by Beth Andrews
“True.”
Guess that second helping he’d had when they’d eaten dinner over two hours ago hadn’t been enough to fill him. She lifted the bread to her own mouth, remembered her dream, the sight of her mother lying in a pool of blood. Tossed the bread back onto his plate.
He studied her, his expression contemplative. It was all she could do not to squirm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He wagged his fork at her. “Now you’re lying to me.”
Did she have a huge sign over her head, the word liar all lit up and pointing right down at her? “Anthony,” she said in the same tone she’d used when she’d babysat him and wanted him to quit bugging her and go to bed already. “I’m fine.”
“Not buying it. For one thing, you’re not usually so jumpy—”
“I’m not jumpy. I was sleeping.”
“And you look like hell.”
Fighting the urge to smooth her hair, she batted her lashes. “Sweet-talker.”
He touched her arm. “I’m serious. Everything okay? Come on.” He grinned, all charm and confidence. “Tell Uncle Anthony all about it.”
“I’m fine.” And because he obviously still didn’t believe her, she forced a smile. “Really.”
“Then why are you hiding in here while everyone else is outside?”
Because she hadn’t been able to breathe. Not with her chest so tight, her stomach churning with guilt. Every time she got close to Tori or Nora, she struggled to hold on to her secret. To not blurt out everything that had happened. To tell them the very real possibility that their mother was dead.
Thank God her father wasn’t due back from sea for a few more days. It would’ve been worse, so much worse, if he were here.
“Tori and I had a slight…disagreement…this morning.” She wiped the butter from her fingers with his napkin. “I thought we both could use some space.”
“I wondered why Tori was acting so weird. I figured it was because Greg brought his new girlfriend.”
Greg Mott and Tori had been high school sweethearts and when Tori found herself pregnant during the middle of their senior year, he’d stepped up and did the right thing. He was a good guy. Decent. Respectable and responsible. And a wonderful father to Layne’s nephew.
But he hadn’t been enough for Tori.
“If Tori didn’t want him seeing other women,” Layne said, “maybe she shouldn’t have divorced him.”
“Well, yeah, but still it can’t be easy seeing the guy you were married to snuggling up with someone new.” Anthony wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Or to have Brandon being so into her. Especially when he’s been giving Tori such a hard time.”
Layne shrugged. “He’s a preteen. Plus he’s pissed at his mom for tearing his family apart.”
“Not that you’re judging her much.”
She shrugged that off. Maybe she was acting sanctimonious. And judgmental. But while she loved Tori, she couldn’t sit by silently while her sister made so many mistakes.
Besides, she didn’t know how to fix this rift between them, one that went deeper than what happened at the station this morning. They’d always clashed. Tori was too reckless. Too focused on her own wants and needs.
Too much like Valerie.
The kitchen door opened and Erin, Anthony’s older sister, stuck her head inside. “Hey, you two, come on. Brandon’s getting ready to open his presents.”
“Coming,” Layne called as she and Anthony both stood. They walked into the tiny kitchen. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she told him. “I want to get a drink first.”
She waited until after he left to get a glass from an upper cabinet. Filling it with water from the sink, she stared out the window overlooking Tori’s patio. Except for her dad, all the people she cared about most were out there, smiling, talking, laughing.
At the head of the picnic table Brandon tore into a brightly wrapped present. He had his father’s light brown hair and quick grin, his mother’s guarded eyes and, unfortunately for Tori, the Sullivan stubbornness.
Tori, in a pair of tight jeans and a T-shirt the color of daffodils, took pictures off to the side. Nora stood to the right of Tori, her wavy blond hair pulled back, making her look even younger than twenty-six. She talked with Uncle Ken, their father’s brother and Nora’s mentor and a senior partner at the law firm where she’d recently started working.
Under the large oak tree, Aunt Astor and Erin shared a laugh. Both women were coolly blonde, completely beautiful and classy and still seemed right at home at a small family birthday party held in a backyard roughly the size of their inground swimming pool. Astor touched her daughter’s cheek, her love for her clear on her face.
