Because of a Girl

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “How do you keep this thing running?” he asked out of genuine curiosity.

  Her mouth tightened as if he’d issued a criticism. “They have really simple engines. No fancy electronics. I tried to learn how to do oil changes and tune-ups myself, but I guess I don’t have a mechanical bent. I’ve always been able to find mechanics who enjoy keeping it going, though.”

  Disbelieving, he said, “But what about parts?”

  “Wrecking yards still have some on hand.”

  Jack laughed. “What year is it?”

  Her eyes slid his way. “Seventy-one.”

  “Good God.” He went into the garage to circle the bus, a genuine relic from the hippie era. The Vietnam War had still been on. Truth was the engines in these old Volkswagens probably had more in common with the one that propelled his Toro lawn mower than it did with modern automotive engines.

  The paint job extended along the sides and around the front as well as over the top. It hadn’t all been done at the same time. Some scenes that had to have emerged from acid trips had been painted right over previous ones.

  Oddly, Jack was grinning when he came back around to where Meg stood, arms crossed, waiting for him and looking unhappy.

  “Guess you don’t go anywhere unnoticed, do you?”

  Her shadowed eyes met his. “Apparently that’s not true.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. “When did you buy this bus?”

  “Emily was four. So...eleven years ago.”

  “It doesn’t crap out on you? Say, when the weather’s too cold?”

  She shook her head, then said, “Well, sometimes. But what car doesn’t? It’s really been pretty reliable.” Pause. “I like it. It’s an antique.”

  He surprised himself by seeing the charm. Like her rugs, the bus made him smile. Struck by how today’s weak sunlight brought out her freckles against her translucent skin, he asked, “You ever take it to an antique car show?”

  That surprised a laugh out of her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, why would I be?”

  “Because cars at those shows gleam? My bus is a Before. The After...well, I’m not sure what it would take to accomplish that, if it’s even possible.”

  She had a point. Her bus had probably looked battered forty years ago. It would be a challenge to make it gleam without damaging that extraordinary paint job. His interest stirred. Could be fun.

  Jack thought of her house—the missing staircase balusters, the scarred wood floors—and wondered if she didn’t prefer the VW the way it was. She made some kind of statement every time she backed out of this garage. He just wasn’t sure what she was saying.

  The rest of the garage was loosely organized. No pegboards for tools, but rakes, shovels, hoes and the like did hang from nails spaced just right. The lawn mower looked almost as old as the VW. Maybe the same mechanic kept it running.

  He had the fleeting thought he might have misjudged her. He’d characterized her as flighty, but was she really? Unlike his mother, she hadn’t deserted her child. She hadn’t even ditched an ancient vehicle.

  He opened the sliding side door and took a look around, seeing no bloodstains, no coil of rope. Not that he’d expected to. Closing the door took some muscle, too. The track was probably rusting.

  “Have you seen enough?” Tension threaded her voice, making him take a longer look at her.

  Stress seemed to have tightened her skin, making him more aware of her bone structure. Her lips had the faintest tremble before she pressed them together. Her eyes appeared big and haunted.

  “Yes.” Jack turned away, wondering if his presence was what had her looking so nervous. Putting pressure on people—that was his job. This time, he didn’t like seeing the result. Because, despite his best efforts, he liked her.

  It took some serious muscle for him to get the garage door moving, although once it jolted over the right-angle turn, it descended with a thunderous rush. He jumped back. “You ever think about getting an opener? The kind that lets you push a button?”

  Her lips did curve, even if the turbulence in her eyes remained. “It wouldn’t go with my bus.”

  He chuckled even as he kept searching her face. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”

  He kept pace when she started back toward the house.

  “Was there anything else?” Meg asked politely.

  Jack remained quiet until she’d opened the back door. “Maybe a couple questions.”

  That was enough to get him into the kitchen, where he wanted to be, even though hanging around here put him across the line he’d drawn. He wasn’t doing very well resisting the inexplicable attraction to this puzzling woman and her warm, messy home. The kitchen most of all, with an exposed brick wall, scarred, wide-planked floors and a big, farm-style table, made him want to curl up and stay.

  And, damn it, whatever she had cooking in that Crock-Pot smelled so good, his stomach grumbled. He hoped she hadn’t heard.

  Jack leaned a hip against the edge of her counter, watching as she took a bowl of something that looked like paste out of the refrigerator and set it down before bending to retrieve a cookie sheet from the drawer beneath the oven. Her jeans stretched nicely over a round, firm ass.

  He looked away. Yeah, he liked her kitchen, but she was the draw.

  “Ask.” Her voice sounded sharp, pulling him back from an edge he wasn’t sure he wanted to be standing on.

  She was dropping blobs of what he realized was dough onto the cookie sheet. Homemade biscuits. Swallowing saliva, he knew he had to get out of here before he embarrassed himself.

  “Why are you so scared for Sabra if you think she took off on her own?” He hadn’t known he was going to ask until the question was out, lying there between them.

