Protecting the Single Mom

by Catherine Lanigan

  They asked her if she had a place to live. When she’d hemmed and hawed, they insisted she stay with them.

  Cate had never seen such unquestioning trust.

  They’d offered her a job working the register in the mini-mart and she took it. During the course of one long night, her life spun on that thin dime of fate—and all for the better.

  Yet, even they didn’t know the whole truth. She’d never told anyone about the abuse. She’d only said she’d run away.

  Questions.

  As if someone had thrown a breaker, electricity ignited every cell in her body. She reasoned it was adrenaline. It felt like terror.

  Danny circled her and put his hand on the knob. “Talk to him, Mom.”

  Cate turned the dead bolt and opened the door. The man was still holding his badge for her to inspect. Gingerly, she took it from him and read the specifics. She returned it, noticing how big his hands were and how his shoulders seemed to fill the doorway. He looked strong and buff under his jacket. She supposed his looks and strength would probably put some people at ease. Instead, her nerves were erratic.

  He was a cop. Poking around in her backyard. What if he was one of those cops who’d snapped? What if he’d had some kind of meltdown and was now exactly what she’d thought earlier: a Peeping Tom? Or worse.

  “May I come in?”

  “No,” she replied with more force than she’d intended.

  Danny was looking at him like he’d hung the moon. “Can I see your badge, too?”

  “Sure.” Detective Davis handed the badge to Danny.

  “Wow. Cool.” Danny traced the brass edges and lettering with his fingers as if memorizing every carving.

  “Danny, give the man his badge,” she ordered, folding her arms over her chest, feeling as defiant as she probably looked.

  “Thanks,” Danny said.

  The detective closed the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar. “I should explain that I’d come to your front porch initially, but I was certain I’d seen someone in your backyard. You should get some motion lights.”

  “I have them,” she replied.

  “But, Mom,” Danny said. “That light burned out. Remember? We got the new one.”

  “Right,” she said sheepishly, and dropped her arms. “I haven’t had time to put the replacement in.”

  “I could do that for you,” Trent offered.

  “That’s not necessary,” she said curtly. “I’m quite capable of changing a light bulb.”

  The detective scratched the back of his head and smiled. “Boy. We’ve really gotten off on the wrong foot. Not only am I trying to apologize for frightening you, but I want to warn you about home invasion.”

  “You said there was a break-in.”

  “There was. About half a mile from here, there was the report of a home invasion.” He looked at Danny, then at Cate. “Anyway, what I wanted to know was if you’d seen anything unusual. Anyone on the street you’ve never seen before? Strange cars?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  He handed her his card. “I’d appreciate you letting me know if you do see anything. Maybe ask your neighbors to do the same. That’s my cell,” he said, pointing to the last number on the list of contact information.

  “Okay,” she said, realizing that her hand was still shaking.

  “Look, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m very sorry to have frightened you.”

  “I’ll live,” she quipped, and forced a smile. She’d be fine after he left. Detectives were gifted with keen curiosity, laser eyesight and brains that put puzzles together. At least that’s how she saw him. He was the kind of detector who could unmask her. Expose her. Ruin her life. “Well, if I see anything, I’ll be sure to call.”

  She reached around him and pulled the door open.

  He didn’t move.

  What was with this guy? He wasn’t taking the hint to leave.

  Goose bumps skipped across her arms. She’d bet a hundred bucks he knew something about her past. He was smooth and polished, formal and courteous as he talked to Danny. Still, Trent didn’t take a single step to leave. She didn’t trust him in the least.

  “So, what school do you go to?”

  “St. Mark’s. I’m in kindergarten.”

  “That’s cool. Your school is only a block from the police station.”

  “Yeah,” Danny said with a big grin. “I watch the cop cars go in and out of the parking lot.”

  Cate could see that Danny’s eyes were filled with admiration. She glanced at the detective and realized that he had picked up on it, too.

