by Karen Rose
Frowning, Emma peeked around the kitchen doorway to see a man roughly her own age pocketing a key. He was burly with a neatly trimmed beard and a pipe clamped between his teeth that made her think of Hemingway. This would be Jerry, she thought. Christopher had told her about his friend, the physics professor, shown her a picture of the two of them together with Megan. It had been a Christmas photo and they’d all been smiling. Jerry wasn’t smiling now, his mouth bent into a frown.
Emma emerged from the kitchen, unsettled at the sight of a strange man. She told herself it was simply a residual reaction to the man who’d broken into her home and tied her up the day before. She was shaky after an assault. Go figure.
“He’s not here,” she said, a wooden spoon in one hand. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it in her hand. It would suck as a weapon anyway. “But he should be back soon.”
The man narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re either Emma or Chris has finally broken down and hired a housekeeper.”
“The first one. I’d be pretty lousy at the second. You’re Jerry.”
His eyes popped wide. “How did you know?”
“Christopher showed me a picture. He’s gone to pick up Megan.”
The frown smoothed from the man’s face. “Thank God. I hadn’t heard from him this afternoon, so I went by the school just in case he hadn’t gotten back in time to get Megan, but she wasn’t standing out in front like I’d told her to. I almost had a heart attack.” Jerry dropped onto the soft sofa, his eyes closed, his cheeks gray above his dark beard. “I tried to call him on his cell, but I kept getting voice mail.”
“He was probably talking to that detective, or his students,” Emma supplied and walked over to him, appraising him with a critical eye. “Are you all right?” He did look like a man on the verge of a heart attack. “Can I get you some water?”
He opened one eye. “As long as it has scotch mixed with it. Light on the water.”
Emma poured him a drink from the bottle she’d found in the kitchen. She watched him down the drink in one gulp and hold out the glass for seconds. Perhaps Jerry had more in common with the alcoholic Ernest Hemingway than a pipe and a beard.
But before she could tell him the bar was closed, the front door opened and a young girl came in. Christopher followed and took an appreciative whiff. “You brought dinner, Jerry. You didn’t have to do that.”
Jerry shook his head and aimed his thumb at Emma. “No. She’s cooking something.” He struggled to his feet, his eyes on Megan even though his words were for Christopher. “You didn’t call. I was worried sick.”
Christopher’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Jerry. Detective Harris called when I got off the plane and I got sidetracked.” He turned his attention to the young girl who had dropped her backpack to the floor next to the door. She’d been standing there, regarding Emma through narrowed, hostile eyes, but standing behind her, Christopher hadn’t seen that. “Megan, I want you to meet Dr. Emma Townsend. Emma and I went to high school together. Emma, this is my daughter Megan.”
Emma took a step forward, her hand outstretched despite the girl’s obvious hesitance. “It’s nice to meet you, Megan.”
Megan took a step back, her dark eyes blazing. “It’s not nice to meet you,” she said and Christopher gasped.
“Megan! What’s wrong with you?”
Megan lifted her brows, her expression one of furious disdain. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you, Dad? Bringing her here, to our house.”
Christopher looked utterly shocked. “Megan, you’ve never even met Emma.”
“I didn’t have to,” Megan said bitterly. “I know plenty about her. She’s the reason for your divorce.”
And with that startling statement Megan stormed to her room and the whole house shook with the force of her slamming door.
Stunned, Christopher could only stare for a long moment. Then grimly he followed, carefully closing the door his daughter had slammed. Emma drew a breath, her heart beating like a war drum. Chanced a glance at Jerry, who was staring at Megan’s closed door. Then he turned angry, narrowed eyes on her and Emma opened her mouth in her own defense.
“The last time I saw Christopher was at our high school graduation,” she said quietly. “Then I saw him Saturday night. I never knew his wife. I never even knew where he was living.”
Jerry eyed the front door as if considering escape, then shook his head. “I’ll wait for the official statement,” he said dryly and refilled his own glass. “Never a dull moment in this house, I will say that.” He gestured with his pipe at the wooden spoon still clutched in her hand. “Your sauce is burning.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Hell.”
* * *
Christopher leaned back against Megan’s door, completely at a loss for words. His daughter sat on her bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face to the wall, her back to him. He racked his brain, trying to think of one time, any one time he’d mentioned Emma. He couldn’t think of a single time.
“Megan. Talk to me, honey.” He stepped forward, put a hand on her shoulder. She jerked it away. “Megan, please.”
“Please what, Dad?” Her voice was cold. Terribly adult.
Christopher shook his head helplessly. “I don’t understand.” Again he put his hand on her shoulder. Again she pulled away. “Megan . . . I never even talked to Dr. Townsend after high school. She had nothing to do with your mother and me.”
Megan’s laugh was bitter. “She had everything to do with the two of you.”
He pushed a stuffed bear off her desk chair and sank into it. “Megan, I was never unfaithful to your mother. Not once. Not ever.”
Megan kept her gaze fixed steadfastly on the wall. “Mom found a stack of letters, Dad.” She twisted to pin him with a glare. “Love letters that went way beyond high school.”
