“Didn’t you?”
“It was a just-in-case deal. Well, and for something to do until I thought you were settled.”
“In case I chickened out, you mean. Which I did.”
His smile took on a wry twist. “You lasted quite a while. I finished here before going back to the old house, and was almost asleep when your visitor showed up.”
“You don’t have to be kind,” she said, glancing at him and then away again.
“I’m not.” He straightened. “But we should get some sleep. Will you be okay in here now?”
She shrugged but didn’t look too happy. She also didn’t meet his eyes.
“Amanda?”
“Mandy,” she said in low-voiced correction.
“What?”
She cleared her throat. “My name is Mandy. Only Bruce called me Amanda, and I—I’d as soon not be that person anymore.”
“You used the past tense for him. Would that be because you know he won’t be around to call you anything?”
She lifted her chin. “It means I won’t be living with him.”
The closed-in expression on her face said she didn’t want to talk about it. It could be he was getting lax, Lance thought. He knew he should bear down on what she’d said until she explained it, but couldn’t find the heart.
No matter. The way things were going, they’d have time and more to talk. Besides, it seemed unlikely a woman who worried over cats and elderly women was a murderess. And if he was wrong, he didn’t much want to know it right now.
Jerking a thumb toward the back of the small RV, he said, “You can have the big bed.”
“This is fine,” she answered, patting the sheet-covered cushions where she sat.
“The other is softer.”
“It’s also longer. This one is too short for you unless you curl up like a pretzel. And if you think I’ll be too near the doors, rest easy. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’ll sleep better here where I can see out. That’s if I sleep at all.”
Her features were clear, her blue eyes steady. Lance didn’t really trust her, yet could see no reason to disbelieve her. Beyond that, there weren’t many places she could go that weren’t more dangerous than where she was now.
“Fine,” he said, swinging away from her, heading toward the dim rear bedroom. “Night, Mandy.”
It was a moment before she replied, and then he almost missed it with the rustling of sheets as she lay down.
“Goodnight, Lancelot,” she whispered.
Chapter 6
Mandy awoke in stages, gradually becoming aware of the unusual quiet broken only by birdsong and the sighing of trees. The generator was off, and so was the RV’s air conditioning. Though it wasn’t yet hot inside, neither was it as cool as it had been earlier.
The mattress under her wasn’t the softest she’d ever slept on, either. She stretched, easing the stiffness out of her muscles, before opening her eyes.
She went perfectly still.
She’d slept without moving for most of the night. When was the last time that had happened? Why had it happened? The only thing she could think was that she’d felt safe for the first time in years.
Turning her head, she looked toward the rear bedroom. The sheet was thrown back, the bed empty. It was easy to see she was alone, though she thought she could hear Lance’s voice coming from outside.
Swinging her legs off the makeshift bed, she stood and took the two steps that would let her look through the top glass section of the access door.
He was walking back and forth under the trees. One hand was in the pocket of the jeans he must have borrowed from Trey’s closet, while the other held a cell phone to his ear. He frowned as he spoke, and a commanding tone rang in his voice.
He was reporting to the sheriff on their location; he must be. She didn’t much care for the idea; it seemed far safer if no one knew it.
What else was he doing?
Had she said anything last night that might have aroused his suspicions? Well, more than they were already?
She lifted a hand to her face, rubbing it across her eyes. For a few minutes the night before, she’d almost forgotten he was a cop. That wasn’t good, not good at all. She couldn’t risk counting on him, even if he had hustled her out of danger. She’d learned long ago that the only person she could really count on was herself.
It was possible she and the deputy should come to a parting of the ways, that she might be better off without his so-called protection. There were a couple of obstacles, however. First, her money and identification had been left behind. Then the T-shirt she was wearing for a dress might make her a bit conspicuous, even if she did have on her bikini for underwear.
Outside, Lance stopped talking and stared down at his cell phone screen. He flicked it with his thumb, scrolling at high speed. Whatever he was reading wasn’t making him happy; he appeared to be swearing as he read.
Seconds later, he turned toward the RV. His long strides held hard purpose, though his attention was still on the phone in his hand.
The door of the tiny bathroom was directly behind Mandy. She whisked inside and reached to turn on the water in the vanity sink. Whatever Lance Benedict might have to say to her now, she was in no hurry to hear it.
It was the smell of bacon frying that enticed her from her hiding place some minutes later. She emerged slowly, uncertain what she might have to face.
The brief smile Lance gave her, along with a quick up and down glance, brought heat to her face. It wasn’t fair that he could disconcert her so easily, or that he could act so normal when she’d feared something different.
Maybe it was just as well she’d used her time in the bathroom to wash her face, brush her teeth, comb the tangles out of her hair and rinse out her bikini and hang it to dry. The delay seemed to have given him time to get over whatever had upset him.
“Hungry?” he asked, turning back to his pan and the bacon strips he was turning with a fork.
She opened her mouth to deny it, but realized it would be a lie. “Starving.”
