Marissa walked to the two cushion-covered redwood patio loungers and sat down on one. “Stop seeing criminals around every corner and pull up a chair,” she said, patting the seat of the lounger next to hers. She felt a delicious combination of exhaustion and exhilaration. Their evening had been productive, and she was pleased and excited with what they’d come up with. Dylan, for all his tardiness and excuses, proved to be both a tireless and a surprisingly enthusiastic worker. His hard work and input had taken the sting out of the fact that he’d kept her waiting so long. “We put in a good night’s work. Drink your wine, and just enjoy this cool night for a while.”
“Good idea,” he mumbled, looking down at the bottle and the glass in his hand. He emptied his glass again and refilled it, lowering his tired body onto the chair next to hers. Maybe this wasn’t exactly masochistic, but it was getting awfully close. After all, what more delicious a torture could there be than to be sitting alone in the darkness with her, and not be able to touch her?
The late night was quiet, with only the low song of crickets disturbing the silence. The adjacent condominiums were dark, Marissa’s neighbors having gone to bed long before this, and they sat in darkness—quietly relaxing and winding down.
“We got a lot done tonight,” she murmured, staring up at the moon and sipping at her wine.
“Yeah,” he mumbled with a nod, noticing it took a little more time to negotiate the route of his glass to his mouth. “Good work, a lot of good work.”
“I was concerned we wouldn’t have anything ready by the time the committee met again, but now…” She stopped just long enough to take another sip from her glass. “Now I think we’ll really have something concrete to show them.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, closing his eyes and feeling the chair begin to gently sway beneath him.
They drifted back into silence, and Marissa gradually finished her glass of wine. She reached for the bottle on the table beside her. “Would you like more?”
“Oh, oh,” Dylan said with a silly giggle that was out of character for him. “I’m afraid I’ve already had some more.” He handed her the empty bottle. “All of it, actually.”
“Oh, my,” Marissa murmured, hearing the slur to his words. She sat up, regarding him carefully in the darkness. “Sheriff James, I do believe you’re tipsy.”
He heard himself give that silly giggle again. “I believe the technical term, Miss Wakefield, is ‘under the influence.’”
“I believe the technical term, Sheriff James, is potted,” she corrected him, standing up and thinking for a minute, trying to decide exactly what to do. “Come on, let’s get you inside. You need some coffee.”
“Oh, no, not coffee,” he moaned, allowing her to pull him to his feet and lead him back into the house. “I can’t drink any more coffee.”
“Yes, you can,” she said in a firm voice. “And you will—lots of it.” She pushed him down on the sofa, taking the empty wine bottle and glass from him. With that goofy, kidlike grin on his face, and his hair falling carelessly over his forehead, he looked years younger—like the young high school quarterback she’d fallen in love with. “Now, stay put, and try not to get into trouble. I’ll be right back.”
“Marissa,” he murmured, grabbing her hand before she could walk away. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Oh, my heavens,” Marissa said with a sigh, looking down into his dazed expression and seeing Josh’s face in his.
“I think about you all the time, all the time,” he said, tugging on her arms, pulling her closer. “Do you ever think about me?”
“Dylan,” Marissa protested, trying to pull her hand free. It was obvious he didn’t know what he was saying, but it embarrassed her, anyway.
“Do you ever think about how it used to be with us?” he murmured. He kept pulling on her arms until she had bent close, bringing her face level with his. “When we were together, when we made love?”
“Dylan, now stop this,” she said sternly, but her heart had leapt to her throat.
“Because I do—all the time,” he whispered. “All the time.”
“Dylan,” she said again, trying to ignore the rush of heat sweeping through her. “Just stop.”
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his hand reaching up and caressing her cheek. “So beautiful.”
“L-let go,” she stammered.
“But I don’t want to let go. I want to look at you,” he said dizzily. “So beautiful. So beautiful. You were always the beautiful one—more beautiful than your sister.”
