Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  Maybe he could crash at his brother’s house. Scott ran his hand over the top of his head, the short stubble of his crew cut prickling his fingers. Nope. He’d only get a lecture there, and that he could get from Dana.

  Nick wouldn’t have time for him, anyway. Nobody had ever had time for him . . . except Angie and his mama. Scott squeezed his eyes shut. If they could see him now, it’d kill them.

  He laughed. But they’re already dead . . . they can’t die twice. He laughed so hard his laughter turned into sobs. Great racking sobs.

  “No!” The scream echoed down the alleyway. Scott hurled the empty whiskey bottle against a garbage bin, shattering it. A cat yowled and skittered from behind the green bin. The back door to the video store flew open and his boss stormed out.

  “Sinclair!” he yelled. “You’re fired.”

  Scott struggled to his feet, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Fired? What do you mean?”

  Johnson poked him in the chest. “Fired. F-i-r-e-d.” He shoved him, and Scott staggered against the wall. “I’m tired of you showing up half drunk, arguing with the customers. Now clear out. I don’t want to see your face around here ever again.”

  A slow burn started in Scott’s chest. Ross. It was all his fault. He lunged for Johnson and spun him around. “Ross. Where is he?”

  The manager shrugged his hands off. “Are you crazy?”

  “I said, where is he?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. Now beat it.” Johnson stepped through the doorway and slammed the door.

  “Wait! You owe me money!” Scott grabbed the doorknob and shook it. Locked. Turning, he stumbled out of the alley and rounded the corner of the building. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he leaned against the wall. When he straightened, a lone figure walked in the distance.

  Ross.

  Nick reclined in seat 3-A and stretched his calves. Legroom alone made up for the extra cost in first class. And if he got the right seatmate, maybe he could nap through most of the flight to Memphis and have the energy to start looking for his brother when he deplaned. If Taylor found Scott first, she’d probably have him slapped in jail first and ask questions later. Not that she could, but she probably could make Scott’s life miserable.

  He’d spent half the night tossing and turning, rehashing his conversations with Taylor Martin and then with Deputy Thornton, who wasn’t as convinced of Scott’s guilt as the professor. Nick still didn’t like the deputy, or the disdain he seemed to have about Taylor’s work, but at least the guy didn’t want to put his brother in jail.

  The only real tie between Taylor and his brother was the bracelet charged to Scott’s credit card, and even that could be questioned. No one could identify Scott as the buyer since it was a phone order. Besides, if he was stalking her, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put the gift on his credit card. More and more, Nick was certain someone had stolen Scott’s credit card or even bought the card in his name and was using it to frame his brother.

  Except . . . there was the Memphis zip code on the envelope . . . and the poem. He should have told Thornton it came from one of his short stories. No. If Nick told anyone, it’d be Taylor. Right after he found Scott and got some answers from his brother.

  “Pardon me, but is this 3-B, young man?”

  Nick turned toward the aisle. The soft voice matched its owner. Azure eyes peered from a face etched with years of living and were just a shade darker than her blue-rinsed hair. A faint memory of his grandmother stirred. He glanced at the boarding pass in her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s your seat,” he said.

  “Wonderful.” She plopped in the seat beside him. “I’ve been worried silly about who I’d be seated next to, but I can tell by looking at you, I can quit worrying.”

  Nick saw his nap disappearing. Still, he smiled at her.

  “Do you fly often?” he asked as she settled in.

  “First time ever. Going to see my miracle grandson in Memphis. Laurie was thirty-nine when she learned she was expecting.”

  “Congratulations.” Nick wasn’t sure if the pride in her voice reflected the new grandson or courage in flying. Probably a little of both.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d make the gate on time.” She clapped her hands together. “Just wait until I tell my daughter TSA wanded and patted me down because of my new hip. There I was, honey, passing through that metal detector gate and it starts beeping like crazy. Laurie will roll on the floor laughing.”

