Cole strode up the cracked walk and across the rickety porch. From inside the house he could hear a radio tuned to a hard-rock station. He knocked on the door and waited, not surprised when no one answered. He lifted a fist and banged loudly on the door. It swung slowly open.
He was no longer a cop, no longer constrained by rules and regulations, just an ordinary citizen who could consider himself invited in when a door opened. He walked inside.
The small living room was musty and dim, the furniture old and dark. A framed portrait in the middle of the coffee table, surrounded by beer cans and fast-food wrappers, caught his eye and he did a double take. For just a moment, in the dim light, he’d thought it was a picture of Mary holding a baby.
He snatched it up and looked closer. The picture was old and the woman bore only a superficial resemblance to Mary.
He set it down and looked around, noting that other photographs were scattered around the room, some framed, others leaning against lamps, ashtrays or even beer cans. The progression of years captured in the images revealed the woman to be Sam’s mother, Grace. Well, at least the man had loved his mother.
“Maynard!” he called, following the sound of the music down a short hallway.
The music stopped.
Still wearing the black suit Pete had described, Maynard burst out of one of the bedrooms. “What are you doing here? Get out! Get out! You can’t come in here!” Strands of thin, greasy hair bounced about his large head.
Cole raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture and backed up. “Hey, man, your door was open!”
Maynard positioned himself in the doorway to the room he’d come out of. A big man, he was able to block much of the room from Cole’s view. “What do you want?”
“I heard about your wedding. Just wondered why I wasn’t invited.”
Maynard’s little pig eyes narrowed craftily. “I know you. You’re a cop.”
“I used to be, but that was years ago. Tell me about your bride. I hear she’s beautiful.”
Maynard relaxed a fraction, turning his head toward the interior of the room. Cole stepped to the side, making an effort to peer into the room, but Sam caught the movement and shifted his body to again block Cole’s view. “Whaddaya looking at?”
“Depends. What are you hiding in there?” Cole wasn’t really sure he wanted to see what form Maynard’s latest perversion had taken, but the man’s reluctance to allow him into the room made him determined to get in there.
“None of your business,” Maynard snarled. “Get out. I got rights.”
“Is that any way to talk? I thought I was invited to the wedding. I just came by to drink a toast. What do you say we tip a couple of beers?”
Sam perked up at the mention of alcohol. He cast one final look into the room, then moved forward, out of the way.
Cole only had a couple of seconds to look, but that was all he needed. Even from that distance, he could see that the walls were covered with pictures…pictures clipped from the newspaper, photocopies of those pictures, pictures taken with a camera of a television newscast, photocopies and enlargements of those pictures…all of Mary.
MARY NEEDED something to do while Cole was visiting with Sam Maynard, something to take her mind off what might be happening across town.
Cole had told her to move things from drawers or shove them aside so she could put away her clothes. Sleeping in Billy’s room had seemed enough of an invasion of the boy’s privacy; she hated to do more, but it was ridiculous for her clothes to lie on the floor. With a silent apology to Billy, she opened the top drawer of the dresser to see slightly disorderly rows of small underwear and socks as well as a rubber snake, a couple of crayons, a chocolate bar and a slingshot.
The carelessly stored toys, still waiting to be reclaimed, brought home to her the loss of a precious child. From the bits and pieces she remembered of her own childhood, it had been a happy one. It didn’t seem fair that this boy had been able to enjoy so little of his.
She closed the drawer, understanding why Cole had been unable to move anything in the two rooms.
The middle drawer was packed with blue jeans, shorts and T-shirts.
When she pulled on the bottom drawer, it opened only a few inches then stuck.
Reaching inside, she found a book wedged between the two drawers. Fumbling, Mary determined that the book was taped in place. What had Billy considered so private that he had gone to so much trouble to hide?
After twisting and tugging for a couple of moments, she was finally able to extricate it and open the drawer.
The book proved to be a journal with the top cover askew and damaged. Apparently over time the tape had loosened enough to allow the book to partially fall and wedge when she’d tried to open the drawer. The damage of her tugging and the tape was sufficient that the first page was exposed.
“Cole and I are married!” The writing flowed across the page, spidery and fluid, filled with loops and flourishes. “I never knew I could feel so wonderful and so safe.”
Angela’s journal.
Though she knew it was ridiculous, Mary’s heart clenched at the thought of Cole belonging to the woman who’d written those words, of Cole making that woman feel wonderful and safe, just the way he’d made her feel.
At the same time, she felt guilty for reading what Cole’s wife had written. Nothing in Angela’s journal was any of her business.
The book weighed heavy in her hands and guilt seared through her chest. She settled the cover into place as best as she could, and slipped it under the two small sweaters that were the only items in the bottom drawer.
None of her business.
Yet as she put her few clothes in beside the sweaters, she fancied the journal vibrated with the intensity of the secrets that lay between its pages.
“Cole and I are married!” Angela had written. “I never knew I could feel so wonderful and so safe.”
But that was only the first page. If Angela had remained happy and filled her journal with similar ecstatic comments, why had she felt it necessary to hide that journal in Billy’s room?
