The Wallflower

by Jan Freed

  Sarah mentally shifted Vera Morgan to the top of her broken neck victim list. Didn’t the woman realize the more she compared Kate unfavorably to Jack, the more she pushed the girl into rebellion? Getting into trouble was the only thing left for Kate to prove she could do better than her older brother.

  Putting aside her own worries, Sarah frowned sympathetically. “I know that was a bummer to hear. But try not to let it get you down. I’m sure your mom means well.” She grabbed at a straw of memory. “You said yourself she tried working outside the home after your dad died, but wasn’t qualified for any decent-paying job. She probably wants you to have better options than she did.”

  Kate looked up, her gaze bitter. “Good theory. There’s only one problem.”

  Sarah waited.

  “It wasn’t Mom who lectured me. It was Jack.”

  Jack? Sarah assimilated the information while Kate looked down again and smoothed the skirt material bunched up under the needle. Pausing periodically, she pulled out bits of thread and added them to a growing pile.

  “That doesn’t sound like Ja—Mr. Morgan,” Sarah finally said. Only it did. At least, the Mr. Morgan she’d first met a lifetime ago.

  His sister lifted a shoulder, her gaze still focused on the pitiful excuse of a skirt. “He’s been nervous about some meeting he’s got tonight with—” She stopped just short of divulging her brother’s rendezvous with Irving Greenbloom. “Anyway, you’d think he was having dinner with the president the way he’s been snapping and yelling at every little thing.”

  Sarah winced, suspecting she was as much—if not more—at fault than the L.A. agent for Jack’s foul humor. He obviously not only regretted getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but also resented the hunger that had sent him reaching.

  Kate looked up, her gaze ferocious. “He grounded me again, Sarina! For getting a friggin’ C on the test. He’s not my father! He can’t tell me what to do. I’ll go crazy spending another weekend watching Mom crochet or try some stupid new recipe.” Desperation tinged her features. Her focus shifted to an inner vision. “God, I can’t wait until I’m old enough to drive and can just...I dunno...go anywhere that isn’t home.”

  Sarah remembered the trapped restless feelings of postchildhood, preadulthood all too well. “Hang in there, Kate. If your brother’s been nervous about tonight, let him get past it, then talk to him again. I bet he’ll be much more relaxed and reasonable.”

  “You don’t talk to Jack. He talks to you. I hate him!” Kate spat out.

  Classmates were turning around to investigate the commotion, Fred among them. Even his beloved computer couldn’t compete with Kate’s distress. He started to rise, and Sarah gave him a fierce look and small shake of her head. Sinking back down, he continued to frown and stare.

  Sarah squeezed Kate’s shoulder, leaned over and spoke for her ears alone. “Look, I know being grounded stinks. Call me tonight and we’ll work out a game plan. But promise me you won’t do anything stupid before we talk, okay?”

  Shrugging off Sarah’s hand, Kate scraped back her chair and rose. Her accusing glare welled with unshed tears. “Now you think I’m stupid, too? I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Wasting my life when I should be having fun is stupid! I thought you’d understand.”

  “Kate—”

  “You’ll have to start over on the seam.” Kate gestured sharply to the skirt she’d rescued. “Only this time, follow a straight line. You seem to be getting good at that, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” Whirling, she stalked back to her own sewing machine and sat gracefully, her back rigid.

  Reclaiming her chair, Sarah stared at the skirt, then the black threads heaped in a pile. Her life was like that. Unraveled. Nothing even. Nothing solid. Threads of the old Sarah mixed with Sarina in a confusing tangle she tried to sift through now.

  She’d intended to serve her time as Sarina with little personal involvement. Maybe have a little casual fun. Relive a painful phase of her life with the benefit of experience and confidence on her side.

  Instead, she’d grown to love a group of kids who would take the world by storm—with a little more experience and confidence. The first would come with time. The latter was something she could help them gain now. Had been helping them achieve, to a small extent. And her sense of personal satisfaction had never been greater.

  What if she stepped up her efforts? Could she really make a difference in these kids’ lives? The possibility was exciting. A welcome distraction from—No, she wouldn’t think about Jack. She would concentrate on Kate and Elaine and Fred and the others who would welcome her attention and...love.

