. The stairwell was dark. She listened, her hand finding his back, reading the tension coiled in his shoulders.

“Is this the only way in and out?” she whispered, catching the fragrance of his aftershave.

“Two basement windows,” he answered. “They open onto the backyard. A small bathroom window, too.” Below them, the sweep of a flashlight beam cut unsteadily through the darkness.

He paused, fingers on the light switch. “Here we go,” he whispered. Snapping on the light, he hurtled down the stairs.

Donna figured they had the advantage. Their eyes were already adjusted to the light. She heard a crash as they emerged into the paneled space, boxes arranged into neat stacks that reached the low ceiling. In the dim light she made out a small table covered with balls of yarn. Three bags of dog kibble were piled nearby. The room was dim. A door slammed.

“Come out of there,” Brent shouted.

It took her a moment to realize the intruder had rushed into the tiny bathroom. Brent was at the bathroom door in a moment. Finding it locked, he kicked at it. The cheap wood began to give way almost immediately.

Donna looked around for something to use as a weapon. Broom? Tennis racket? She found nothing until she noticed a small hatchet next to a neatly stacked pile of wood. She snatched it up, the cold metal seeming to leach into her nerves, freezing her fingertips. The door splintered with a shriek of the metal hinges under Brent’s feet. From inside the bathroom came the sound of glass exploding.

Without a breath of warning, the noises catapulted her back to the memory of her own accident, flying off the seat of Nate’s motorcycle, a vehicle her father had forbidden her to ride with a man whom he had tried his utmost to warn her about. He’d been right, she’d realized when she’d woken up temporarily paralyzed with Nate nowhere to be found. Bruce Gallagher had been dead-on correct, and she’d raged at him for it.

Swallowing the guilt, she regripped the hatchet to rally her senses just as the door failed. Brent shoved it open.

They stumbled through in time to see a pair of legs disappearing through the small window above the toilet. Brent grabbed at the feet, a moment too late. One shoe made contact, smashing him in the cheek, sending him stumbling.

Donna was already racing back up the steps by the time Brent recovered and followed. They sprinted through the house and out into the backyard. Donna almost tumbled into the pool. Brent snatched at her T-shirt as she teetered on the edge, pulling her tight against his chest for a moment.

She felt his heart hammering, or was it her own? “Thanks,” she whispered, pulling away.

Skirting the water, they made it to the short stuccoed retaining wall that enclosed the yard, fringed with delicate flowers and shrubbery.

On the other side of the wall was a smooth paved path that led down to the beach in one direction and back to the main road in the other. The moon showed silver white on the pavement.

No movement. No sound except the waves.

Brent jogged toward the beach until she lost sight of him. She made her way cautiously in the other direction, ears straining for any sign, any sound. Nothing. She scanned the thick shrubbery that lined the road, part of the charm and ambiance of Coronado Island.

Was the intruder hiding somewhere? Watching? Was it the same man who had held a knife to her throat at the office? Shivers erupted through her body and she wished she had stayed put. She realized she was gripping the hatchet so tight her fingers were cramping. A few more paces and something crackled in the branches. Shivers surged up her spine.

“Come out,” she ordered, forcing the words. Every muscle in her body tensed. What if he did emerge? Would she really have the fortitude to use a hatchet to defend herself?

Her lungs wouldn’t work properly; blood pounded in her temples. She caught a glimpse, the quickest flash of a feline face regarding her, before the cat retreated back into the bushes.

“Nice work, Donna,” she muttered to herself. “Way to scare off a cat.”

Running feet made her breath catch. Brent jogged up to her.

“Anything?” she said.

“No. Whoever it was, I give them points for speed. And I thought my eight-minute time on the mile-and-a-half run was good.” He shook his head. “Not good enough.” He eyed her hands. “Hatchet?”

“There wasn’t a stun gun handy.”

He smiled, but now it was strained, pinched around the edges with worry.

“Let’s go look in the basement and see if we can figure out what the guy was after,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you really are a detective.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she snapped. “I never said I was anything but a vet.”

“I wasn’t making fun.”

“Yes, you were.”

He held up his palms and let out a low breath. “Sometimes I try too hard to be witty and it just comes out like I’m a smart aleck. I’m sorry. Character flaw.”

