by Regan Black
Laura shook her head. Not without eggs or milk. It was what she’d offered or nothing. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was so cold. She immediately looked down to see if Hannah had socks on. She did not. She reached down and scooped her up, then pretended to toss the little girl over her shoulder.
Hannah squealed in fun.
“You need slippers, little one.”
“Cold piggies,” Hannah said.
“Yes, you have cold piggies,” Laura said, rubbing the child’s soft feet. She carried her into the smaller bedroom and gently dumped her onto the bed. Then she opened the sack containing Hannah’s new clothes. She yanked at the thin plastic connecting the two slippers and once it broke, she put one on each foot. They were a little loose but it had been a pretty good guess.
She hoped she’d done as well with the rest of the clothes. She tore the tags off everything. It wasn’t as if she was able to take any of them back if they didn’t fit. They would have to do. “Here, sweetheart. Put this sweater on over your pajamas.”
The cabin was colder than it had been last night when they’d arrived. Laura had considered lighting the fireplace that took up almost one wall in the living room but had ultimately been too tired. It had been a struggle just to make the two beds with the linens that had been waiting in totes left at the footboards of both. There had been thick comforters and she’d been confident that Hannah would be warm enough.
But now she was going to have to get her act together. She needed to cut and darken Hannah’s hair and lighten her own.
“I want to watch TV,” Hannah said.
In her bedroom, there was a DVD player and about a thousand different titles, but she didn’t want Hannah to get used to the big screen. She’d be disappointed when they had to leave it behind. “You can watch my computer,” she said. She’d downloaded some movies that would keep the little girl entertained for a while.
The child nodded. Laura sighed. There would be so many compromises in the future. If only she could be assured that Hannah would be as accepting of all of them. But she couldn’t worry about it now. One day at a time.
When her good friend Melissa Trane had said Colorado mountain cabin, Laura had imagined a small space, probably a little rundown, maybe not primitive but certainly rugged. All the way from Tennessee, she prayed that the place wouldn’t be overrun with rodents. She’d thrown her dad’s old rifle in the trunk but had worried that she might have been better prepared if she’d included mousetraps.
Once she arrived, she realized that if there were mice here, they likely lived better than most people. The place was luxurious.
A little rested now, she was ready to explore.
The living room and kitchen was all one big space, but the furniture was oversized and arranged in such a way that it felt like two very separate areas. There were two couches in the living area, and she got Hannah settled on one of them with her computer. The couches sat in a V in front of the stone fireplace, with a big wooden end table between them. Both the couches were a rich brown leather with lots of comfy pillows. The rug on the glossy hardwood floor was a mix of browns and burgundies and gold that tied the space together.
In the middle of the dining area there was a big table. Lots of dark wood and six comfortable-looking fabric chairs in the same sort of colors that were in the living room. There was a runner down the middle with a gorgeous brown and gold blown glass bowl in the center.
The kitchen was what you’d expect to find in an upscale home, not in a cabin. Stainless steel appliances, big sink with a tall, arching faucet, and more rugs on the polished wood floor. Granite countertops and expensive-looking glass-fronted cabinets. Inside of them she could see plenty of dishes and glassware.
The only thing that seemed out of place was the rather plain telephone hanging on the wall—such a throwback to another time. She lifted the receiver, listened for the dial tone and smiled. It worked. How nice.
Not that she had anyone to call. She’d left her cell phone behind and had picked up a prepaid phone at the same time she’d purchased Hannah’s clothes. She’d activated it and then later made just one call—to let Melissa know they’d arrived safely.
Now if there was only a coffeepot hiding in one of the cupboards that hung above the countertop, she would consider it a sign that she was in the right place. Once she’d made the quick decision that she and Hannah had to leave Nashville, she’d thrown just a few clothes into a backpack, wanting to be able to travel light. Coffee and filters fell into the essential category and she’d brought them along.
She had very little in her apartment in Nashville. She’d rented it furnished and moved her own possessions in a couple boxes, leaving most everything behind in Memphis, where she’d lived for the last four years after leaving Indiana. She’d always intended to return to Memphis.
That would never happen now. The life she had known before had been pushed out of reach.
She opened one cupboard and found a toaster. That was good; she would need that, too. There were also a few canned goods on the shelf. Soup, vegetables, beans. She looked at the expiration dates. They were all good for at least the next six months.
She’d be long gone before then.
She opened the other cabinet and thank you, God, there was a coffeepot. It was clean and she quickly plugged it in, then filled the pot halfway full with water. Got a filter, put the grounds in and sighed when the first sizzle hit the bottom of the now-hot glass pot.
She toasted two slices of bread and peeled an orange. Once the toast popped, she slathered on the peanut butter, put a piece of toast on each of the small plates she found and divided the orange. “Here you go, Hannah.”
Hannah, already engrossed in the movie, blindly reached out for an orange slice. Laura sat at the table, eating her breakfast and drinking the black coffee that she’d have preferred with cream. This was the first day of their new lives. It should feel momentous.
