Deadly Christmas Secrets

by Shirlee McCoy

  He frowned, reaching into his pocket, surprised to feel a warm, furry body still there.

  “Does Picasso like cats?” he asked as he pulled up to her porch.

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  He pulled the kitten from his pocket, set it on her lap. It lifted its head and mewed pitifully. “I found it in the barn.”

  To his surprise, Stella reached for the kitten and lifted it. “A boy. And he’s skinny. He also needs a bath. He stinks.”

  The kitten mewed again, and she sighed, tucking him under her coat. “We can get him fixed up while we make plans. Inside. You want me to check things out, Logan? Or do you want to?”

  “Check what things out?” Harper asked.

  “The cabin.” All the lights were on, every room lit. It looked cozy, warm and inviting, but that didn’t mean danger wasn’t lurking inside.

  “I’ll check it out,” Logan said. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  He got out of the truck, closed the door and headed up the porch stairs.

  * * *

  Harper should have been the one searching the cabin. She knew every room, every closet, every little hiding spot that someone could fit into.

  Not that there were that many of those.

  The design was simple and storage space minimal. She’d wanted it that way. No place for all the stuff she’d accumulated before Lydia died. No place to put photographs of the family she no longer had. There was one shelf in her bedroom. She kept a photo of Lydia and Amelia there and a photo of her mother. No photos of Daniel. She didn’t need pictures to remember all the ways she’d failed herself in that relationship.

  Yeah. The cabin was streamlined. It wouldn’t be difficult for Logan to search. She doubted he’d find anyone. She’d left Picasso in the living room. The dog wasn’t the best guard around, but he was a good deterrent.

  She still thought she should have been the one searching the place. It was her cabin, her life, her responsibility. That was something she took seriously. From the time she was young enough to understand the situation she lived in, Harper had done everything she could to help her mother live up to her obligations. She’d reminded Erica that bills needed to be paid, that food needed to be bought. When she’d gotten a little older, she’d done odd jobs for people, earning money here and there to help pay the bills.

  Erica had always appreciated it, and she’d tried to be a good mother.

  She really had.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to live up to her responsibilities. It was more that she couldn’t. She was too caught up in the dramas that she constantly involved herself in. Abusive boyfriends. Cheaters. Liars. There’d been a long string of each throughout the years. In the end, the stress of that had killed her. At least, that was what Harper thought. The official diagnosis had been leukemia.

  She frowned. She tried not to think about the past. It was too easy to get caught up in regrets and recriminations. Besides, dwelling in places of unhappiness was the easiest way Harper knew to destroy a life.

  “I think I’d better go help Logan,” she said, desperate to get out of the truck and do something that would refocus her thoughts, move her out of the place she found herself in much too often—ruminating on all the things that had gone wrong instead of celebrating the things that had been right.

  “I think you’d better stay.” Stella snagged her wrist, her grip firm.

  “It’s my house, Stella. My responsibility.”

  “And you’re our responsibility.”

  “Wrong.”

  Stella snorted, lifting the black kitten out from under her coat. “We won’t argue about it. Not in front of the baby.”

  She dropped the kitten into Harper’s lap, and it meowed pitifully.

  A good distraction, and she thought Stella knew it.

  “He’s probably hungry.” She ran her hands over a rough, matted coat. “He’s skinny under all this fur.”

  “He’ll fatten up.” Stella seemed distracted, her gaze focused on the cabin, then the tree line, then the gravel road behind them.

  “You think someone is going to come out here?” Harper asked, her skin crawling with the thought.

  Twice her sanctuary had been breached.

  Three times and she didn’t think she’d ever call it a sanctuary again.

  “It could go either way,” Stella responded.

  “Meaning?”

  “If the guy is smart—and he probably is—he’ll stay away for a while, just wait for another opportunity to strike. If he’s nuts, he’ll be here sooner rather than later.”

  “I hope he’s smart, then.”

  “I hope he’s nuts. I’d rather face him down now, get it all over with, than wait for him to strike again.”

  “You’re assuming that if he comes, we’ll be on the winning end.”

  “I don’t ever assume,” Stella replied, her voice cold and a little hard. “That would be a surefire way to get myself or someone else killed.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply—”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t say anything offensive. I’m just clearing things up for you, because you’ve got one of the best teams in the world working to keep you safe. You need to know that, and then you need to do exactly what we’re asking you to do.”

  “We’re back to me leaving the cabin and heading off to some unknown place for an indeterminate amount of time,” Harper muttered.

  “If it keeps you alive, I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “I have work to do. I’ve been commissioned—”

  “It won’t matter if you’re dead.” Stella cut her off, her gaze focused on the tree line again.

  She was right, so Harper didn’t respond.

  There wasn’t anything she could say.

  She had a choice to make, and despite what Stella seemed to think—it was hers to make. She could stay at the cabin, keep the shotgun loaded, the handgun at the ready. She could probably count on Picasso to be an alarm system, or she could pay to have an alarm system put in. She could shore up the windows and the doors, make her quiet retreat a fortress.