  “You know, Danny, next weekend is the Sunflower Festival, and our station has a booth to raise money for widows and orphans of other cops. If you stop by, I’ll save a brownie for you.”

  “We go to the Sunflower Festival every year.” Danny looked at his mother. “Don’t we, Mom?”

  “Uh, yes.” Cate was perplexed as she raised her eyes to Trent.

  He pushed on. “Mrs. Beabots makes the brownies for us as her donation. They’re the best in town.” Trent smiled broadly.

  “She gave me a brownie tonight at the party,” Danny said.

  “Party?” Trent cocked his head toward Cate.

  Cate paused, her eyes locked on Trent. “It was a baby shower.”

  “Oh,” he said, and turned to Danny. “So, I’ll see you at the Sunflower Festival?”

  “Sure,” Danny replied quickly.

  Cate noticed that Danny didn’t look to her for approval. He was too busy smiling at the detective.

  “I’ll be going,” Trent said as he opened the door fully. “Make sure all the doors are locked, and double-check your windows, too.”

  Cate’s eyes widened. “The windows.”

  “They are locked, right? You always check them, right?” he asked warily.

  “Uh. No.”

  “What about the basement windows where someone can crawl in?”

  “Those I had boarded up and sealed when we moved in. I try never to go down there if I can help it.”

  “Yeah,” Danny chimed in. “It’s spooky.”

  She nodded. “It is.”

  “Do you want me to check the windows for you?”

  “No, I can do it. There aren’t that many,” she said.

  “Okay.” Trent stepped out. “Lock up behind me.”

  “Goodbye... Detective Davis.” She closed the door and locked it.

  Cate felt as if she’d run a gauntlet through swinging knife blades. Police. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a cop. Now or ever.

  * * *

  TRENT WENT TO his car. As he drove away, he noticed that Cate and Danny were watching him leave from the living-room window.

  Purposefully, he drove down two blocks, then doubled back, turning off his headlights so she wouldn’t see him returning. He parked four doors away.

  As his eyes tracked over to the house, he noticed as each of the lights was turned off. The last one was at the far right end of the house. Presumably, Cate’s bedroom.

  Cate.

  He’d never paid much attention to her when he’d seen her around town. Thinking about it, he realized she was the kind of woman who didn’t meet a man’s eyes. She didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile much, either. Now he knew why.

  She was pretty enough. Soft peachy skin. Thick brunette hair that hung in a straight cut just past her chin.

  Trent flung even the hint of Cate out of his head. With his PTSD, he wasn’t relationship material—for anybody. To save everyone heartache, it was best for him to bury romantic emotions.

  Cate was simply part of his investigation. That was all.

  Trent’s life worked best with him alone. No one to hear his screams in the night. No
one to talk him down from another nightmare. No one to whom he’d have to describe what it was like to have his best buddy blown to pieces right before his eyes. The IED should have been detected. It would have been better if Trent had been the one to die. Trent didn’t have a wife and kids. But Parker had.

  The vision of Parker’s bloody body pieces strewed over the sand was burned on his soul. It was part of him. He couldn’t right click and delete it. Shoot it or kill it. It lived deep in his psyche where it haunted him.

  Trent dropped his face to his hands. Sweat had sprung out on his forehead and ran down his temples. It was always like this. He’d heat up and then when the memory faded, he’d cool off. His mouth was dry.

  It was always the same. Predictable. But the onset was like a rogue wave. He never knew when it was coming. Only that it would be back again and again. That was the hell of it.

  Because no treatment worked. Cognitive processing therapy and prolonged exposure therapy didn’t help. He’d tried a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, but it hadn’t made a dent.

  He drank deeply from his water bottle and looked at Cate’s bedroom window.

  The light had gone out.

  “Time for some shut-eye,” he mumbled as he stared at the house.

  Trent sat up in his seat as he remembered Cate’s brown eyes.

