by Gail Barrett
To her relief, the receptionist returned just then with a short, dark-haired woman in tow. “Good afternoon. I’m Ruth Gibson.” The director reached out to shake their hands, her level gaze and no-nonsense manner indicating a woman used to taking charge. She ushered them into her office and motioned toward the armchairs beside the desk. “Please have a seat.”
Brynn pulled out the chair beside Parker and sat, then surreptitiously glanced around, taking in the map covering the back wall, the whiteboard displaying cabin assignments—information she was dying to see. She swept her gaze over the awards dotting the walls to the corner file cabinet behind the desk. A framed photo stood on top.
It was a photo of her.
She gaped at it in horror, so shocked she could hardly breathe. But it was her, all right. She was eight years old, fishing with her stepfather at Deep Creek Lake.
Now what was she going to do?
“You look familiar,” the director said, taking her seat behind the desk. “Have we met before?”
Oh, God. This was all she needed, for the director to recognize her. And what if Parker noticed the photo? How would she explain it to him?
Praying that neither would look toward the file cabinet, she tried to sound offhand. “I don’t think so. I’m sure I would have remembered.”
Mrs. Gibson nodded, but speculation lingered in her eyes. She folded her manicured hands on her desk. “So how can I help you?”
While Parker answered, Brynn struggled to gather her composure and play her part. She should have anticipated this. Her stepfather had founded this camp because of her—or so he claimed. Of course he would display her photo. It helped him maintain the charade.
She couldn’t let Parker see it. He would recognize her stepfather at once. Hugh Hoffman was a colonel in the Baltimore Police Department, head of the Criminal Investigation Division, for heaven’s sake. He was famous in the community, thanks to this camp and his connection to Senator Riggs. And while her appearance had obviously changed, Parker might still notice the resemblance. He was far too astute.
But maybe he would miss it. From where he sat, there was a spider plant blocking his view. If she could just keep the director from making the connection until they were gone...
“How old is she?” the director asked when Parker had finished telling her about their “niece.”
“Fifteen.” Parker paused convincingly. “We aren’t sure what to do. We’ve tried counseling, but it hasn’t worked. We heard great things about your program and thought we’d check it out.”
“Of course.” Getting down to business, the director handed them each a set of glossy brochures. “This is a residential program for at-risk youth. The courses we run vary in length, from several months for the older teenagers to shorter sessions for younger kids. Our goal is simple, to help them understand the cause of their negative behaviors, such as their drug use or poor choice in friends.
“Our advantage here is the setting. Removing a child from her home environment forces her to adjust. We help her change in a good way, to learn positive coping skills she can apply to other areas of her life.”
Pretending to focus on the director’s spiel, Brynn flipped through the slick brochures. She had to appear attentive. She couldn’t give Mrs. Gibson any reason to scrutinize her and wonder where she’d seen her before.
The director continued talking, covering the importance of family involvement, the technology that enabled parents to follow their child’s progress at the camp online. Brynn wanted to dislike the camp, but in truth it sounded great. The director was intelligent and concerned. She looked and sounded sincere. And the program appeared top-notch.
“You say the children spend several months here?” Parker asked when she paused.
“The older ones do. It takes time for them to incorporate the lessons they learn. The setting speeds up the process, but change still doesn’t happen overnight. Our younger kids, the ten- to fourteen-year-olds, come for shorter lengths of time. We run those sessions throughout the year. The next one starts up in a couple of weeks.”
Mrs. Gibson handed them each another brochure. “Here you’ll find some sample schedules.”
Parker shifted forward, drawing Brynn’s gaze as the director launched into another speech. He sat with his forearms braced on his knees, his eyes locked on the director’s face as if hanging on every word. And a sudden wistfulness curled inside her, the desire to believe that he really cared.
She mentally rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t care. This was an act, a ploy to get information about the camp.
But he’d worried about his brother. He’d tried to save Tommy’s life.
“Could we get references?” Parker asked. “I’d like to talk to some parents who’ve sent their kids here recently and find out what they think.”
“Certainly. We can provide you with a list of families who’ve given us permission to release their names. I’ll have the receptionist print that out. You’ll also find testimonials on our website and in the brochure.”
“I’d like to hear more about your activities,” Brynn cut in, determined to get to the point so they could leave. “Our niece is very artistic. Do you offer painting or jewelry design?”
“We do.” The director swiveled around, pulled a three-ring binder off a low shelf beneath the window and paged through. Then she handed the open binder to Brynn.
Parker leaned closer to see. Brynn struggled to ignore his nearness, the way his solid shoulder bumped against hers. Trying not to look affected, she thumbed through pictures of teens using a potter’s wheel, developing photographs in a darkroom and painting beside a stream.
When Mrs. Gibson launched into a discussion of outcome studies, Brynn passed Parker the notebook and sat back. So the camp offered art classes. That didn’t prove the necklace came from here. But neither did it rule it out.