Christopher blinked. Mona had seen the letters he’d written to Emma. They’d been largely innocent. The musings of a young college boy, miles from home. Truly alone for the first time in his life. Almost like a diary, they’d been. But he’d stopped writing them. The day he’d decided to propose to Mona he put the stack of letters away, determined to never write another. And he hadn’t. Not until Saturday night. I should have torn them up, he thought, damning his own sentimentality.
He cleared his throat. “Your mother must have been hurt,” he said quietly.
Megan chuckled harshly. “You think?”
“I never wrote any letters after I asked your mother to marry me, Megan. That’s the truth.”
“No, you just said her name in your sleep.”
Christopher’s mouth dropped open. “What? Your mother told you that?”
His daughter sucked in her cheeks, willing herself not to cry. “Once, when she was visiting. Right after your divorce. I went to stay with her in her hotel and I woke up in the night, crying. She was awake. I asked her why she left us. Why she left you. She . . .” Megan looked away, her lips trembling. “She’d been drinking. She told me.”
Christopher swallowed hard. He’d suspected Mona drank too much, but to do so when their daughter was with her . . . “She drank when you visited her?”
Megan’s fingers nervously plucked at the bedspread. “Yeah. The last time, it was bad. I almost wasn’t able to wake her up the next day. When she finally did wake up, she was embarrassed. I think that’s why she hasn’t come back.”
So much for unsupervised visitation, Christopher thought grimly. He’d make sure that didn’t happen again. But that wasn’t the biggest problem at the moment. His daughter’s resentment of Emma threatened whatever future they could possibly have. “I wish your mother had told me. I could have told her the truth. I may have loved Emma in high school, but your mother was the woman I married. Your mother was the woman I wanted to build a life with. Your mother was the one who chose to walk away, Megan. Not me.”
Megan narrowed h
er eyes, dark like Mona’s. “We could have gone with her.”
“To South America? Would you have wanted to uproot yourself, to move to a foreign country, learn a new language? She wouldn’t have stayed home with us any more there than she did here, honey. We would have been alone there, too.”
Her eyes flashed. “Are you sleeping with her? With Emma?”
Christopher flinched at the venom in her tone. “Megan.”
“Well, are you?”
He met her eyes. “No. But if I decide to, that’s my business, sweetheart.”
Her nervous hands stilled on the bedspread. “And what I say doesn’t matter.”
Christopher leaned his head back and studied her ceiling for several seconds before once again meeting her eyes. “Of course it does. But, Megan, I’ve done nothing wrong here. I never once cheated on your mother, no matter what she thought. If she’d trusted me enough to talk to me about this, perhaps it never would have gone this far. But it did and she’s gone. I have to go on with my life, too, honey. Emma is a wonderful person. I have confidence that once you give her a chance, you’ll see it, too.”
Megan turned away. “Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered.
With a sigh, Christopher stood up. “I’ll call you when it’s dinnertime.”
“Don’t bother. I’d rather starve than eat anything she made.”
Shaking his head, Christopher took his leave, closing her door behind him. He found Emma in the kitchen boiling pasta and Jerry leaning against the doorjamb, silently watching her with a frown. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said and she looked up, troubled, but said nothing. Jerry, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have any such hesitation.
“What did she mean?” he asked.
Christopher glanced at Jerry and sighed. “I apparently talk in my sleep. That, paired with some old letters Mona found . . .” He shrugged. “She drew her own conclusions. They were wrong. Unfortunately she told Megan one night when she was drunk.” He rubbed his brow. “Mona, not Megan.”
“I figured that,” Jerry said dryly.
“I never cheated on Mona, Jerry. Not once. She can’t say the same though.”
Emma’s eyes widened, but still she said nothing, just watched while silently stirring the boiling pasta. Jerry cleared his throat.
“How did you know that?”
“She told me, one night when she’d been drinking too much.” Christopher poured himself a drink, studied it, then dumped the contents of his glass down the sink in disgust. “Never told me who the guy was. She told me to hurt me. That was a few months before she left. I never understood why she was so angry with me. I still don’t understand why she never just asked me.”
“Maybe she was afraid of what she’d hear,” Jerry said, sadly, Emma thought. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris. Emma, a pleasure to meet you.”
The front door closed and it was quiet. She could feel Christopher watching her move around his kitchen. “Say something, Emma.”
Emma sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve made an enemy of your child, completely unintentionally. I don’t want to make it worse. I’ll go to a hotel.”
He shook his head. “No, you won’t. I brought you here to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you’re in a hotel. Megan will just have to understand.”
Emma opened cabinets until she found plates and pulled three from the stack. “Megan is a thirteen-year-old girl. They don’t `understand.’ Even if her mother didn’t blame me, Megan would have trouble accepting her father with any woman. The Don CeSar has great security. I’ll be safe there.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Christopher insisted with a frown. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Emma. You’ve done nothing wrong. Mona, on the other hand, did quite a bit wrong and she’s off in South America living her own life. You’re here because there’s a real threat. Even Detective Harris thought so. When this is settled, we’ll talk about you going to a hotel. But not until then and certainly not tonight.”