  He chuckled at the image of this petite granny being searched. He bet it was one time TSA wished they’d accepted the hip explanation. “I’m glad you passed.”

  A commotion at the boarding door turned both their heads. Nick gaped as Taylor wrestled her luggage through the opening.

  “Thank goodness, I made it,” Taylor said to the flight attendant.

  He tried to catch her eye as she came toward him, but she had her gaze glued to the row of seats on the right aisle.

  He couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t mentioned flying to Memphis yesterday. Had she really hopped a plane just to track down his brother?

  He had to talk to her, convince her to work with him instead of against him. In your dreams, buddy, not after yesterday. Nick winced at the voice of his conscience. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. But Taylor Martin was so . . . inflexible. Maybe if he took a different approach—charming instead of rude. A wild idea sprouted and took root.

  As soon as the “fasten seat belt” sign flashed off, Nick unbuckled and grabbed his computer. He walked toward the middle of the plane where Taylor sat in a window seat, rubbing her left shoulder. In the aisle seat, a twentyish mother nestled a baby against her chest, her eyes glued to a paperback. Desire in the Wind.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The mother looked up from the book, and Nick’s mind went blank. He scrambled for the right words. “Um, would you consider changing places with me for the flight? I’m in first class . . .” He ignored the astonished expression on Taylor’s face. “But I’d like to sit with my friend.”

  “First class? Are you kidding?” Surprise crossed the young mother’s face and quickly morphed into a yes.

  Taylor gaped at him. She started to shake her head. The girl looked from Nick to Taylor and back to Nick. Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, I know what happened. I bet you two had an argument.” She beamed at Nick. “And you want to apologize and make up.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “No, I promise—”

  “It’s not like that at all,” said Nick.

  “It doesn’t matter.” The mother shifted the baby in her lap and unbuckled her seat belt. “This is too good to pass up. Besides, I’m not coming between lovers.”

  “Really, we’re not.” Nick grabbed the woman’s diaper bag. Protesting only made it worse. “But there is a new grandmother in first class I think you’ll love meeting.”

  As Nick settled in beside her, Taylor edged closer to the window but couldn’t escape the clean, cottony scent of his aftershave. She couldn’t believe he’d gone along with the story her seatmate had fabricated and had actually changed seats. She turned toward him.

  “You let her believe we had a . . . a relationship.”

  At least he had the grace to blush.

  “You heard me, I tried to tell her.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “Well, you didn’t mention you were flying to Memphis today.”

  Warmth spread through her chest as his gaze held hers. It’d be so easy to get lost in those eyes. She’d never noticed the green and blue flecks before. Against her will, her focus drew to his chiseled jaw and then to his full, sensuous lips. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, and she tried to recall the last thing he’d said. Something about flying. Oh. “I decided to fly home after you left.”

  “To find Scott?”

  “Uh, no.” She shot him the look she reserved for arrogant freshmen. Once more a blush crept up his neck.

  “I did it again.” He dropped his gaze
. “That’s why I wanted to change seats—so I could apologize for yesterday. I thought this way would be a little more private.”

  She snorted. “Sure. Now everyone within five rows thinks we’re in love.”

  “Okay, so now I have three things to apologize for—embarrassing you and being nosey today and my rudeness yesterday. I’m sorry.” He tilted his head. “Accepted?”

  Somehow Taylor didn’t think he was sorry about today. To her surprise, she didn’t care. She hadn’t looked forward to the long flight to Memphis, and especially so after finding out the baby was teething. At least she wouldn’t feel bad telling Nick she didn’t want to talk, might even get satisfaction out of it. “Apology accepted, on one condition—no arguing about Scott.”

  “Deal.” He hesitated. “Can we talk civilly about him?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “And for the record, Scott isn’t the reason for my trip home—not to say I won’t try and find him.” Nick didn’t have to know that Livy was looking for his brother even as they flew. She turned her attention to the refreshment cart as it rattled past their seat.

  “Coffee? Or a soda?” The attendant waited for their order.

