“Just now.”
He opened the oven door, and she gave him a look that had him closing it again.
“Gram always said you need to leave it alone or else it’ll dry out.”
Brady pulled her into his arms. “I just wanted a nibble.”
“You’ll have to wait until dinner.”
He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. “How about I nibble the cook instead?”
She tingled down to her toes. “Hmm...that seems like a fair compromise.”
A clearing throat had them stepping apart, and Rae giggled. “I guess you’ll have to wait on that too.”
Brady growled as Caro stepped into the room, Johnny on her hip. The baby saw Rae and broke into his joyful smile.
She’d never seen anything so beautiful.
She reached for Johnny, but Caro held him closer. “Not yet. Once Nana gets here, she won’t put him down.”
Rae needed to set the table, anyway. “Can you change his clothes? I left that new outfit on his changing table.”
“Sure!” She disappeared toward the stairs, and Rae turned back to Brady.
“Can you get the dishes out of the breakfront for me?”
“How many?”
“Let’s see.” She tapped her finger against her chin and counted. “You, me, Caro and her grandparents. Sam, Gordon, Ellen, Finn, and Nate.”
“Ten?” He looked seriously concerned. “I hope we have enough turkey.”
“There’ll be plenty.”
His eyebrows lifted, skeptical.
“Ellen’s bringing another one.”
“Oh, thank God.”
She swatted his arm. “Start setting the table, mister.”
He did as he was told while she pulled the potatoes from the pantry. She’d explored the tunnel that led to the barn, amazed that she’d never discovered it in all her years in the house. She’d have to find out how Finn and his friend had done it. Now that they were off the hook for breaking into her house, maybe Finn would tell her what else they’d found. She’d ply him with pie, see if that did it.
But there was no rush. She had the rest of her life to figure out all of her house’s secrets. She could still hear her father’s voice, the stories he used to tell about this place. She’d figured they were all make-believe until she saw that tunnel to the barn. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Dad had told her stories of secret passageways and hidden compartments, the inventions of one of his ancestors, cobbled together to fill the time and feed his imagination. If only Dad were here now to help her find them all.
Caro was coming down the stairs, and Rae froze when the third step from the bottom creaked.
“No way,” she said.
Brady paused, his hand in the silverware drawer, and looked at her. “What?”
“Could it be that simple?”
He closed the drawer. “What are we talking about?”
She set the potatoes on the counter and walked to the staircase, wiping her hands on her apron.
Caro, halfway to the living room, turned to see. “What’s going on?”
Brady answered. “Rae’s lost her mind, I think.”
“It was just a matter of time,” Caro said.
Rae kneeled on the first step and studied the third. She could remember the conversation she’d had with her father all those years ago. She could see the shining gold pieces as he showed them to her, the box they’d sat in.
They’d been standing right here.
She placed her fingers under the third step and pulled up. She felt the nails slip just enough to confirm her suspicions.
“Rae,” Brady said, “what are you—?”
“I need to get this up.”
“Let me help. You’re going to ruin your ring.”
She glanced at the solitaire diamond Brady had given her a month before. It was perfect. Simple. Just what she’d always wanted from the man she’d always loved.
She sat back. “Get me a pry bar or something.”
He kneeled beside her. “What is it?”
“Can you lift this? I think we need a crowbar or...”
Her words trailed off as Brady pulled the step up. The nails creaked against the wood and filled the silent space. Even Johnny was quiet as they watched.
The wood lifted, and Brady set it aside.
There, in the hollow space, was her father’s box.
Rae pulled it out and wiped the thick layer of dust from the top.
“Is that what I think it is?” Brady asked.
She lifted the lid, and there inside lay perfect rows of gold coins. Rae pulled one out, removed it from its plastic sleeve, and laid it on her palm.
“Holy cow,” Caro said.
Her father’s final gift had been there all along. Funny that she couldn’t care less about the money now. Maybe it would fund Johnny’s education. Or maybe they’d find another use for it. But it wasn’t about the money.
Brady closed her fingers over the gold coin. “How did you figure it out?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was thinking about Daddy, and then Caro made the step creak, and it just came to me.”
He grinned at her. “Another secret exposed.”
She looked at Caro and Johnny, then at Brady. “Imagine if I’d found it before? I’d have left.”
His frown told her what he thought of that. “And now?”
“Now, there’s no place I’d rather be than right here. With you.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “Welcome home.”
The End
* * *
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And now, check out a free sneak peek of book 2 in the Hidden Truth series, Twisted Lies.
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Twisted Lies ~ Chapter One
* * *
Nathan Walter Boyle had come to New York City with a handful of dreams. He was leaving with a truck full of nightmares.
Well, not a truck, exactly. He stopped at the bay window and looked out front. There in his driveway sat the weird container his father'd had delivered. The Pod was as big as a Dumpster, only shiny and white.
Nate had called his father before the delivery truck pulled away. "A U-Haul would have been fine, Dad."
