by Irene Hannon
“I hope your prayers are answered soon. In the meantime . . . if you need to hear a friendly voice, I hope you’ll give me a call. Even though the situation with your mom has been resolved, I’d like to stay in touch.”
A faint tinge of pink crept over her cheeks. “A professional courtesy?”
“No.” He wanted there to be no doubt about his interest. “This is personal.”
She took a sip of soda, watching him over the rim of her glass. “That’s direct.”
“I’m too old to play games.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“I also believe in being up-front and honest—and I hope you’ll reciprocate.”
She squeezed the edge of a cookie, watching the crumbs fall. “It’s funny. When Matt Parker asked me out, Mom pushed me to accept. She thought I needed to move on, leave the past behind. But our dates were duds. I assumed it was because I wasn’t yet ready to dive back into romance.” She lifted her gaze and met his. “As I’m discovering, however, lack of interest in romance wasn’t the reason those dates flopped. It was lack of interest in the man.”
Not quite as direct as his expression of intent . . . but her message was clear: she was open to getting to know him better.
His mood took a decided uptick.
“That’s good news—for me.”
“A word of warning, though . . . the timing’s not great. With all that’s happened, I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.”
“I wasn’t planning to rush you.”
“I had a feeling you weren’t. You strike me as an insightful man.” She played with the pile of cookie crumbs. “You know what’s strange about this? I feel like I know you better than Matt, despite the fact that we only met a few weeks ago and you’ve never shared any personal information.”
“The latter issue can be rectified. What would you like to know?”
“Well . . . to be honest, I’m surprised a man with your many attributes isn’t married. Or is there a divorce in your past?”
“No marriage. No divorce. The truth is, I’ve never met a woman with partner-for-life potential—and short-term hook-ups don’t interest me.”
She took a dainty bite of her mangled cookie. “Tell me about your family.”
Uh-oh.
That wasn’t a topic he’d planned to tackle today.
Leaning forward, he took as long as he could picking up an Oreo for himself while he tried to figure out how best to respond.
“Is that a sore subject?”
Trish Bailey might have had a few memory lapses in recent weeks, but her perception and empathy were razor-sharp.
“You might say that.” He took a bite of the cookie and chewed.
It tasted like cardboard.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She set her glass down on the wrought-iron table, keeping a tight hold until she found a flat spot where it could sit without danger of tipping over and spilling its contents. “Given the shaky family situations of the majority of my students, you’d think I’d have learned to tread cautiously around that subject.”
Colin washed his cookie down with a swallow of soda. If he wanted to develop a relationship with this woman, he’d have to share his history eventually. Why not give her a topline tonight? Perhaps if he opened up a bit, she’d realize his intentions were serious.
“You aren’t prying. It’s a fair question when two people are getting to know each other. I just don’t talk about my family very often.” Like not at all, as Mac had pointed out the other day. “But I can give you the basics.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah. I do. You might as well hear about the skeletons in my closet now. No sense putting it off.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous. But not pleasant, either.” He set his glass down and breathed deeply of the perfumed air. Maybe the sweet scent would mitigate some of the bitter memories. “When I was nine, my six-year-old brother and I were playing in the backyard. I was supposed to be watching him, but I got engrossed in a comic book, he got bored—and the next thing I remember is hearing the screech of tires. He’d wandered out of the yard and was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”
“Oh.” The word was hushed, and shock flattened her features as she reached out and rested her fingers on the back of his hand, her touch warm. Comforting. Caring. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” His voice rasped, and he swallowed. A swig of soda would help his parched throat, but he didn’t want to break the contact she’d established. “The tragedy tore our family apart. My father blamed my mother. He said if she’d been paying more attention instead of drinking, it would never have happened. She countered that if he came home at a reasonable hour instead of working late at the office every day, she wouldn’t drink so much—and he would have been around, keeping tabs on us when the accident happened.”
“Did they . . . they didn’t blame you, did they?” The pressure of her fingers increased with the intensity of her tone.
“Not in words. But I knew in their hearts they did. And they were right. I should have been watching him.”
“No.” She shook her head, her deep blue irises glinting with passion. “A nine-year-old isn’t supposed to be his brother’s keeper. You were a child yourself.”
“I was old enough to take care of him in the backyard.” Trish might be willing to cut him some undeserved slack, but he couldn’t forgive himself as easily. “Anyway, an acrimonious divorce followed. We’d never been a model family. My mom always did drink too much, and my dad was a chronic workaholic. Both vices worsened after Neal was killed. For the rest of my growing-up years, I shuttled back and forth between the two of them. I couldn’t wait to go away to college and escape the constant tension.”
“Do you stay in touch now?” She retracted her hand to take a sip of her own soda.
He missed the warmth of her fingers at once.
“I talk to my mom every few months. She lives on the West Coast now, is on her third husband, has a myriad of health issues—and still drinks too much. Dad died five years ago of a heart attack.”