There was an earnestness in his tone that quenched her fire. “It’s okay. Sometimes I take offense when I shouldn’t. My character flaw.”

“Truce, then.”

She allowed him to take her hand and help her back over the stucco wall. His fingers were strong and warm. It had been a long time since she’d held a man’s hand, and the touch reassured her. But she didn’t need reassurance, not from a man, not now. With the memory of Nate threatening to surface, she pulled away and tried to focus her thoughts.

What was she hoping to find in the basement? Her father would know. Grief welled afresh in her heart. You don’t have to be a detective, she chided herself. You just have to be observant and you’ve had plenty of training for that. With canine clients, she’d learned to watch every detail, every nuance of their behavior, to ferret out answers. She’d do the same in this situation.

Her foot clunked against something hard as she walked through the darkened yard. She stopped to check.

“Brent?”

He was almost to the door. “Yeah?”

Her mind knew what she was seeing, but somehow she could not make sense of it. “I think you’d better come take a look at this.”

* * *

Brent stared at the small suitcase. He knew every crack and scrape on the old leather. It was his father’s. Before he died of liver cancer when they were in grade school, they’d seen him pack and unpack that case hundreds of times. Neat, precise, deliberate, right down to the socks nestled inside his extra pair of shoes. Brent packed the same way.

“Daddy has to go where the bridges are,” his mother would say of her construction foreman husband.

Pauline used to cry. Every time. Brent couldn’t see the sense in the tears. His mother said God would bring Roger Mitchell back safely, and Brent had trusted in that. Turned out that God took their father a different way, through the tumors that ate up his liver. The disease had taken his mother, too, when Pauline and his sister were nearly through high school. Not cancer, but the lonely silence of an empty house that abraded her will to live. God wasn’t enough to fill that void. He wasn’t enough to fill Brent’s, either.

He realized Donna was speaking.

“We shouldn’t touch it. I’ve called the police.”

No more waiting. Pauline was in trouble, he could feel it. He bent down and shone his cell phone light onto the case. Using the edge of his shirt to touch the clasps, he opened it.

“Brent...” Donna started.

He ignored her.

The case opened and they looked inside. Pauline’s pajamas, fuzzy purple, her slippers, hairbrush, jeans, a T-shirt.

“What is going on here?” he heard Donna murmur.

All he could do was stare into the suitcase. His sister’s things. What possible explanation could there be?

“Brent,” she said again. “You don’t think the person we were chasing was your sister, do you?”

He stood, trying to remember the size of the feet he’d almost grabbed as they disappeared out the window. “It couldn’t have been.”

“Aren’t these her things?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t her,” he repeated.

“How do you know?”

“Because,” he fired off, “she wouldn’t have run from me.”

Donna stared at him with what looked like a mixture of pity and disbelief. He tried for a softer voice, an apologetic smile.

“Pauline and I are close. If she was in trouble, she would come to me.”

“Maybe she didn’t know it was you in the basement.”

“Maybe.” He looked doubtfully at the suitcase. Pauline was running? From him? So scared she’d jumped out a basement window? Why hadn’t she called him? Texted? His hands went clammy as he stowed the cell phone. “It must not have been her.”

“But who else would take these things? They’re of no value to anyone but your sister.”

He didn’t have an answer. Nothing seemed to rise above the feeling of dread that settled into his gut. A police car rolled up with lights but no sirens. Donna went to greet it. Brent stayed with the suitcase. For some reason, he did not want it left alone in the darkened yard. A thought lifted his spirit. If it was really Pauline he’d been chasing, it confirmed she was alive and that was good enough at the moment. A glimmer of hope from God, his mother would say. The feeling didn’t last long. There was no hope from God, he’d learned, only loss and bitter despair.

“What are the chances?” a low voice said.

Brent looked up to see the man who hated him more than any other human being on the planet staring at him through the mist. Officer Dan Ridley. Brent’s heart sank. He forced an even tone.

“My sister’s in trouble.”

Ridley rested his hands on his gun belt. He looked tired, his mouth pulled down into a grimace. “Lots of women around you get in trouble.”

Brent saw Donna’s questioning look.

Ridley glanced at her. “She doesn’t know?”

“Where’s Officer Huffington?” Brent spat.

“She had to fly to Los Angeles to testify in court. This is my beat now.” Ridley smiled. “So you’ve got a problem, huh? Imagine how sorry I am to hear it.”

