“You just don’t understand,” she repeated, irritated by his assessment. She wasn’t arrogant; she just knew what was best for the people she loved. He knew nothing about her or her family dynamics.
“Maybe I don’t understand,” he conceded. “But I will tell you this—you can’t keep up this pace. We don’t know when we’ll find your aunt, and the best thing you can do right now is go about your life as normal as possible.” Once again his hand covered hers, as if trying to comfort her.
“Roxy, I know the adrenaline that’s coursing through you that makes you need to move, to take action, to do something, anything within your power to solve this. I understand the heartache and fear that you’re experiencing right now, but eventually that adrenaline is going to pass and you’ll have to get back to your life no matter how hard it is.”
“I just want Aunt Liz found before the adrenaline crash,” she said with a touch of anger.
“I know, and I hope that happens.” He pulled his hand back from hers, and she was surprised to realize it was as if he removed any warmth that might have built up inside her.
He drained his coffee cup and stood, and she knew he was about to leave. She had the crazy impulse to wrap herself around his knees, keep him with her as she faced another long, dark night ahead.
You don’t need anyone, a little voice whispered inside her head. You especially don’t need Steve Kincaid to make you feel warm and fuzzy. You don’t do warm and fuzzy.
She got to her feet, as well, fighting against a new well of tears that threatened to escape. “I’ll walk you down,” she said, appalled that her voice was filled with the tears she refused to allow release.
They were silent as they descended to the back door. It was only then he turned and looked at her, his blue eyes glowing almost electric in the safety lights that dimly lit the kitchen.
“No more stakeouts,” he said. “Promise me.”
She sighed. “I promise,” she said reluctantly.
“I’ll let you know when we know something.” He studied her for a long moment and then pulled his little notepad and pen from his pocket. He scribbled something down and then tore off the piece of paper and handed it to her. “It’s my personal phone number that rings through on my cell phone,” he explained. “I always answer. There are only a few important people who have that number.”
She eyed the paper dubiously. He’d made it fairly clear that so far she’d been a pain in his behind. The number would probably ring in some bar or an old pay phone still standing on some highway on an old mountain road.
He released a low laugh, as if he’d read her thoughts. He motioned toward the landline on a table nearby. “Go ahead—call it.”
She did exactly that and felt slightly embarrassed when the phone in his pocket rang. She hung up and moved closer to where he stood by the door.
He raised a hand and placed it on her cheek. “Don’t you trust anyone?”
Her heart stopped in her chest at the warmth of his hand on her cheek. “Just my aunt, my sisters and myself,” she said softly.
“Then we’re going to have to see what we can do to change that.” He dropped his hand, turned on his heels and went out the door.
She closed and locked the door behind him, her face burning from his touch. For just a moment as he’d stood so close, as his hand had been so gentle against her skin, she’d wanted to lean into him and feel his arms embrace her.
For just a moment she’d felt as if she needed him, and that scared her almost as much as her aunt’s vanishing.
* * *
No matter how old he got, Steve always felt a sense of homecoming when he entered the space where his mother lived, and Sunday afternoon was no different. Even though this condo was not the place where he had grown up, in the past seven months it had begun to feel like home to him.
Maybe it was because there was nothing but silence and grief in his own house, he thought as he entered the condo, carrying with him the cake that Roxy had given him the day before.
“Mom?” he called.
“In the kitchen,” she replied.
“Mmm, something smells good,” he said. He entered the kitchen to see his blond-haired, youthful-looking mother pulling a browned turkey breast from the oven.
“Turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and a cranberry salad,” she said as she placed the baking pan on the counter and then beamed at him. “I felt like Thanksgiving in April, and you’re right on time for a change.”
“I’m always on time,” he protested.
“No, you aren’t. You’re usually late, but I always forgive you because I love you.”
He grinned. “I’m not only on time, but I also come bearing dessert.”
“Where did that come from?”
“It was part of a potential crime scene,” he told her, delighted when his mother’s blue eyes widened and her dainty nose wrinkled in distaste.
He laughed and sat down at the table, then proceeded to explain to her about his latest case and how he’d been spending his time.
His mother, Rebecca, was not only a good listener; she was a good judge of people, and although she’d only had a high school education, she was one of the wisest people Steve had ever known.
By the time he’d finished filling her in on the missing Liz Marcoli and how he’d come to possess the cake he’d brought, she had the food on the table.
“The Dollhouse? I’ve driven by it a hundred times but have never gone inside. It looks quite charming from the outside.”
“The food is great. Jimmy, Frank and I eat breakfast there about three mornings a week.”
“Tell me more about this Roxy.”
He couldn’t tell his mother about how badly he’d wanted to hold Roxy last night or confess how much he’d wanted to kiss her when they’d stood at the back door.
“She’s strong and unpredictable, emotional and has a bit of a temper,” he replied.
“Sounds like the exact kind of woman you should stay away from,” Rebecca said with a lift of one of her perfectly arched brows.
