"Who do you think might’ve done it?" his father finally asked.
"That’s just it." Gray shrugged helplessly. "I don’t know. I'd like to pin it all on Stoney Gillick and forget about it. That’s too easy."
"I don't know about that, son. Stoney's a bad egg. He could be involved in a lot of things we don't know about."
"Yeah, but could he have had anything to do with Skippy Rhett? Everything that's been happening seems to be tied up to what happened to that boy. But even Chief McKay couldn’t help with that. Did you know he had Alzheimer’s?"
His father shook his head, and Gray rose to get another beer. He caught sight of a scribbled note on the grease board informing him that Vicky Smithfield had phoned. He’d forgotten until that moment about the call he’d placed to Vicky, a clerk in the tax assessor’s office at the county courthouse. He’d asked her to call him at home with the date that Curtis had bought the property on Whisper Way.
"What did Vicky have to say?" he asked, aware that he wanted to believe that Curtis was the kind of man he purported to be. An honest, fair, hard-working man who wouldn’t have kidnapped his nephew or terrorized Cara for asking questions.
"She said she had an answer for you." His father slowly got to his feet. "It was just a date. I was holding my notebook, and I wrote it down out of habit. Guess I forgot to put it up on the grease board. I'll get it."
Gray braced himself when his father picked up a reporter’s notepad and flipped through it.
"Here it is," his father said and read the information.
Gray swayed and reached a hand out to the nearest counter to steady himself. Curtis had bought the house on Whisper Way nearly a month before Skippy had been kidnapped. If Cara’s theory about Skippy being held in the storage shed were correct, Curtis had been in the best position to put him there.
Gray still needed to tie up a few loose ends, such as how Curtis had kept his wife and young daughter from venturing into the back yard and discovering Skippy. It appeared more and more certain, however, that his father-in-law had kidnapped the child.
"Gray? Are you all right? Suddenly, you don’t look too good."
Something else occurred to Gray, and he made his brain turn in another direction. He had been so busy trying to safeguard Cara that he’d forgotten to ask his father about the missing donations. Now Gray thought he knew who had taken them.
"Dad, is it possible those community center donations came through Curtis?" Gray asked.
His father looked puzzled. After a moment, nodded. "When Reginald’s out of town, which is just about all the time, Curtis has a say in everything that happens at the newspaper. Of course, it’s possible."
Even though he’d expected the answer, it pierced Gray’s heart. Not only did it seem as though Curtis was the kidnapper, he’d also probably stolen the donations and tried to kill Cara.
"What is it, Gray?" His father appeared so concerned that Gray had to tell him something. He couldn’t cast stones at Curtis until he had evidence, though, not with his promise to Suzy still hanging over him.
"I was thinking about Cara and Tyler both winding up in the emergency room on the same day, that’s all,” Gray said.
"Tyler?" The concern in his father’s voice spiked a notch. "What happened to Tyler?"
"That’s another story, Dad," Gray said before he proceeded to tell it. "This is only a hunch, but I’m betting Tyler’s feeling pretty good about life right about now."
"So then I told Gray I’d do anything I could to help." Karen pulled her Lincoln to a stop in front of her driveway. She would have preferred to go to Tyler’s home rather than her parents' pretentious mansion. However, she had a point to make. She prattled on, surprised her palms were sweating. "He wants to talk to the nanny who took care of Skippy and me. Rosa Martinez, that’s her name.
"She wrote me a letter about five years ago, right after she saw a notice in the Palm Beach newspaper about my marriage, and I think I still have it." She deliberately didn’t tell him she’d withheld that information the first time Gray had asked about the nanny. Even though Tyler didn’t have illusions about her, there wasn’t any point in detailing her faults. "I’m pretty sure the envelope has Rosa’s return address. If not, I have some other ideas on how to find her."
"What are we doing here, Karen?" Tyler asked quietly, staring out the windshield. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d left the hospital. Karen had filled up the silence, chattering incessantly while she wondered why he wasn’t talking. He hadn’t questioned the route they'd taken until now.
Karen licked her suddenly dry lips. "I thought I’d make you a cup of tea or coffee or something. You know, as a kind of thanks for saving my life."
A harsh sound escaped his lips. He closed his eyes as he shook his head. "I’m not up for that, Karen."
"What? But—"
He opened the door and slid out of the car before she could mount a protest. She swore, hurriedly unbuckling her seatbelt and getting out of the car herself. She inwardly cursed herself for handling everything so clumsily.
She gave chase and caught up to him at the sidewalk. He sent her a wry look before continuing on in that sexy, loose-hipped way he had of walking.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Where does it look like I’m going? I’m walking home," he tossed over his shoulder. "You’re dismissed, Karen. You’ve done your good deed for the day so you can just run along home yourself."
"Hey, stop right there," she yelled.
He didn’t even slow.
Temper made her eyes narrow and her steps quicken. She grabbed him to stop his progress, careful to stay away from the arm with the stitches. He finally stopped walking, and she saw the deliberate way he filled his lungs with air before slowly exhaling and turning. Even with stubble on his lower face, smudges under his eyes and dirt on his clothes, he looked delectable.
She wished for one of her flamboyant outfits instead of the modest blue-jean shorts and white T-shirt she'd pulled on to convince herself she didn’t care if he were attracted to her. It was hard to believe that had been only hours ago. She let go of his arm and put her hands on her hips.
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" she asked.
"Yep," he drawled, meeting her stare with one of his own. "That’s exactly what I’m doing."
"You’ve got another thought coming if you think you can save my life and walk out of it.”
She took a step closer as she made her point. Her breasts brushed his chest and her nipples tightened while heat licked low in her belly. She saw with satisfaction that the pulse in his jaw moved too fast. His hazel eyes flooded with heat before he quickly banked it. He sighed audibly.
"What kind of game are you playing now?" he rasped through teeth that seemed clenched.
She reached up and stroked his face, drawing her fingers over the stubble on his chin. His breath hitched, and she smiled. "I’m not playing a game."
"Well, that would be a first, now wouldn’t it?" He took a step back. She countered with a step forward, erasing the gap. