He’d left Natalie and Mom alone in the house.
What deterrent was his mother for a man who’d kill so indiscriminately? What would she do if he showed up at the door? Cook the guy to death?
What had he been thinking?
They’re fine. Just fine. Get out of your head! Nick dropped the wrench to the workbench with a clatter. The tool spun into a cedar box. A spray of yellowed envelopes spilled out when the box tipped over. Letters.
Ignoring them, he turned on his heel and stomped toward the house. He called out and waited for either woman’s reply, but his echo was the only answer.
The kitchen, great room, dining room and library were all empty. He soared upstairs, climbing them two at a time.
Nick pushed open doors, called their names into empty guest rooms.
He found a set of curtains torn down and hanging over the balcony. Empty. Room after room. His mom and Natalie were nowhere to be found.
Panic charged through his system, stinging every nerve with how she’d woven her way into his life in just a few short days. A world without Natalie?
Unthinkable.
At a run, Nick dialed Natalie’s cell. Its hollow ring was followed by a recorded voicemail message as he flew downstairs, out the side door, and toward his mother’s house at an all-out run.
It was faster to cut across the fields than to drive, and right now speed meant more than anything.
He’d lost someone he loved once. He wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Chapter 16
From his vantage point in the white van, he could almost read her lips across the busy Old Town street.
He filled in the redheaded receptionist’s conversation with words of his own, entertaining himself while he waited. “Mm-hmm. Yes, I’ll tell him. Buh-bye.”
She spoke into her headset, hung up with a button click, and answered another of the blinking lights.
With a stretch, he lowered the binoculars and flexed his hands. He’d sat in the shadows for the better part of the afternoon, the thin-walled van heating like a microwave.
Inside, it smelled of sweat and the heavy tools he stowed in the back. Oily soil caked his tools. Muddy dirt bogged down his shovel. Rich, rich soil that should be his by now, stolen by the Valences. His birthright.
His.
He clenched his teeth. The headache came, sharp. Pounding.
He blindly swept his fingers through the glove box and then dry-swallowed a handful of aspirin without looking. His gaze remained trained on the office window. With the day off from work, he had all the time in the world.
He maintained his job for an alibi, nothing more. He was always amicable, helpful, and utterly forgettable in every way.
Nothing about him stood out: no tattoos, no piercings, nothing that would make him anything but outwardly ordinary. And that was just the way he liked it.
He was a ghost, a mere presence in the physical world, with his heart already in the next.
But his time on earth was not quite over. Even though he longed for oblivion, he was in no rush to spend eternity in hell.
He focused on the task at hand. So far, no one had entered or exited the office but the postman. Fife and Fife, Attorneys at Law didn’t appear to have any attorneys in residence today. They were probably out golfing together. Downing a three-martini lunch. Lawyers, he decided, were no better than the liars who hired them to do their dirty work.
A tour group clomped down the boardwalk, snapping pictures of old buildings while their guide pointed out the site of an old gunfight and one of many rooms where John Dillinger—that famed, womanizer gangster—stayed in his last days. Now, the old hotel sold pottery.
So much for the Wild West. He gave his cheek an idle scratch. Some things didn’t change, but the weapons people used did.
Lawyers had helped steal the property that should have been his, by name. By rights. They’d taken it by force and wrapped it in big words and red tape, leaving him with nothing. No recourse.
He imagined his binoculars were the receptionist’s slim wrists, and he clenched tight while he watched her work. She was a pretty sort, full-figured with fire-red hair tangled in a knot, exposing her sleek neck. Between calls, she filed her dagger-like nails.
No. Fife wasn’t in, or she’d be busier at work. From his vantage point, he spied photos and a chat box on her computer screen. She was a thief, stealing time and money from her employer.
He mulled that over while contemplating her creamy skin and the sassy press of her mouth. But any attempts to be energized by her failed.
This woman was nothing but a means to an end. He would take her, use her, and then dispose of her earthly shell. There would be no joy in it.
He let go of the binoculars and stared at the address he’d sleuthed from Natalie’s hotel room. She’d written down this address. Been in the bright offices. Talked and laughed with the redheaded receptionist. Had a meeting with the same attorneys that left him and his mother homeless.
This was no accident. There were no accidents.
Whether or not the woman inside Fife and Fife knew it, she was his key. The ticket to his lucky day.
Shadows stretched across the street as a chilly sea breeze robbed the day of its warmth.
He checked his watch. Three o’clock now. Two more hours to sit, to wait. Maybe he should just go inside.
He ran a hand over the limp distributor cables in the passenger seat and imagined the coming scene.
At closing time, the redhead would turn off lights, pause to grab her purse, lock the door, and sashay down the back stairs to her silver Civic, the last car in the lot. But it wouldn’t start.
She’d turn and twist the key again and again, repeating the same action and expecting a different response. And just as she’d call for assistance, he’d be there for her with a smile, a helpful hand.
Nick held the ringing phone to his ear as he ran through vines, bunches of ripe fruit blurring in his peripheral vision with every pounding step toward his parents’ home.
“Leave a message,” Natalie’s voicemail instructed. He punched it off and called Mom’s phone again as he vaulted the split-rail fence dividing the properties.