“Fried eggs or scrambled?”
“Whatever is easier.” She waited a second. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You can set the table, if you don’t mind.” He nodded toward where he’d returned her sleeping place to its normal use.
A task to occupy her was infinitely preferable to standing around trying to think of something to say. She took down foam plates and plastic utensils and napkins, and set them out. The sheets and pillow she’d used during the night were stacked on the bench opposite the table. She picked them up and took them toward the bedroom, skimming past Lance to reach it.
Leaving the bedding on the foot of the bed, she eased past him again. As she threaded that tight space, her breasts under the thin T-shirt she wore brushed across his back. She felt him flinch, heard his sudden, indrawn breath.
“Sorry,” she said, moving on a couple of steps and sitting down at the table.
“Don’t be.” His voice was rough as he answered.
In fact, she wasn’t. The contact might not have been deliberate, but it had been instructive. Being near her affected him. She’d thought so the day before; now she knew.
Of course, she had not expected her nipples to contract into hard points, raking his corded back muscles like nail heads. She hadn’t figured on the hitch in her own breathing, either. Leaning forward so the T-shirt material fell away from her chest, she willed her pulse to slow and composure to return before she had to face him again.
“Milk or orange juice?”
He spoke as he moved toward her there at the table, his voice even, neutral. The deep timbre of it seemed to vibrate in her chest cavity. She whipped her head up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, but then forced a smile.
“Orange juice, please.”
He set a plastic cup in front of her, and then filled one for himself. Putting the juice box on the table, he slid a platter of bacon and scrambled eggs onto the table corner w
here he could reach it from the extra bench seat.
Mandy had scooted over on her bench at the table, but was glad she wouldn’t have to share the crowded space. Having him too near was more than she wanted or needed at the moment.
“Dig in before it gets cold,” he told her.
Turning away, he stepped into the small bath. No sound came from it for long seconds, then Mandy heard the water running in the little vanity sink, as if he might be washing his hands. When he appeared again, he didn’t look her way, but only took his place and picked up his fork.
They ate without speaking, though Mandy was no longer hungry. The eggs were fine, perfectly cooked, and the bacon crisp without being too hard. There was even toast. She cleared her plate mechanically, washing it all down with the orange juice.
Lance finished his food with a few swift bites, wiped his mouth, and then tossed the crumpled paper napkin into his plate. He sat back then, his long legs stretched out across the narrow walkway so she was effectively trapped behind the table.
She glanced at him, then away again. She could feel the heat rising in her face under his steady regard.
“I believe,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “that it’s time you leveled with me.”
It was impossible to meet the dark brown of his eyes. She drank the last of her juice before she answered. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Let me be clear, then. You’re no society girl who snagged a husband rich enough to keep you in designer clothes and diamonds. You’ve been in and out of trouble since you ran away from the last of several foster families when you were fourteen. You hung with a street gang, were arrested twice, and spent four years in the juvenile justice system the second time around. Bruce Caret picked you up out of the gutter and—”
“Now wait a minute,” she exclaimed, shoving her plate back so hard it almost flew over the table edge. “I made a few mistakes when I was young and on my own. That was years ago, and the record is supposed to be sealed.”
He watched her without expression. “You don’t deny it?”
“No, but still—”
“Your record may not be public, but it’s open to proper legal inquiry.”
“That can’t be right. Bruce fixed it.”
“He what?” He stared at her with a frown between his eyes.
“He told me he filed a motion to fix it,” she repeated, then went on more slowly. “Because I was a minor when arrested and it had been over five years, so he said, the record could be wiped clean. It would be—I can’t think of the word.”
“Expunged,” Lance supplied.
“That’s it. Everything would be expunged. It would be as if it never happened.”
“No legal action of that kind is in the file, probably because he told you wrong. The records can only be expunged five years after your release, not after the arrest. Everything is still there.”
Everything is still there…
She should have been shocked. Somehow, she couldn’t summon the energy. What she felt was sick depression. Bruce had either lied in hope of earning her gratitude or made a mistake and been too conceited to tell her. That made it one more in a long line of betrayals. Yet it was also a sign of the years of her life, years wasted on a man who promised the moon and handed her a rock.
Or no, that wasn’t precisely true. Bruce had kept his most important promise, which was seeing to it Clare had excellent care and every possible comfort for as long as she lived. The trouble was, that hadn’t been long. No, not long at all.
Mandy sat back in her seat, looking down at her nails that hadn’t seen a manicure in weeks. She picked at a hangnail. “If you know about my record already, what is it you want me to tell you?”
“The vandalism charge, what was that about?”
“Broken windows in a school, because a boy in the gang I ran with was expelled for no good reason. When we were caught, he told the judge I just was hanging with him and his friends, never picked up a rock. I got off with a reprimand.”
Lance inclined his head. “And the more serious one, the shoplifting? What did you take, jewelry, electronics, fancy running shoes?”