An image of a smiling Valerie flared to life in Layne’s mind, a memory from Layne’s own twelfth birthday. Layne had just opened the gift from her parents—tiny blue diamond stud earrings so stunning they’d taken her breath away.
Valerie had encouraged her to put them in right away, had even held Layne’s hair back while she did so. Then she’d taken Layne’s face in her hands, smiled and kissed both Layne’s cheeks before pressing her own cheek against her daughter’s. Layne had shut her eyes, breathed in her mother’s sweet perfume.
And in that one perfect moment, Layne had loved her. More than anyone or anything.
Happy birthday, baby girl.
Tears clogging her throat, Layne lightly touched her right ear, her fingers skimming over the naked lobe.
Curling her fingers, she lowered her hand, pushing the memory from her mind as she exhaled slowly until it felt as if her lungs were empty.
Outside, Brandon whooped loudly. Layne shook her head, focused on her nephew as he yanked a New England Patriots jersey over his head. He ran around the table to give Colleen Gibbs, Greg’s plain but very sweet girlfriend, a hug. Greg’s parents exchanged a fond glance at each other over their grandson’s head.
Witnessing the cozy scene from her spot at the edge of the patio, Tori appeared ready to leap across the table and challenge Colleen to a no-holds-barred cage match.
Luckily Celeste Vitello, Tori’s boss at the café and their father’s longtime girlfriend, put a comforting hand on Tori’s arm. Celeste, a trim and athletic fifty-year-old, had brown, wildly curly hair styled in a short bob that showed off her long neck and made her large, warm brown eyes appear even bigger.
Celeste spoke close to Tori’s ear and Tori’s glower faded, replaced by a small, reluctant smile. She nodded, responded to Celeste then gestured for Colleen and Brandon to pose for a picture while Celeste slipped away to gather the wrapping paper Brandon had tossed on the ground.
Possible crisis, or at the very least one of Tori’s tantrums, averted.
As if sensing her gaze, Celeste raised her head. Their eyes met and she lifted a hand. In greeting? Or perhaps as a sign for Layne to join them.
Layne returned the wave but then held up her forefinger. She needed that minute, that time to get the horrible dream out of her head. To clear the memory of it clinging to her consciousness.
She finished her water, refilled the glass and had it halfway to her mouth when she heard a car door slam. Several heads turned toward the driveway, most showing nothing more than mild curiosity.
And then Police Chief Ross Taylor strode into view, the setting sun glinting off his shiny badge, his mouth set in a serious line.
Shit.
She put the glass on the edge of the sink where it tottered precariously before falling in. It shattered, water and glass shards sprayed her bare arms and hands. She ignored it all.
She pressed a hand against her churning stomach. Inhaled deeply, held it for the count of five. The time had come. Whirling on her bare heel, she walked outside and prepared herself to face the truth.
* * *
ROSS CROSSED THE NEATLY trimmed lawn toward the covered patio. Navy blue and red balloons, tied to each of the table legs, bobbed in the evening breeze. Brightly wrapped presents were piled high in front of a
boy in an oversize Patriots’ jersey, his brown hair sticking up, the braces on his teeth flashing when he smiled.
A chocolate frosted cake—one of those round, two-layered ones like his mom used to make for his and Heather’s birthdays—sat on the far end of the table surrounded by paper plates, forks and napkins.
He scanned the faces of the partiers gathered around the table and the few scattered around the yard, still close enough to watch the kid open his gifts. He recognized a couple—Tori Mott, of course, and Ken Sullivan, a prominent lawyer and a former county district attorney.
But he didn’t see Layne. Meade had told him she was attending her nephew’s party tonight so why wasn’t she out here with her family?