  Sweeping the pile of threads into a small trash basket under her machine, Sarah adjusted the black cotton, lifted her chin and started anew.

  WHEN KATE hadn’t called the guest house by eight o’clock that night, Sarah had picked up the phone and dialed the Morgan’s number. Kate had been sullen and uncommunicative, growing downright uncivil when Sarah had offered to drive over and keep the girl company.

  “I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Kate had said sarcastically, then practically hung up on Sarah’s attempt to make amends.

  Now, at ten-thirty, sitting at the bar counter with a mug of tea, Sarah still couldn’t rid herself of a nagging sense that something wasn’t right. Kate had sounded more than rude. She’d seemed...nervous. Yeah, that was what had been bothering Sarah all night. The girl was planning to do something when Jack wasn’t home to interfere.

  Impulsively, Sarah headed for the phone and dialed the number she’d memorized weeks ago. Someone picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” Vera Morgan said groggily.

  “Mrs. Morgan? This is Sarina Davis. May I speak with Kate, please?”

  “She’s probably asleep. I know I was.”

  Sarah cringed. “I’m really sorry for calling so late, but it’s very important. Thank you for getting her.”

  A disgruntled pause followed. “Hold on.”

  The receiver thudded onto a hard surface, probably the nightstand. Vera grumbled something about people calling past ten o’clock. Bedsprings creaked.

  Silence.

  Sarah stared at the kitchen wall clock. How was Jack faring with the hotshot agent from L.A.? They must’ve taken their business dinner to the next level—drinks at a bar, where negotiation disagreements had a way of smoothing out with good whiskey. Jack Daniel’s was one too many Jack’s during a discussion of Free Fall, in Sarah’s opinion.

  A muffled fumbling of the receiver recaptured her attention.

  “She’s not in her room,” Vera said sharply.

  Uh-oh. “Did you check the rest of the house?”

  “Yes, of course. I found a pillow in her bed.” Vera released a shaky breath. “She sneaked out. Probably to meet that boy. The one Jack told her she couldn’t see anymore.”

  Bruce Logan. Who was having a party tonight without his parents in town. Who’d told Sarah in disgusting detail what he would do to Kate if she showed up. An intimidation tactic at the time. He hadn’t expected Jack to unsnap his sister’s leash, Sarah was sure.

  “Oh, I wish Jack were home,” Vera said fretfully. “He’d know what to do.”

  Sarah had already hoisted up the white pages from under the end table and was flipping to Logan. Damn. There must be at least a hundred and fifty. Lots of initial B’s, but no Bruce.

  “Mrs. Morgan, do you know Bruce’s phone number, or his address?”

  “That awful boy?” Distress and honest confusion rang in Vera’s voice. “Why would I know that?”

  Call me crazy. but maybe because you knew your daughter was hanging out with him, probably getting drugs from him. “I think Kate might be at his house. I’ll track down his address and go over there. In the meantime, call her friends on the chance she’s with one of them. Do you have a pencil handy?”

  “A pencil?” A drawer opened and shut. “Yes, yes I have one.”

  “Okay, take down this number and call me if you find her, or
know where she is.” Sarah relayed the guest house cellular phone number. “If I find Kate first, I’ll call you.”

  “Sarina, do you know something you’re not telling me? Is Kate in danger?”

  An image of Bruce’s ice-blue eyes chilled Sarah’s blood. She forced a note of false confidence into her voice. “I’m sure she’s fine. But sometimes parties get out of hand, and neighbors call the police. It’s still early. If she’s there, I’ll talk her into leaving with me before that can happen.” Somehow.

  “Oh, I wish Jack would get home. He probably has the phone numbers of Kate’s friends written down some—”

  “Mrs. Morgan,” Sarah interrupted impatiently. “Your son can’t think for you all the time. You have a brain. Use it. And remember to call me with any news. Goodbye.” She hung up.