Regardless, she needed more concrete information if she hoped to learn how Erin had died. She had to find out how often her stepfather came here, get a look at those cabin assignments—uncover something that could lead to a clue.
Her opportunity came a moment later when the receptionist knocked on the office door. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, directing her words to her boss. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” Her smile apologetic, Mrs. Gibson rose. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back. Feel free to look through the photos while I’m gone. I’ll get that list of names for you, too.” She left and closed the door.
“You have your cell phone?” Brynn asked Parker.
“Yeah.”
“Can you get a picture of that map and whiteboard?” She gestured toward the back wall. “I’m going to check the desk.”
Not waiting for an answer, she beelined to the corner file cabinet. She snuck a quick glance back, relieved to see Parker heading across the room. Then she flipped the photo over and shoved it behind the plant. Breathing easier now, she tested the drawers of the file cabinet, but they were locked.
She had no better luck at the desk. The computer was password-protected. The desktop was absurdly neat with no appointment book in sight. Growing desperate, she opened the top desk drawer and rifled through the papers, then started on the next.
In the bottom drawer she hit pay dirt—a digital camera, the same brand she used, lying atop a stack of brochures. Working quickly, she removed the memory card and slipped it into her pocket, then stuffed the camera back into the drawer.
Knowing the director could return any moment, she hurried back to her chair. “Did you get the pictures?” she asked, slightly breathless, as Parker retook his seat.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” They could examine those after they left.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I found a camera and took out the memory card.”
“What good will that do?”
She gestured to the three-ring binder on the desk. “These photos are for show. I want to see what goes on behi
nd the scenes, the shots they didn’t print.”
He took that in. “So what do you think of the camp?”
“Typical sales pitch. She reels you in, trying to hook you on the camp before she springs the price.”
“I doubt most parents care about that.”
“Unless they’re rich, they do.”
He shook his head. “They’re too desperate.” He picked up the three-ring binder and flipped through the pages, stopping on a photo taken at the course’s end. A girl was crying and hugging her parents, and the love and joy on their faces wrenched even Brynn’s jaded heart.
“These parents have been through hell,” Parker continued. “They’ve tried everything to save their child. By the time they get here, they’ll pay anything. They’ll mortgage the house, take out a loan, do whatever it takes.”
The sudden pain in his eyes drew her attention, and she realized he was talking about himself. He’d been that desperate. He’d tried everything he could think of to save his brother’s life. And he thought he’d failed.
But Tommy had died because of her.
Unable to bear Parker’s scrutiny, she looked away. But she couldn’t deny the truth. She’d killed Tommy McCall as surely as if she’d fired that gun.
“Wouldn’t you pay anything?” he prodded.
“Of course.” A dull ache lodged in her throat. A terrible weight pressed on her chest, making it hard to breathe. But as much as she wanted to ignore it, she couldn’t deny the evidence staring her straight in the face. Parker had loved his brother. He blamed himself for Tommy’s death. And she had no right to make him continue to suffer for something he didn’t do. She had to confess her role in that awful affair.
Because Parker was a decent man. He was loyal, protective. The kind of man a person could depend on. The kind of man who’d spent fifteen years trying to track down his brother’s killer, refusing to give up. The kind of man she’d once fantasized about.
The fact was, there were good men in the world, honorable, trustworthy men who sheltered their children and loved their wives. Tommy had been like that. Parker appeared to be the same. Just because she’d had a lousy childhood, just because she’d witnessed the worst depravity on the streets didn’t mean those good men didn’t exist.
They just didn’t exist for her.
The door swung open, interrupting her thoughts. Brynn struggled to compose herself, to ignore the pain roiling deep in her soul. Her past didn’t matter now. She’d made peace with her life long ago. And she no longer yearned for things she could never have—like love.
“Sorry about that,” Mrs. Gibson said, retaking her seat behind the desk. “Did you have any other questions?”
Still feeling raw, Brynn met the director’s gaze. But the woman’s carefully modulated voice, that annoyingly pleasant smile pushed her over the edge. She was so damned tired of the unfairness, so damned tired of the hypocrisy of people like this director who pretended to lead such respectable lives—while ignoring the evil in their midst.
“Just one,” Brynn said, an edge to her voice. “What’s your safety record here?”
“Excellent. We have a nurse practitioner on-site full-time. The injury rate is what you’d expect at an active camp, the occasional sprains and cuts. But serious injuries are rare.”
“That’s not what I meant. I heard you recently had a suicide.”
The director went still, her professional smile freezing in place. “I can’t discuss an individual case,” she said, her eyes like ice. “But we do a complete evaluation of the children before we accept them in our program. We consult with everyone involved—social workers, counselors, school psychologists. And unless they’re cleared clinically and medically, we don’t allow them to come.”
She folded her hands on the desk, her knuckles turning white. “I’m not going to lie. These children are troubled, and we can’t always predict how they’ll react. If they have medical issues that could complicate their progress, say, bipolar disorder or depression, they need to address that with their pediatrician before they attend the camp.”