But it just felt overwhelming. How the hell was she going to manage? How was she going to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table?
Hannah should be at her preschool at this very moment. She should be at work. Instead, they were both halfway across the country. Thrown together by circumstances too complex for many to understand.
By now the police would have been called.
Would the case wind its way to Detective August Phillips’s desk? Would he put two and two together and realize the connection to another of his cases, the deaths of Joe and Ariel Collins? The deaths she was sure were suspicious, although the seasoned veteran with thirty years on the force was not yet convinced.
He’d said he respected her opinion and that he’d keep an open mind.
But he likely wouldn’t think much of her now.
None of that mattered. Hannah was safe. And Laura intended to keep it that way. The alternative was simply too horrible to bear.
* * *
Rico Metez wasn’t supposed to be driving. His doctor had said to wait another two weeks before getting behind the wheel or returning to work, but the hell with that. He was tired of babying his injured ankle, tired of being at less than 100 percent.
He was headed home. To the Colorado mountains. To his cabin. He’d been saddened to hear from Georgina Fodder that she wasn’t feeling well enough to make her scheduled trip. He’d known her cancer was rapidly advancing but had hoped she’d have one more visit to the mountains. After the conversation had ended, he’d made a few follow-up calls to ensure that she had everything she needed to make her final days as comfortable as possible. Her son had sung the praises of Melissa Trane, a home care worker who’d become indispensable to Georgina.
And when he’d decided that he wasn’t going to let the cabin simply sit empty, his partners had almost cheered his decision. “We owe you,” they’d said. And they did. Because he’d had the bad luck to be available
when Mora Rambeilla had needed executive protection a few months ago. It was really good money but, unfortunately, had been more drama than it was worth.
She’d been demanding and prone to hysterics. Her ex-husband postulated conspiracy theories that had no basis in fact, and she had manipulative adult children who should have had their own lives but apparently didn’t. It had been a daytime soap opera that had consumed him for two months prior to his accident. Royce Morgan, Trey Riker and Seth Pike had all felt as if they’d escaped a bullet.
He’d packed a bag, put gas in his SUV and had been grateful when Las Vegas was not even a speck in his rearview mirror. Now, nine hours later, he was close. And as luck would have it, Jennie Jones’s little store was still open. Jennie had to be at least seventy but she still worked twelve-hour days, selling groceries and gas to the locals and anybody passing through that didn’t mind paying a premium of 20 percent for the convenience of not having to drive all the way down the damn mountain to get to a big store.
He pulled in and killed the engine. Lucky, who’d been sleeping in the passenger seat, immediately perked up and started to whine.
“No, you’re staying here,” Rico said. “This is a quick stop.”
The dog cocked his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was being left behind.
“I’ll get you a treat,” Rico said before opening his door. Then he pulled the crutches that he’d come to despise after him. He negotiated the two steps easily—after all, he’d been using the crutches for weeks now. When he opened the door, Jennie looked up from the cash register.
“Saints preserve us, is that you, Rico?” she asked, coming around the counter. She took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “What happened?”
“Chasing chickens,” he said. It was an old joke. When he’d been a little kid and wandered into Jennie’s store and stayed too long, she’d send him on his way and say, “Just tell your parents that you got busy chasing chickens.”
His parents, who had picked fruit for a living, had smiled, grateful that Jennie had watched over their boy while they were busy in the fields, and heated up dinner for him.
“How long are you staying?” she asked.
“Couple weeks,” he said. He reached for a plastic basket.
“You point and I’ll fill your basket. But make it fast, Rico. I was just about to shut down the store. My youngest granddaughter, Ari, is visiting.”
“How old is she now?” he asked, pointing at boxes of whole grain cereal.
She dropped them in his basket. “Six. Paddie is watching her while I’m here.”
Paddie and Jennie had been together for as long as Rico could remember. They had never married. “I’ll bet she’s a beauty,” he said.
“She is. What else do you need?”
“Skim milk. Green tea. Any fresh fruit or veggies that you might have.”
There were red grapes and apples as well as asparagus, mushrooms and carrots.
“Perfect,” he said. “Still carrying the whole wheat pasta?”
“Just for you,” Jennie said. “Nobody else seems too interested.”
He smiled. “Throw in a loaf of your seven-grain bread and a dozen organic eggs and I’m out of your hair for a few days. Oh, almost forgot. Do you have any of those dehydrated apricots? I need something for Lucky.”
“I wondered if he’d made the trip.” She grabbed a bag from a shelf near the front, then joined him at the cash register. No scanners for Jennie. She punched the numbers in by hand.
He put the items into plastic sacks and then handed her cash.
“I can carry those out to your car,” she said.
“No need.” He grabbed the sacks with his free fingers, using just his thumbs and the heels of his hands to negotiate the crutches. That would be the day when he couldn’t manage to get himself and a few groceries to the car. “Thanks, Jennie. Good to see you, as always.”
