Giving himself a hard mental shake, Nick stepped back. “What were you doing up there, anyway?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.” Pursing her lips, she turned and walked into the kitchen.
Nick didn’t follow. He stood in the utility room a moment longer, silently reprimanding himself for getting caught up in a moment he had no business getting caught up in. There was no way he was going to let himself get sucked in by her female charms.
Instead of following her into the kitchen, he’d cleared the garage and called a report in to B.J. By the time he met her inside, he felt more in control. She stood at the counter, setting a kettle on the stove.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
She turned to him. The fear in her eyes had vanished, replaced by determination. “I found a notebook in the attic.”
“What kind of notebook?”
“There were details about missing women inside. Notes, I think.”
He considered that a moment. “Your parents?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t recognize the handwriting.”
“What did the notes say, exactly?”
She relayed snippets of notes and newspaper articles that didn’t make much sense. “Any idea what that means?”
“No idea,” he said. “It’s almost as if someone was doing research on missing persons. Missing women who’d disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
Nick thought the scenario she’d pieced together was a stretch, but he didn’t say as much. “Your parents were actors. Your father was a producer. They dealt with writers. Movie scripts.”
“This was no script.”
“What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. Research, maybe.” As if suddenly restless, she strode to the dining room. “I wish I had a better answer.”
“Sara, where are you going with this?”
She stopped midway to the patio door. Because the water had begun to boil, Nick removed the kettle from the flame.
The sound of her gasp spun him around. Sara stood frozen in the dining room, staring down at the floor.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Nick rushed to her and followed her gaze. The hairs at his nape prickled when he spotted the muddy footsteps leading from the deck into the house.
Chapter Six
“Maybe you ought to sit down and tell me everything. No holding out.”
Sara slid into the chair opposite Nick and sighed. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“The beginning is usually a pretty good place.”
Setting her hands on the table before her, she gathered her thoughts. “Two days ago I received an anonymous phone call telling me my father was not a murderer.”
“Was the voice male or female?”
“I don’t know. It sounded…electronically altered.”
“Those devices can be purchased on the Internet for under a hundred dollars.” His expression remained impassive. “Go on.”
Quickly, she gave him the details of the call. “He said there was information that would vindicate my father.”
“What information? Did he give details?”
“He wasn’t specific.”
“How do you know the call wasn’t some kind of prank?”
She considered that a moment, trying not to feel foolish. “Gut, mostly.” She bit her lip. “He called me again this morning.”
“What did he say?”
Sara’s heart was pounding when she picked up her cup of coffee and sipped. “He told me I had seen the killer that night.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes. “Did you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“But it’s possible?”
She nodded. “I’ve spent years trying to remember everything that happened that night. I went through years of psychotherapy. I even underwent hypnosis.”
“To no avail.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What else did the caller say?”
Sara debated whether to tell him everything. The voice had told her not to trust anyone. But there was something about Nick that made her want to confide in him, trust him.
She set down the cup. “The caller mentioned a manuscript.”
“You think the notes you found in the attic have something to do with this missing manuscript?”
“Maybe.”
His brows snapped together. “What kind of manuscript?”
“He didn’t say.” Her gaze latched onto his. “Nick, your father was a true-crime writer.”
“He was a plumber who published two true-crime novels, neither of which made much more than a ripple in the publishing world.”
Uncle Nicholas, the plumber, had forged an unlikely friendship with her parents, the proverbial Hollywood couple. The memory always made her smile. “He was a nice man.”
“A good man.”
“You look like him.”
One side of his mouth curved. “I get that a lot.”
She thought of the notes she’d found in the attic. “Nick, I think the notes may have been his.”
“Why would his notes be here? He did most of his writing in the bungalow.”
“My parents and your father were friends. Good friends. Maybe he left them here.”
“Tell me about the notes.”
“I only had a minute or so to look at them before the lights went out.” Even now, the memory of that moment made her shudder. “It appeared as if someone had written down the names and circumstances regarding the disappearances of several women.”
“Do you recall any of the names?”
The question sparked a memory. “Jenna…something. Sherman. No…Sherwood.”
Nick pulled a small spiral pad from his shirt pocket and jotted the name down. “I can run that name through the Missing and Unidentified Persons Unit database and see if anything pops.”
Hope coursed through Sara at the thought of information that wasn’t based on hearsay or loosely pieced-together theory. “Was your father working on a book at the time of his death?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I was twelve. I was always intrigued by his work, but Mom never talked about him after that night.”
“Maybe we could talk to her.”
“I think you should stay away from Laurel,” he cut in.
Remembering her confrontation with his mother, Sara touched the sore spot on her cheek. “She might be able to shed some light on this.”
“Being able and being willing are two different things.”
“Maybe if you talked to her.”
