by Webb, Debra
This was . . . like the last one, only the message was different. Who would send such a statement? Why to her? She’d thought the last creepy letter was some kind of sick joke someone had misaddressed. Or the nasty work of her cutthroat competition. That bitch who owned the Property Shop didn’t think Wiggins was big enough for yet another real estate agency. Penny wouldn’t put this sort of thing past her.
What did this mean?
Grappling for composure, Penny bent down and picked up the newspaper clipping. She unfolded it and read the headline that had been highlighted.
CHERRY PRESCOTT STILL MISSING
The blood hurtling through her veins turned to ice. Penny couldn’t read the words fast enough . . . a voice in her head kept screaming. No! No! This can’t be real!
The Prescott woman had come to Penny’s office . . . Penny had been too busy getting ready for Phoenix to deal with the ridiculous story the woman had been insisting she believed to be the truth. The encounter had been unnerving. Particularly when Prescott had thrown all those questions at Penny . . . none of which had made any kind of sense.
Did Penny have dreams about drowning? Did she have a daughter? Had anyone ever called Penny or her daughter a princess?
Penny had been certain the woman was nuts. Not only did she not have a daughter, she hadn’t ever been called anything even remotely close to princess . . .
. . . until now.
She blinked. Read the headline again. Now Prescott was missing.
Her attention turned to the bizarre letter once more.
What was this all about?
The door suddenly opened. “Mom!” her youngest shouted. “Mom’s home!”
Penny dropped to her knees and hugged her precious children. The guilt surged once more, diminishing the other emotions. It was Christmas Eve, she didn’t have time to deal with this now. She shoved the envelope and its contents into the purse hanging at her side. Monday she would look into the Prescott thing. Maybe even talk to the police. If Prescott’s disappearance had had anything to do with Penny someone would have called or . . . something.
A couple more days wouldn’t hurt.
It was Christmas after all.
Chapter Thirteen
4720 Miller Road, Pascagoula, 8:15 P.M.
Irene sat on the sofa, the family photo albums spread on the coffee table in front of her. Addy was disappointed she had begged off the invitation to the Henderson dinner. But Irene just couldn’t face Wyatt Henderson tonight.
The Prescott woman was still missing.
How could Irene possibly look the sheriff himself in the eye, particularly if the subject came up? And it would come up. Everyone was still talking about it. The newspaper printed something about the ongoing case every day.
She had to change the channel each time an update appeared on the news. It was just too painful. All the local channels were avidly following the investigation.
Knowing that woman could be hurt . . . or dead . . . tore at Irene’s heart. She prayed a dozen times a day for Cherry Prescott’s safe return.
If this was her fault . . .
Irene closed her eyes, fought the tears. Please, please, don’t let this be because of what she had done.
Dabbing at her eyes, Irene opened the oldest of the photo albums. A smile spread across her trembling lips. Addy had been such a beautiful baby.
The pictures of Carl holding her were some of Irene’s favorites. Her husband had been afraid to hold the baby at first. Addy had looked so small in his big hands. From day one she had been a daddy’s girl.
Irene’s heart ached. She wished Carl were here now. He would know what to do.
Don’t you worry none, Irene, it’s all going to be fine.
How she wished she could hear him say those words tonight.
These last ten years without him had been so very difficult. Many times she had considered doing exactly as Addy wanted and moving to Huntsville. Living near her daughter would be so much better than staying here in this lonely old house.
But he would never stand for it.
Irene couldn’t go.
She was a prisoner.
That was what happened when a woman allowed herself to make deals with the devil.
She sentenced herself to hell.
Chapter Fourteen
712 Canal Street
Henderson family home, 9:30 P.M.
Wyatt couldn’t take his eyes off Addy. She’d worn her usual, jeans and a tee. Didn’t matter to her that everyone else wore their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, including him. Addy was Addy and she didn’t change who she was for anyone.
Right now, she was deep in conversation with his mom and sisters-in-law while they cleaned up the kitchen. He’d offered to help but his mother had insisted that no men were allowed in her kitchen. Watching from his position in the living room where the men were lamenting the latest political scuttlebutt, he smiled as Addy gestured magnanimously. She never had been able to talk without her hands.
The Christmas music playing in the background prevented him from overhearing the women’s conversation. But that didn’t really matter; watching her was entertainment enough. More so than what she wore, her hair had held him mesmerized since he’d picked her up at that shabby motel. She’d worn it down and his fingers had itched all evening to tangle into that long mass and just get lost. The mug of spiced cider in his right hand suddenly felt burdensome. He wanted to toss it aside and stalk into that kitchen and touch that silky mane.
God, how he’d missed her. He’d tried not to. Especially after that first year. For nine long years he had focused on his work to prevent obsessing about her. He’d been successful, for the most part. He’d dated. Even had a six-month relationship a couple years ago. But he just hadn’t been able to make himself feel for anyone else what he had . . . no . . . what he still felt for Addy.
His brothers and father had urged him to move on. To get her out of his system. His mom was the only one who’d understood how he felt. She glanced at him now and smiled. He knew what she was thinking . . . but Wyatt was relatively certain that getting her hopes up was a bad idea. A really bad idea for all concerned.