  Pretty callous, Sarah knew, but she didn’t have the time or inclination to coddle Mrs. Morgan like Jack did. His mother might suffer from clinical depression, but she was being treated with drug therapy, according to Kate. If hundreds of others with that condition could lead independent productive lives, so could Mrs. Morgan. Finding Kate was Sarah’s first priority.

  The next person she called was Elaine, who looked up Bruce’s address in a school directory. The girl fussed about Sarah going alone, then made her promise to call back with an update. When Sarah agreed and hung up, she was halfway to Mrs. Kaiser’s garage.

  Minutes later, the cell phone beside her on the passenger seat, Sarah backed the land yacht out of the driveway and headed to the Logan blowout.

  She was not in a party mood.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SARAH DROVE BY Bruce’s two-story Georgian bricked home at a slow crawl. Gas lanterns flickered on each side of the intricately carved double doors. No interior lights. No loud music. No cars and trucks lining the curb.

  Apparently no party in progress.

  That’s good, Sarah tried to convince herself, even as her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.

  A convertible and a pickup truck sat in the circular driveway. Bruce drove the Mustang. The truck could belong to anyone. She eyed the curtained windows. No telltale movement. Are you in there, Kate? No convenient telepathy provided an answer.

  The cellular phone had remained silent on Sarah’s drive to this prestigious subdivision. Clearly Mrs. Morgan hadn’t located her daughter yet. Sarah could phone Bruce and ask if Kate was with him, but she didn’t trust him to tell her the truth, not after his promised earlier threats, damn his scuzzy hide. She would have to check out the situation for herself. No problem.

  Yeah, piece of cake, her instincts warned.

  She parked at the front curb, scooped up the phone and left the car unlocked. If she had to make a quick getaway, she didn’t want to fumble with a key in the door. The land yacht didn’t have an electronic gizmo on a key chain to do the job for her.

  Okay, this is no big deal, Sarah told herself, walking slowly toward the front doors. Bruce’s parents were probably in town, contrary to the tall tales he’d told. Kate was probably sulking at a friend’s house. This was nothing at all like that night in Dallas when no one had answered John Merrit’s front door. No, nothing at all.

  But her body wasn’t listening. It remembered the black velvet blanket over a sleeping neighborhood, the approach to a silent stately house, the sense of security that had been cruelly false. Her ears strained for the sound of voices arguing, disrupting the peaceful quiet.

  By the time she stood on the huge slate-tiled porch, her muscles were coiled for flight. Her breathing was rapid. Sweat misted her forehead and trickled between her breasts. Irrational. Humiliating. Proof of what a wimp she was deep down inside. Her hand shook as she pressed the doorbell.

  She listened to the gong of chimes echo inside. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi. She cursed herself and Kate and ten other people before she managed to ring the bell a second time. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, fourMississ —

  The door opened.

  Sarah stared into ice-blue eyes, all the more creepy for being bloodshot. Bruce propped a raised arm on the frame, the pose lifting his sleeveless sweatshirt two inches above his jeans. His stomach was furry black, his forearms only slightly less so.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, starting to smile. “I thought it was you through the peephole. Did you come to the party, beautiful?”

  She always skipped the ape section at the zoo, and almost told him so. His reptilian eyes changed her mind. “Is Kate here? I need to talk to her.”

  “Sure, babe. Come on in.” He nudged the door open wider.

  A drift of pungent smoke hit Sarah in the face. Whew! No mystery how he got those bloodshot eyes. “Ask her to come to the door, please.”

  “Ask her yourself. She’s right inside.” Although he didn’t move, he suddenly seemed more alert, the way a snake appears lifting its head from a coiled sleep. “Don’t tell me Sarina Davis is afraid?”

  She was terrified. Walking inside that house would put her at his mercy. Turn around and leave, then call for help, her instincts screamed.

  And leave Kate like you left John? her conscience sneered.

  Sarah flipped open her cell phone, her stomach twisting at the gleam of wariness in his gaze. “What have you done to Kate. Why can’t she come to the door? What are you hiding?”

  “Hey, Bruce!” a male voice bellowed from inside. “Get your ass in here, or I’m not waitin’.”