Was there more to Cole’s anguish than just an automobile accident that had taken his beloved family?
Did the book she’d found contain a key to his ordeal, to the darkness he’d beaten back and the steel that encased his heart? If she knew those secrets, could she then figure out a way to deal with her own problems, to conquer the formless, all-pervading fears that ruled her life, or would she find something in those pages that would worsen her fears?
Mary closed the drawer and stared at it for a long moment before she went downstairs and out onto the patio. She felt the need to get as far away as possible from that journal, from her desire to take it out and search for the secrets to Cole Grayson.
Chapter Seven
When Cole returned home and unlocked the front door, he found the alarm had been deactivated. What the hell?
The minute he stepped inside, he knew the house was empty. Not only was the silence total, but he had no sensation of Mary’s soft essence. Had something happened? Had Mary’s fears been real after all? Had the person who’d splashed blood on her dress found her and taken her away with him?
Telling himself he was being ridiculous, he ran upstairs to find Billy’s room empty. She was nowhere on the first level, either, not in the living room, dining room or kitchen. Then through the window in the patio door, he saw Mary sitting in a white wrought-iron chair, her back to him as she faced the woods.
He walked out, and she whirled around with a start, then smiled, and for a moment, all he saw was that smile.
The woods that encircled his house kept the temperature cool and the air fresh, and Mary, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a faded denim blouse, looked as cool and fresh as the woods. For that moment, all he wanted was to pull up a chair and sit beside her, share a glass of wine as they enjoyed the serenity. For that one moment, he forgot all the turmoil in the world outside, all the turmoil behind Mary’s sculpte
d features and haunting eyes.
“Hi,” she said. “Did you talk to that man?” Her tense words brought him back to the reality of the situation.
“Yeah, I talked to Sam Maynard.” He took a seat, turning his chair to face her, grateful for the small table between them even as he wished it away. He had to fight the urge to take her into his arms, to somehow protect her from the story he had to tell.
As he recounted his visit to Maynard’s house, she sat rigidly straight, her hands clasping the chair arms, her eyes widening with horror.
“The creep had saved every newspaper article and taken photographs from the television news stories about you then had enlargements and photocopies made.”
“Did you get them away from him and tear them up?” She shuddered. “I don’t want him looking at my pictures. I feel like he’s looking at me.”
Cole didn’t like the idea any better than she did. He reached across the table and laid a hand on her slim forearm. “I had to choose between rushing into that room and ripping up as many pictures as I could before Sam came after me and we got into a fight, or doing what I could to make sure he’d leave you alone.”
He’d almost opted for the former, his anger bursting from a seething volcano inside his gut when he’d seen those pictures, that sick invasion of Mary’s innocence. He’d wanted to provoke a fight with the big man, wanted to feel one fist connect with and break the beaked nose while the other swung upward into Maynard’s jaw and crunched that bone, too. He’d wanted to beat the man to a bloody pulp, erase any thoughts of Mary from that vile mind.
But he’d called on his years of training as a police officer and made himself do the logical thing. He’d grabbed the collar of Maynard’s filthy shirt and pulled him close, so close he could smell the man’s fetid breath, then warned him what would happen if he didn’t destroy his collection and forget about the woman in those photographs.
“So my pictures are still on his wall.”
Cole’s heart clenched at the disgust in her tone. She thought he’d failed her, and in a way he supposed he had. “I told him to get rid of them. I warned him that he’d answer to me if I found out he kept any of them or if he bothered you in any way.”
She shook her head slowly, her gaze slightly unfocused, and Cole wasn’t sure if she was seeing the past or the present. “He won’t listen. He doesn’t believe you.”
He squeezed her arm reassuringly as he remembered the fear in Maynard’s beady eyes. “He believed me. He knows I’m a former cop, and he’s scared of me. After twelve years on the force and three as a PI, I know how to read people. Trust me, Sam Maynard did not take my warning lightly.”
She studied him in silence, her gaze coming back into focus then flicking over his face as if searching for the truth…as if he had any truth to give her. Finally she nodded, and the total trust in her eyes hit him broadside.
He had frightened Maynard. He was certain of that. However, Cole wasn’t convinced that Sam had done anything other than collect Mary’s pictures. When he’d told Sam to forget about Mary, the man hadn’t known who Cole was talking about. None of the news stories had used that name. If they’d used a name at all, it had been Jane Doe. Maynard had referred to her as Grace, his mother’s first name. Apparently he’d seen the same resemblance Cole had noted in the old photograph and thought his mother had returned…in a wedding gown, so she must be his bride.
Cole had not corrected him regarding the name, but had made a mental note that the person who’d called for Mary at the hotel couldn’t have been Sam since that caller had specifically asked for Mary Jackson.