Emma could see from the set of his jaw that argument was futile at the moment. “So what did the detective say when you talked to him on the way back from Megan’s school?” she asked instead, setting the table, pushing aside the terrible feeling that Christopher’s daughter could nix whatever newfound relationship they had before it ever really started. Instead Emma wrapped herself in the warmth of setting a table for more than one. Let herself wish. Just a little.
“He asked how far we’d gotten on processing the samples Darrell had been gathering. I told him that with Tanya gone the work would take longer.” He clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to think about where she is.”
“What did the detective say about her?”
“That she’s still missing. He’s assuming foul play. I guess I know it too, but I don’t want to admit it yet.” He steeled his shoulders. “He’s asked us to step up the pace on testing the samples Darrell was working on when he was killed. I’ll go in myself after dinner to do some of her work.” He frowned. “I guess you and Megan will have to come with me. I won’t leave either of you here alone, especially after dark.”
And won’t Megan be happy about that? Emma thought wryly, but left it alone. “I can help you with the testing,” she said, “as long as it’s nothing too complicated. I majored in chemistry, too. I can be a lab assistant if you want.” She skimmed a spoon over the simmering sauce and lifted it to his lips, catching his gaze. And her breath.
He touched his tongue to the spoon, his eyes heating. “I’d appreciate the help. You make a good sauce, Emma.”
“You’re just saying that because it’s not Hamburger Helper,” she teased, her cheeks warm from his light praise. “You must have two dozen boxes of Hamburger and Tuna Helper in your pantry.”
“Neither Megan nor I cook very often,” he admitted. “More often than not Jerry brings a bucket of chicken.”
“I’d scold you for eating all that fat, but it doesn’t seem to have hurt you that much.” Her eyes dropped the length of him, all the way to his toes and back up again.
He threaded his fingers through her hair and tilted her face up for a soft kiss. “You didn’t age too badly yourself.” Quickly he disengaged himself and lifted the pot from the stove. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.” He glanced at the table where she’d set three places. “Megan said she’d rather starve than eat with us.”
“Then we’ll make her a plate and she can eat later. Don’t push her, Christopher. Give her time to get used to the idea.”
Gently he grasped her chin, tilting her face up again. “The idea of what?”
Emma licked her lower lip, then bit it. “Of us. Of me being part of your life.”
“Are you getting used to the idea, Emma?”
“Yes. I think I am.”
His blue eyes flashed with a look of triumph he either couldn’t or didn’t bother to hide. “Then Megan will come around. She’s a smart girl, loving and generous. She’ll eventually see that this makes me happy. That it will make her happy, too.”
But Emma remembered the blatant hatred in the girl’s eyes and could only pray Christopher was right. Because if his daughter didn’t approve . . . Emma had counseled enough “spliced” families to know the pressure angry stepchildren could put on new relationships. Even the best case wasn’t good at all.
Chapter 7
Tuesday, March 2, 1:30 a.m.
Ian inspected Emma’s results. “You’re a quick study, Dr. Townsend.”
Emma lifted one corner of her mouth at the sour admiration in his tone. He’d been vocally opposed to her “help” when Christopher had first brought her to the lab. She’d disturb their samples, she’d do more harm than good. It wasn’t until Ian moaned that they’d have to babysit her to make sure she didn’t poison herself or blow them all up that Christopher snapped at him to “Be quiet and show her how to run the damned tests.�
� Now, after running several samples with no harm to the lab, its occupants or her own person, it seemed she’d earned a little respect.
“Thank you, Ian. I got nothing out of the ordinary from the samples I tested, though. None of them tested positive for anything.”
“Mine either,” Nate said grimly from the lab table next to Emma’s. “What we have is a shitload of plain dirt. I’ve been here for seventeen hours and I know nothing more than when I walked in this morning.” He threw his pen to the table in disgust. “Dammit.”
Her shoulders sagging, Emma looked at the rows of little glass bottles filled with dirt lined up along the lab table, watched them blur. They could be here another seventeen hours and still have more samples to test. Blinking hard, she made her eyes focus on her watch. They’d been hard at work for hours, mostly in silence, Megan Walker asleep on a sofa in the next room. Sleep was beginning to sound pretty good to Emma, too.
“Gentlemen, I’m starting to run on fumes. I didn’t sleep most of last night.” She glanced across the glaring white of the lab to where Christopher was frowning at a computer screen filled with numbers and graphs.
“He’s trying to find anything to tie these samples together,” Ian murmured.
But Christopher had found nothing, Emma knew. Not so far. She sat down on the stool at the lab table. “How would anyone know what Darrell was working on? Someone had to have known. He’d be alive otherwise.”
Ian rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “I don’t know. Detective Harris has asked us that same question, a dozen different ways. Nate and I have racked our brains trying to think of how anyone would have known, but we come up blank.”
Nate scowled. “Nobody knew except us.”
“Well, the guy at the USDA office knows,” Emma said thoughtfully.
Ian lifted a brow. “Yes, Sutton knows, but none of our reports have listed anything but code numbers for the samples. There was nothing that would seem suspicious.”
“To you, perhaps. It meant something to somebody, Ian.”