by Lori Foster
"Do you know of anyone who'd want your mother dead?"
"I used to wish her dead when I was a kid." She didn't care what they made of that. "But other than me, no."
Orsen pulled out a chair and sat. "I know you ran off five years ago. Some of the older neighbors told me that much."
"Yeah, well, did they tell you that Arlene Potter lacked any kind of maternal inclinations?" A simmering rage began to build inside her, but it wasn't as strong as the hurt. She couldn't breathe deep enough to remove the squeezing pain in her chest "She was a drunk," Cyn said, "and a slut, and to be honest, I don't know why you care that she's dead."
Bruce's hand landed on her shoulder. "You care."
Her bottom lip began to quiver, and she shook her head. "No, I don't." She didn't.
Darby Orsen's eyes filled with sympathy. "I've worked through a lot of shitty cases, Cynthia, The stuff of nightmares. One thing I see time and again is that even the lousiest mother is still someone's mom. And losing her hurts."
"She was never a mother, not to me."
"And now you've lost your chance to find out why, to tell her how you feel, maybe even to give her hell and tell her that you hate her. And that probably makes it hurt worst of all."
Cyn couldn't breathe. She gulped air but it didn't help. Whirling away from Bruce and the detective, she dashed out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and burst onto the porch. Her knees wanted to give out, so she quickly plopped down on the top step.
Damn Arlene. Damn her. Tears clouded her vision, made her throat tight.
Bruce sat down silently beside her. He didn't say anything, he was just there.
"Why?" The word tore from Cyn's throat and she swiped angrily at the stupid tears rolling down her cheeks. Gasping, hating herself, she wailed, "Why didn't she love me?"
Ignoring a few nosy neighbors and Detective Orsen's quiet presence on the porch, Bruce pulled her into his lap. His voice sounded strained; his hold was tight. "She was blinded by drink and stupidity, or she'd have known what she was missing." He kissed her forehead, his touch lingering, healing. "It's her loss, baby. Her loss."
Cyn stared blindly at the scraggly bushes on the other side of the steps, wishing she were stronger, wishing it didn't hurt. Arlene deserved nothing from her, but the detective was right. You only had one mother, and now hers was gone forever.
She tried to focus on other things, blindly staring at the broken bricks beneath the porch, the split rails, the cracked, overturned clay pot that, to her memory, had never sported a flower.
The detective spoke quietly behind them. "There has to be a connection to your mother's death and you, some reason you're being drawn in. Someone knew you both. Maybe before you left?"
A harsh laugh bubbled up. "Arlene never bothered herself with my school, so she didn't know anyone there. I didn't have friends, and she only had guys around, no females."
"An old boyfriend then?"
"Oh sure, we both knew her boyfriend at the time, but you said she's switched up a lot in the last year, so he was long gone before this happened."
Then something clicked. Cyn slowly sat up, her eyes not leaving that flowerpot. She wiped away the tears, forgetting her own embarrassment for the moment. "He had a key."
The detective moved down to the step beside Cyn. Her anticipation was a live thing, pulsing in the air. "Either that," she said in encouragement, "or your mother left the door unlocked. There was no forced entry."
"No one leaves their doors unlocked around here. It'd be suicide, and even at her drunkest, Arlene took care of herself."
"So how do you think he got in?"
Cyn pointed to the pot. "There was a key hidden under there. For emergencies." She looked from Bruce up to Orsen. "No one ever touched it, and if you did, you damn sure put it back."
There was a pause, then the detective was off the step, hovering over the pot. "Damn. The rest of the yard is so trashed, no one noticed. But look, the weeds are grown up everywhere except where the pot had been sitting. That means it was tipped over recently." She leaned closer. "I can even see an impression of the key in the dirt."
With throbbing expectancy, Darby Orsen returned and crouched down next to Cyn. "Who hid the key there?"
Cyn swallowed down her own apprehension, took Bruce's hand, and stared direcdy at the detective. "Palmer Oaks."
