by Irene Hannon
“May I ask you a question?”
“Sure. I guess.” She added more parmesan to her pasta, her tone a bit wary.
“At the wedding, your friend Rick mentioned that Colin wanted a photo of the Treehouse Gang. Interesting name. Does it also have an interesting history?”
“Yes.” Her lips curved up.
“Based on your expression, I’m deducing that history stirs up pleasant memories.”
“Of the Treehouse Gang, yes. The childhoods of the members—not so much.”
“Including yours?”
“Yes.” She wound some noodles around her fork. “I’ll give you the condensed version. Colin’s family fell apart after his little brother died in a hit-and-run accident. Rick grew up in foster care after his mother was killed in a domestic violence incident. As you might expect, both of them had a ton of issues. They met in middle school and clicked.”
“How do you fit in?”
“I didn’t, at first. I transferred to their school after they met, when my parents moved into a different district. I was a year younger than them, but in the same class—and the shyest eleven-year-old you can imagine.”
He didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “Hard to believe, considering how personable, poised, and articulate you are now.”
“Thank you for that—but believe it. I was a mess as a kid.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Oh yeah.” She picked up the parmesan again and sprinkled more of it on her already cheese-heavy dinner. “Unlike Colin and Rick, I had an intact family. But I was an unplanned addition to my parents’ world. My arrival was not their most pleasant surprise.”
“Are you saying they didn’t treat you well?” Luke stopped eating.
“No. They just had no space in their busy schedules for a child. My dad’s a business executive and my mom’s an attorney. Their plates were—and are—full. Time has always been at a premium for them, and there was barely enough of it to cover career demands. Neither of them ever got home from work until seven or seven thirty.”
“So you were on your own a lot?”
“I had nannies.” She lifted one shoulder and took another bite of pasta.
Her matter-of-fact response suggested she’d long ago accepted the lot life had dealt her.
But nannies weren’t the same as loving parents. Like the kind he’d had. No matter how diligent they were about caring for their charge, it was a job.
“I’m sorry your mom and dad weren’t there for you, Kristin.”
There was an infinitesimal hesitation in her chewing, so tiny he’d have missed it if he wasn’t watching her closely.
“I coped. And it wasn’t like I was deprived. They gave me expensive clothes, paid big bucks for ballet and piano and riding lessons, sent me to high-end summer camps. I had no material wants.”
He concentrated on his pasta, unsure how to respond. Being critical of her parents could backfire—but hadn’t they realized time was the most precious gift a parent could give a child? That putting their daughter at the bottom of their priority list could badly undermine her self-esteem?
“I know what you’re thinking.”
At Kristin’s quiet comment, he attempted a smile. “Are you a psychic?”
“No—but I watched people during my shy years, and I learned to read nuances. You’re right that material things don’t compensate for a day-to-day loving relationship with your parents. It’s hard when they aren’t around much—and if they miss important events in your life, like National Honor Society inductions or recitals or awards presentations. Or they’re out of town on your birthday.”
Kristin had stopped eating . . . and the sadness in her eyes told Luke he’d been wrong in his earlier assessment.
She might think she’d put her unhappy childhood memories to rest, but she hadn’t. Deep inside, they still hurt.
Fighting the urge to take her hand, he wadded up the napkin in his lap. “I wish you’d had a better home life.” Like the one he’d had, where he and Becca had been the center of their parents’ world. “It was their loss as much as yours, you know.”
“Yeah.” She swallowed and twirled some more noodles. “Anyway, to compensate, I read a lot, studied constantly, and aced my classes. On the academic front, I was a star. But I had big self-esteem issues and no confidence—until I met Colin and Rick.”
“They befriended you?”
“Yes.” Her demeanor brightened, and she began eating again. “They saw me sitting alone in the cafeteria every day and started joining me. They told me later they felt sorry for me. Can you imagine two twelve-year-old boys being that sensitive?”
“To be honest . . . no. I doubt I would have been tuned in to someone else’s misery at that age.”
“I’m not certain I buy that.” She regarded him for a moment before she continued. “In any case, we bonded. With two such staunch friends, my anemic self-esteem got a huge boost. Enough that I let them badger me into trying out for a school play. I got the part . . . and a lot of parts after that. Theater was an amazing ego builder.”
Kristin with an audience in the palm of her hands.
Now that fit the image of the self-confident woman he’d met at the wedding.
“Are you still involved in acting?”
“Not on stage—but I direct a children’s show every summer at my church . . . and drag the guys along to help backstage. I figured if theater helped me, it might do the same for other kids.”
A woman who gave back in multiple ways.
Nice.
“So how did you three become the Treehouse Gang?”
“Oh, right. Back to your original question. Among the many gifts my parents gave me was a deluxe treehouse. I think that may have been the real reason the boys adopted me.” Her mouth quirked. “Although in fairness, they didn’t find out about that until after they rescued me from my solitary lunches.”
“And you’ve stayed tight all these years.”
