Once You're Mine

by Barbara Freethy

  She'd thought she'd known a lot about his work, but she'd known very little. She sipped her coffee, then grabbed some more files from the suitcase. The first file wasn't labeled, which was odd.

  Inside, was an opened envelope that contained a newspaper clipping. Her gaze narrowed as she looked at the photo of a suburban house with the headline: Family of four dies from carbon monoxide poisoning.

  As she read through the article, a name jumped out at her—Henry Lowell. She knew that name. He'd been friends with her father.

  In the news story, Henry was referred to as a reporter for KTVC News in San Jose. He'd died along with his wife, a teacher, and their two daughters, who were both under the age of seven. What a terrible tragedy! Why hadn't she heard about his death? Why hadn't they talked about it at home?

  She zeroed in on the date of the clipping and realized that Henry had died two days before her dad had left on the fishing trip. Her stomach began to churn. Was it a coincidence that they had died so close together? But Henry's family had been taken out by a carbon monoxide leak and her father had died thousands of miles away.

  She picked up the envelope that had contained the clipping. Her dad's name and home address were typed on the center of the envelope, and the postmark was San Francisco, the date the day that the article had appeared in the paper. If her father had requested the clipping, wouldn't it have come from San Jose? And why would he send for the clipping? On the flip side, if he hadn't requested it, why would someone send it to him?

  She pressed a hand to her temple, her head beginning to throb. She really wished she could come up with some answers instead of more questions.

  "Tori?"

  She flinched as Dylan's voice startled her. She'd been so caught up in the latest puzzle that she'd almost forgotten she wasn't alone.

  Turning to face him, she caught her breath for a different reason. Dylan approached her wearing nothing but a low slung towel. He'd obviously taken a shower, his dark hair damp, and droplets of water still clinging to his extremely sexy and powerful body.

  "What's going on?" he asked. "Did you find something?"

  "Uh…" She had to think for a second. "Yes—maybe."

  A glint of humor appeared in his eyes. "You don't sound very definitive."

  "You're distracting me with that very small towel," she admitted.

  "You want me to take it off?"

  "Yes—no," she said, realizing she was coming off as a dithering idiot. "Why do you have to look so damn good?"

  "I was going to ask you the same question," he said, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. "But since we both have to go to work shortly, why don't I get dressed and you can tell me what you found?"

  "Okay." She looked back at the clipping, trying not to notice the wet towel that dropped to the floor as Dylan grabbed his clothes off the couch and put them on. "Someone sent my father a clipping about the death of a TV reporter that happened a few days before my dad died."

  "What?" He moved next to her as he pulled his shirt over his head.

  She handed him the clipping. "It's possible my dad requested the clip from the newspaper, but he never did that before, so…"

  "Did you know this Henry Lowell?"

  "I met him a few times. He was friendly with my father."

  Dylan looked up from the article with troubled eyes. "The timing of his death is disturbing."

  "It looks like an accident. His whole family died, not just him."

  "And days after that, your father goes on a fishing trip and doesn't come back."

  His words echoed her earlier thoughts. "I know." She got to her feet and walked over to the window, glancing out at the street below. The city was just waking up. People were leaving for work. It was a normal day. But inside, she felt like the day was anything but normal.

  Dylan came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him.

  "You think Henry and his family were killed, don't you?" she asked.

  "It's a possibility."

  "The same possibility as my father's death not being an accident." She turned in his arms, needing to face him. "Are we crazy?"

  "There is another scenario."

  "What would that be? Please give me another idea, because I'm not liking the last two."

  He gave her a long look. "Maybe I shouldn't. This is all just speculation. We should be dealing in facts, not theories."

  "There are no facts; that’s why we're speculating. Come on, Dylan, tell me your latest brainstorm."

  "You're not going to like it."

  "Tell me anyway."

  He hesitated one more second, then said, "I actually had this thought last night when you told me about your last conversation with your dad, which sounded like a good-bye. Now, seeing this news story about a reporter who died just before your dad makes me ask myself: What if your father got scared after Henry died? What if he thought it wasn't an accident? What if…he didn't actually die?"

  She sucked in a quick breath, his words rolling through her like a tidal wave. "That's…I don't know what that is."

  "I knew I shouldn't have said anything."

  "But you did."

  "I'm sorry."

  She stared back at him, seeing the regret in his eyes. "No, don't apologize. We have to consider everything. So, you're saying my father faked his death?" She could hardly believe she'd said that out loud.

  "With the help of his best friends."

  "And he stayed dead for seventeen years?"

  "If he had a reason to hide that long…" Dylan paused. "That clipping could have been sent to him as a warning. He knew he had to disappear. You said the trip happened suddenly."

  "Because Jim lost his job, or at least that's what I was told."

  "We can check it out. In the meantime, let's consider that your dad and Henry were working on a story that was dangerous. What if your father was afraid that his family would end up the same way as Henry's family?"

  She swallowed hard. "But why would he disappear without us? Why would he leave us without protection?"