  Bruce swiveled his head. “Keep your hands off until I say so,” he roared, then turned back to Sarah with a sly shrug. “Pizza’s getting cold.”

  They weren’t fighting over pizza.

  “Get Kate out here now,” Sarah ordered, pressing the phone’s power button. “Or I call 911 and report a kidnapping. If the cops sniff around inside your house, what will they find besides Kate, hmm?”

  He lurched forward. She skittered back and punched 911.

  “Wait!”

  She stopped, her finger poised above Send. Bruce swayed on his feet, his hands fisted, his icy glare filled with malevolence.

  They faced off in some bizarre modern day showdown. Technology versus brute strength. She could see him gauging the ten feet between them, calculating his chances.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Sarah advised in a hard voice. “Do you really want your parents to get a call from the cops? I’ll bet it won’t be the first time,” she guessed—correctly, from the flare of fear in his eyes. “They might take away the Mustang, or who knows what?”

  Bruce obviously knew. The threat of his parents’ displeasure was the bullet that sent him spinning around to disappear inside.

  Sarah’s knees buckled. She stumbled and dropped the phone. Plastic casing clattered ominously against the tiled porch. Frantic, she snatched up her “gun” and punched the Power button. Nothing. O-o-oh no. She was firing with blanks.

  Motion at the doorway captured her attention. She resumed her finger-above-the-Send-button aim and prayed Bruce wouldn’t notice the dark dial digits.

  One look at Kate, lying rag doll limp in Bruce’s arms, made Sarah wish she held a loaded shotgun, so she couldn’t miss once he set down his burden.

  “You bastard,” she breathed. “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing. She did it to herself. Can’t hold her liquor. Where do you want her?”

  Running to the car, Sarah flung open the passenger door, then rounded the bumper to the driver’s side. While Bruce heaved Kate onto the seat none too gently, Sarah fumbled for her keys and waited until he’d closed the door.

  He straightened and faced her over the car top. “This stays between you and me, got that, bitch? Or next time—” he jerked a thumb at Kate “—I finish what I start.”

  Sarah believed him. Without a working phone. she wasn’t about to antagonize him further. Nodding, she slid behind the wheel, locked Kate’s door and then her own, started the ignition and got the hell out of Dodge.

  One block away, headlights app
roached at a dangerous speed. Sarah slowed as a station wagon shot past. Idiot drunken driver. She started shaking. A little, at first, then so hard her teeth rattled. Pulling over to the curb, she stopped and turned to Kate. The girl sat slumped against the door, passed out cold. She needed her seat belt buckled, Sarah thought wildly, but her hands shook too much to accomplish the task.

  Headlights glared from behind. Blinding. Right on her tail. The car was stopping. Oh, God, she shouldn’t have parked. Sarah twisted and reached for the ignition, checking her rearview mirror. A tall broad-shouldered male got out of the driver’s side of a station wagon. The drunk. Her heart raced with the land yacht’s gunning engine. She shifted gears, glanced in the mirror again...and made a startled sound of gladness.

  Fred was walking toward her door! She shifted back to neutral, cut the engine and rolled down her window. He leaned down and peered inside, his narrow face and black-framed glasses a dear and welcome sight.

  “Is she hurt?” he asked without preamble in a voice she didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t th-think so,” Sarah said through chattering teeth. “I th-think they slipped her a m-mickey and she’s only sleeping it off. But I haven’t had a chchance to look her over.”

  “Get out,” he ordered gently, a reassuring presence as she obeyed and stood on trembling legs. He slid into her place and checked Kate’s pulse, lifted her eyelids, ran his hands carefully over her limbs as if testing for a physical reaction. His movements were confident and efficient, evidence of serious first aid training.

  Just watching him calmed Sarah’s shakes. She hugged her stomach and waited for his pronouncement. At last he buckled Kate’s seat belt and slid back out to stand beside Sarah.

  “She’s unconscious, but her vital signs are stable, and she doesn’t seem to be bruised or hurting. She’ll wake up groggy and maybe lose her last meal, but she should be okay. Someone will have to examine her more closely to see if she’s...” His mouth thinned, his jaw bulged.