Steve knew it was a warning for him not to repeat any past mistakes. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not about to get involved with Roxy or any woman.”
“Funny, that’s not what I’ve heard about my son.” Rebecca stabbed a piece of turkey with her fork, and Steve braced himself for what was about to come.
“And what have you heard?” he asked, even though he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know.
“I’ve heard that you’re a real Romeo and you have a revolving door policy with women. That you are an outrageous flirt and leave a string of broken hearts behind you.”
Steve laughed. “The gossipmongers have been busy. Unfortunately, my reputation far exceeds the truth of my romantic life.”
“Then what is the truth about your romantic life?”
He sighed, wondering how the conversation had become so uncomfortable. “I flirt and occasionally take a woman out to dinner, but that’s about it. That’s all it will ever be.”
“I certainly don’t want you to be the kind of man you’re rumored to be, but at some point you do need to move on, Steve,” his mother said gently. “I want to see you happily married and with children to parent.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he said firmly. “I can’t have a future until I find my past.”
“And there’s been no word? No leads for you to follow?”
“Nothing. I got a call from Tanner Cage earlier today, and he basically told me that he felt bad taking my money considering he hadn’t come up with any results.” Tanner Cage was the private investigator Steve had hired nine months ago.
Steve tried to shove away the hollowness in his heart. “So tell me what you’ve been up to all week,” he said. He stared his mother in the eyes, daring
her to continue to discuss the current topic of conversation.
She took the hint and they finished the meal pleasantly, with his mother talking about the meeting of her Red Hat group, the latest gossip making the rounds in town and a particular purse she’d like for her upcoming birthday.
As she chattered, Steve thought of all the things he hadn’t told his mother about Roxy. He hadn’t mentioned that she had a good sense of humor or that she was loyal to a fault. He hadn’t told her that Roxy’s hair was curls of black silk or that her expressive eyes displayed every emotion she felt. Not that any of that mattered.
It didn’t make a difference if his mother liked Roxy or not because Steve knew that Roxy would never have a place in his life. No woman would.
He was stuck in a place of pain that he hid with a glib, slick shell to protect himself. He would never allow any woman to pierce through that shell, not even hot Foxy Roxy.
They lingered over the dessert and coffee, talking about memories of Steve’s father, the weather and Steve’s work.
“Why would a woman who was dating a man for a year keep it a secret from the women she considered her daughters?” he asked, hoping his mother might have a slant he hadn’t considered.
Rebecca frowned thoughtfully. “I can think of two reasons right off the top of my head,” she replied. “The first might be because there’s something about the man she thinks her daughters wouldn’t like or wouldn’t approve of.”
Steve nodded. “And the second idea?”
“Maybe the relationship just wasn’t serious enough for her to mention to her family.”
“According to her friend, they were seriously dating,” Steve said.
Rebecca grinned. “According to my neighbors, my son is the local Lothario.”
“Point taken,” he said easily and then frowned. “I just hope Liz Marcoli turns up alive and well, and the sooner the better.”
“She’s been gone since Friday morning and nobody has heard anything from her.” Rebecca’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “On the surface, it doesn’t look good.”
“I know.” He released a deep sigh and felt the need to head into the station and do something, anything that might help find the missing woman. “I’m going to head into work and see if anything has popped on the case since last night.”
He got up from the table, and his mother did the same. “You know Sundays are supposed to be your day off,” she chided as she walked him to the door.
“There’s nothing and nobody waiting for me at home. I’ve got no hobbies. My work is what keeps me sane.”
“I know, and I just wish—”
Steve kissed her gently on the forehead. “I know, Mom. So do I.” With a wave of his hand, he stepped out into the beautiful spring late afternoon.
As he drove from his mother’s house to the police station, he tried to put their conversation out of his head. Since his father’s death, his mother had subtly pushed harder for Steve to find a nice woman and settle down.
He knew she wanted grandchildren to spoil and to fill her home with giggles and fun. She wanted a daughter-in-law who she could lunch with, enjoy spending time with, but no matter how much Steve wanted to please his mother, he couldn’t do what she wanted.
It didn’t take him long at the station to find out that nothing was new on Liz’s case. He’d assigned several uniforms to check with shopkeepers and people on the streets to ask if anyone had seen Liz at any point on Friday morning. Unfortunately, nobody had.
Whatever had happened to her had most likely happened before she left her house on Friday morning. Was it criminal, or was it some sort of a crazy misunderstanding?
He hoped Roxy would follow his suggestion that they get posters up. It was the best way for somebody whom they had yet to contact to come forward with information that might help.
The sun was just beginning to sink as he headed home. Home was a three-bedroom cabin built into the mountain. At one time it had been his dream house. He’d overseen every detail of the building, from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room that overlooked the woods and a small stream in the back, to the handmade wooden railings that led up to the three bedrooms.