  Meg’s fine-boned hands went still. She kept her gaze on the bowl. “Shouldn’t I be? She’s fifteen and pregnant.”

  Jack held his silence, waiting her out.

  She shot him a glance of dislike. “She might have taken off, but it wasn’t on her own. Unless she hitchhiked, in which case you’d think somebody would have seen her, she had a ride. Somebody took her.”

  “Somebody she trusted,” he pointed out.

  “The people you trust aren’t always worthy of it.”

  That was deeply personal, he felt sure. Was it Emily’s father who’d let her down in a way that still hurt?

  “That can be true,” he agreed.

  “And being alone—”

  She didn’t finish, but he understood.

  She dropped a couple more globs of dough onto the cookie sheet. Suddenly, the spoon clattered into the bowl. “It’s my fault,” she burst out. More softly, she said, “I think it might be.”

  The cop in him came to attention, but he was careful to sound no more than curious. Even sympathetic. “What makes you think that?”

  “I was so mad the night they went to that kegger.” She faced him, anguish in her eyes. “I’ve never been like that. Yelling. And...the next day, I sat her down for a talk. I threatened to call the authorities because she wasn’t obeying my rules. I can’t believe I did that. I think... I’m afraid she didn’t feel welcome here anymore.” Her shoulders hunched. “If that’s why she left...”

  He pushed away from the counter. “Meg.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, she hurried on. “I wouldn’t have kicked her out. I just... It’s because of Emily.” She looked away. “I thought... I wanted to blame...”

  “Sabra,” Jack finished for her. “You believed your relationship with Emily has deteriorated because of Sabra’s influence.”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Yes.” She made a sound probably intended to be a laugh. “God forbid it be my fault.”

  “Meg,” he said again, stepping forward to grip her upper arms. �
�What’s going on between you and Emily isn’t anybody’s fault. You know that, don’t you? She’s at an age when she has to start pulling away. How else can she do that except by defying you, and maybe yelling at you sometimes? All parents become idiots in the eyes of their teenagers for a while. Why am I having to tell you this?”

  She searched his eyes, her own hypnotic. “It’s stupid. I know it is. I just... I never thought this would happen with Emily.”

  “Because you were such good friends.”

  “Yes.” She tried to smile. “You don’t have to tell me how naive I was, or that I’m overreacting. I just...”

  She kept saying that, as if minimizing her feelings.

  Instinct had him lowering his voice to a near whisper. He couldn’t look away from her. “You just what?”

  He felt her sag. “I think it has to be easier if you have...someone else. More family.”

  Emily was all she had. That’s what she was telling him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, let her lean on him.

  You’re investigating her, remember? She reminds you of Mom. Except he was suddenly less sure of that. The loneliness she described, he’d felt, giving them something painful in common.

  “Emily’s dad isn’t in the picture?” he heard himself ask, voice rough.

  She stiffened and backed away. “No.”

  He waited for her to elaborate.

  She didn’t.

  “You’re thirty-two,” he said finally.

  “You checked me out.”

  More thoroughly than she’d have liked, but he hadn’t learned jack about her childhood, parents, Emily’s father. She might have grown up out of state; otherwise, she hadn’t gotten her first driver’s license until she was twenty-one, which was pretty unusual.

  “DMV records,” he said mildly.

  “Yes.” Her sidelong glance held hostility. “I had Emily when I was sixteen. Is that what you’re asking?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “I identified with Sabra. Okay? No mystery there.”

  Had somebody extended a helping hand, and she’d felt an obligation to pay it forward? Or had nobody at all helped her? After a moment, she faced him again, tears swimming in her eyes, accentuating the rich colors. “You have to find her. Please find her.”

  Somehow they’d come to be standing close together again. He didn’t remember reaching for her, but he held her hands. A dusting of flour floated in the air. And—God—was his head bending toward her uplifted face?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EMOTIONALLY, MEG FELT as though she’d been fed through a shredder. It wasn’t as if she’d had a moment of serenity since Sabra disappeared almost five days ago, but every time Jack Moore showed up, her horrible tangle of guilt and fear and something that felt like grief seemed to intensify. He was like...a magnifying glass with the sun sizzling through it? She didn’t know.

  Well, there was one thing she did know: right this second, he was thinking about kissing her. He might suspect her of something horrible, he might despise her, he might just plain dislike her, but he was tempted anyway.

  And despite everything he represented, despite her own experiences, so was she. She’d never felt like this. Just once, to find out what it could be like. This was a strong man, one she was beginning to believe cared deeply. What would it be like if he cared about her?

  Unblinking, they looked into each other’s eyes. She had a close-up of his stubble, of gold striations in his brown eyes, of his lashes, thick and short. She wanted to lift a hand to his face, trace the lines that betrayed his character. The drumbeat of her heart filled her ears—until a jolt of alarm accelerated that beat.

  Emily was bounding down the stairs.

  “Oh, my God.” This time, Meg stumbled as she lurched back. Fortunately, she came up against the counter edge.

  Expression dazed, Jack still hadn’t moved when Emily reached them.