  Would it be enough?

  That was the question she couldn’t answer, because she had no idea who was after her or why.

  Her cell phone buzzed, and she dragged it from her pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

  Gabe. She didn’t have his contact information in her phone, but she recognized the number. It was the same one he’d had four years ago.

  She answered quickly, knowing he was impatient enough to hang up after the second or third ring. “Hello?”

  “Harper? This is Gabe. How are you, kid?”

  “I’ve been better. How about you?”

  “Busy. I guess you probably heard that I’m getting married again.”

  Her stomach dropped, her heart pounding frantically. Married again? It seemed like just yesterday that she’d stood as an attendant at his wedding to Lydia. “No. I didn’t.”

  “I am. You’re invited, of course.” He cleared his throat, the sound of discomfort surprising. Gabe was always confident, always absolutely sure of himself. “She’s a great lady, Harper. I think you’ll be happy with my choice.”

  “I don’t see why that would matter. We haven’t spoken in four years, Gabe. My opinion is no different than any stranger’s would be to you.”

  “You’re wrong,” he responded, a hint of sharpness in his tone. “I always liked you, and your blessing matters to me.”

  Harper didn’t know what to say, so she kept silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “I think Lydia would approve,” he finally said.

  “She’s dead. She’s not going to have anything to say about it one way or another,” she pointed out, and he sighed.
<
br />   “It’s been four years. Should I have mourned forever?”

  “You didn’t even mourn for a day.”

  “You’re wrong, Harper. I loved your sister. I thought we’d have a lifetime together.”

  There were a dozen things she could have said to that, a few dozen arguments she’d overheard that she could have mentioned, at least two women she could have pointed to, and then there was Lydia’s comment about Gabe wanting a divorce. But he was right—Lydia and Amelia had been gone for years. Picking a fight with Gabe wasn’t going to change that.

  “You went to a lot of effort to find me, Gabe. What do you need?”

  “You already know. You mentioned it in the message you left for me. Someone sent me a package. There was a photo of a girl in it. She looked to be about Amelia’s age.”

  “Do you think it’s Amelia?” she said, her mouth was dry, her heart thudding.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll do whatever it takes to find out.” His voice was cold, more Gabe-like. He’d always been logical to a fault, always handled his fights with Lydia with a detachment that had made his wife seem overly emotional and dramatic in comparison.

  “Is there any proof it’s her?”

  “No, but...” He paused, and she could picture him—chestnut hair cropped close, dark eyes focused. “She looks like a miniature version of Lydia. Same blond hair. Same green eyes. Same dimple in her left cheek.”

  Amelia had had a dimple.

  It’d peeked out only when she was really happy and really relaxed. Which had been rare. There’d been too much tension in the house, and Amelia had been a sensitive kid.

  “Lots of people have blond hair and green eyes. Lots of them have dimples. That doesn’t mean—”

  “Look.” He cut her off, his voice sharp. “I’m not stupid, Harper. I know what the chances are. I spent three days telling myself there was no way the kid in the picture was my daughter. I almost tossed the entire package in the trash and forgot about it. This isn’t a good time in my life to be dredging up the past, and I’m not holding out any hope that the little girl is actually my daughter.”

  “If you feel that way, why did you pay someone to find me?”

  “Because my fiancée wouldn’t let it go. Even she could see the resemblance. Not just with Lydia but with the photos I have of Amelia.”

  “Your fiancée looked at the photos?” That wasn’t the way Harper had imagined things going. She’d thought for sure that Gabe had packed up every photo of Lydia and their daughter, put them all in a box and stored them somewhere so that he wouldn’t have to see them and be reminded of his failures.

  “I have photos all over my house,” he snapped. “I’m not the ogre your sister painted me to be. I loved her. I made mistakes, sure, but I was trying to fix them.”

  “By sleeping with other women?” The question slipped out, and she regretted it immediately. Gabe didn’t enjoy being backed into corners, and he’d be as likely to hang up and never contact her again as he would be to tell her off.

  “I never cheated on your sister.”

  “The night Lydia died, you were with—”

  “A friend. Just like I told the police. I wasn’t sleeping with Maggie,” he bit out. “We were friends long before I met Lydia. Lydia knew that. She said it didn’t bother her that one of my best friends was a woman. It did. That was her problem. Not mine.”

  He sounded sincere, and maybe he was telling the truth.

  Harper didn’t know. It wasn’t her business to care. Not anymore.

  “I apologize. It’s all in the past, and I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “You don’t believe me,” he said quietly. “And that’s fine, but believe this—Maggie was there for me after your sister died and Amelia...died.” He choked the word out. “She helped me through one of the darkest times in my life. A year ago, I realized just how much she meant to me, and—”

  “Now you two are going to get married?” she cut in. She didn’t want to hear any more about his relationship. She didn’t care enough to know. All she wanted was more information on the little girl with the green eyes and Lydia’s dimple.