* * *
Sweat beaded on his upper lip, slid down the middle of his back, and his breath came fast and low. With one hand, he held back the threadbare curtain from the grimy window.
With the other, he stroked himself, imagining, planning.
Jesus, she was sexier than ever, a woman made to be fucked hard and long. By him. Her tits were big and round, her legs so long they'd wrap around him and squeeze him tight.
The abandoned house across the street and two doors down from her mother's place afforded him the perfect position to see without being seen. Rats scratched and scuttled behind him. Bugs ran up the walls.
He didn't care about any of that.
He should have taken the little slut when he'd had the chance, but Arlene wouldn't have liked that. She was the lousiest excuse for a mother he'd ever seen, but she was also a jealous bitch, especially where her daughter was concerned.
So he'd waited, biding his time, making plans— and she'd escaped him. But not before almost destroying him.
Now things were falling into place again. He watched them on the porch, checking the stupid pot, doing just as he expected. He might have laughed if his need wasn't so great.
Oh, she'd get hers, he'd see to it. First he'd take what he wanted, what he'd wanted for far too long. And then he'd make her pay. She'd been away for five years.
Finally, her time had come.
* * *
Bruce answered the knock from room service and accepted the tray of sandwiches and drinks. Cyn had to eat, whether she wanted to or not. Glancing at her, how she slouched in a chair staring at the television, he knew she'd try to refuse.
She'd been so distant, so withdrawn, since they'd left her mother's house. It was her house now, handed down from her grandparents to her mother, and now to her. But it was apparent that no one had done anything to it in a decade. Without upkeep, the house had fallen into disrepair that reflected the failed suburb.
Detective Orsen had offered to let her take any personal photographs or items of sentimental value, but Cyn had turned away as if repulsed by the idea. "The state can have it. Let them use it to bury her."
After that, she'd gone silent, but she couldn't close herself off from him. Bruce wouldn't allow it.
He understood her turmoil. Seeing the hellhole where she'd grown up filled him with disgust and rage, too. He saw it as a young girl might have, as a small, dank prison with no joy and no love. Without the simplest things that all children needed.
They'd gone through the rest of the house, including Cyn's room, just to see if anything clicked or offered additional clues. Cyn was surprised that her bedroom hadn't changed much. There were aged stains on the wall and floor that, judging by her expression, could have been dried blood from where she'd attacked Palmer. Even shards of dusty, broken glass still littered the floor, with the base of an old lamp resting on its side.
Knowing Cyn as he did, seeing her small, cramped room had pained him most of all. She was a bright, witty person, quick with a comeback and always ready to smile. She was cheerful when given the opportunity, and meticulous in the extreme. Mary had commented on how immaculate Cyn kept the horse stalls, how diligent she was in tending to the animals' needs.
Her loft was bright and cheery, dust- and clutter-free. When she worked at the church, she exuded boundless energy and attention to detail. She always did the best she could; Cyn would be able to do no less.
The Cyn Potter he knew was a direct contrast to what her childhood bedroom depicted, and Bruce knew that hadn't been her choice, but rather her lack of choices.
Tattered gray blankets were strewn across her bed,
with faded sheets tacked up as makeshift curtains on her window. Peeling paint hung from the ceiling. Her furniture was no more than a metal bed frame and mattress, and a shabby dresser with one drawer missing.
Where other young girls were treated to ruffles and pink print wallpaper, Cyn had dealt with cockroaches and assault.
And she was still a caring, giving person.
Bruce put the tray on the dresser and sat down beside her. "Cyn?"
"Hmm?"
"Come to the table and let's eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care."
Her gaze snapped over to him, and slowly, her frown bloomed into a smile. "Worrying over my well-being, Lancelot?"
She hadn't called him names in a while. Bruce wasn't sure what that meant. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."
Dismissing him, she looked back to the television while patting her full breasts. "Trust me, I've got plenty of fat to keep me from starving."
Bruce considered her a long moment, decided he had nothing to lose, and leaned forward to take her mouth.