Addy refused to talk about the past. As a cop, she was still the same in many ways. Like when he’d taken her to the impound yard to see Prescott’s car. She’d climbed in and sat behind the wheel—just sat there—for long enough to have the staff whispering among themselves. But that was Addy. She liked to get the feel of a case firsthand. Liked to touch the things the victim had last touched.
In the beginning, the other deputies had made fun of her seemingly bizarre need to feel the evidence and the scene. Wyatt had exchanged heated words with more than one of his colleagues when Addy hadn’t been looking. He would have done anything to protect her.
Then he’d let her down in the worst way. But it had been the only way to save her.
“So.” His older brother clapped him on the back. “Addy defied her uncle and came back here to work this case. Interesting.”
Wyatt shot him a look. Jason had questioned Addy during dinner. How were things in Huntsville? Was she engaged or married? Divorced? Any kids? What were her thoughts on the Prescott case? His older brother might not be a cop but that didn’t stop him from utilizing less than polite interrogation tactics.
“I think you’ve asked enough questions for tonight,” Wyatt commented, a clear warning in his tone. “This isn’t your boardroom.”
Jason shook his head, probably the same way he did when he was about to chastise his top executives at Chem Corp. “It’s been nearly ten years, buddy. And you’re still obviously hung up on her. What’re you going to do when she leaves again? You going to follow her this time? Go rushing after her anywhere she runs?”
Wyatt went nose to nose with his brother. “I don’t want to hear your—”
Thomas, the youngest, pushed the two apart. “This is not the time.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “It’s Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake. Can’t yo
u two stop the bickering for one night?”
The Henderson patriarch joined the huddle. “Listen to your brother, gentlemen.” He looked from Jason to Wyatt. “This has gone on too long as it is.” His gaze settled on Jason. “Wyatt has enough on his mind right now without you getting into his personal business.”
“Yes, sir,” Jason acquiesced. He bopped Wyatt on the shoulder with the side of his fist. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut where certain subjects”—he sent a look at the women in the kitchen—“are concerned. I just worry about you, that’s all. You know I do.”
Wyatt released his frustrations on a big breath. “I guess that’s what big brothers are for.” A pain in the ass.
Thomas lifted his mug of spiced cider. “To family,” he offered.
“Hear, hear,” his father agreed, clinking his mug against his youngest son’s.
Jason and Wyatt did the same.
It was Christmas Eve. And for the first time in a very long time, he was spending it with Addy.
What’re you going to do when she leaves again?
His brother’s admonition echoed inside Wyatt.
Wyatt would simply do what he’d been doing for nine years.
Miss her.
10:37 P.M.
“Jason doesn’t like me very much, does he?”
Wyatt slowed for the turn into the Shady Oaks parking lot. “What makes you say that?” He damned sure wasn’t going to volunteer any information. But Addy was no fool. She’d sensed Jason’s disdain.
A good kick in the ass was what his older brother needed. This—Addy—was none of his business.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She reached under the seat for her weapon, then for the door as he parked in front of her room. “Maybe it was the way he glared at me for most of the evening. Or the heated looks he sent your way every time you said a word to me.”
Damn it. She’d noticed more than he’d suspected. “Jason’s just—”
Addy climbed out before he could finish the statement. Wyatt shut off the engine and caught up with her at the door to her room.
“You know how older brothers are,” Wyatt commented, playing off the whole notion as if it were no big deal.
She shoved the key into the lock, then looked at him. “No. Actually I don’t.”
Addy didn’t have any brothers of her own, but she had male cousins. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what I felt.” She twisted the key, then the knob. “G’night, Wyatt.”
“We should talk, Addy.” This was enough with dancing all around the past.
She sighed. “You keep saying that but”—she shook her head—“there’s nothing to talk about. It’s been a long time.” Addy looked at him then, really looked. “There’s nothing to say. Too much water has gone under the bridge. It’s all irrelevant at this point.”
“Addy, wait.” He nabbed her by the arm before she could go inside. “There are things that need to be said, no matter how much water has gone under the bridge. And it damned sure isn’t irrelevant.”
“Fine.” She turned her face up to his. “Then say what you have to say. If that’s what it takes to put this behind us, just get it over with so we can focus on the case.”
He wasn’t sure saying the words would ever be enough . . . for him. “I was wrong.” His chest cramped. “What I did was wrong. I’ve had a long time to consider what I should have done. And I should have backed you up.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “That’s what you should’ve done. But you didn’t. Okay.” She reached for the door again. “I’m glad we had this little talk.”
He didn’t let go, pulled her back around and manacled her other arm to keep her from jerking out of his hold. “So you’re never going to forgive me?” The feel of her hair draped over his hands almost undid him. He wanted to release her and thread his fingers through that sexy, silky mane.
“I’m done talking, Wyatt.” She flattened her palms against his chest and gave him a push to get him out of her personal space. He didn’t budge.
“Maybe I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he went on, fury pulsing through him. “But I don’t want you to think that I haven’t paid a price.”
