Cold Midnight

by Joyce Lamb

  When Lara returned to the sofa, she wore a forced smile, further alerting Kylie that something big was bothering her.

  Kylie reached out and put her hand on her stepmother’s knee. “What’s on your mind, Mom?”

  Lara patted the back of Kylie’s hand then grasped her fingers and squeezed. “Your father would be so happy that you’re home. You know that, right?”

  Thrown by the tears in Lara’s eyes, Kylie nodded. “Sure, of course.” She couldn’t stop the spear of guilt, though. She should have returned before he died. But no one had known he was sick, and he’d died so unexpectedly . . .

  “He always wanted to start a tennis center,” Lara said, “but he didn’t want to do it without you. He also didn’t want to pressure you to return.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sure the construction delays are taking a toll on your finances.”

  Kylie gave a noncommittal shrug. “Hopefully everything will clear up soon.”

  “How long have you got, do you think?”

  Kylie didn’t want to go into the specifics—or say that she didn’t have long at all before the bank got antsy and rescinded her credit line. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “He’d want you to keep going on it, not to honor his memory, but because he believed it would make you happy.”

  “I plan to, Mom. Where’s this—” She withdrew her hand and glanced away as it hit her. Well, damn. No one, not even her stepmother, expected her to stick around for long. It was official: She had a rep. When adversity mounted the front porch steps, she crept out the back door. Incredible how much that made her feel like a slug. Dirty and slimy and not someone anyone who loved her could count on. Biting back the hurt, she said, “So you think that if Wade and I stayed an item and as long as I had the tennis center, I’d be less likely to leave again.”

  Lara’s velvety eyes filled with tears again, and she pressed her lips together for a moment. “I’d understand. We all would. It’s painful for you to—”

  “Mom, come on. I’m not going to—”

  The front door opening cut her off. “Mom?” Jane called from the foyer. “You here?”

  “In here, Janie,” Lara responded, casting Kylie an apologetic glance. “We’ll finish this later.”

  Jane strode into the living room, a plastic-wrapped newspaper clasped in one hand like she wanted to hit somebody with it. “You haven’t opened your paper yet today,” Jane said in an accusing tone.

  Lara smiled at her youngest daughter. “Hello to you, too, Janie. Paris was wonderful, thanks for asking. How are you?”

  Jane ripped the plastic bag off the paper with lethal-looking, manicured nails and held it up. “This is how I am.”

  Kylie’s heart dropped straight into her stomach as she read the headline: Mac’s Brother a Suspect in Attack.

  “This,” Jane gave the paper an angry shake, “says the police found a T-shirt that belongs to Quinn wrapped around the bat from the construction site.”

  Lara took the paper and sank down onto the sofa to read. “That can’t be right,” she murmured.

  Jane whirled toward Kylie, dark eyes flashing. “Did you know about this?”

  Kylie couldn’t respond as her thought process arrived at the jarring realization of what this would do to Quinn. He already knew about the shirt, but everyone else knowing—and jumping to the conclusion that he was a monster—would devastate him. She needed to get to him, needed to make sure he was okay.

  Realizing that Jane waited for an answer, Kylie nodded. “Yes, I knew.”

  “But this can’t be right,” Lara said, shaking her head. “The story must be wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong, Mom,” Jane said without looking away from Kylie. “Kylie has the details. She just didn’t bother to share them with us.” She folded her arms and cocked her head. “As usual.”

  Attitude. Perfect. “They’re running tests on the shirt,” Kylie said. “I’m sure they’ll clear Quinn.”

  “But the damage is done,” Jane replied. “He’s already been destroyed in the press. Once again, this family is being dragged through the mud because of poor, pitiful you.”

  “Janie!”

  Ignoring the shock in her stepmother’s voice and the bitter anger in her sister’s, Kylie crossed to the phone and picked it up. When her hand trembled—damn it—she turned her back to the other two women and started dialing Quinn.

  Everything would be fine. All she had to do was talk to him, assure him that nothing had changed, that an old gym shirt didn’t make her think for a second that he’d done anything to her. He’d be fine. They’d be fine together.

  “I’ve already tried that,” Jane said. “He’s not answering at home, work or his cell.”

  Kylie replaced the phone in its cradle. “Then I’ll go over there.”

  “The media’s camped out in front of his house,” Jane said. “And he’s not answering the door. I tried that, too.”

  Kylie nodded. No problem. She had a key to his house. “I’ll give it a shot anyway.”

  “And you think he’ll open the door to you instead of me because . . .”

  “I don’t know,” Kylie said, fighting for an even tone. “Maybe he’s no longer in the shower?”

  “You think I didn’t try hard enough, is that it? You think you’re the only one he talks to? Who do you think he talked to while you were on the other side of the country pretending none of us existed?”

  “Janie—”

  “This isn’t helping Quinn,” Kylie said to Jane, then looked at her stepmother and gave her a gentle smile. “I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to him. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Lara nodded, tears glittering in her eyes. “I want to come with you, but maybe it’s best if you . . .”