“Very. We’re like family. We meet every other Saturday for breakfast—and barge into each other’s lives on a regular basis . . . like Colin did tonight.”
He smiled as he gathered the remnants of lettuce on his plate into a pile. “Did you have a secret code, or an oath you all signed in blood?”
“No blood involved, thank you very much. Although the boys probably would have gone for that.” She rolled her eyes, then grew more serious. “But we did take a pledge to do our part to make the world a better place when we grew up.”
Heavy stuff for a bunch of kids.
“It appears you and Colin followed through on that.”
“So did Rick. He was in the military for a while, and now he runs a camp in the country for foster kids.”
“Three for three. I’m impressed.”
“It is amazing how we all turned out, given our backgrounds.”
He scooped up the last of his salad. “Do you have much contact with your parents these days?”
“We’re in touch every few weeks. It’s not like we’re at odds or anything. They just have their life, and I have mine. Plus, they’ve lived in Boston for more than a decade, so distance is an issue. What about you? Is your dad nearby?”
He clenched his fingers around the napkin again. “No. He moved to South Carolina a year ago. But my sister is in St. Louis. That’s one of the reasons I relocated here from Virginia in January.”
“Virginia isn’t as far from South Carolina as St. Louis is. Did you get to see your dad more often while you were there?”
“No.” A wave of guilt washed over him, and he gave his last few noodles more attention than they deserved.
“I think I touched a nerve.” Kristin laid her fork down.
He tried for a smile. “Are you playing psychic on me again?”
“No. This is called empathy. I have no idea what’s on your mind, but I sense . . . conflict?”
“You have excellent instincts.” He thumbed a speck of sauce off the rim of his empty plate an
d exhaled. Why dance around the truth? “I’ve done a pretty abysmal job keeping in touch with my dad for the past year.”
“Sounds like there might be a story there.” Her tone was cautious. As if she was afraid he was going to bolt if she got too nosy.
For some odd reason, though, he didn’t mind her queries.
Stranger yet, talking about his messy personal life felt . . . safe . . . with her.
“We’re not estranged, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Not officially, anyway. “Dad remarried last year and retired. They decided to relocate to South Carolina. His new wife is from that area, and he’d always wanted to live by the ocean. It was a no-brainer for them.”
“Do you like his new wife?”
“She’s fine. She’s just not . . . Mom. And I was surprised Dad replaced her after only eighteen months.”
The admission he’d voiced to no one but Becca was out before he could stop it.
“Mmm.” Kristin chased a mushroom around her plate, faint furrows creasing her brow. “I’m not certain replace is the best word. Maybe he added her to his life. I’ve always believed the heart can expand to accommodate an endless amount of love—and that the more we have, the more blessed we are.”
“You sound like my sister.”
A dimple appeared in her cheek. “I have a feeling I’d like her.”
“I have a feeling it would be mutual.” He caught her gaze. Held it. “For the record, I’m beginning to come around to her way of thinking.”
Her complexion pinkened as the electricity zipping between them spiked toward the danger range.
With an abrupt move, she broke eye contact and vaulted to her feet. There was a slight tremble in her fingers as she picked up his plate.
“Would you, uh, like some coffee? I wish I could offer you one of my killer brownies for dessert, but all I have is packaged cookies.”
He hesitated. There was no reason to rush back to his silent, impersonal apartment.
Yet he’d already spent considerably more time in Kristin’s company tonight than he’d planned, and overstaying his welcome wouldn’t be wise. Better to leave her wanting more than wishing he’d leave.
“Thank you, but I need to run. I have a few items on my to-do list for tonight. Let me help with the cleanup before I go.”
“Not necessary. I’ll have everything in the dishwasher in five minutes. Guests shouldn’t have to deal with dirty plates and silverware on their first visit.”
First visit.
That sounded promising.
And the second visit couldn’t happen soon enough for him. Despite some of the heavy topics they’d discussed during the past hour, this had been his happiest evening in years.
“Are you certain?” He rose.
“Yes. I’ll walk you out.”
He followed her to the foyer, waiting as she pulled the door open.
“Thanks again for dinner.” He passed her, stopping on the threshold.
Her color was still on the high side. “It was my pleasure. I’ll place another order with the monastery tomorrow and let you know as soon as I get a confirmation.”
He had to forcibly shift back into work mode. “That would be great.” Say good-bye, Carter. “I enjoyed the food tonight—and the company.” I didn’t hear a good-bye in there.
“Me too.”
As she wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door, the glow from the porch light warmed her skin. Deepened the gray-blue of her irises. Spotlighted her lips.
Her very tempting lips.
She drew an unsteady breath and watched him, a pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. She looked oh-so-appealing—and receptive to . . .
Get out of here before you make a mistake you’ll live to regret, Carter! Now!
Right.
He stumbled back a step. “Well . . . see you around.”
With that, he escaped to his car as fast as he could without breaking into a jog.
Not once did he look back.
He didn’t dare.
If Kristin was still standing there, issuing that silent, subliminal invitation for a kiss, he might succumb.