When he got to the cabin, the first thing he did was snag a beer from the fridge, and then he climbed the stairs to the master suite. The bedroom was large, with French doors that led out to an intimate deck. The larger deck was below, just outside a door in the kitchen.
He opened the French doors, stepped outside and sank down in one of the two lounge chairs. This was the best time of the day to be out on the deck, when the trees took on the golden hue of twilight and shadows began to chase around their bases.
When he’d built this place six years ago he’d never envisioned he’d be here all alone, and for a while he hadn’t been.
He popped the top of his beer and took a long drink, trying to shove memories of the past away. He sipped his beer, breathing in the sweet, fresh mountain air and vowed that tonight he would not go into the bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He’d enjoy the view, finish his beer and then go to bed early and hit the case of the missing Liz hard in the morning. But he would not go into that bedroom that was filled with broken dreams, crushing heartbreak and a rage that knew no bounds.
He froze as he saw a doe and her fawn in the woods, moving with breathtaking grace as they approached the small stream. Unexpectedly a thick, painful emotion pressed against his chest.
Even after the doe and fawn had disappeared from sight, the emotion remained. He finished his beer, threw the bottle in the trash and went back into his bedroom.
He went into the adjoining bathroom, stripped off his clothes and got beneath a hot shower. The bathroom not only had a shower, but also a jetted tub big enough for two people to enjoy at the same time.
As the steamy needles of water played across his shoulders, he tried not to think about how soft Roxy’s cheek had been to the touch.
Her breakdown in the kitchen had shocked him, as had the glimpse he’d gotten into her early childhood. He couldn’t imagine the kind of horrors she’d endured before landing at Liz’s house.
Was it any wonder she was emotional? Had a temper? Felt the need to control everything and everyone around her? He felt as if she’d given him a glimpse of the woman beneath the fresh mouth and hard edge.
He had a feeling that if she dropped her defenses he might like her, but he also had a feeling that she never allowed anyone too close.
Which was just fine with him, he reminded himself as he shut off the water. He had no space in his heart for anyone.
He dried off, pulled on a pair of boxers and then headed for the king-size bed. He was just about to climb beneath the sheet when he realized he couldn’t do it. He had to make his nightly pilgrimage to the room that held both sweet memories and a yawning grief.
His feet began to drag as he left his bedroom and approached the closed door at the end of the hallway, his heart thudding the slow rhythm of dread. The doorknob felt cold beneath his hand as he grabbed it and turned.
The door opened to a bedroom, with a twin bed covered in a navy spread with dancing and rearing horses in black and brown and white. A bookcase against the wall held storybooks and a collection of hand-sized plastic horses in a variety of poses. On the nightstand a lamp was turned on; the base was a cowboy boot in black and gold.
Steve changed the lightbulb in that lamp once a week to ensure that the light never stopped burning. Like a candle in a window, it awaited the return of the beloved person who belonged there.
He sank down on the bed and grabbed the stuffed horse that had been a favorite snuggle buddy for the first five years of Tommy’s life.
Tommy. Steve’s heart cried out as he thought of the towheaded little boy who had loved all things horses and chocolate ice cream with raspberry
sprinkles and pretending to be a cowboy.
How many times had Tommy crawled up on Steve’s back, punching Steve’s ribs with his small heels as he cried, “Giddy-up, Daddy”? And like a dutiful horse, Steve had crawled around the house as Tommy’s giggles had ridden the air until they’d both collapsed.
It had been two years since Steve had seen him. Two long, agonizing years. Once a year Steve went out and bought clothes in a larger size, so the closet would hold the apparel he assumed would fit a growing boy—so the clothes would be ready when Tommy finally came home.
The room held its breath as Steve had done for the past two years, ever since the day that his former girlfriend, Tommy’s mother, had kidnapped him and disappeared.
He pulled the stuffed horse up to his nose, hoping for a lingering scent of the little boy he’d loved more than anything or anyone else on the face of the earth.
He finally placed the stuffed horse back on the pillow and stood. This was madness, this nightly torture he forced himself to endure.
How could he hope to find Liz Marcoli when in the past two years, with the help of a seasoned and intelligent private investigator and all the resources he had at his fingertips, he couldn’t even find his own son?
Chapter 7
Roxy had taken Steve’s advice and spent part of Sunday with her sisters at Sheri’s house. They’d eaten dinner together and then had worked on a mock-up of a poster that Marlene would take to the printers the next day and have a hundred copies made.
Roxy had forced herself to stay upbeat, indicating more than once that she believed their aunt had gone off on some crazy romantic mini-vacation with the mysterious Edward Cardell.
It had taken very little persuasion for Marlene and Sheri to embrace the idea, which was far less frightening than any other possibility.
Still, the posters were made with the unspoken knowledge that if Liz wasn’t with Edward, then they’d need everyone in town helping them to find her or coming forward with some kind of information that would aid the investigation.
Cold Case, Hot Accomplice Page 8