He grimaced, as if the idea left a sour taste in his mouth. “She was never the same after Dad died. She’s never talked about it, even when I asked. But I’ll give it a shot.”
“Thank you. I know that won’t be easy for you.”
“Or her.”
Sara picked up her cup to sip, but the coffee had gone bitter on her tongue. “I went to the library when I was in town earlier.”
He shot her a dark look as if knowing she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.
Sara didn’t care. “The Cape Darkwood Press ran a lot of stories on…the crime after it happened.”
“Sensational stories sell newspapers.”
“There was a photo in one of the stories of my mother and your father sitting at an outdoor café. To the biased eye, it might have looked like an intimate moment between lovers.” She took a deep breath. “The reporter played up that angle. On the table between them, there was a manuscript.”
His gaze sharpened on hers. “Based on that photo, you’re telling me you think there is, indeed, a missing manuscript?”
“I think it’s a possibility we should look into.” Realizing what she’d said, Sara amended her statement. “I should look into.”
“Even if you find the manuscript, what do you expect to accomplish?”
“The caller mentioned a manuscript. Maybe it’s tied to the killi
ngs.” But she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. More than anything, Sara wanted to vindicate her father of murder and suicide, her mother of infidelity. “I just want to know what happened that night. I want to know why it happened.”
“Look, the police did a thorough investigation. I have access to the reports. I’ve gone over them a dozen times.”
“I’m not suggesting the case was botched.”
“You’re making it sound like some sort of conspiracy.”
“Or maybe someone manipulated the scene.”
“Are you intimating that someone killed our parents and made it look like a murder-suicide?”
It sounded crazy, even to her. Like the desperate attempts to salvage the reputation of someone whose name was tainted with unforgivable sin. “I think that’s a possibility.”
Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
Sara tried to ignore the intimate rasp of callus over whiskers, but didn’t quite manage. “What about you? Do you think your father and my mother were…involved?”
Nick looked uncomfortable, then shook his head. “From what I know about my father, it doesn’t seem likely. He was a good, honest man. A family man. But he was also human with human weaknesses. From all accounts—”
“And you’re all too willing to believe the status quo.”
He frowned. “Let’s just say I’ve never been a fan of conspiracy theories.”
“Nick, put all of this together and I think the entire case warrants another look.”
“On the word of some anonymous caller?”
“There’s something going on. I don’t know what. But someone called me. Someone left that message on my car window. And someone was definitely in the house tonight. Strange that all they took were those notes.” She met his gaze. “You’re the cop. Tell me that doesn’t warrant a little suspicion.”
“If you think of it in terms of motive, means and opportunity, the fourth-person theory doesn’t hold water. If your father wasn’t the shooter and someone orchestrated a cover-up twenty years ago, what was their motive?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve barely begun to dig.”
“Who would have a motive for wanting to expose a twenty-year-old crime now?”
“Someone with a conscience?”
“Maybe.” But he didn’t look convinced.
Restless and frustrated, Sara rose and carried her cup to the sink. “Why would someone call me? Why bring me back into this after all this time?”
“If there was a fourth person that night, maybe you saw them. Maybe they think you can identify them. Maybe you’re a loose end he can’t live with anymore.”
The words sent a chill all the way to her bones. For the first time since she’d arrived, Sara felt vulnerable. Nick must have noticed because he rose and crossed to her, setting his own cup in the sink. “Look, if you’re right and things didn’t go down the way the police said they did, maybe this is about silencing the only witness. Have you thought of that?”
She turned to him. “If someone wanted me gone, they’ve had ample opportunity to do it. That first night, for example. I was here. Alone. Why scrawl some ridiculous message on my car? For God’s sake, he was in the house tonight. He could have easily…” To her surprise, she couldn’t complete the sentence.
“Killed you?” he finished.
The words turned her blood to ice. But she didn’t let herself dwell on the rising tide of fear. She hadn’t traveled all the way from San Diego to cower at the first sign of trouble. “So you’re admitting there’s a possibility that the police were wrong?”
“I’m admitting something you should be admitting to yourself. For whatever reason, someone doesn’t want you poking around in this.”
“But someone does. The caller.” She smiled, but it felt brittle on her face. “All the more reason to poke, don’t you think?”
“Unless poking gets you into trouble.”
But Sara accepted the reality that she was going to have to start thinking about her personal safety. When she’d received the call back in San Diego, the thought that she could be placing herself in danger never crossed her mind. Even the bizarre message written on her car window hadn’t been enough to stop her. Tonight, however, being locked in the attic and having the notes stolen practically from her hands had shaken her badly. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. The only thing she knew for certain was that she wasn’t going to let it stop her from finding out what had really happened to her parents that night.
“What are you going to do to keep yourself safe?”