She stiffened, her mouth firm, her eyes open. He wasn't discouraged. He cupped one hand to her cheek, and continued to kiss her. Soft, teas-ing... and she melted.
Her arms came around him and she parted her lips.
Bruce pulled her down on the bed beneath him and sealed their mouths together. Her nails curled into his shoulder. He really liked that.
Smiling, he lifted his head. "Signs of life." His thumbs brushed her temples. "Finally."
She blinked slumberous eyes and frowned. "What?"
"Don't shut me out, honey." He kissed her nose, her chin. "I can't bear it."
With fury brightening her eyes, she accused, "You only kissed me to—"
"Get a response." He considered kissing her again. "I always want a response when I kiss you. It's no fun if I'm enjoying it all on my own."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You were ignoring me, Cyn, pretending I wasn't here. Conversation got me nowhere. But you need to eat, and we need to talk. At least a kiss got you out of your stupor."
She erupted. "Get off!"
"No."
"No?"
Her dramatic, exaggerated incredulity was amusing, and preferable to no emotion at all. Bruce shook his head. "I like touching you. You might be so tough that you don't need to be held, even after all that happened this afternoon. But I'm a preacher. We're notoriously wimpy, I need to be held."
Caught between her anger and the urge to defend him, she finally growled, "You are not a wimp."
She was so adorable. "Am too."
"Bull." She smacked his shoulder. "You're rock solid, and totally hunky, and what's more, you know it. From the beginning, I told you that you didn't look like a preacher. And when I saw you the first time without your shirt..." Words failed her for a few heartbeats, and then grudgingly, she admitted, "I almost swallowed my tongue."
"Yeah?"
She didn't appreciate his smile one bit. "You're just claiming you need to be held to make me cave."
Bruce nuzzled the softest part of her neck where it met her shoulder, and was rewarded with her small shiver. He could kiss her forever and it wouldn't be enough.
Against her skin, he whispered, "I'm saying it because I want you to smile. I care for you, whether you feel the same about me or not."
She stiffened again.
"When you hurt, it hurts me, too." Bruce leaned back up to see her face. "And I am hurting, Cyn. For you. For what that young girl went through. At the same time, I am so damn proud of you;"
Her hands quit shoving against him and instead rested on his shoulders. Suspicion had her brow puckering and her mouth tight. "Proud?"
"Very, very proud. Look at you, at who you are and all you went through to get there."
"I'm—
His finger pressed over her mouth, shushing her. "We're done mentioning the whole hooker thing. That's in the past. You did what you did, and it's over. Now you're here, with me. There are problems to solve, issues to deal with, and I want to help you with those."
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and drew his hand away. "Isn't there some other pathetic person you can go pester?"
A man could only take so much. Driven by a flood of anger, Bruce pushed himself off the bed. He stared down at her, refusing to be drawn in again by the uncertainty in her rebellious expression.
He turned away, snatched up the car keys from the nightstand, and stormed out of the room. If he stayed, he'd throttle the little fool. Pathetic? Is that what she thought? Is that how she still saw herself?
He stomped through the motel, across the parking lot, and just as he reached the rental car, a hand came out and grabbed his arm.
Fury rushing to the fore, Bruce turned, cocked back a fist—and almost punched Joe Winston in the nose.
* * *
To his credit, Joe didn't flinch. Behind a disguise of mirrored sunglasses and a trucker's hat, he gave a sinner's grin, slapped Bruce on the shoulder hard enough to dislocate his arm, and said, "Hey, killer. Let's talk in the car."
Bemused and rattled after that close call, Bruce got behind the wheel while Joe folded his large frame into the passenger seat.
The car faced the motel, so Bruce would be able to see Cyn if she tried to run out on him. Not that he thought she would, but he wouldn't underestimate her. She needed time to stew alone; being alone was familiar to her, much as he wished otherwise.
Again, Bruce tried to remind himself that she needed time to become accustomed to him—
"I'm not really used to being ignored."