  That was it. There was something wrong with her eyes. Tonight, in the harsh overhead foyer light, she’d looked straight at him.

  That’s when he’d noticed it. She wore colored contacts. The kind that muted the eye. Made it difficult, if not impossible, to read someone’s thoughts. Trent was usually spot-on with deciphering expressions, voice tones, nuances that disclosed valuable information.

  He’d frightened her tonight. He’d blundered and hoped he’d smoothed it over. He needed her to trust him. It was a bonus that her son had taken a liking to him. He might need some support in the days to come. Cate was wary and suspicious, as well she should be. He couldn’t imagine what life had been like for her all this time—living this lie.

  Looking at the situation from Cate’s side, he imagined that to her, he was just about the worst thing that could happen to her. His investigation would blow her story to pieces.

  Cate was right not to trust him.

  In order to throw the snare on Le Grande, he might hurt Cate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CATE THREW BACK the last precious drops of the cappuccino that Maddie Barzonni had made especially for her. Maddie had drawn a little house with a “sold” sign over the door because Cate had a showing with a new buyer today. Maddie was a firm believer in manifesting one’s destiny. So was Cate. In fact, she’d been manifesting and creating her life so expertly and for so many years, she felt she should give fiction writing a shot.

  “Maybe a screenplay,” she mumbled to herself as she drove up to 415 Park Street.

  She looked at the computer printout she’d brought with her. The house had been on the market for nearly a year, and Cate could see why. The grass was ankle-high, all the landscaping was in need of watering and trimming. The windows were dirty, and there were flyers and free newspapers flung around the door.

  “Definitely no curb appeal,” she grumbled as she unhooked her seat belt. She gathered her purse, briefcase and the code she’d need to unlock the key lock. Cate had seen this situation before. The house was part of an estate, and the remaining family lived thousands of miles from Indian Lake. There was no one to oversee the house, and the listing agent realized early on that the place was a hard sell and, quite obviously, didn’t bother to mow the yard or have any work done. Efforts like those were paid for by the agent in hopes of a large commission. Even Cate would have given up on this house.

  As she approached, she could see that the house needed paint, repairs to the gutters and a new storm door. Cate tried to tuck the piece of screen that had come loose into the metal groove along the inside of the frame, but the screen was so old and rusty, she was afraid she’d need a tetanus shot.

  She was just about to punch in the security code when she heard a thundering rumble as a massive black Toyota Tacoma truck pulled up. The tires were so huge, the vehicle looked more like a military tank than a flatbed truck.

  The door opened, and a man dressed in blue jeans, work boots and a black T-shirt that looked spray-painted over his broad chest, shoulders and bulging biceps swung out of the truck. This was Rand Nelson. On the phone, he’d told her he was a fire jumper who’d just moved back to town. Rand was tall, she thought, but not as tall as Trent Davis.

  Fleetingly, she wondered what a black T-shirt would look like on Trent.

  What was the matter with her?

  She hadn’t thought about a man or his physique in years. And why on earth would Trent Davis come to mind?

  She felt the hairs on her arm stand on end as she put logic to her reactions. Trent was a lawman. Rand was a firefighter, but his job also skirted too close to those kinds of individuals who asked a lot of questions. How did the fire start? Were you anywhere near the house when it was set ablaze? When did you move to Indian Lake? What’s your real name?

  Questions like that. Though she’d legally changed her name before she enrolled in real-estate school—which also made Danny’s legal name Sullivan—she didn’t like probing questions. Of any kind.

  Rand stared at the house, feet sturdily apart, hands on his hips. Gnawing his bottom lip. Contemplating.

  Cate swallowed hard. Buyers had a way of keeping a check on their emotions when they looked at houses. She’d seen clients who could go through a house, even on a third walk-through, and still not register a single speck of desire or dislike. Some people didn’t want to get their hopes up. Others somehow believed they could keep the price down by appearing ambivalent.