“You, too. Don’t be a stranger while you’re here.”
Once he was back in his car, he opened the apricots and gave Lucky one. “Am I forgiven?” he asked.
Lucky, never one to hold a grudge, licked his hand.
It took Rico another fifteen minutes to wind his way up to his cabin. As was his habit, he looked through the trees as he rounded the last curve, always eager to catch his first glimpse.
And immediately slowed his SUV down. There was a light on. Actually, two. The blinds were drawn but not quite tight enough. There was definitely light coming from the main living area and from the large bedroom. What the hell?
He pulled off to the side of the road and quietly opened his door. He reached under his seat and pulled out the handgun that he always carried.
Lucky, as if sensing that something was very wrong, growled.
“Be quiet,” Rico said. “Stay.”
Then he grabbed a small flashlight from the middle console. Considered his crutches and discarded the idea. His doctor said his ankle could start taking a little weight.
He limped up the driveway. There was a vintage white Mustang with Tennessee plates and a kid’s car seat in the back. For just a minute, he wondered if it was possible that Georgina had been able to come. But he almost immediately discounted the idea. She was too sick.
He climbed the two steps to get onto the front porch. There were no rocking chairs to navigate around—those were in the back, where a person could sit and see the lake. He moved close, in an attempt to see inside the cabin through the small slit the almost-closed blinds offered.
He was pretty sure the family room/kitchen was empty.
He was going in. He tried the door. Locked.
No problem. He started to punch in the code on the keypad near the door. Stopped when he heard a noise behind him.
“Put your hands up,” a female voice said.
Well, hell. This was interesting.
The accent wasn’t Colorado. So not a local.
He considered his options. He was a good shot, and fast, but he wanted to let this play out a little. He slipped his gun into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt to cover it. “I’m putting my flashlight on the ground,” he said. He bent, did what he’d said, then straightened. Then with his hands in the air, he slowly turned.
It was dark in the mountains because even on moonlit nights, the trees were so tall that they blocked the light. But he’d pointed the beam to try to pick up the woman behind the voice.
There she was. She stood about fifteen yards away, and he could just make out her frame and what he thought was a rifle.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Rico,” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Just trying to get into this cabin,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m staying here.”
There was a pause. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I rented it.”
He knew that wasn’t true. But he was intrigued. “Oh, this isn’t good,” he said. “You don’t think there was a screwup and it got rented to two different people for the same week?”
She didn’t answer for a long minute. “I don’t know. But I’m already here. You’ll have to find someplace else.”
He didn’t think so. “When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday,” she said.
“I get that I’m the latecomer and I’d like to be a good sport and leave you to it, but I’m in a lot of pain. I don’t think I can go any further tonight.”
“Pain?”
“Yeah. Ankle injury. My crutches are in the car and right now, I could use them.”
Silence. “What kind of injury?”
“Fracture of the lateral process of the talus.”
She did not say what the hell, which was what most people said. All she asked was, “How did you do that?”
“Caught a bad wave while waterskiing.”
He half expected her to dismiss the injury. A little like his dry cleaner and his barber had done. You play, you pay. Their responses had been some version of that. But she said nothing.
“Look, do you think I could sit down somewhere?” he said finally.
Again, it was such a long pause that he wondered if she intended to ever respond. Finally, she said, “Enter the code if you’ve got it.”
He turned, hoping like hell he hadn’t misjudged the situation and she decided to shoot him in the back. He entered the code, heard a click, and he opened the door. He took five steps in before making a big deal out of collapsing onto the nearest couch.
She did, indeed, have a rifle. But she didn’t seem comfortable carrying it. He gave that only cursory consideration before examining her more closely. She was…he supposed striking was the best word. Tall, maybe close to five-ten, slim but not skinny. She had some curves. She wore boots that looked new, jeans and a flannel shirt that was not totally buttoned up. He managed to tear his eyes away from that and got stuck on her face. Strong bone structure. Green eyes and fair skin with a smattering of freckles that made him think redhead, but instead, her thick shoulder-length hair was ash-blond. She was very pretty.
He guessed her age at midthirties. “Hello,” he said. “Thanks for the couch.” He drew in a lungful of air. His cabin smelled like bleach. The cleaning crew he hired would have cleaned it after the last visitor, but he’d never noticed the smell before.
“Did you have surgery?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. Because it seemed important to her, he leaned down, pulled his jeans up and his sock down. “Three weeks post-op,” he lied, shaving off two weeks.
She nodded and he caught a quick flicker of unease in her eyes as she quickly glanced toward the second bedroom. There was definitely someone else in the cabin. There were two plates and two glasses drying on a towel next to the sink.
“This is a heck of a problem,” he said. “I’m really sorry about it.” He stopped. “You’re not allergic to dogs, right?”
She blinked, as if she was having trouble following him. Shook her head.