“A box of Twinkies,” she said with a sardonic smile as she named the small, individually wrapped cakes. “A red hoodie, bottle of cologne, couple of bags of corn chips.”
“And that’s all?”
“The manager at the discount store was hardnosed, especially after I bit him.”
“You bit him.” Lance’s voice was grim.
“He called it assault, and claimed I was lying when I told the cops he was trying to make me go down on him at the time.”
“Were you?”
She laughed in sharp derision. “They didn’t believe me, either. The guy was married with two kids and a dog, as if that made a difference.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.” His gaze rested an instant on her chest, but shifted away immediately.
“But you wonder, don’t you?” she asked. “You’re just like the rest of them, ready to give a man with a job and family the benefit of the doubt over the word of a teenage girl dressed in thrift store leavings and with no known address.”
“Your file doesn’t mention family.”
“It wouldn’t.” She glanced away out the half glass in the door, though she couldn’t have said what lay outside.
His face hardened and he folded his arms over his chest, an obvious sign he was going nowhere until he had answers. Mandy watched him out of the corners of her eyes until she could take the silence no longer.
“The man who fathered me skipped out before I was born,” she said with a sigh. “If I had grandparents or aunts and uncles, I never knew them. My mom worked as a cocktail waitress whenever she could get a job, or hold one long enough to draw a paycheck. She was arrested in a drug bust when I was ten.”
“Ten.”
She shrugged. “Almost.”
“Young,” he said. A frown came and went across his face. “I suppose you were sent to Family Services?”
“Isn’t that in the record you’re so proud of finding?”
“I haven’t read it all. Tell me.”
“Fine, yeah. We were taken into custody, or whatever you call it, the same night. They told us—told me my mom was released after a couple of days, but died of a drug overdose before she could arrange to have—have me brought back to the apartment.” She jerked a shoulder. “That might have been the way it happened or might not. Who knows?”
If he noticed her slip of the tongue, he gave no sign of it. “If that’s what they said happened to her, I expect it’s the truth.”
“Maybe. All I know is that I never saw her again.”
“You don’t have much respect for authority, do you?”
“I’ve not had much reason.” Her voice was stone cold, despite all she could do.
“Didn’t Family Services look after you, maybe put you with a foster family?”
They’d done that all right, but nobody had wanted Clare. Mandy went back to picking at her cuticle. “It didn’t work out.”
“You ran away,” he offered when she added nothing more to that bald fact.
“You could say that.”
“You ran away several times.”
“I had things to do.”
She’d kept trying to find Clare. Now and then a social worker would understand, but mostly they didn’t. They only shifted her to another family when the one before lost patience.
“The last time you skipped, you got caught up in a gang. You were what—fourteen or fifteen by then?”
He was relentless, but then Mandy expected nothing less from a cop. “Barely fourteen, but I looked older.”
“That young—and living on the streets. You’re lucky to be alive.”
She went back to picking at her cuticle. It had been the gang, more a group of misfits than delinquents into crime, that helped her to find Clare at last. Her sister had been placed in an institution where people didn
’t seem to understand there was nothing wrong with her except she lived in her own make-believe world. Over the next few months, Mandy had managed to figure out a way to see her, to bring her a few things to make her smile. She’d been planning a way to get Clare out of that place when she was arrested.
“Oh, it was just a few months, and I wasn’t exactly homeless,” she said with a mock careless shrug. “There was a broken-down Plymouth in a woman’s storage shed where three or four of us crashed. Old Lady Dawson didn’t care. She fed us when she had something to spare.”
“Good hearted of her.”
“Not completely. The neighborhood wasn’t exactly safe and she couldn’t afford to move. We kept her from being mugged when she left her house.”
If he was surprised, he hid it well. “She fed you, but you still lifted a box of Twinkies and some chips.”
Twinkies and the rest had been Clare’s favorites. She’d liked the color red, too, and jackets with hoods because she could hide inside them. Not that Mandy thought the man across from her would care. “We were always hungry, though the old lady did her best. Granny Chauvin reminds me of her.”
“How’s that?”
“Always trying to make people feel better, even if it was only with food.”
He met her eyes for long moments, his own searching and slightly puzzled. He lowered his gaze to the floor then. Almost against his will, or so it seemed, he allowed it to shift from the wood pattern of the linoleum to her bare legs, and then up them to the length of thigh exposed where the hem of her T-shirt rode up.
She tugged on the shirt hem, tucking it under her, while hot discomfort crept over her.
Abruptly, he glanced away, unfolded his arms and sat up straighter. “I suppose that’s where you learned to sleep alone and with one eye open, in that abandoned Plymouth.”
“You could say that.” There’d also been a foster brother who had to be taught the meaning of a closed door at night, but that had been solved with a softball in a sock. No need to go into it now.
“At what point did Bruce Caret enter the picture?”
She looked at the floor. “He was a lawyer, as I’m sure you know. We met while he was representing another client after at the court hearing where I was arraigned. He took my case on pro bono.”
Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) Page 6