And what if the child wasn’t the sick one? What if the problem was at the camp?
Brynn opened her mouth to argue, but Parker caught hold of her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibson. You’ve been an enormous help. You’ve given us a lot to think about.”
The director rose as well, her smile back in place—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s not an easy decision. Not every child belongs in a residential program like this. Read the brochures, visit our website. It explains the program in depth. If you’re still interested, we’ll be happy to make an appointment and introduce you to the staff.”
His hand hovering at the small of her back, Parker guided Brynn out the door. Then he frog-marched her to the parking lot. “What was that about?” he demanded when they reached his truck.
Still struggling to control her temper, Brynn clutched her stack of brochures. “I got tired of listening to her sales pitch. She sounded like some kind of infomercial, making everything sound so ideal.”
“She’s the director. It’s her job to promote the place. And why shouldn’t she brag? The camp’s reputation is great.”
“That’s just it. It’s too good.” She gestured toward the office. “Look at this place. There’s no peeling paint, no weeds growing around the bushes. Nothing’s out of place.” It even smelled like the perfect camp—a faint trace of wood smoke mingling with the scent of the pines. “It’s like some fairy-tale version of rehab. I wanted to shake her up.”
“Yeah, you did that. I doubt she’ll forget us anytime soon.”
Oh, God. He was right. She’d made them memorable, and not in a positive way.
And for what? Exactly what had she accomplished here? Sure, she’d found a map and a camera’s memory card, but they might not yield any clues. And at what cost? The director would remember her now. The minute she went to her file cabinet, she’d make the connection—and tip her stepfather off.
Suddenly feeling deflated, Brynn sagged back against the truck. Maybe she’d been wrong to come here. Maybe she was mistaken about Erin’s death. Maybe she was simply too biased against her stepfather to accept the truth—that Erin Walker had taken drugs, then suffered an accident or killed herself, just as the autopsy report said.
She rubbed the dull ache forming between her eyes. Because even though she hated to admit it, the program did sound great. The staff seemed committed to helping those troubled kids.
“I’m sorry. I know it was dumb to provoke her. It’s just...I keep thinking that something’s off. That Erin’s death wasn’t what it seemed.”
Parker leaned back against the truck beside her and crossed his arms. For a long moment he didn’t answer. The cool breeze ruffled his hair. Dried leaves rustled over the ground. A chipmunk watched them from a nearby tree stump, then picked up a nut and scurried away.
Parker turned his head to meet her gaze. “You really think that girl was murdered?”
“I don’t know.”
“But that’s what you think.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I think.”
He lapsed into silence again. A long moment later, he dragged his hand down his face. “There’s no evidence.”
“I know. But something else is going on here. I’m sure of it, Parker. I just can’t prove it yet.”
His gaze swung back to hers. Several seconds ticked by. His scrutiny made her uneasy, the intensity in his eyes making it impossible to breathe.
And, suddenly, she suspected he knew more than he’d let on—about her relationship to her stepfather, about her troubled childhood, about the horrific abuse that drove her from home. That he was simply biding his time—like the trained interrogator he was—waiting for her to confess the truth.
She couldn’t believe how tempted she was to do just that—to forget that he was a cop, to ignore the danger hounding her footsteps and tell him the unvarnished truth.
But t
hen, his expression changed. His eyes were just as intense, but hotter, more hypnotic, like whirlpools dragging her under—in a decidedly sensual way.
Her pulse battered her throat. He pushed away from the truck and moved even closer, trapping her against the cab. And that insane attraction rippled between them, that unruly maelstrom of need.
Her breath backed up in her lungs. Her belly tightened, acute tremors of excitement tripping along her nerves. She tore her gaze from his jet-black eyes to the black stubble shadowing his granite jaw, and stalled on his gripping mouth. Then he reached out and stroked his finger down her cheek, sending a torrent of pleasure streaming through her veins.
Was he going to kiss her?
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest. And for a wild moment she wondered if she should push him away—or pull him close.
But then a gunshot erupted in the distance, jarring her back to earth. Hunters. A reminder that predators prowled in the forest—like the enemies pursuing her.
Parker stepped away. “We’d better go.”
“Right.” Somehow, she managed to breathe. But as she climbed into the truck, her pulse still wildly out of rhythm, she had the feeling that something had changed inside her. A decade of survival instincts were now at war with her heart.
And for the first time, she didn’t know which would win.
Chapter 7
He’d nearly kissed a potential suspect.
Parker leaned against his kitchen counter in his condo on the outskirts of Baltimore a short time later, unable to believe what he’d just done. He knew he had to stay detached. He knew he had to keep a level head. And yet he’d ignored his protesting conscience, let his hormones override his judgment and nearly blown his impartiality to shreds. If that gunshot hadn’t stopped him, he would have violated every principle he believed in—his oath of honor, the police officer’s code of ethics, the high moral standards that had kept him from becoming his father’s clone.