  Kylie grasped Lara’s hand, then decided that wasn’t enough and gave her a tight hug. “Don’t worry. I’ll have him call you.”

  17

  CHASE STOOD NEXT TO THE EXPLORER PARKED AT the edge of the site of the future McKays’ Tennis Center, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun. The bustling activity of construction workers had been replaced with the quiet, careful work of a small forensics team combing two acres of dirt for ten-year-old evidence.

  Sylvia Jensen, in jeans and an untucked, dirt-smudged, white T-shirt, waved from several yards away and started toward him. Chase waited for her, knowing better than to tread on the land that had been sectioned off by twine to organize the search. There wasn’t much his feet could disturb after construction crews had already worked over the land, knocking down trees and leveling the minor hills and valleys, but he still respected the rules of forensics.

  Sylvia, large hoop earrings swinging and sunglasses hooked in the collar of her shirt, stepped over a puddle to join him. As always, he was struck by the absolute beauty of her light hazel eyes against the backdrop of dark chocolate skin.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing concrete, but we have discovered something a bit strange. It appears that someone has been digging around.”

  “Digging around?”

  “At the back of the site, where the land butts up against the wooded area there,” she said, gesturing at the ragged line of unkempt trees that marked the edge of the property. Chase remembered cutting through that wooded area many a time to meet up with friends at the hollowed-out house they’d called the Bat Cave.

  “We’ve found several areas where the soil’s no longer compact,” she said. “Someone’s been digging holes, then filling them back in. Recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “They broke ground on the project last month, so it could be since then. Can’t tell specifically because of all the rain.”

  “Could it be related to the construction? Utilities? Cables?”

  “Already checked with the foreman. The positioning is off.”

  “So you think someone’s been looking for something?”

  “Thought it could be the baseball bat,” s
he said. “Maybe whoever buried it found out the land was being developed and went to work trying to find it.”

  “Or maybe our culprit is looking for something else he buried here in addition to the bat, such as the masks that were worn during the attack.”

  “Possible. He also might have already found what he was looking for.”

  “Are you saying that you think this is a waste of time?”

  “Not at all. I’m just giving you the heads up that we might spend weeks out here and not find anything.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not the case,” he said. Kylie had a lot invested, financially and emotionally, and he didn’t want to see her robbed of another dream. “Did you find anything among the evidence you collected near Kylie’s Jeep?”

  “Nope. Sorry,” she said. “Should get a report on the prints tomorrow morning. I planned to have it today, but we’ve been swamped.”

  “I’ll be surprised if you get anything. Kylie said the guy was wearing gloves.”

  “He might have handled the bat before he put them on.”

  Chase was doubtful, but he’d known other thugs to be as stupid. “That’d be a lucky break, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  Sylvia tugged at an earring, an unconscious gesture that Chase recognized as a signal that she was about to switch gears on him. “Shame about the story in the paper today,” she said.

  Chase gave her a sharp look. He’d overslept this morning after a restless night and hadn’t had a chance to open the newspaper before he’d rushed out the door to meet Sylvia here. “What story?”

  “About Quinn McKay’s shirt being found with the bat.”

  “Ah, hell,” he breathed. “That’s not supposed to be public knowledge.”

  “Uh-oh.” She frowned. “You can rest assured that no one in my office leaked that information. They know I’d rip them bald.”

  Chase smiled at the very Sylvia-like expression. “Yeah, I know.” He wondered what he should do, if anything. Kylie had to be tied up in knots over this, but seeing him would just tie her up even more.

  “Just curious here,” Sylvia said, “but where you do stand on Quinn McKay? To an outsider like me, he and Kylie seem pretty close. When you see them together in public, they’re more like good friends than siblings.”

  “They are now, but that wasn’t the case back then.”

  “Ah. I wasn’t living here yet. I knew the attack was big news, though. People still talked about it when I got here, what, five years ago.”

  Chase nodded. “It was huge.”

  “So Kylie and Quinn weren’t best buddies back then, huh? Was it your typical brother-sister animosity or more than that?”

  Chase met her striking eyes. She wasn’t just curious. She had a specific point to make. Not that he minded. She had a sharp mind that he’d taken advantage of plenty over the years. “You’re going somewhere with this,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Well, I have to admit I’m a wee bit curious about why you haven’t arrested him.”

  “We don’t have enough evidence.”

  “You’ve got means, motive, opportunity and his shirt buried with the weapon. I assume you also have a theory.”

  Chase stretched his neck from side to side, wincing as guitar-string-tight tendons protested. Jesus, he hated being put on the spot, especially when the other person meant well—and was right.

  “So let’s hear it,” Sylvia prodded. “Let’s hear this theory you’re keeping to yourself.”

  He took a breath then blew it out. Okay, it wouldn’t hurt to run it by an objective professional. “Quinn ended his sister’s career because he was jealous of the attention she got. He dumped the bat and shirt here, then he was so guilt-ridden, he turned himself around. When she picked this place for the tennis center, he started the sabotage to slow down construction hoping he could find the bat and shirt before anyone else did.”