Trish let out a slow breath. “That’s almost as bad as some of the family situations I encounter at school.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard much worse.”
“Bad is bad—different degrees of badness, yes, but similar ramifications. What kept you on the straight and narrow?”
“Nothing . . . for a while. I was one angry, hurting kid. I did some stuff that could have gotten me into a lot of trouble if I’d been caught, beginning with petty vandalism. I was heading for worse when my life took a turn for the better.”
“What happened?”
“I met a foster kid in middle school by the name of Rick Jordan, who came from a much rougher background than I did. I tried to pull him into some of the stuff I was doing, but he wanted no part of it. Instead, he kept pushing me to go with him to his Sunday school. I resisted until he found the perfect bait—a weekend camping trip for the kids in his class. One of the volunteer chaperones was a cop from his church. He picked up on my attitude fast and talked a lot with me that weekend. And he stayed in touch afterward.”
“Is he the reason you became a cop?”
“One of them.” The rest he’d keep for another day. He’d already spilled far more about his background than he’d planned. “He retired and moved to Florida, but I call him a few times a year.”
“Sounds like God sent him your way when you most needed guidance. Without a strong support system, it’s tough to change direction once you start down the wrong path.”
He focused on her second comment, ignoring the first. “I had a strong support system in Rick and another friend too.” But he’d told her plenty for this session. The story of the Treehouse Gang could wait.
As if sensing he’d reached his download limit, Trish leaned back. “Thanks for sharing all that.”
“It seems only fair, since I already know a lot about you.”
&nb
sp; “That’s true. You even checked my references.”
“And all of them were complimentary.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She motioned to his empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”
He inspected it. When had he downed all that soda?
“No, thanks.” Much as he’d like to stay . . . perhaps spend the whole evening here among the roses with this appealing woman . . . he’d promised not to rush her. Better to take this in small increments at the beginning or he might scare her off. “I need to be going.”
Was that a flash of disappointment in her eyes or just a trick of the early evening sun?
Impossible to tell.
“I’ll walk you to the door.” She rose, leaving behind her half crumbled, nibbled-at Oreo.
He followed her past the plastic bag he’d delivered, moving to the threshold as she pulled the door wide and stepped aside.
“I know you’re swamped finishing up at school this week, but I’ll call you Friday or Saturday.”
“I’d like that.”
“If you need anything before then, you have my number. Feel free to use it.”
“I appreciate that.”
He hesitated. She seemed so alone, standing in the doorway of this big, empty house that was a constant reminder of all she’d lost—husband, father, mother . . . not to mention the future she’d planned. The temptation to hug her was strong. Too strong to resist. He leaned toward her and . . .
Stop right there, Flynn! You’ve laid the groundwork. Don’t overstep.
Check.
He jerked back. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
It took every ounce of his willpower to force himself to turn away. Stride down the winding stone path that led to the driveway. Get behind the wheel of his car. Back down the concrete to the street.
When he looked back, she was still standing in the doorway, a slender figure bathed in the warmth of the dipping sun.
Of its own accord, his foot eased back on the accelerator.
Man.
He’d never had this much difficulty leaving a woman behind.
Gripping the wheel, he pressed on the gas pedal and drove away.
But as soon as a semblance of normalcy returned to Trish’s life, getting to know her a whole lot better was going to be his top priority.
Because now that the prosecuting attorney had decided there was no need for further investigation of Eileen Coulter’s death, there should be smooth sailing ahead.
10
It was amazing what fifty bucks could buy you from a junkie desperate for a fix—especially when you dropped a hint there might be future jobs if he pulled off the first one.
Craig tugged his baseball cap lower, kept his chin down, and slipped out of the sleazy bar into the late-night darkness. Finding a suitable candidate hadn’t been difficult. Addicts weren’t hard to spot.
But this little adventure hadn’t been in his Monday night plans.
He picked up his pace as he strode through the seedy neighborhood, peering over his shoulder, skirting dark alleys. He’d chosen this area for its close proximity to Trish’s school, but that didn’t mean he had to like being here. At least in his bar-hopping getup, no one had paid much attention to him—and if someone had noticed him, he looked nothing like he did in real life.
Nevertheless, this strategy was a bit of a gamble. Despite the promise of more cash in the future, the guy might decide it wasn’t worth taking a chance after all and pocket the money.
Since the job could be done in less than a minute and there was minimal risk, however, Craig was as certain as he could be his mark would come through for him.
Truth be told, there was more risk on his end—though that too was negligible.
Still, the inconvenience was annoying. If Trish had handed over the reins of the foundation to Matt, none of this would have been necessary. Who could have predicted that an art teacher prone to zoning out during numbers discussions between Matt and her mother would turn out to be a financial whiz who would dig into 990s and surf the web for info on the charities?