“Can we cut the sarcasm?” Brent’s pulse slammed against his throat.

Ridley introduced himself to Donna. “I guess you and this guy must be new friends, or else you would know.”

There was the slightest unpleasant inflection on the word friends.

“Know what?” Donna said.

Ridley answered before Brent could step in. “He talked a young woman into going on a flight she didn’t want to take and the plane went down. Everyone died, except for the miracle man here.” Ridley stared at Brent. “The sole survivor. Imagine that.”

He didn’t have to imagine. He woke in the middle of the night sweating, grateful to be snapped from the nightmare only to find he was never free of it and never would be.

“It’s good to be a strong swimmer,” Ridley said. “You took off for shore in a heartbeat, I imagine. Didn’t even stop to help your dying fiancée, did you?”

Donna recoiled in disgust. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“I’m sure Mitchell here would agree with you. It’s never the time or the place to admit that you cost someone their life.”

“That’s enough,” Donna snapped.

Brent couldn’t stand her defending him. It took everything in him to keep his fists at his sides. “This isn’t about her dying—it’s about her leaving. Carrie dumped you, Dan, and chose me. That hurts you more than her death, doesn’t it? What kind of a guy does that make you?”

Ridley jerked forward.

Donna stepped between them. “Can we focus on what’s happened right here?” She gestured to the suitcase. “Whatever past you two have going on, there’s a woman in danger right now. Is there another officer who can help us now, since you’re not able to be professional?”

Ridley’s nostrils flared.

Brent gritted his teeth and waited.

Ridley shot Donna a hostile look before he stepped back. He called to another officer, who approached, camera in hand, taking pictures of the suitcase. “Sergeant Cook is here to document, but I’m the lead. I’m going to walk the house with Cook and we’ll photograph,” Ridley said. “Then you can tell me everything from the beginning.”

Inwardly, Brent groaned as the two officers headed for the house. He didn’t want to consider how Donna had perceived Ridley’s attack. He should explain it, tell her his side, but he could not open that dark place, not now, with a woman he barely knew.

Donna did not press. They waited in silence until Cook called them back into the house and they returned to the basement to go through the story again.

“And you don’t know if the person you tried to stop is your sister?” Ridley asked.

Brent’s face warmed. “All I saw were the feet.”

“There’s no sign of forced entry, which indicates somebody had a key. The big question is, if it was your sister, why would she run from you?” Ridley’s eyes glinted and the curve of his lip told Brent the guy was enjoying every moment.

“I want another cop to investigate.”

“It’s a small town and there aren’t any others available, so you’re stuck with me until Huffington returns. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Brent raged. “I’ll talk to the chief.”

“Go ahead, but you’ll still be working with me. We’ll start the ball rolling and come back tomorrow to see if we missed anything.” His satisfied smile lasted a moment longer before it dimmed. “Look, I wouldn’t cross the street for you, Mitchell, but I’m good at my job and I’ll do my best for your sister, if she really is in trouble.” He headed for the basement stairs. “Goodness knows Pauline doesn’t deserve to suffer like Carrie did.”

The officers trailed up the basement steps and departed, leaving Brent staring at a closed door, even more confused than he’d been twelve hours before. One thing was certain, Pauline was in trouble. Big-time.

* * *

In Pauline’s basement, Donna trailed her fingers through the pile of yarn, uncertain whether to stay or go. She itched to talk over the developments with Marco and her sisters, but Brent’s unnatural stillness kept her there. Ridley’s hateful accusations circled in her mind and left her angry. Whatever had happened in their past, Pauline’s safety should be the focus and Brent was right to ask for a new investigator to take charge. Unless...

The suspicion wormed its way to the surface. What if Brent was not as innocent as he seemed? The handsome face, the little-boy vulnerability—she’d been fooled before.

To cover her confusion, she made a pretense of examining the knitting supplies. The yarns were in hues of greens and blues, next to what appeared to be the beginnings of a crooked scarf. Donna’s mother, JeanBeth, was a skilled knitter and it was easy to see that Pauline was not. Brent remained locked in silence. The minutes ticked away. She’d just decided to go when he spoke.

“She makes me a scarf every year for Christmas. Sews me vests, too.”