And that wouldn’t be wise.
She might be unencumbered with romantic baggage, but he had plenty weighing him down. Yes, he was coming around to Becca’s viewpoint . . . but he wasn’t there yet. The ring remained on his finger.
Besides, Kristin was part of a case. An innocent party, but connected. And mixing personal and professional life was never smart.
He took his place behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove away.
Only as he turned the corner did he allow himself one fast peek in the rearview mirror.
She hadn’t moved. The slim, inviting silhouette continued to beckon from the open doorway.
It took every ounce of his willpower to maintain pressure on the gas pedal and watch her recede in the distance.
But at least she’d hinted that the door to another get-together was open.
And when the right time came, he intended to walk through it.
9
Finally.
Kristin clicked on the email from the abbot. It had taken two days for the man to respond—but in fairness, he had no clue about the urgency of her latest order. And based on what she’d gleaned about life at the monastery from Brother Michael, the monks marched to the beat of a much slower drummer.
She skimmed the text.
Excellent.
Her order was being processed and would ship on Monday.
Added bonus? She had a legitimate excuse to call Luke.
Smiling, she picked up the phone from the WorldCraft counter and tapped in his number.
Three rings in, he answered in a clipped tone.
Drat.
His brusque manner didn’t bode well for a long conversation.
“Luke, it’s Kristin. Are you tied up?”
“Oh. Sorry. No. I’m in the middle of typing a report, and boring work requires all my powers of concentration. I’m glad to have an excuse to take a break. What’s up?”
“I heard from the monastery.” She relayed her news. “Best case, the candles will arrive mid-May. Worst case, mid-June. Expedited shipping would get them here faster, but I’ve never used it. Too expensive.”
“Let’s not change anything that might raise a red flag. We’ll just have to wait—even if that taxes our patience. Or mine, anyway.”
“Not one of your strongest virtues?”
“Not when it comes to solving crimes. But my sister claims I have exceptional patience with her three-year-old twins.”
Another check mark in his pro column.
“Anything new on the case?”
“No. The leads have been few and far between—and are dwindling fast. I’m continuing to work it hard, though.” A squeak came over the line, as if he’d leaned back in his chair. “So how are you doing? I know how disturbing this has been for—” Someone spoke in the background, and he cut off his comment. After a muffled exchange, Luke came back to her, his manner more brisk and businesslike. “I need to run. We’ll discuss next steps after the items arrive.”
Did that mean there would be no communication between them for several weeks?
Her spirits nosedived.
“I’ll give you a call as soon as I have the next shipment.” Her attempt to sound cheerful was lame, at best.
“Okay.” His earlier warmth had vanished.
“Well . . .” She tried for perky again. “Talk to you soon.”
“If anything breaks, I’ll be in touch.” After a perfunctory good-bye, the line went dead.
Kristin removed the phone from her ear and weighed it in her hand. Had Luke just been tapped for a hot new case—or was there another reason for the abrupt change in his manner?
She hadn’t a clue.
But as she set the phone back on the counter, she was certain of one thing.
If Luke didn’t call until the candles arrived, it was going to be a very long sprin
g.
Cole’s timing stunk.
Cell glued to his ear, Luke kept tabs on the pacing man in his peripheral vision.
How much of the phone conversation had his colleague heard—and had Cole picked up the personal tone that had snuck into his voice as he’d talked with Kristin?
Only one way to find out.
Bracing, he slid the phone back onto his belt.
“It’s about time.” Cole marched over to him in the small, two-person office.
“What’s with you?”
“I have news.”
“About what?”
“The Elaine Peterson case.” He slapped a crime scene photo onto the desk, of a male body in the early stages of decomposition. “That blood we found at her place, on the patio?”
“You mean the blood Hank found.”
“Whatever. The ME found the same blood under her fingernails. It was this guy’s. We got a hit in the DNA database.”
Luke leaned closer to the photo. There were abrasions on his face that could be claw marks from Elaine’s fingernails. “Who is he?”
“No idea. We ran the prints through NGI. Nothing.”
If the FBI’s automated fingerprint system didn’t provide a match, it wasn’t to be found.
“He looks Middle Eastern.”
“Agreed.”
“What happened to him?”
“Bullet to the back of the head, execution style. He was buried in a shallow grave in the woods in unincorporated St. Louis County. A jogger’s dog found him. According to the police report, the dog went ballistic. By the time his owner got him under control, the mutt had dug down far enough to expose a hand.”
“My kind of dog.” Luke picked up a pen and turned it end-to-end on the desk. “I wonder if this guy might be on a terrorist watch list. I’ve got a contact at the FBI field office here I could call.”
Cole frowned. “Why would you want to involve the Feds? I mean, we’re only speculating, right? As far as we know, there’s no link here to terrorism.”
“The missing candles are from Syria.”
“Circumstantial. I still say that whole connection is a stretch.”
“Maybe—but two innocent people are dead . . . along with this guy, in what could be payback for a botched job. I think it’s an angle worth exploring.”