The question snapped her attention back to Nick. He looked slightly belligerent standing there, his dark eyes probing hers with such intensity that she had to look away.
“I’ll keep the doors locked,” she said. “I’ll stay aware. Keep my cell phone handy. Watch my back.”
Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not good enough.”
“Look, I realize this isn’t an ideal situation—”
“It’s a hell of a lot worse than that. For God’s sake, someone broke into your house. They accosted you in the attic and stole notes that may or may not have anything to do with any of this. It could have turned out a lot worse.”
“If you’re suggesting I hightail it back to San Diego with my tail between my legs, you have another thing coming. My father might have been murdered. If that’s the case, I owe it to him to clear his name.”
“If your father didn’t pull the trigger that night, it means someone in this town is guilty of triple murder.”
The words scraped up her spine like a cold fingertip. Nick must have noticed because for an instant, she thought he was going to cross to her, put his arms around her, comfort her. But he didn’t. Instead, his gaze hardened. He shook his head as if he were a teacher dealing with an unruly student. “It’s not safe for you to stay here by yourself.”
“I don’t have a choice,” she snapped.
“You could check into one of the bed-and-breakfasts in town.”
“Nick, I was going to do that. When the trip was still in the planning stage, I went out to the Internet to book reservations. That was when I found out your mother owns both B&Bs. I knew staying there would be…uncomfortable. Now I’m glad I listened to my instincts. In case you haven’t noticed, she hates me.” Remembering the ugly scene at the antique store, she sighed. “Besides, I’m going to look for the manuscript. If it’s here in this house, I’m going to find it.”
“That’s incredibly irresponsible.”
“Or maybe that’s just the way it is.”
“The manuscript may not even exist! Someone could be pulling your chain. Have you considered that?”
“Nick, I saw the manuscript. In the photo. I know it exists.”
“That could have been any manuscript.”
“Or it could be the key to what happened that night.” Sara crossed to the sink and grabbed a towel.
He shook his head as if at wit’s end. “I guess it would be way too reasonable to assume I can talk you out of staying up here by yourself.”
“That would be correct.” Striding to the French doors, she knelt and began to scrub the muddy footprints.
“I guess there’s only one way to handle it then.”
An odd sense of discomfort washed over her. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What’s that?”
“I’ll just have to spend the night with you.”
NICK CHIDED himself for volunteering for an assignment that was only going to bring him grief. He knew better than to get involved in some crazy crusade that would garner nothing more than disappointment and would possibly get Sara hurt in the process.
But it wasn’t his intellect that had gotten him into a position he didn’t want to be in. It was a bad case of neglected hormones that had him jumping into the fire feet first and thinking of the consequences after the fact. Hell of a thing considering he was not in the market for a woman, no matter how damn pretty. If he wasn’t careful, h
e might just get burned.
But Nick had always possessed some misplaced, testosterone-driven need to protect the female species. Even if the female in question didn’t want a damn thing to do with him. Sara Douglas with her gypsy eyes, curvy body and misplaced determination was no exception.
“Nick, you don’t have to do that.”
Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Maybe you’d rather take your chances with the guy who roughed you up and stole those notes.”
She looked away. “I don’t think he was out to hurt me. I think he wanted the notebook.”
Annoyed, he turned on her. “You’ve got to be kidding. If you’d put up a fight or gotten in his way, he might have gone into a rage and shot you.” The mere thought made him grit his teeth. “Are you willing to bet your life on that?”
She met his gaze levelly. “In case you’re not reading between the lines here, I need to see this through. Maybe it’s not safe. But life’s that way sometimes. Damn it, Nick, I can’t run away from this.”
Angry with himself, angry with her, Nick turned away and paced to the patio door. “Yeah, well, I don’t feel like sitting around doing nothing while you get yourself killed.”
She crossed to him, her eyes flashing, and planted her finger in his chest. “Don’t you dare try to manipulate me by scaring me.”
Nick braced, hating it because the reaction was more physical than intellectual. He refused to let his eyes sweep down the front of her. But her scent titillated his nose. The porcelain-white of her skin made his fingers itch to touch. The sheen of moisture on her lips made him hungry to taste her.
As if realizing the moment had turned into something she hadn’t expected, Sara stepped back. “I’m going to start looking for that manuscript.”
Nick watched her walk away, berating himself for enjoying the view just a little too much. “What the hell are you thinking?” he muttered and followed.
He found her in the formal dining room. Nick could tell by her expression she was remembering.
“I spent a lot of time here when I was a kid,” she said. “My mom and dad liked to cook. Lots of fancy meals Sonia and I couldn’t pronounce. They loved to entertain. We got in the way a lot, but Mom and Dad seemed to love the chaos.”
In the Dead of Night Page 6