Marissa felt her whole system react to the rush of memories. In one simple sentence, he’d managed to strike at the very heart of what had been wrong between them—what would always be wrong between them. She wasn’t the woman he’d wanted, she wasn’t the right twin. For him she would forever be the second string, the one who would never be good enough.
She snatched her hand away. “I’ll get the coffee.”
She ran into the kitchen, her hands trembling and her heart beating frantically in her chest. He was drunk and was talking out of his head. Besides, it was all water under the bridge, old news. She had a new life now, a life she’d always wanted with her son, and she couldn’t let herself start looking back.
In a sort of numb haze, she went about the job of brewing the coffee. When it was finished, she grabbed a coffee mug and the carafe, and headed back for the living room. The state he was in, it would no doubt take the entire pot to sober him up.
“Okay,” she said brightly, forcing back the feelings of discomfort. All that was important right now was getting him out of there. “Coffee’s ready. Sit up and let me pour you a nice, hot—”
She stopped abruptly, the hot coffee nearly spilling from the carafe.
“Oh, no,” she groaned when she saw Dylan sprawled out across the sofa sound asleep. “No, no, no, no.” She rushed around the sofa, setting the coffee and the mug on the cluttered table. “Dylan, wake up,” she said, bending down and giving his shoulder a little shake. “Wake up. Time for coffee.”
But there was no response from him.
“Hey, Sheriff, now come on,” she insisted in a louder voice this time, giving his shoulder another jostle. “Time to go get the bad guys. Come on, Dylan. Wake up.”
But there was still no response—not a grunt, a groan or a snore.
“Dylan,” she said again, growing a little desperate. She lowered herself onto the cushion beside him, squeezing down between him and the edge. “Come on, now. You have to wake up, you have to get out of here.”
She stared down at him, lifting one of his hands from his chest. When she let it go, it dropped lifelessly back onto his chest.
“Dylan?” she repeated, concern creeping into her voice. On impulse, she pressed her ear to his chest, hearing the slow, steady cadence of his heart.
“Well, at least you’re not dead,” she muttered, sitting back up. What was she going to do?
In one last desperate effort, she put her hands on his shoulders and gave him one more good shake. But it was hopeless. He was out cold.
She stared down at him and couldn’t help noticing how vulnerable and defenseless he looked—and so very handsome. She reached up, pushing his hair back from his eyes, thinking how soft it felt against her fingers.
“Marissa,” he murmured sleepily.
Marissa yanked her hand away, startled and embarrassed. But it was obvious that he was still deeply asleep.
He looked so much like Josh lying there, with his face motionless and relaxed—so much like the son he didn’t know he had. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Father and son were getting to know each other, anyway. They were forming a loose sort of friendship despite the circumstances that had brought them together.
“Marissa.”
He mumbled her name again, but she didn’t jump this time. Was he thinking of her? Was there something in his dizzy dreams, something in his subconsciousness that had him thinking of her? And was it really her, or just someone who looked like her?<
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It would be so much easier if she could just hate him, but she didn’t. Despite everything, he’d been a good friend since she’d moved back to Jackson. He’d been good to Josh. He’d given her son his time and his attention. He’d been the kind of father figure he desperately needed, and for that she was grateful. But how would he react if he were to know the truth? What would his dreams be filled with then?
Rising slowly to her feet, she walked quietly through the house. She climbed the stairwell, then flipped the switch at the head of the stairs, flooding the narrow hallway with light. She pulled a blanket and pillow from the linen closet, shoved them under her arm and headed back to the living room.
“Okay, Sheriff, looks like you’re staying,” she said as she slipped the pillow under his head and covered him with the blanket. She paused for a moment, looking down at him. “I always wondered what it would be like to spend the night with you again,” she said, bending close and giving him a quick, impulsive kiss on the forehead. “Somehow this isn’t what I’d expected.”
She walked through her quiet house, turning off lights and securing doors and locking windows. She remembered what he said about perpetrators and thieves, and quickly gave everything a double check.