“Evening,” he said as he approached the group. “I apologize for—”
The back door swung open, hitting the outside of the house with a bang. Ross blinked, glad his dark sunglasses hid the betraying motion. But he couldn’t help it. Sullivan stood in the doorway like an Amazonian princess ready to battle to protect her domain.
Her white shorts ended well above her knees giving him a never-before-seen view of her tanned, toned legs. An image that would no doubt show up in the very vivid, very steamy dreams he’d been having about her. Her green, long-sleeved top clung to her breasts, showed the well-defined muscles of her arms. Worst of all, her hair was down, the dark strands sliding over her shoulders as she hurried down the wooden steps.
He forgot, for the barest of moments, that she’d tried to hide that the necklace found at the scene had possibly belonged to her mother. That she was an officer under his command. She had him thinking thoughts better left alone. Wanting something he had no right to covet.
He released a slow breath from between his teeth.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Tori before crossing to him. “Chief. How about we talk over here where it’s…quieter?”
It wasn’t a question—more like a command. But he heard the slight unease, saw the nerves in her hazel eyes. Sympathy stirred. Damn. He didn’t want to feel for her, but he did.
He gestured back the way he came. “After you.”
She brushed past him. He followed her down the driveway, passing a line of parked vehicles—including a new red Jeep and a glossy black Lexus. Her feet were bare, long and narrow with pink paint on her toes. Her arms swung with purpose. At the end of the driveway, behind the Lexus, she stopped and crossed her arms as she waited for him.
“You found out the identity of the body,” she said without preamble. “Is it my mother?”
He hesitated. She held herself stiffly, her chin lifted as if she was bracing for bad news. But really, how could you ever be prepared for this?
“Just tell me,” she said, linking her hands together in front of her at her waist. “Please,” she said, sounding as if she’d rather choke on the word than spit it out. “Please,” she repeated, softer. More sincere. “I need to know.”
“Captain…Layne,” he corrected without thinking, not missing the surprise on her face as he said her name, the sound of it odd coming out of his mouth. “The dental records prove the body we found was Valerie Sullivan.”
She swayed.
He reached out, took a hold of her arms. She seemed delicate despite the play of muscles under his fingers. And she smelled good—light and fresh and feminine. He ground his back teeth together.
“You need to sit down,” he said curtly, “before you fall down.”
She shook him off. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t, but he stepped back anyway. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I realize you’ve done this hundreds of times—”
“This?”
She waved her hands in the air. “Death notifications. And while that may be part of your normal spiel, you don’t need to bother with it this time. I don’t need your professional sympathy.”
“You’re right,” he said so coldly, his breath should’ve fogged in the summer air. “It is part of my normal spiel to offer my condolences when I have to inform someone that their loved one has died. But that doesn’t make those words, or the sympathy behind them, any less genuine.”
She pulled both hands through her hair, held it back from her face. “I didn’t mean… I’m just saying I’m not a victim here. I don’t want to be a victim. Or treated like one.”
How could he argue—or get angry—over that? “Fair enough.”
“Cause of death?” she asked, slumped back against the passenger-side door of the Lexus as if her legs wouldn’t fully support her. But though her eyes were huge in her pale face, they were clear. Determined. Her voice strong.
“Forensic anthropologist found contusions on the skull indicating a sharp blow to the head.”
“Skull fracture?”
“That’s the most probable answer right now. He’s going to go over the remains again tomorrow, make sure he didn’t miss anything.”
“Okay. Okay,” she repeated as if to herself, pushing away from the car to pace along the sidewalk. The sun was slowly sinking behind the trees at her back, haloing her in soft light. “What about Dale York? Have you found him?”
“Working on that. In the meantime, we’ll talk to any remaining family he may have in the area—”
“His son.” A car went by, beeped. She waved without even looking at it. “Griffin York. He went to school with Tori, owns a garage over on Willard Ave. Griffin’s mom is still in town, too. I think she’s remarried though… .” She tapped her thumb knuckle against her mouth. “What is his name? They live over in Valley Brook Court. Johnson or Johnston or—”
“We’ll find her,” Ross said, lifting his hand to touch her arm in support. Except touching her, when his body reacted to her the way it did, was such a bad idea, he curled his fingers and lowered it again. “The MPPD will do everything in its power to find out what happened to your mother. To find who did this.”