  "Maybe you didn't need protection if he was dead."

  She ran her fingers through her hair, thinking about his words. "It's wild but it kind of makes sense. Or do I just want it to be true because then my father might still be alive?" She jumped to the next conclusion. "Maybe Neil Hawkins isn't a relative. Maybe he is my father."

  "Maybe, although you didn't think the photo looked exactly like him. And I would trust your gut."

  She thought back to the moment when she'd first seen the man calling himself Neil Hawkins. He'd been across the street, at least fifty yards away. She had felt an odd tingle run through her. It was that weird feeling that made her get up and follow the man. There had been something familiar about him…

  But the photo hadn't been conclusive. There were similarities, yes, but she hadn't felt like Hawkins was for sure her father, and wouldn't she know her own father? Wouldn't she be absolutely free of doubt if they were the same man?

  "I don't know what to think," she muttered.

  "We can go back to the idea that your dad has a relative you don't know about. Maybe he helped your father disappear. Maybe Mitch and Jim know about him."

  "But they're nowhere to be found." She paced around the room. "Okay, I don't know where this is going to go, but you've brought up some new ideas to follow. If my dad was working on a story that might have gotten him killed or forced him to fake his death or took the life of his friend, then I need to figure out what that story was."

  "It could be in these files. What about your father's computer? What happened to that?"

  "He had it with him on the boat. It was allegedly lost at sea."

  "All right. What paper was your dad working for when he died?"

  "The Herald, but it got bought out by the Journal the year after my dad died."

  "Do you remember the names of anyone your father worked with?"

  "I'd have to think about it. Wait—I do know one guy
—he's a reporter at the Examiner with me—Jeff Crocker. He said he was fresh out of college and worked with my dad for a few months before he died. I'm sure he could give me other names."

  "That's great."

  "I'll ask him as soon as I get to work." She paused, struck by a terrifying thought. "Do you think my mom or Scott could be in danger? I thought this was only about me, but maybe it's not."

  "I think you have the most to worry about, Tori. You're the one doing the digging."

  That didn't make her feel better. While she was the one asking questions and perhaps a more obvious target, she couldn't forget that Henry Lowell's entire family had died with him.

  "Maybe I should talk to Ray about getting Mom out of town for a few days. Her birthday is coming up in two weeks. I wonder if I could put together a spa getaway and tell Ray the only days I could get are this week. Scott won't be back until the weekend, so he's set for now."

  "If that will work, I don't think it's a bad idea to get your mom out of town, but that brings us back to you. I think I should call in sick today. And so should you."

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "We need to act normally. We need to look like we know nothing."

  He frowned. "I understand that, but Tori, I'm not going to be available once I'm on shift, not unless it's a real emergency."

  "I understand that. I'll be careful. But I need to go to work. I need to speak to Jeff, and I have meetings this morning that I can't miss. And I can also do some digging into Henry Lowell's death."

  "I still don't like the idea of leaving you alone for even a second." He took her hands in his. "Promise me one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You'll at least take a cab or a car to work. I don't want you just walking around the streets. And no following anyone. In fact, if you get any clues or go anywhere, text me what you're doing. Even if I can't answer, I'll feel better knowing what you're up to."

  "I can do that, but you need to concentrate on your job and not worry about me."

  "I can do both," he said firmly. "So where's my promise?"

  She gave him a grateful smile. "I promise. And thanks for being here, Dylan. For everything."

  "You're more than welcome."

  "I'd love to make you breakfast, but…"

  He grinned. "I know. All you have is ice cream."

  "I've had it for breakfast before."

  "I'll bet you have." He squeezed her fingers, then let go. "I'm going to take off now, but we'll keep in touch."

  "So often you'll find me annoying again," she said with a smile.

  "Again? When did I say you stopped being annoying?" he teased.

  "I think it was last night when you were shouting my name and thanking God I was born."

  He laughed. "I don't remember that, either." He leaned over and gave her a long, slow kiss that went from playful to sensual in about ten seconds. He tore himself away. "You stay safe, Tori. I mean it."

  "I will. And you do the same."

  He nodded and headed to the door. She locked it behind him and then got ready for work.

  * * *

  Tori's day flew by in a flash. She had a bunch of emails to respond to as well as a meeting at a nonprofit charity that was working with several real-estate developers in the hopes of providing some low-income housing. As she'd promised Dylan, she took cabs or cars everywhere she went, careful to keep an eye on her surroundings, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  She'd tried to find Jeff to speak to him about her father, but he had meetings out of the office, and by late afternoon, she had yet to catch up with him. It was just as well, she needed to spend time on her work assignments and save the personal mystery for after work.

  Jeff came into her cubicle a little past five and sat down in the chair next to her desk. "Connie said you were looking for me earlier."

  "Yes. You've been busy today."

  "Mondays always seem to be like that. Would you like to get a drink after work? A few of us are going around the corner to Allen's."

  "Thanks, but I have a lot of notes to get through tonight."