"This will give you time to sort it all out."
Nate had a lot more to sort out than just the paraphernalia he'd accumulated in the fourteen years he'd lived in the city. If only he could figure out how to pack the nightmares away along with the detritus of his life.
He grabbed a packed box from the kitchen table and headed for the front door. He stepped onto the front porch, where he took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, like he did a thousand times a day. All was well. The guys who'd taken him were dead. He was safe.
Tell his pounding heart that.
It was sunny and chilly, mild for late March in New York. Spring had always been his favorite season in the city. The once slushy streets were clear. Trees budded along the sidewalks. Flowers bloomed. Even the people seemed to reawaken after their long grouchy winters. As the weather warmed more, kids would soon skateboard along the sidewalks, cords dangling from their ears. In city parks, the thump-thump of dribbling basketballs would serve as the rhythm for the season, while little children's laughter would supply the melody.
For just a moment, Nate wished he could stay.
He looked up the street. Cars were lined in both directions in front of the 1920s-era houses so similar to his own. His neighbor pushed her double stroller on the sidewalk, heading away from him, out for her daily walk. A couple of houses down in the other direction, a woman walked toward him. Frizzy brown hair hung over her tan raincoat. A big black purse dangled from h
er shoulder.
He ignored his racing pulse and maneuvered down the porch steps toward the storage container. At least he was out here, doing this, all by himself. A small victory, but he'd take it. There'd been a time just stepping outside the door was a battle he could barely win.
In the Pod, he deposited the box on a pile of others.
Outside, the roll of tires crunched on loose gravel. The car slowed and stopped.
He was stepping out of the Pod when he heard a scream.
The frumpy woman was on the sidewalk in front of the house next door to Nate's. A man was trying to wrest her bag from her shoulder, but she held on tight. A silver sedan, its door standing open, idled beside them. The man was easily eight inches taller than the woman, and muscular. He had a crew cut and wore a goatee. Though the woman had screamed, now they were both quiet as they tugged on the bag. The man landed a punch to the woman's shoulder, but she didn't let go.
Every instinct told Note to run into his house and lock the door, but that wasn't who he was, no matter how loudly fear pulsed in his ears. He forced his mouth to open. Forced a shout.
"Hey!"
The man spotted him, gave one last yank on the bag.
The woman, arms hooked in the straps, stumbled forward and landed on the sidewalk. Her head hit the cement with a thud.
The man gave up on the purse, jumped in his car, and squealed away.
Nate looked at the car as he ran to the woman's side. Newish Chevy, silver. No plate.
He reached the woman and helped her sit. Blood trickled from a wound on her forehead.
"Are you okay?"
She winced and squinted. "I...I think so."
He recognized the signs of a pounding head. He crouched beside her. "Don't try to move yet. Just take a deep breath. I'll call 9-1-1."
"Did you get a plate number?"
"There wasn't one."
"Don't bother. They won't care." While she calmed herself, he looked for other wounds. A little blood had dripped into her eyebrow. She had plain brown eyes and a pale complexion. Aside from the bleeding head wound, she seemed all right.
"You sure you don't want me to call the police?"
"They'll never find the guy."
She wasn't wrong. "Does anything else hurt? Your shoulder? Looked like he hit you."
She rubbed the shoulder. "Just bruised, I think."
"Can you stand?"
She started to nod, stopped herself with a wince, and said, "Yeah."
He helped her to her feet. "Do you live far?"
"Kind of."
He looked at his front door, then back at the woman. She seemed harmless, and she was injured. He had nothing to fear. "Why don't you come inside, and I'll help you clean up that cut."
He expected her to protest. What intelligent woman goes into a house with a man she's never met?
"Thanks."
Okay, then. A risk taker. He walked beside her to his door. "I've already packed a lot of my furniture."
She stepped inside and looked at the nearly empty living room. "I see that."
"There's a chair in the kitchen."
He led her into the kitchen and indicated the single chair, then pulled a paper towel off the roll and handed it to her. "You're bleeding."
She pressed it over the wound.
"Be right back."
In the bathroom, he located bandages and antibacterial gel, thankful he hadn't packed these things yet. Back in the kitchen, the woman was looking around at the cluttered space.
"Where you moving?" she asked.
"Home. New Hampshire."
"How come?"
"Time for a change. How's your head feel?"
She took the paper towel off and looked at the blood that had soaked it. Her skin paled even more. "I'm not good with blood."
"You're doing fine." He urged her hand back to the wound. "Let's get the bleeding stopped before we bandage it. You want me to get you a Tylenol or something."
"It doesn't hurt that bad." She smiled. "Thanks for not letting me bleed to death on the street."
He chuckled at her attempt at humor and leaned against the countertop. "Were you on your way somewhere? Is there someone I can call?"
Her pale skin turned slightly pink. "Actually, I was on my way to visit you."