“I know you will. And I…” Her mouth flattened. “Oh, for the love of God,” she muttered.
He turned to follow her gaze. A shapely blonde walked toward them, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Hi,” she said. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”
“Then why are you?” Layne asked.
The blonde merely smiled. “Because Tori, Erin and I did rock, paper, scissors to determine who would come over here and I lost. Two out of three,” she told Ross. “Should’ve went with rock that last shoot—” she shrugged “—but what are you gonna do?”
Layne pressed her fingers against her temple. “What do you want?”
“I came over to see if you’ve invited Chief Taylor to stay for cake and ice cream.”
“No,” Layne bit out. “This isn’t a social call.”
“I’d apologize for her,” the blonde told Ross, “but I’m sure you’ve already figured out that it’d be a waste of my time. I’m Nora Sullivan, by the way.” She offered her hand. “Layne’s favorite sister.”
She glared at Nora. “You’ve been demoted to second place. Look, I’ll be over as soon as I’m done.”
“I can take a hint. Nice meeting you, Chief Taylor,” Nora said pleasantly before walking away. She must’ve gotten all the cheerful genes in her family along with her fair complexion and sunny blond hair.
“As you can see,” Layne said, “your timing sucks.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your nephew’s birthday,” he said, “but this can’t wait.”
She nodded. Blew out a heavy breath. “You’re right.” Two words he’d never thought he’d hear from her.
Ross took off his sunglasses, hung them on his shirt. The party burst into a round of Happy Birthday and Layne watched as they sang, her expression unreadable. Tori carried the cake, candles burning brightly in the encroaching twilight, over and set it in front of the boy. Song finished, he leaned over, blew out the candles. His family clapped.
“I need to tell my sisters,” Layne murmured, still staring at the family scene. “And my dad.”
“Is that him?”
Ross asked, nodding toward a stocky man talking with Ken Sullivan at the edge of the patio.
“That’s Christopher Mott, Tori’s father-in-law. Tori’s ex-father-in-law. My dad’s not here.”
“He’s not at his grandson’s birthday party?”
Her mouth turned down. “That’s pretty much what I meant by he’s not here.” Finally she faced him. “He’s on the Guiding Light. And before you ask, let me add that the Guiding Light is a fishing vessel.”
Ross took his notepad from his shirt pocket and wrote down Guiding Light. “He’s out on a boat? When will he get back?”
“Hard to say for certain, but if the good weather holds, they should dock either late Sunday night or early Monday morning.”
“I was hoping to speak with him sooner than that,” he said, earning himself one of her you-do-not-belong-here stares.
“You have a lot to learn about Mystic Point, don’t you?”
“That’s what they tell me,” he managed, sick and tired of people saying he shouldn’t be here because he didn’t know the names of every single person who waved or said hello to him. Because he hadn’t gone to school with his coworkers, still needed his GPS to help him find addresses and didn’t understand even the basics about the fishing business—Mystic Point’s largest industry.
That he never should’ve been hired instead of a local. Instead of Layne.
“There’s not much we can do to get him here any faster,” she said. “Just be glad they caught their quota and are already on their way back.”
“My father was right,” he heard himself say. Then, because her dark eyebrows drew together in question, had to continue, “I should have watched a couple of seasons of Deadliest Catch before taking this job.”
Her lips twitched. “It’s not exactly the same since they’re off the coast of Alaska but it’s pretty close,” she said, watching her sister serve cake. “I’d rather wait until everyone’s gone but since you’ll be tagging along—”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you there when I tell my sisters. You have more information about the case than I do plus you’re going to want to question us…all of us…and I’d rather do it tonight instead of dragging my sisters down to the police station at a future date.”