She remained silent, willing him to continue. For some reason that she could not name, she wanted to know what was going on inside Brent Mitchell.

“I don’t wear scarves, living in Southern California, but I put them on to please her. I’ve got five hanging in my closet. Five scarves. Some of them have holes in them and she says those are ‘in the French style.’” He smiled. “I tell her I like them better that way because it allows for ventilation. The vests are even worse. It’s ironic because rescue swimmers sew their own gear, so I can handle a needle and thread better than she does. I never tell her that.”

“You’re a good brother.”

His eyes found hers. “I wish that was true. Since the plane crash...” He cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering about all that since Ridley dropped the bomb.”

“You were the only survivor?”

“Yes.” He looked away, eyes studying the ceiling. “For the last six years since it happened, I’ve immersed myself in work. I’ve been so busy that I didn’t make enough time for my sister.”

Donna sighed. “I’ve used that trick myself, hiding at work.”

He sank down on a wooden trunk. “Yeah? Seems like you have everything squared away with your family. Close with the sisters, Marco.”

“Let’s just say I had plenty of excuses not to hear the truth that my father and Marco were trying to deliver.” She sighed. “I’m working on getting rid of that guilt.”

“I didn’t think it was possible, letting go of guilt.”

She considered his troubled face. “It’s not easy, that’s for sure.”

He looked as though he wanted to ask a question. Instead, he stood up. “Getting late.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No need.”

“I know. Gonna do it, anyway.”

He put a hand on her shoulder to guide her to the steps and it made her pulse quicken. “Her work,” Donna blurted out. “That’s the next place to look.”

He fastened those rich brown eyes on hers, making something tingle inside. “I’m sure the police will check out the group home. It’s a place called Open Vistas. See if they can glean anything. That’s where I’m headed tomorrow, too. Ridley will be thrilled to see me again.”

She was sorry when his hand fell away.

They walked out into the front yard. The house looked peaceful in the moonlight, a picture of tranquility and comfort, the whole street bathed in Christmas cheer. Until Pauline was found, there would be no celebration in his life.

“I’m on your father’s list, aren’t I?” he said as he opened her car door for her and she climbed in.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. My sister went to your dad because she was afraid of someone. When she stopped coming around, your father started doing some informal checking and, being the thorough investigator type, he jotted me down there on the suspect list.”

She winced.

He thrummed his fingers on the roof of the car. “Why wouldn’t I be a suspect? I’m the beneficiary of her life insurance policy, I think. A natural conclusion. I could have been plotting to murder her or something.” He laughed, bitter and low. “Ridley would love to consider me a suspect in my own sister’s disappearance.”

His hands were on his hips now, jaw drawn tight.

“I don’t know what my father was investigating,” she said honestly. “I wish I did.”

“For what it’s worth, I love my sister. She’s the only person on this earth who knows what a jerk I can be and loves me, anyway. I did not hurt her. I never would.”

The far-off sound of the waves filled in the silence.

His eyes searched her face. “Do you believe me?”

Did she? She’d believed Nate so completely, surrendering her common sense, going along to parties, excusing his drinking and his job hopping, believing every lie he’d told her. But God had saved her and He and her father had never stopped loving her or trusting in her, even when she so richly had deserved it. Did she believe Brent? A man she hardly knew? A man Ridley blamed for a young woman’s death?

Mist beaded on his hair and she saw in the creases under his eyes, the tightening in his lips, that Brent Mitchell was a man in anguish. “Yes,” she found herself saying. “I do believe you.”

His mouth opened as if he meant to speak. Instead, he sighed, long and slow, a whoosh of air that mingled with the murmur of the waves against the sand. “Thank you for that,” he said.

The moonlight glimmered between them, painting dark streaks across his face.

“I’d better go,” she said. As she drove off, she sneaked a look in the rearview. He stayed there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching her depart.

She drove slowly along the darkened street. Everywhere, the shadows were thick, impenetrable. A million tiny movements, probably nothing more than the wind on the leaves, made her stomach tighten. Was someone watching her progress? The same man who had held a knife to her throat?

She double-checked that she’d locked the car doors.

“Your fear is running away with you. There’s no threat out there in the night,” she told herself, out loud for emphasis.

Still, she made sure she’d pulled the car in the garage and waited until the door closed before she unlocked the car and scurried into the house.

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