“Oh, gee, that’s too bad.” She tried to shake off his hold. “I hate to think you’ve suffered all this time. Let’s see.” Her lips pinched in fury. “My own family threatened to kill me if I didn’t leave. Only because my boss, the fucking sheriff, had plotted to have me killed and it didn’t work out. I had to move away from everything I’d ever known.” Fury blazed in those blue eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget how the man I loved kept his mouth shut when he knew the truth. I think maybe I paid a little more than you, wouldn’t you say?”
Her lips trembled and he lost any hold whatsoever on his sanity. His mouth covered hers. It was a mistake, he knew. But he had to kiss her. She fought him at first . . . but then she gave in . . . kissed him back. So many times he’d dreamed of kissing her again. Had awakened with his heart pounding after dreaming of touching her.
His fingers released her arms, plunged into her hair the way he’d longed to do all night. Soft, luscious silk. He cradled her head, kept her mouth fixed firmly against his when she tried to pull away.
Then her body relaxed. She opened, welcomed his tongue inside her mouth. He slid one hand down her back and pressed her into his body. Her arms went around his neck, her legs around his waist. The feel of the heat between her thighs against him right there sent him right over the edge.
No more thinking.
He reached out with one hand and opened the door. Stumbled into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
Her fingers were fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He groaned when her soft hands moved over his bare skin. He cupped her ass, pressed her more firmly into him. She made a sound that banished the last of his senses.
She dropped her feet to the floor, shouldered out of her jacket, and let her belt and weapon fall to the floor. Then she pushed his jacket off his shoulders . . . ripped his shirt open and stared, wide-eyed, at him. He took advantage of the moment and peeled the tee over her head.
She leaned toward him. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered before pressing her lips to his chest.
His body shuddered with the incredible sensation of having her mouth on any part of him. His hands went to her breasts. He dipped a finger inside one satin cup, stroked her taut nipple. She climbed up his chest, wrapped her legs around him once more. “Bed,” she muttered.
He carried her to the bed. They fell onto the mattress together. He needed his jeans off . . . hers off.
“What the hell?”
He stopped. “What?”
She lifted a handful of garments. “What the fuck is this?”
The light on the bedside table was dim, but there was sufficient illumination for him to see that the garments she held were ragged . . . no . . . torn or cut.
Wyatt pushed up onto his hands, stared at the jumble on the bedspread beneath and around her. Her clothes, jeans, T-shirts, underthings, were scattered over the bed. Not just scattered . . . ripped apart.
Addy scooted away from him and off the bed. She reached down, picked up a bra. The straps had been torn off. The cups were . . . shredded. “What is this shit?”
Wyatt backed off the bed. “Don’t touch anything else,” he warned. “I’ll be right back.”
He raced out to his SUV and dug through the console for a couple pairs of latex gloves. Closing the door with his hip, he put in a call to Rich Baggett. He’d gone to school with Rich. Trusted him. He was the best forensics tech in this part of the state.
Addy waited for Wyatt at the door. She’d pulled her tee back on. He thrust a pair of gloves at her. “You called a tech?” she asked.
Wyatt nodded, then followed her back inside. “Rich Baggett, you remember him?” He grabbed his shirt from the floor. Most of the buttons were missing, but he fastened what he could and said to hell with the rest.
“Yeah.” She turned ba
ck to her room. “He still one of the good guys?”
Anger lit deep in Wyatt’s gut, obliterating the lingering heat in his loins. “Yeah, he’s one of many good guys in my department.” How did he get it through her head that things weren’t the way they used to be? Cyrus Cooper didn’t run Wyatt’s department or him.
She picked through her damaged clothes, held up a Bon Jovi tee. “Damn. This was my favorite.” She dropped it back onto the bed. “I got it at his last concert in Nashville.”
Wyatt checked the lock on the door for evidence of forced entry. Maybe if he lingered long enough Rich would arrive and provide a much needed buffer. Right now, Wyatt just needed an excuse not to have to look at her.
They’d almost had sex.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Focus, dumbass. The lock. Of course there was evidence of forced entry. Lots of it. There likely wasn’t a single room at the Shady Oaks that hadn’t been broken into at least once. For someone with the know-how it wouldn’t be that difficult. A damned credit card would no doubt do the trick.
“Shit. The Def Leppard shirt got it, too.” She stared down at the scraps of fabric on the bed.
Wyatt dared to step away from the door he’d been examining. “I guess your taste in music hasn’t changed.” Seemed a safe enough topic until Rich arrived.
Yeah, right. Wyatt gave himself another mental shake. He was pretty sure he’d lost his damned mind.
“Lot of things about me have changed.” She stood back from the bed and considered the room a moment. Then she looked him up and down. “I’m not that girl anymore, Wyatt. I’m a woman. Maybe you didn’t notice.” Then she headed for the bathroom.
There was no way to verbalize his response to that. Even as she walked away, his stupid-ass cock twitched. Was still hard as a fucking rock. He licked his lips, savored the taste of her. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed . . . every damned thing about her.
“Well, well.” She jerked her head for him to come to the bathroom door. “Check this out.”
Adrenaline sent a second charge into his veins. He stopped in the doorway. Fury chased the adrenaline through his bloodstream. This wasn’t just a random act of vandalism by some jerk from the past.