What would he do if they weren’t at his mother’s?
God, if they were taken, if it’s happening again …
It would be unbearable. And this time, it really would be his fault. Dalton and he had all but orchestrated it.
Nick blasted down the path between the bunched honey Viognier and the blood-red Cab Franc. He tripped over the black hose of irrigation lines and kept going. Dust puffed with each step and trailed his path like he was a cartoon character.
He longed to see that look of new love in Natalie’s eyes, the trust she’d shown him, anything but the visions of a million horrors replaying in his head.
Please be there, Nat. Please be fine.
Dodging a tractor, he passed Dad weeding the garden and drew to a stop.
“Have you seen Natalie?”
“She’s inside. With your mother.” With a grumble about Triage—no wonder he didn’t have a job anymore—Dad returned to pulling razor weeds from his turnips.
Ignoring the dig, Nick raced up the stairs.
She was okay. Emotions rushed as his feet slowed. Now he could tell her everything. That he needed her more than breathing. That she was the one.
I have to tell her. I should have already told her. Why haven’t I told her?
The screen door hinges screamed at his press while a different sort of fear took root where the worry had been.
“Nat? Mom?”
“In here.”
He passed by the laundry room, washer chugging away, toward the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen. The beach music his mother favored crooned as background noise to the normal rhythms of his parents’ house while she placed mugs on the kitchen counter.
“Hey, Nicky.” She smiled, sliding a mug to Natalie.
Natalie’s eyes were bright with
laughter—from one of Mom’s stories no doubt.
He froze like a deer in headlights as he collected himself. She was fine. Here. Safe. Thank God.
She looked his way and smiled as she gathered the milk pitcher and a spoon.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Nat doctored her coffee and gave it a slow stir.
“I thought—you weren’t there. Your car was, but—”
Smile faltering, Natalie set down the spoon and cupped the steaming mug in her hands. “We came here to wash the sheets.”
Mom’s scowl at his muddy boots turned sympathetic. “I told you we’d be together, Nicky.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Go take off your shoes and come have some coffee.”
He did as his mother ordered, undoing his work boot laces with trembling fingers.
Natalie took a slurping sip and then tipped her attention his way. “You get the power back on?”
Nick nodded, heart still hammering. The washer went to spin cycle with a whirring deliberation that matched his thoughts.
Natalie wasn’t dead.
She wasn’t stolen from him. She was here, drinking coffee, acting normal. Like the world wasn’t waiting to crumble at their feet.
Sinking to the barstool at her side, Nick didn’t yet trust his voice to speak.
“Here, hon.”
His mother slid him her mug and turned to fetch another for herself. She kept the conversation light like she always did when she sensed there was trouble. “And I thought I was a slave driver. Your Natalie here really knows how to upend a house!”
My Natalie, Nick thought, turning to look at her.
Whether or not that was true, she looked amused by the thought. Brows up and contemplative, Natalie palmed her mug. She met the force of his gaze, lacing hers with sweet apology.
At that moment, he believed her lagoon-green eyes could calm any storm.
Her long fingers rolled waves up and down the porcelain surface as she apologized. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
He nodded, still not trusting his voice to speak.
“Sorry?” Violet added a dollop of cream and a spoon of sugar to her mug. “Don’t apologize about not leaving a map on how to find you,” she said to Natalie. “Nick’s a big boy. It’s good for him.”
“Good for me?” Nick’s guffaw seasoned the kitchen. “Since when is a heart attack a good thing?”
His mother locked him in her cerulean stare. “It’s good for you to worry about the living instead of chasing phantoms with your brother.”
Sucker punched, he stared into the dark depths of his mug.
“She doesn’t know?” Natalie’s tone stung.
Nick bowed his head lower and gulped the scalding, bitter coffee as if that would sear the question away.
“Know what?” Laughter drained from Mom’s voice. Then, her spoon falling to the sink in a clatter, she said, “It’s happening again.”
“Mom—”
“You,” she accused. “Trying to protect me by hiding the truth? That hurts more than anything.” Sizzling with betrayal, she wadded up a dishrag and threw it in after the spoon. “When will you and your thick-headed brother realize that?”
Nick went to her and rested his hands on her shaking shoulders. She was so thin, so frail. He always thought of her as strong—but now? A stiff breeze would knock Violet Hardaway to the ground.
“Dalton and I wanted to wait until we were sure …” He ducked a glance to Natalie. “Natalie didn’t hide anything. I didn’t coach her.” When no one said anything, he stared at the vineyard dust on his boots. “It just didn’t come up.”
The washer finished its frantic spin and slowed into silence.
“It’s all right to talk about it, Nicky.” She stilled Natalie’s attempted exit with a raised hand. “You need to pick up your sister, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I’ll just take the laundry that’s ready. We’ll make up beds when we get back to the castle.”
“Nonsense.” Violet waved a hand like swatting a fly. “You’ll stay here tonight.”
“I don’t want to impose—”
“Do an old woman a favor and let me go one night with all my kids under one roof?”
Natalie opened and then shut her mouth. Nick all but read her thoughts. Included as one of the kids already?