  “Yes,” he bit out. “Maggie thinks that the girl in the picture could be Amelia. She knew her, and she knew your sister. She pushed me to go to the police with the package, and I did. They sent the photo to the FBI, who ran facial recognition programs on it.”

  “And?”

  “It takes time, and it’s only been a week.”

  “How much longer do they think it will take?”

  “Could be a few days or a couple of weeks. It just depends on their workload and how easy it is to run the comparison. There’s a big difference between a four-year-old and an eight-year-old. Faces can change a lot in those years.”

  “I guess they can,” she said quietly, because her throat was clogged with emotions she didn’t want to feel—anxiety, fear, anticipation. Hope.

  That was the big one.

  The one she didn’t want to hang her hat on.

  “I didn’t do this to upset you, Harper. I didn’t do it to bring up a lot of hard feelings and ugliness. I did it because I didn’t think it was fair to keep you in the dark. You loved Amelia, and if she’s alive—”

  “I want to know it. Do you have a copy of the photo you can send me?”

  “I’ll text it to you. Take a little time to look it over. Think about what you want to do. When you’re ready, call me again.”

  He hung up.

  Just like that.

  Gabe had never been one to waste time.

  He’d accomplished his goal. That was all he’d ever really cared about, and maybe that, more than anything, had been the problem between him and Lydia. She’d wanted everything from him—money, jewelry, attention, affection. He’d just wanted to keep living his life, doing his thing with a wife who supported him and made a pretty picture beside him.

  Lydia had been a very pretty picture. A beautiful one, actually. But she’d also been needy, clingy and a little desperate.

  In the end, they’d never quite worked together. There’d been no team. Just each of them doing what they wanted while the other one complained or fumed. Maybe it hadn’t really been either of their faults. Or maybe it had been both of theirs.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Gabe had already sent the photo.

  Her fingers shook as she opened the text, looked at the photo, stared into a face that was so much like Lydia’s that her heart nearly broke from looking at it.

  “Everything okay?” Stella asked quietly, and Harper nodded, because there was nothing else she could do.

  Things weren’t okay.

  They hadn’t been okay in a long time.

  She’d done a good job of pretending, she’d created a convincing facade, but her life had fallen apart four years ago. All the plans she’d accomplished since then, all the success she’d had, hadn’t done a thing to help her put it back together.

  SIX

  The cabin was empty.

  But then, that was what Logan had been expecting.

  The murderer had been down near the old farmhouse. He’d have had to cut back through the woods, bypass any searching K-9 teams and hope to make it to the cabin before he was discovered.

  There’d been way too much police presence for that to happen. The murderer might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d planned out the attacks against Harper, plotted a way to find her, decided how best to accomplish his goals. Whatever those goals might be.

  Logan doubted that he’d risk all the work he’d done on a slim chance. He’d wait until things quieted down, until the concern diminished and it seemed as if Harper might be safe. Then he’d strike again.

  Logan stepped out onto the back porch and scanned the clearing behind the
cabin. A few narrow saplings jutted up from the earth. Not good cover for anyone who might want to hide. The woods at the edge of the property were thick, though, the large shed that hugged the tree line offering a perfect place for someone who might want to hang around and wait for things to quiet down.

  Picasso ran out into the yard, sniffing the ground and the air, excited by all the new scents but not alarmed by any of them. If someone were close by, he’d know it, but he was relaxed.

  “Come on, boy,” Logan called, and the dog trotted back, his lanky grayish body loping along with unbridled enthusiasm. It had been years since Logan had had a dog. He didn’t have time for one. He was gone too much, away from his apartment for too many long stretches of time. If he were someone like Harper, though—home alone most of the time, working in a solitary field that required little to no contact with the outside world—he’d have a dog.

  He walked back through the small kitchen, Picasso beside him. A dog dish sat next to a tiny counter that didn’t seem big enough to prepare food. The place was...sterile. No clutter. No mugs in the sink. No boxes of crackers or cookies on the counter. A few shelves lined one wall, a couple of pieces of pottery sitting on them. Glazed and painted in shades of blues, greens and yellows, they were the one spot of color in the room.

  Harper’s work.

  He’d done his research. He’d visited a gallery in DC that displayed and sold Ryan Harper’s work. He’d seen the price tag on the pieces and watched as a woman had walked in and bought two plates and a mug. A small fortune, but she hadn’t blinked an eye.

  Ryan Harper had made a name for herself in art circles. There were write-ups in several newspapers and in a few magazines. No pictures of Harper, though. To those who were interested, she was as elusive as Bigfoot.

  The living room was as sterile as the kitchen. No personal touches. No photos. No hints of who Harper was. Just a couch. A love seat. A coffee table and an end table. Not a book in sight. Not a magazine within reach. It was as if the place was waiting for someone else to occupy it, as if Harper was just a visitor working hard not to leave her stamp on it.

  He filed the thought away. It had no bearing on the mission, wasn’t going to add anything to the investigation, but he wanted to think about it more. Maybe because he was thinking about her.