  "Well, if you change your mind, you know where we'll be. So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

  "You said you worked at the Herald with my father. Do you have any idea what he was working on right before he died?"

  "That was a long time ago, Tori."

  "I know. I was just hoping it was something big enough for you to remember?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry, I have no idea. We weren't exactly on the same level. I spent a lot of time fact checking over reporting back then. Why do you ask?"

  "I found some of his old files, and it got me thinking about what his last story might have been. Was there anyone else at the Herald who might have worked more closely with my dad that you could point me to?"

  "Sure. Let's see. Lindsay Parker would be one. She was a staff writer, but I think she helped your dad with research. She got out of news a few years ago and married a rich financier named Todd Vaxman about ten years ago. She had a daughter and opened up a boutique on Union Street for expensive baby clothes."

  She jotted down the name on a pad on her desk. "That's good. Anyone else?"

  "I don't know. I'd have to dig up an old copy of the paper and look at the staff. Once the Herald was bought, I left and so did a lot of other people. What's this really about, Tori?" he asked, giving her a speculative look.

  "Just what I said. You commented the other day that I might not know my father as well as I think. This is part of me getting to know him."

  "Well, don't let it take up too much of your time. We've got a full load of current stories to cover this week."

  "Those are always my priority."

  "Good to hear."

  After Jeff left, she stared at her computer screen for several minutes, but she couldn't get back into her article.

  She opened a new search window on her computer and typed in designer baby clothes in the Marina. The first hit was for a store called Baby Boss, owned by Lindsay Vaxman. Lindsay might not actually work at the boutique, but hopefully she could find someone who could put her in contact with Lindsay.

  She closed her laptop, put it in her tote bag and then left the office. Most people were already gone, probably to have drinks at Allen's. She knew she needed to make a better effort to mingle with her coworkers, but that would have to wait, too.

  When she got out to the sidewalk, she flagged down a cab. The marina was only a few miles away, but with rush-hour traffic, it took her about twenty minutes. It was ten minutes to six when she arrived, thankfully just before closing.

  As she entered the boutique, a woman was just completing a purchase at the register. A very young clerk packed up a bag of clothes for her.

  She wandered toward the back of the store and was standing by the last rack of clothes when a tall, red-haired woman with green eyes and pale, freckled skin came out of the back room. She appeared to be in her early forties.

  "Hello," she said. "Are you by any chance Lindsay Vaxman?"

  The woman stopped abruptly, giving her a surprised look. "Yes, can I help you?"

  "I hope so. I'm Tori Hayden. My father was Ben Hayden. I don't know if you remember him, but he was a reporter for the Herald."

  "Of course I remember Ben," she said, relaxing at Tori's question. "He was insightful, relentless, and charming all at the same time. It was a tragedy that he died so young." She paused. "I remember you from the funeral—you and your brother and your mom. I felt so bad for you."

  "It was hard," she agreed, swallowing a knot of emotion. "I'm a reporter now, too. I work for the Examiner."

  "Well, isn't that something? Your dad would be proud."

  "I hope so."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm trying to find out what my father was working on when he died. My current editor, Jeff Crocker, told me that you used to do some of his research for him."

  "I did for a short time, but then your dad decided he wanted to
work on everything himself. I thought he had something big brewing, because he got really secretive, but to be honest, I don't know what it was." She paused. "Why do you want to know?"

  She couldn't tell the truth, because she didn't know what that was, so she decided to spin her answer. "I'm considering writing a book about him: his life, his work, the big stories he worked on."

  "Well, that would probably be interesting. Your father wasn't afraid to go after anyone."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Most of his articles had to do with greed and the corruption of power. That often involved some heavy hitters in the city."

  "Do you remember any in particular?"

  "Mayor Oscar Martinez wasn't a big fan. I know they had a heated argument about something."

  "But you don't know what?"

  "I wish I did. There is one person who can probably tell you more than I can—my former editor, Hal Thatcher. He was the editor-in-chief of the Herald. If your dad spoke to anyone, he talked to Hal."

  "Do you happen to know where I could find him?"

  "I know he lives on a boat in the Sausalito Harbor—if that helps."

  "It does. Thanks so much."

  "No problem. I remember how nice it was when I got an actual lead to follow."

  "Do you miss reporting?" she asked curiously.

  "Not even a little bit," Lindsay replied. "It was not nearly as glamorous as I imagined, and I learned quickly that making people talk when they didn't want to doesn't make you the most popular person in town, and I liked to be popular. I wasn't comfortable with having doors slammed in my face, and the pay wasn't great, either."

  "No one does it to get rich, that's for sure," she agreed. "But I was never popular, so I'm used to slamming doors."

  "I hope you find what you're looking for. It would be nice to see your father's work get some additional exposure. He worked hard to fight injustice. More people should do that." She tilted her head to the side, giving Tori a thoughtful look. "I always wondered if your dad's death was an accident, but no one else seemed suspicious. I figured there were other people who knew him a lot better than I did, so if there was something to find, they'd go looking for it. But no one ever did—until maybe now. Is that why you're really asking?"