  Her distrustful gaze shifted from his face to her mother’s, and back again. “I suppose you’re talking about me.”

  Meg’s laugh cracked. “No, honey, we actually weren’t.” Which wasn’t true, but what could she say?

  “Then what’s going on?” she demanded with a glare.

  Jack, thank heavens, had blinked a couple times and assumed a more casual stance, hip again resting against the cabinet.

  “I was being my usual charming self,” he said.

  Emily’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I was grilling your mother.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed. “Okay.”

  Angry, Meg said, “That’s good? That a cop thinks I had something to do with Sabra disappearing? Gee, thanks.”

  Emily gaped for a moment. Then she regained her favorite sullen expression. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Sure you did.” Meg huffed out a breath. “Did you wash your hands? Dinner will be ready as soon as these biscuits come out of the oven.”

  Her mercurial daughter said hopefully, “Sourdough?”

  “Of course sourdough.”

  “Cool!” She went to the sink and began washing her hands.

  “I’ll leave you in peace,” Jack said, straightening, but she couldn’t help noticing the way his gaze lingered on the sheet of biscuits she bent to put in the oven.

  “Would it break the detective code of conduct if you ate with us?” Meg was vaguely aware of Emily turning slowly, astonishment widening her eyes. Then Meg almost groaned. What had she been thinking? He probably had a wife at home preparing dinner right now.

  No, wait. If he had a wife, why had he been looking at her that way? As if...

  “Not sure about that code of conduct.” He sounded rueful. “But I know I’d be intruding.”

  “There’s plenty.” Was this really a good idea? Apparently she thought so. Maybe this could be her way of softening him up, convincing him she was a good woman who would never commit a crime.

  Except, of course, she had committed a few, when she was young and desperate enough.

  “If you have other plans, that’s fine,” she added briskly, not letting herself acknowledge how much she wanted him to sit at the table with her and Emily.

  “Meg. You were pretty annoyed with me a minute ago.”

  Annoyed didn’t exactly cover what she’d felt. He’d poked at old wounds, his suspicion had made her mad...and he’d awakened a physical response she had thought disabled. And hope. That, too.

  “Detective Moore—”

  “If you’re inviting me to dinner,” he said slowly, “it should probably be Jack—don’t you think?”

  “Jack, then.” Meg gathered her thoughts. “You’re doing your job. Please keep doing it. It’s...uncomfortable knowing you think Emily and I are holding back, but what we want most is for you to find Sabra and bring her home.” She looked at her daughter, who grudgingly nodded.

  He let out a long breath, his mouth twisting. “My stomach has been rumbling since I set foot in the kitchen. And homemade sourdough biscuits? I can’t remember the last time I had one.”

  Meg surprised herself by laughing. “Okay, then.” She could do this.

  “Emily, will you set the table?”

  The teenager was still watching the detective dubiously, but she mumbled, “Oh, fine.”

  Meg saw the grin Jack was trying to hide. It reminded her how much time he had been spending with teenagers lately.

  Welcome to my world.

  God help her, that was exactly what she’d just done.

  * * *

  CALL ME JACK.

  Really? Because he wanted to be friends with a suspect?

  But he couldn’t kid himself. Friends wasn’t what he had in mind. Assuming his mind played any part in his fascination with a woman h
e flip-flopped on. One minute, he convinced himself she was a flake, unreliable, shallow. She was arty, so she had to be, right? The next, he saw only warmth, a woman who was both loving and maternal, a solid parent who had extended that warmth to another kid who needed her.

  Thank heavens Meg’s daughter had appeared when she did. He’d be in deep shit if she hadn’t.

  He was still in deep shit. Staying for dinner was the height of stupidity under the circumstances.

  From his first bite, he also knew it to be the best meal he’d had in years. The minestrone soup was spicy, probably healthy and delicious. The sourdough biscuits, dripping with real butter, melted in his mouth.

  He made conversation while trying not to make a pig of himself.

  Looking at Emily, he said, “I hear you’re interested in theater.”

  Although leery, she’d evidently been taught to be polite. “I’ve been stage manager for the high school productions since I was a freshman. Mostly everyone wants to act.” She shrugged. “But I like getting all the details right.”

  Meg’s glance at him was approving. Basking inappropriately in it, he asked if Emily was thinking of theater as a career. He was rewarded when Meg refilled his bowl with her “Cabbage Patch” soup.

  Emily made a face at his question. “I’d think about majoring in theater in college, except I’d have to take acting classes.”

  “Are you sure you’d have to?” His hand snaked out for another golden biscuit. His third. “There must be theater majors whose focus from the beginning is stage managing, directing, lighting.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. There may be a track for people with your kind of interest.”

  She looked surprised. “Um, maybe. I might check it out. Or just do it for fun. You know.”

  He smiled at her. “Not into sports?”

  Her nose crinkled.

  Meg laughed. “We tried soccer and softball.”

  “Softball was boring,” her daughter said, “and I hated being hit by the ball in soccer.”