Why wasn’t she more upset? she wondered as she made her way quietly up the steps. Maybe she was just tired, or maybe it was the wine she’d drunk, or maybe it was just that she was losing her mind completely—but for some reason it felt kind of good knowing he was there, he was close by, and that she’d kissed him good-night.
There it was again. Marissa skittered to a stop, pausing with one foot on the step, the other on the landing, and listened intently. But the only sound she could hear now was that of her own breath rushing in and out of her lungs.
A shiver of fear slithered down her spine. At first she’d thought it was Dylan moving around in her dark living room, confused and disoriented, bumping into things, but the sound she’d just heard had not come from the living room.
She crept the rest of the way down the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the carpeted steps. It was only a little after three, and she’d slept for only a couple of hours, but she was anything but sleepy. Apprehension had her feeling wide-awake and scared to death.
“Dylan?” she called out in a stage whisper, tiptoeing toward the living room. “Dylan?”
She stopped for a moment, listening for a response. But she could hear nothing, just her heart and her quivering breath. She thought about how she’d tried to wake him up earlier, and how impossible it had been. What if she needed him and he was still out cold?
She shivered again. Despite the summer night, she felt cold and numb, and her short nightshirt offered little protection. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at the gooseflesh on her skin. She hadn’t thought about a robe or slippers, but modesty hadn’t exactly been foremost in her mind. She was more interested in waking Dylan and finding out what—or who—was making that sound outside.
“Dylan?” she breathed urgently, taking a few steps closer to the sofa. “Dylan, wake up, wake—”
“Shh,” Dylan whispered, stepping silently behind her and placing a hand over her mouth. He turned her in his arms, forcing her to look up at him, and felt every muscle in her body tighten. “He’s moving around the house.”
Marissa’s eyes were bright with terror, and she wanted very much to scream. But she fought against it, banking down her panic and forcing herself to think. She stared up at Dylan, hearing his voice in her ears and trying as best she could to make the words register sense in her brain.
“W-what’s happening?” she whispered. “What’s going on?”
Dylan turned his head, nodding to the patio doors. Marissa followed his gaze, looking up just as a dark silhouette appeared through the thin drapes.
“Oh, God,” she gasped as she watched the shadow move across the patio.
Dylan pulled her tight, bringing a finger to his lips. “Is it locked?”
She looked up at him, her eyes growing wide in the darkness, and nodded. She turned back, watching as the shadow moved across her patio, hearing the sound of the door being tested.
“He’s…he’s trying to get in,” she whispered almost soundlessly, clutching at Dylan’s shirt.
Dylan nodded. “He’s tried all the doors.”
“Sh-shouldn’t we call the police?” Her hold on his shirt tightened. “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
Dylan quieted her again, watching as the shadowy figure moved and backed away. Dylan slowly released his hold on Marissa and walked soundlessly across the living room. Through a crack in the drapery, he peered outside.
“What’s he doing now?” Marissa asked, having followed him on tiptoe.
Dylan watched for a moment longer, then turned back to Marissa. “He’s gone.”
Marissa straightened up and looked at him. “Are you sure?”
Dylan reached up and pulled the curtain back a little to show her the patio was empty. “I’m sure.”
“He was trying to get in,” she murmured, a cold chill making her shiver.
Dylan felt her trembling. “But he’s gone now, don’t worry about it.”
“Where’s your gun?”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Marissa, I don’t need a gun.”
She looked up at him. He was being so casual about everything…almost cavalier and unconcerned. “Shouldn’t you be calling a patrol car or something?
“Trying to catch him, find out who it is?”
“I already know who it is.”
Marissa’s eyes grew wide again. “What? You know?” She shivered again, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold air or the threat of an intruder. It was his unemotional, ominous tone that bothered her. “Then why aren’t you going after him? Why aren’t you doing something?”
Dylan glanced out the window, then pulled the drapes closed again. He turned slowly to Marissa, resting his hands lightly on her upper arms. “I can’t go after him.”