Mentally castigating himself, Bruce turned to Joe. "Sorry." He blew out a long breath. "I've got a lot on my mind."
"No shit. I thought you were going to walk right past me. That is, until you decided to deck me instead."
Bruce locked his jaw. "Sorry about that."
"You've got fast reflexes." Admiration laced Joe's tone. "If it hadn't been me, well, someone would've been sorry for bugging you."
Bruce rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve his tension. "I'm jumpy because—"
"Yeah, I know." Joe spoke with quiet understanding. "No big deal."
"I almost hit you."
"Naw. I wouldn't let you do that." Joe rolled down his window and pulled off the cap, then ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Hot today, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"Makes me wonder why some jackass came out of a house across from where Cyn's mother lived, wearing a knit cap and a jacket with the collar up."
Joe said it so casually that it took Bruce a moment to understand. His head jerked around. "Someone was watching her?"
"That's what my gut says."
"You don't know for sure?"
"I didn't notice anyone watching when we were at the house, but then I was back quite a bit so no one would notice me. Could be he was peeking out a window. A lot of the houses around there looked abandoned. It'd be easy to get inside one, and just as easy not to be seen."
Bruce felt himself practically swell with antagonism. "But you did see him?"
Joe nodded. "I was tailing you, but we hadn't gotten to the end of the street when I saw him in my rearview mirror. He came out in a hurry, got in a rusty blue Ford truck, and hung behind until you reached the motel."
Joe pulled a slip of paper from his front pocket. "I got the license number, and friends are running it now to see if it turns up any info."
"I should give that to the detective."
"I'll take care of it" Joe tucked the paper away again. "He didn't stop at the motel when you did, and I was caught trying to decide if I should follow him, or stick with you and Cyn, just in case."
"And you stuck with us?"
"Tough call, but yeah. I figured I can go back to where he was staying, see what I can turn up there. With any luck, I'll find him home and that'll be the end of that."
"Don't do anything crazy, Joe."
Joe winked. "I used to be a cop
, remember? I know how it works. In fact, soon as I take a look around, I'll let your detective know and she can poke her nose in there, too." He replaced his cap. "I just wanted you to know you're on your own for a few hours, so don't let Cyn out of your sight." And with a knowing look, he warned, "No stalking off mad."
Disgusted, Bruce faced the windshield again. "I wasn't going to leave. I just needed some air and I didn't want her to have the car keys."
"Because you were afraid she would leave?"
"She's headstrong, and right now, she's hurting." Bruce rubbed his face tiredly. "We had a stupid argument."
"So apologize."
That made Bruce laugh. "She won't want to hear it."
Joe shrugged. "Then seduce her. Keep her naked in bed and stay there with her." He winked. "Safest place for both of you to be."
Bruce stared at his hands where they gripped the steering wheel. That was pretty much Joe's solution to most problems. But he wasn't Joe. "I'm a preacher, remember?"
Snorting, Joe said, "Don't bullshit me. You're in love with her. You and Bryan are alike in that way."
"What way?"
"You're damned obvious. Hell, I can see it when you look at her. I can even hear it when you talk about her."
Joe's good humor rubbed Bruce's nerves raw. "You're the expert on love now?"
Joe grinned. "Having experienced it firsthand, yeah." He settled back in his seat. "Listen, it gets better. She'll drive you nuts at first, women can't help that. She'll run you through the wringer till you think you can't take it, then she'll love ya back and it'll be okay. You've got my word on that."
Bruce decided he'd do well not to discuss love with the notorious Joe Winston. 'You're right. Somehow I'll get around her temper."
"Good, because I think this is going to get ugly."
The way Joe said that, with such conviction, had Bruce's protective instincts on red alert. "Was it Palmer Oaks?"
"Could be." Joe constantly scanned the area, especially paying attention to the cars coming and going on or near the lot. "Bryan called me about a half-hour ago."
"He found out something?"
"Yep." Hesitant, Joe rubbed his ear. "Seems Palmer was in prison—until three months ago."
Oh God. "He escaped?"