He pushed away from the counter. Glanced toward the door and forced his gaze back at the woman. He was being paranoid, but he couldn't help it. Nor could he help the demanding tone in his voice when he said, "Why?"
"You're Walter Boyle, right?"
He crossed his arms, clenched his fists. Made himself take a deep breath. "It's Nate, but yeah. Walter's my middle name."
"But in the Times—"
"I'm Walter Boyle. Who are you?"
She smiled, but he didn't return it. "We've never met. A few years ago, you worked on a story with my sister. Marisa Vega. Do you remember?"
The name had him steadying himself against his counter again. Remember her? She'd sat beside him on the bus, given him the story of a lifetime, and then, after a few weeks in hiding and with a little help from him, she'd disappeared.
Marisa. Her name rose like a crocus blooming after a long cold winter, changing the gray tones of his world into a bright hopeful spring.
Sheesh. He sounded like a bad poet.
She'd been twenty, five years younger than he. About five feet, five inches, shiny brown hair cut to shoulder length, deep brown eyes he'd not allowed himself to dive into. She'd looked like a cross between a younger Eva Longoria and an angel with wings unsullied and eyes unspoiled.
Not that he'd noticed. It was all about the job. At least that's what he told himself as he'd listened to her story, trying desperately to focus on her words and not on her pink lips forming the sounds. He'd been planning their future when she'd dropped the bomb.
The word fiancé had caused his pencil to stall. The word murder had him dropping it on his lap. Her story had launched his career. And ended life as she'd known it. Over the course of the next few weeks, Marisa had told Nate the facts as she understood them in an effort to bring down the people responsible for her fiancé's death. And in doing so, she'd placed herself in the crosshairs of some very dangerous men. Then she'd escaped.
Marisa's image faded. The woman at the table was staring at him as she dabbed at the wound on her forehead. "I take it you remember her."
He hated to think what emotions had crossed his features during that sprint down memory lane.
"How could I forget her? Thanks to her, I got a job at the Times." He couldn't imagine that the Marisa in his memory and this woman were related. "Marisa is your sister?"
"Half-sister. She's seven years younger than me. We have the same mother." The woman's lopsided expression didn't do anything for her plain features. "Marisa looks like her father."
Had his thoughts been that obvious? "So what can I do for you, uh...?"
"Leslie. Leslie Johnson."
He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you."
She shook it, held on tight. "I have to find her."
He pulled out of her grasp. "I wish I could help."
"She left a clue with you."
He shook his head. "The feds combed through my files after she disappeared. She left nothing."
"Trust me, she left a clue with you, and I have to find it."
"There's nothing—"
"Not to be cliché," she said, "but it's a matter of life and death."
"Is that so? Whose life is on the line?"
She sat taller, swallowed hard. "Mine."
Nate studied the woman. "How so?"
Leslie took a shaky breath. "Last night, somebody broke into my house." Her voice trembled. "It was late, and I was in bed. There were two of them, a man and a woman. I'd been asleep. I woke up when the man grabbed my hair." She stopped and set the bloody paper towel on the table.
Nate handed her a fresh one. "Go on."
"He held a knife to my throat and told me not to move. He
said that I had seven days to return the money that my sister had stolen or I would die. I told him she didn't steal it." She wiped tears with her trembling fingers. "He laughed and said I'd better get the money or find out exactly what happened to it."
Leslie's tears fell faster now, and she lowered her gaze. She used the fresh paper towel to wipe her cheeks. "I don't know what else to do. I could hide, but my life is here. And anyway, I'm afraid they'll find me. But if I find Marisa, what if I put her in danger?"
Unfortunately, Nate knew exactly how Leslie felt. "Do you think you could identify them?"
She shook her head, winced, and rubbed her temples. "They wore masks."
"So how do you know the other person was a woman?"
Leslie blinked. "Her voice. She told the guy to hurry up. That's when they left."
He nodded slowly, thinking fast. "That guy who just tried to grab your purse. You think he was connected—?"
"No. No, that was just… I don't think that had anything to do with it. Just bad luck. I'm a magnet for bad luck."
"Why don't you think they're connected?"
"Why would they try to snatch my purse? They could have stolen that when they broke into my house."
A good point. "Did you call the police last night?"
"No! They told me not to, or they'd kill me."
But they wouldn't kill her, because Leslie was their only link to Marisa. And for some reason, Leslie believed Nate knew where her sister was.
If he wasn't careful, he'd get pulled into this.
Marisa's image filled his mind's eye. He shook it off. The last thing he needed was another drama. After what he'd been through, he knew he was meant to be on the sidelines of life, not in the thick of it. The reporter telling the world about the good and bad deeds of others. Always the byline, never the hero. That was his fate.
"They think Marisa stole the money?"
"They were sure of it."
That's what everyone had thought. Everyone but Nate.
"I'm sorry, Leslie, but I have no idea where your sister is."
"She left a clue with you. She told me she would."
Convenient Lies Page 33