But he knew the tone that Mom used when she was done talking about something. There was no point in arguing.
Nick cleared his throat, attempting chivalry. “She can have my room—I’ll bunk on the couch.”
“The girls can stay in Rebecca’s room.”
Rebecca’s room? No one had gone in there to do more than dust or vacuum since the day she went missing. The room was a veritable shrine to his sister’s life.
Any protests he might have made were interrupted by his mom. “You can sleep in your own bed, across the hall. If you promise to behave.”
“That’s a big if.”
Violet framed his face with her palms and stared deep into his eyes as she spoke. “It’s time, Son. He’s stolen enough from us.”
Her eyes shimmered with conviction, but he couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince him or herself.
Maybe she should have left him a note. Guilt wove its ugly vine through Natalie’s thoughts as they headed back to the Valence estate for Nick’s truck.
They cut through the fields along the edges of the Hardaway and Valence family properties. Hand in hand they strolled through the vines where broad leaves faced the sun.
Natalie cupped a heavy bunch of grapes, wondering out loud about the lure of this fermented fruit.
Nick’s smile came easy. This was obviously a favorite subject for the vineyard manager.
“Even in ancient times people drank wine and other fermented drinks. It’s biblical. Even the first miracle, the wedding at Cana, shows Jesus turning water to wine.”
She nodded, recalling a Bible study on the first miracle. “When Jesus turned water to wine for his mother.”
“I like thinking of him that way. She asked, and he answered. And the first miracle for the woman who’d given him life on earth? Pretty classy stuff.”
Natalie laughed. “Makes you wonder if he didn’t miracle himself up a cup of milk at the table as a kid.”
“Yeah.” Nick roughed his neck with a free hand. “How did Mary discipline God as a child?” His tone went high-pitched and singsong. “Jesus! Don’t raise the chicken from the dead. That’s dinner!”
“I can see it now.” She spread her hands, thumb to thumb, director style. “Plucked chicken, running around squawking.”
Their laughter turned to something else, something more charged, electric. He pulled a handful of plump, red grapes, popped one in his mouth, and offered her one as well.
“What kind is it?”
“Taste it first.”
“Hmm.” She sampled the fruit, warm from the sun and speckled with a little dust, allowing it to burst on her tongue in an explosion of flavors.
“What do you taste?”
She considered the grape, the combination of bright, earthy tastes on her tongue.
“Sweet, sour, something smoky. Like candy mixed with fireworks.”
He laughed, nodding. “That’s good. Really good. It’s Cab Franc. Your Cab Franc.”
“Marie’s Cab Franc. Not mine.”
“So, she’s Marie now?”
With a shrug, Natalie tried to voice what she felt inside. “I can’t think of her as ‘grandmother,’ really. I didn’t know her. But calling her Marie is still personal. She’s not just some old lady. She had a life. A home.”
“And it’s yours now, for all intents and purposes.” He popped another Cab Franc and closed his eyes as he experienced the grape. “It’d be a good name for your wine.”
“What?”
Nick took a step closer. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and she felt the sparkle between them again. “Fireworks,” he answered. “Like the ones I see in your eyes.”
A blush heated her neck. She held out a hand for another taste, trying to focus on the fruit and on the land, on what they could offer her rather than on the uncertain future with the boy next door.
She changed the subject, fast. “Is it difficult for you? This business, wine, staying with your program?”
Nick’s hand stiffened in hers, but he didn’t pull away as he spoke. “I don’t drink anymore, but I’m not an alcoholic. I never was.”
“But, I thought—”
“I sample enough to get the flavor to make the wine … I might drink a celebratory glass of champagne on New Year’s, but that’s all I need.”
“So Philip’s not your sponsor?”
“No. He’s my mentor.” He plucked a final grape and tossed the stems to the earth. The bright sphere rolled across his palm as he spoke. “I was lost after Becky’s murder. I had difficulty controlling my emotions. Anger issues. I started looking for love in some destructive relationships. When I woke up in the mornings, sometimes I wasn’t sure where I was or who I’d wake up in bed next to. I made some bad decisions, got in a heap of trouble, and my parents …” Nick shook his head and let that thought whip away in the breeze.
“Philip reined me in. He encouraged me to go to a rehab facility to work through some of my anger issues, and after that, he taught me a lot. About God. Forgiveness.”
Natalie’s stunned silence wove its way to apology. “I—I made an assumption. I’m sorry.” She accepted his bittersweet smile of forgiveness, wondering what other snap judgments she’d made about him that were wrong.
She gave in to the need to share something of herself as they cut into another field around a dilapidated shed. “Would you believe I never tried it?” she blurted, wishing she hadn’t when his steps faltered.
“What? Wine?” The pendulum of their hands skipped a swing as he tugged her to a stop.
“Never,” she said again as Nick stared. All she saw were bright gold starbursts around the black of his pupils. Like fireworks.
She lifted and dropped her shoulders, embarrassment heating her forehead all the way to the roots of her hair.
“Is that a religious thing? Or a personal thing?”
She felt locked in place by his judgmental stare. “Personal.”
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