  “Coffee,” she replied

  “Sprite for me and a bag of pretzels.”

  Taylor accepted the cup and a napkin and sipped the black brew. Strong. She blotted her lips and shifted in her seat toward Nick. Questions hovered in his green-flecked eyes. Questions she didn’t want to answer, she was sure. Maybe she could get him to talk about himself. Men liked to do that. “So, you grew up in Memphis.”

  “Yep.” He popped open the tiny package of pretzels and offered her one.

  “Never thought about leaving for somewhere like New York City?” Taylor asked.

  “Nope.” He wrapped his napkin around his soda. “My turn with a question. How did a Southern girl end up teaching college so far from her roots?”

  So much for directing conversation away from herself. “Hmm.” She munched on the pretzel. “I couldn’t wait to get away from Logan Point. Left for New York University the summer I finished high school. After getting my bachelor’s degree, I enrolled at Florida State University in a dual master’s and doctorate program in forensic psychology. That led to working with law enforcement, and that’s how Conway learned about me. They offered me a position teaching criminal psychology.”

  “But Conway is so small,” he said. “How did you transition into teaching something as specialized as victim profiling?”

  “Conway was bought out by Seattle University the first year I taught. They expanded Conway’s programs and offered me the opportunity to create a pilot program on victimology, one based on the methods I used while working with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”

  “I remember Sheriff Atkins mentioning your fame as a victim profiler. In Georgia?”

  She tilted her head toward him. “Are you sure you want to hear all of this?”

  He nodded. Taylor Martin intrigued him, and he couldn’t quite figure her out. Maybe if he knew more of her background . . .

  She took a deep breath. “Three years ago, there was a series of murders in Atlanta. Prostitutes. I was working for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, actually FDLE is where I did my research project for my doctorate, and afterwards they gave me a job. Anyway, because of a couple of cases I worked on, the GBI requested, and I was loaned out to them. To make a long story short, my victim profiles led to the serial killer.”

  “I remember that case.” He sipped the Sprite. “Your family—what did they think about you working on a serial murder?”

  “They don’t have a clue I worked on that case. It would worry my mother to death if she knew. She thinks I only teach psychology.”

  “You weren’t in the news on that case?”

  She held up her hands. “No. I stayed in the background. But my work caught Seattle University’s eye, and that’s how I came to teach victimology at Conway.”

  “Very interesting. One more question.”

  She waited expectantly.

  “How did you lose your Southern accent?”

  “I worked really hard to get rid of it, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You know, there’s no shame in being from the South.”

  Heat blazed across her cheeks as her ex-fiancé’s words rang in her ears. With that accent, people will think you’re stupid. “Never said I was ashamed, but I’ve found in educational circles a certain bias against a Southern accent.”

  “Then you missed a good chance to prove them wrong.” He popped the last pretzel in his mouth. “Why couldn’t you wait to get away from home?”

  Fire started in Scott’s stomach and washed upward to his throat, pushing him out of a drugged sleep. He rolled over and threw up on the wet grass. Where was he? And who was pounding that jackhammer against his head?

  Scott swallowed back another wave of nausea as sweat ran down his face. He needed water . . . or something stronger. He cracked open an eye and immediately closed it against the light.

  “When you dance, you have to pay the piper.”

  Shut up, Nick.

  Don’t let me be in a public place. Scott struggled to a sitting position against a huge tree and used his hands to shade his eyes. A silver pole shimmered straight up to a ball. A flag pole. Slowly his vision adjusted to the light, and he looked around. A huge pencil on the ground. An orange lion. He rubbed his eyes. Was he still drunk? He cracked his eyelids and saw a white iron sign. Peabody School. A groan escaped Scott’s cracked lips. He’d sunk to a new low, passing out on a school playground. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember how he got here.