Marissa pushed away, shaking her head. “You’re talking crazy. Someone was trying to break into my house. I don’t understand. If you know who it was, why aren’t you going after him?”
“Because if I go after him, I’d have to arrest him.”
Marissa stopped for a moment. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
It was dark, with only the dim light from the street lamps outside filtering through the curtains, yet he knew she was confused. “It was Skip.”
Chapter 11
Marissa’s eyes widened, and a cold flush spread through her veins. “Skip Carver? He was trying to break in?”
Dylan nodded, reaching behind the end of the drapery and testing the locked slider. “It would appear that way.”
“But why?” Marissa asked, raising her hands up helplessly. “Dylan, why would he want to break into my house? Josh is a friend of his. Why would he do that to a friend?”
“I’m not sure,” Dylan said, taking a step closer in an effort to calm her down. “Maybe he’s angry with Josh, or…or maybe to get back at you for something.”
“Me,” she repeated, shocked. “Why would he want to get back at me? I’ve never done anything to Skip.”
“I know,” Dylan conceded. “But Skip Carver—” He hesitated for a moment. “You know as well as I do the kid is bad news.”
Marissa’s eyes narrowed, and she took a step back. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something’s happened, hasn’t it. Skip’s done something.”
“Look,” Dylan said cautiously, drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t know anything for sure. It’s just that…well, I’ve suspected for a while that Skip has been having a hard time.” He reached a hand out and brushed a long lock of her hair back into place. “That he might be developing some problems.”
“What do you mean? Like what? What kind of problems?” she demanded, gripped by a worse fear than when the prowler was outside. “I check his progress in class almost every day. His grades aren
’t the greatest, but they’re passing. And he’s not giving his teachers a problem, or any of the other students.”
Dylan’s hands settled on her upper arms. The gold necklace around her neck caught a flicker of light, the cluster of stars sparkling shiny and alive. “I don’t mean that kind of problem.”
“You mean you think he…that he’s…” Her words drifted off, and she closed her eyes tight. Her mind rushed to remember those times in the last several weeks when Josh hadn’t been with her, when he might have been with Skip, he might have been…She squeezed her eyes tighter. Things had been so wonderful the last few weeks. She and Josh were becoming so close. He couldn’t be getting into trouble again, he just couldn’t.
“I think maybe Skip is doing some things he shouldn’t,” he said evasively, knowing the truth would only make her worry. “And that he’s headed for trouble—big trouble.”
Marissa’s brows arched together. “You’re not talking about graffiti or vandalizing, are you.”
Dylan didn’t have to see the worry and uncertainty in her eyes, he could hear it in her voice, and he weighed his options. The truth was harsh, but maybe knowing the truth would be better than dealing with the worry. “No, I’m not. I think Skip’s been taking drugs, and I think he’s committing residential robberies to get money to buy them.”
Marissa opened her eyes, sucking in a breath. She’d been involved with education long enough to know that alcohol and drug use were an unfortunate fact of life for some kids. And while she wasn’t naive enough to think that it wasn’t a problem at Sutter, or that none of her students were involved in those kinds of activities, it didn’t make hearing Dylan’s suspicions any easier.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been a little suspicious for a while,” Dylan admitted. “And I’ve been hearing things from the streets. I’ve asked Josh about—”
Marissa’s gasped, and clutched at his arms. “You don’t think that Josh—”
“No,” he said adamantly, cutting her off. His grip on her tightened. “I honestly don’t. I think Josh is really tying to straighten himself out and has stayed out of trouble. Randy, too, for that matter.” He took a deep breath, his voice dropping a degree. “But I think Skip’s put them in a bad position. I think they might know something about what’s going on, maybe know what he’s into. They’re with him every day at school and at the construction site. And if you talk to them, it’s pretty clear that there’s tension between them.” He stopped, noticing how her white nightshirt looked almost iridescent in the darkness. “The problem is, if I haul Skip in…” He hesitated, shrugging. “I do that under the terms of the court’s ruling, the D.A.’s going to want me to pull all three of them in.”
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