But he didn’t mention to her his doubts about Maynard being her tormentor. If she thought the problem had been resolved, perhaps she would stop worrying about every phone call and every shadow. He very much wanted to earn the trust he saw in her gaze, to be able to give her that peace and freedom from fear, to see her eyes clear and happy like the springtime sky, instead of haunted and fearful with the ghost of winter. If her tormentor was flesh and blood, Cole could protect her. If her tormentor lived in her mind, all he could do was try to give her a small break from the fear.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. “I could sure use one right now.”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
While Cole went back inside to get the wine, Mary tried to digest the news of his visit with Sam Maynard. She believed Cole when he said he’d warned and frightened the man. She believed that Sam would think twice before trying to contact her.
So why was that hard, cold core of fear still lying in her gut like a chunk of lead?
At first she’d felt safe in Cole’s house. But then the rabbit and the phone call had stolen that feeling of security. Only when Cole was beside her did the fear diminish, and even then it didn’t vanish completely.
She had to discover what she was running from. Only then could she overcome it.
The door behind her opened, and she heard Cole return.
He walked around in front of her and offered her a glass of wine, blood-red wine.
The darkness started to close around her, like curtains on a stage, but she shoved it back and stared at the crimson liquid, at the transparency that suddenly overlay the scene around her…a tall blond man who smiled as he offered her a glass of wine, a blur of people seated at tables in a restaurant, five women at her table, friends who were making an effort to pull her out of the depression she’d fallen into after her parents’ deaths.
Her parents’ deaths?
“Oh!” Mary lifted a hand to her mouth to stop the sobs that threatened to burst forth.
Cole was there instantly, kneeling in front of her, concern creasing his forehead, his strong hands on her shoulders, steadying her and pushing back the intruding, unwelcome memories. “What is it, Mary? What’s wrong?”
She wanted to collapse against him, feel his arms around her, cry against his broad chest until the sea of tears that swelled inside her was drained, but the desire had a déjà vu quality to it, as if she’d already done that and regretted it. With the blond man? He’d seemed to be friendly, smiling as he approached her.
“I—” She swallowed back the sob that tried to climb out of her throat as she spoke. “I was at a restaurant with friends. They insisted I go out. They were concerned because I’d been so depressed after my parents—after my parents died.” She bit her lip and resolved not to cry even though the tears were already overflowing her eyes. “I’m sorry. It feels like it just happened, like I just now got the news.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” His arms tightened around her as if to pull her closer. Her position in the chair made that difficult, and she resisted the urge to lean into him. Much as she wanted to be in Cole’s arms, she wanted to be there for a reason other than his sympathy.
She nodded, and blotted the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. “It hasn’t been long since they died. Less than a year.” The painful details washed over her. “It was carbon monoxide poisoning from their old gas furnace. I tried to get them to buy a new one. I offered to pay for it. I even gave them a carbon monoxide detector, but they didn’t use it. They didn’t use the smoke detector I gave them either. Dad was so certain nothing could happen to harm any of us as long as he was there, and he swore he’d always be there for us.”
Cole touched the corners of her eyes with his rough fingertips, gently smoothing away more tears. “Sounds like a wonderful family.”
She nodded. “They were. I feel completely lost without them.”
“Do you remember any more details about them?”
She shook her head. “Just how much it hurt when I heard.”
“Go with that thought. Where were you when you got the news?”
“At home. In my apartment. Getting dressed for work. I can hear the phone ringing, see myself picking it up…” Again she shook her head. “That’s all. I don’t know where I live or where I work or who I am.”
“It’s okay.” He stroked
her arm, his touch both soothing and electrically charged. “You’ve taken another step, and we have another clue. If your parents lived in a small town around here, odds are their deaths would make the local newspaper. I’ll see if I can find something on that.” He moved back to sit in his chair again then handed her the glass he’d brought out earlier.
For a few moments they sipped the wine in silence, the only sounds those of nature…birds, insects, the breezes rustling the leaves overhead. The setting offered comfort as Mary struggled to deal with this new knowledge about her parents, knowledge she didn’t want but had to accept.
“I like being out here,” she finally said. “The trees and everything. I always enjoyed going home to the country, getting out of my apartment.”
“Tell me some more details about the place where you grew up.”
She concentrated, trying to bring her childhood out of the darkness. Finally she shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Did you have a garden?”
To her surprise, his simple question produced a vivid image in her mind. “Yes, we did. A large one with all sorts of vegetables. Mom spent most of the summer canning and freezing. I used to love to dig for the first new potatoes. It was like a treasure hunt. And I’d eat the cherry tomatoes straight off the vine. Mom would fuss at me about washing them, but that wouldn’t have been the same. I liked to stand among the plants, barefoot, of course, pluck off the tomatoes, juicy and warm from the sun, and pop them into my mouth.” She smiled. “I did that as an adult, too.”
He returned her smile. “Barefoot?”
“Sure. Barefoot so I could feel the warm earth and the cool grass. I always sunburned so easily, I had to wear sunscreen, hats, long sleeves, slacks.”
“Your skin is very fair.”
“I know. I wanted to be tan like the other kids. But even when I got out without the sunscreen or the protective clothing, all I ever turned was red. One time we drove down to Galveston and I had a wonderful time playing in the sand and the ocean, but the next day I was the color of those tomatoes. Did you go to Galveston when you were a child?”
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