  This guy was the best at stoicism she’d ever seen. He was stone. But she would still bet he wasn’t interested, and she didn’t blame him. She let the computerized lock dangle on the door latch. She wouldn’t need the code after all.

  “Hi.” She waved, starting toward him. “I’m Cate Sullivan. You must be Rand Nelson.”

  “I am,” he replied, still surveying the house and not once glancing at her.

  “After we talked on the phone and you told me your price range, I thought I’d start here. Clearly, the photo and specs I sent you are out-of-date.”

  “How long has it been on the market?” he asked, his ink-dark eyes tracking up to the roof.

  “Eleven months and a couple days. It needs a landscape crew to—”

  “No sprinkler system. That’s why the bushes died. The trees might make it.”

  “Uh-huh.” She flipped through the other printouts in the manila folder she carried. “I have a house over on Sutton Court, just off Lily Avenue, that you might like. It’s closer to town, and I could call the owner—”

  “Not yet. I like this one.”

  Cate’s eyes widened. “You do? Why?” Her gaze locked on him. He was unreadable.

  Rand pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “It needs me.”

  “It—”

  “Can we go inside? I need to see the kitchen. From the photographs, it looked awesome.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure,” Cate replied, taking the key code out of her purse and walking to the house.

  While she pressed the buttons, Rand continued assessing the front yard.

  “Yep. I can put in the sprinkler system myself. Paint the house. It’s not that large a place, which is what I want. Shouldn’t take long. Fix that gutter up there. Some redbud trees would be nice along that side there, don’t you think? They’re pretty in the spring. Or flowering almond. I have to think about that.”

  Cate opened the door. She couldn’t believe it. Rand was sold before she’d made a pitch about the house only being four blocks from the lake or shown him the in
terior. Was this her lucky day or what?

  Cate walked into the living room and went to the white French doors that opened onto a small patio. She frowned at the weeds sticking up between the old bricks. “The backyard is fenced,” she said as she turned around.

  Rand had gone to the right and into the kitchen. “Would you look at this?”

  Cate entered the kitchen as Rand opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door. The kitchen had been remodeled three years prior. The owner had apparently died before using it much.

  “This stove looks like it’s never been turned on. Six gas burners. A dream. And did you see?” He pulled out a stainless-steel drawer. “A warming oven. The wall oven is convection. A microwave.” He ran a hand over the charcoal-gray, slate-looking countertop. “What is this?”

  “Soapstone,” Cate said. “Impervious to everything, I’m told. I’ve never had one, but one of the women in my office has it. She loves it.”

  “I never heard of it.” He frowned.

  This was one of those times that Cate was glad she’d done her homework. Showing a house was not the same as selling a house. She was not one of those agents who opened the door then went to her car to text her friends. She stayed on the job.

  “Soapstone is a natural quarried stone like granite. It just comes in shorter sheets. It’s metamorphic rock and feels a bit soft or soapy because of the talc in the stone. I believe this stone comes from the Appalachian Mountains. The owner who did the remodel was adamant that all the products be made in the USA.”

  “Hmm. I like this guy.” Rand grinned brightly.

  “I’ll show you the rest of the house.” Cate started toward the hall.

  “I suppose I should see it,” he replied. “But I’m sold. I’ll take it.”

  Cate whirled around, surprised and a bit shocked. She’d never sold any house this easily, especially without having shown every nook and cranny. “Just like that?”

  “Look, Cate. There’s just me. I’m a fire jumper. They fly me wherever I’m needed. I’m here because my mom is sick and she’s too much for my siblings to handle. Other than some family dinners, which this kitchen can handle like a dream, I’m pretty much a homebody. When I’m off duty, I cook for relaxation. My father was a carpenter, plumber, handyman, you name it. I learned a lot about houses from him. We used to remodel houses on the side to make ends meet. There’s nothing I can’t do here myself...within reason, of course. But I didn’t want to live through a kitchen remodel.”