  Sylvia nodded, forehead lined with concentration. “So why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “We’re waiting on the results on the shirt. If that’s not Kylie’s blood—”

  “Mind if I share an opinion?”

  “I’d appreciate it, actually.”

  “If your gut is telling you her brother took out her knee, make the arrest. By the time the grand jury takes a look at the case, you’ll have the results on the shirt. Simple.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Let me put it to you this way, Chase. Go look at the pictures of what was done to her and ask yourself if you’re willing to risk that happening again. If her brother did it, he’s probably desperate to avoid getting caught. For all you know, he’s the one who took the bat to her windshield. He knew where to find her alone and when. He had proximity, and he, as well as anyone, knows best what’s going to freak her out the most. Didn’t you say the video surveillance of that parking lot was blank? He knew how to deal with that, too.”

  Chase’s gut felt like he’d swallowed rocks. He hadn’t even considered Quinn for the windshield. What the hell was wrong with him? What Sylvia said made perfect sense. But Quinn had looked more shaken than Kylie had. Not that that was a good comparison, considering Kylie’s game face. “I just can’t imagine he’d—”

  “He might,” Sylvia cut in. “That’s all I’m saying. If he’s the guy, he’s already proven once that he can take a whack at her with a weapon. A bum knee could end up being the least of her problems.”

  18

  KYLIE WAS HALFWAY TO QUINN’S WHEN HER CELL phone rang. Relief—it had to be Quinn, because she’d left him three messages already—made her fumble the phone before she was able to hit the right button to answer it.

  “Quinn?”

  “It’s Chase.”

  The sandpaper sound of his voice sent a chill through her, and she hit the rental car’s brakes harder than necessary to stop for a traffic light. What could he possibly want? “I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

  “The story in the paper didn’t come from the police department.”

  “Where else would it have come from?” she asked, glad he couldn’t see the flush that heated her cheeks. He hadn’t said one sexy word, yet her insides fluttered and clenched as if he’d whispered something erotic into her ear.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “The police are the only ones who know about it.”

  “The construction workers—”

  “Didn’t know the shirt was Quinn’s,” she cut in.

  He sighed before he tried again. “Quinn knew he was a suspect because Sam talked to him, so none of this is news to him.”

  There was that annoying this-is-how-cops-respond-to-hostility tone again. It made her want to scream. “All of Kendall Falls didn’t know,” she snapped back, not caring how bitchy she sounded. This was Quinn they were talking about. “Can you seriously not grasp that this could destroy him? He’s not just a face in an LA crowd. He has a life here, a history.”

  “And I’m sure that whatever happens, he’ll deal with it. He’s not completely innocent, you know.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Of course he’s innocent. He didn’t—”

  “I’m not talking about your attack, Ky.”

  She stiffened at the nickname. Damn it. Why did that throw her off every damn time? “Then what are you talking about?”

  “He hasn’t always been the brother you know now.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Teenagers are unpleasant. You had your unpleasant moments, as I recall.”

  “I never had a hate-on for my sister.”

  “You don’t have a sister. And, besides, Quinn did not hate me.”

  Silence.

  She knew he was waiting her out, using his lack of response to try to rattle her and make her talk. To say what, she wasn’t sure. To implicate Quinn? Fat chance. She clamped her lips together and thought about hanging up on him. But, no, he’d consider that a win. So, as the light turned green and she resumed the drive to Quinn’s, she tried to take control of the
game.

  “If resenting me back then is all the evidence it takes,” she said evenly, “then you should look at Jane. If anyone hated me, it was my little sister. I got all of our father’s attention, and she got nothing. Once, the newspaper referred to her as Kylie McKay’s gangly, coltish sister who would probably never grow into her sister’s grace. If anyone had reason to take me out of the game, it was Jane.”

  “Ky—”

  “And don’t forget my stepmother’s issues. She and Dad had blow-the-roof-off-the-house fights about how he spent every moment of every day obsessing over my tennis career. It’s why they got divorced. So, hey, you know what that means? Everyone in the family’s got a motive now. Maybe all three of them got together and ambushed me. But, no, there were only two attackers. Oh, wait, I know. Mom was the mastermind, and she sent Quinn and Jane to do her dirty work. That makes perfect sense. I bet they even—”

  “Kylie, stop.”

  She squinted her eyes against the burn behind them. No crying. No crying. “I have to go. I’m almost at my brother’s.”

  He sighed into her ear. “Will you call me if you need me?”

  Yeah, right. “Sure, okay.”

  “I mean it, Ky.”

  “Thanks.” She cut off the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Bastard. Son of a bitch. Jerk.

  Tears again stung her eyes, and she angrily swiped at them. Eye on the fucking ball.

  She didn’t even know why she felt like crying. She’d lost nothing. There’d been nothing to lose.

  As she turned into Quinn’s neighborhood, she saw three TV news vans parked along the street’s sandy shoulders. Sharply dressed, perfectly coiffed broadcast journalists milled around, chatting and peering at Quinn’s small, light blue stucco house with dark blue shutters and terra-cotta roof tiles. With the blinds drawn, the house looked uninhabited, but Quinn’s beige Accord sat under the carport.