He muttered an oath and kicked an empty beer can out of his path. Lucky he’d had the foresight during his weeks of surveillance to create the documents he needed for Providence House. Once she reviewed them, she ought to be satisfied.
But it would be much, much safer if she left the administration of the foundation in Matt’s hands. And if enough distractions—like the one he’d arranged tonight—kept her occupied, she might see the value of adding her trusted accountant as the third trustee, with full power to execute her wishes . . . and Craig’s.
Mostly Craig’s.
His lips curved up at the thought of all that cash wending its way toward the offshore account he’d established years ago. Trish might not be interested in Matt’s romantic overtures, but she liked him. It was just a matter of nudging her to the point where she accepted the logic of putting him in charge. She could continue to designate the charities, and he’d write the checks. Better yet, he’d convince her to authorize electronic transfer of funds. Falsifying the books to suggest her wishes had been carried out would be child’s play.
A car with rap music blaring through the windows decelerated as it approached him, and his momentary good humor vanished. Slowing cars were never a positive sign in a neighborhood like this.
He kept walking, but slipped his hand inside the pocket of his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the compact Beretta he’d tucked there.
The car and its occupants continued to roll past him—but he kept the gun in hand and picked up his pace.
After fifteen more minutes of fast and uneventful walking, the area began to improve. Fifteen minutes after that, he was sliding behind the wheel of the car he’d parked in a secure lot on the edge of downtown St. Louis.
Done.
Now he could make the long drive back to Matt’s place and get some shut-eye.
Except he wasn’t at all tired. His adrenaline was pinging like crazy from his walk on the wild side. In fact, he was pumped enough to pay Natalie another visit. Wouldn’t she be surprised if he showed up at her door at this hour?
No doubt she’d welcome him with a smile—at the very least.
As he accelerated west on I-44, he toyed with that temptation for a few minutes. Dismissed it. He needed to be smart, and seeing any woman on a regular basis would be stupid.
But if everything went well on Wednesday, come Saturday night he’d find himself another bar . . . and another woman.
“You about ready to call it a night?”
Trish looked over her shoulder at the school principal as she took another student drawing down from the wall of the classroom-lined hall.
“Close. I’d like to finish this first so all I have to do tomorrow is clean out the art room.”
“That’s fine. And great job on the exhibit. I had half a dozen parents tell me how much their son or daughter enjoyed your class.”
She gave the middle-aged man a melancholy smile. “That’s gratifying to hear. But I wish there’d been more intact families here tonight. I know some of the students were disappointed only one of their parents came.”
“Hey . . . I’m grateful for what we can get. I worry more about the kids who didn’t come at all because neither parent bothered to bring them.”
“I hear you.” Trish worked the tape off the edge of a drawing. “Are you waiting around for me to finish before you close up shop?”
“No. Chuck will do a final pass to turn off stray lights and lock doors. I was going to offer to walk you to your car.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m parked close to the door. I’ll ask Chuck to watch until I’m behind the wheel.”
“Are you sure? Chuck’s a fixture around here, but his arthritis is starting to impact his speed and agility.”
“I’ll be fine. We’ve never had any trouble on the property, and Chuck’s vocal chords are in excellent shape. That booming voice of his has kept more than a few unruly stude
nts in line.”
“No arguments there. I’ll be around for a while tomorrow too, tying up loose ends. See you then.”
After waving him off, Trish spent another fifteen minutes dismantling the exhibit she’d created on the walls. At last she packed up her bag, flipped off the lights in the art room, and went in search of the janitor.
She traipsed through the halls, peeked into classrooms, and called his name to no avail, pausing at last by the exit. Where could he be? The men’s room? Having a smoke outside? On a phone call?
Wherever he was, she was not taking another tour of the school. She’d been on her feet for fourteen hours straight; her next destination was home.
From the depths of her shoulder tote she extracted tape, a pad of paper, and pen. She scribbled a note to Chuck, ripped off the sheet, and stuck it to the door. He’d see it when he was ready to lock up and know she’d left.
Once outside, Trish inspected the schoolyard. The lighting was adequate, if not great, and her car was only fifty feet from the building. Other than the typical loud rap music coming from the open window of a nearby house and the revving of car engines in the distance, all was quiet on this Wednesday night. Matt’s warning to be careful in this area was sound, but she’d had no issues during the past nine months—and the lot was empty except for her car and Chuck’s.
Keys in hand, tote bag tucked against her side, she hurried toward her Civic, continuing to scan the schoolyard.
All clear.
But as she rounded the back of her car, everything changed.
Out of nowhere, a shadowy form leapt at her. Yanked her tote bag. Shoved her hard.
The attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment she was too shocked to do anything but clutch her bag and try to keep her balance.
The person jerked harder on the tote and shoved her again.
“Back off!” She yelled the command as loud as she could, inches from his face.
For an instant the guy—and it was a guy, no question about it despite the ski mask he was wearing—reared backward.