  Thinking hurt, but slowly memories surfaced. He’d followed Ross. Shadows . . . fighting . . . The jackhammer pounded against his temple. With the morning heat wrapping around him, Scott crawled to the flagpole, used it to pull himself up, then stumbled to a covered walkway. His mouth tasted like he’d been eating with hogs. Pretty sure he smelled like it too. Had to be a water fountain around here somewhere. He staggered around a corner and froze. “Ohh.”

  A body lay sprawled across the walkway, face up.

  Scott crept closer.

  The blank expression. Unseeing eyes fixed on the sky.

  Ross.

  Dead.

  6

  Taylor’s eyes darkened to almost violet and flashed a back-off warning. Were they destined to cross swords on every topic? Although Nick would have to admit this time was his fault. He’d crossed a line—her life was none of his business. Except for a brief second, he’d seen a pain so deep it pierced him like an arrow and made him want to help her. Another thought worked its way through his mind, numbing his brain. Taylor reminded him of Angie. Not her looks, although she was ever-so-easy on the eyes in that red sweater. No, her raven-black hair and porcelain skin were totally unlike Angie’s coppery curls and freckles.

  It was more in the way she listened to him. Like Angie, she focused in on what he was saying. And Taylor stuck to her guns just like Angie when she believed she was in the right. Made for some unwinnable arguments . . . but Angie always challenged him to reach deeper. How he missed that.

  Right now he owed Taylor an apology. Again. He unwrapped the white napkin from his drink and waved it. “I surrender. I should not be prying. How about a do-over?”

  “You want a do-over? I haven’t heard that expression since I was a kid.”

  Nick laughed. “But it always worked, and that last question bordered on being nosey. Again.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “How can I make it up to you?”

  “Let me see . . .” A gleam lit her eyes. “Tell me about Nick Sinclair. What makes you tick?”

  She drove a hard bargain. He thought a minute. “My writing, a camp for troubled boys, the blues. There’s something about the beat that just gets in your blood.”

  Taylor’s lips tightened. “My dad liked the blues, played the saxophone.” She picked at a spot on her jeans. “
You mentioned the boys’ camp on A.M. News. Tell me about it.”

  Evidently her dad fell into the off-limit category as well. He shifted his thoughts to the camp. “Originally it was my wife’s dream way before we had the money to accomplish it. I caught it after Scott’s trouble with drugs and alcohol started. He’d moved out, and it almost killed my wife. He’d lived with us since my dad and Scott’s mom were killed in an accident.”

  “I didn’t know Scott had lost his mom,” Taylor said. “What about his dad?”

  “Never met him. When my dad married Cecelia, he gave Scott his last name.”

  “How old was Scott when he moved out?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And you were okay with that?”

  “I didn’t have a lot of choice. Scott threatened to take us to court to become an emancipated minor, and I didn’t want to go through a nasty court battle.” It’d been hard enough dealing with Angie’s depression over miscarrying their baby.

  “So, your dad brought home a new wife and baby. That couldn’t have been easy for you. You were what, a teenager, and suddenly you have a little brother?”

  “Yeah, almost thirteen.” He smiled, remembering. “Actually, I wanted a mom so bad I gladly put up with a three-year-old. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but Scott was always a good kid . . . until he started drinking. Four years ago, all I knew about addictions came from a book. Scott’s dependency educated me pretty quick.”

  “Four years ago? He was so young. Where’d he get the money?”

  “Trust fund his grandfather left him. After that, trouble found Scott, not the other way around. With trust money jingling in his pocket, he attracted bad friends like a sunken ship attracts barnacles.”

  “Wow.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I didn’t know.”

  “I wish we could work together to find him. You know, combine your talents with my investigator.”

  “We’ll see,” Taylor said. “You were saying about the camp . . .”

  When Nick was a kid, “we’ll see” meant no. He’d have to change that, if he could figure out how. “Since we couldn’t help Scott, we decided we’d try to help someone else—inner-city boys who might not realize there were options besides gangs and drugs. Angie did the research and planning. Came up with a name—the Walls of Jericho.”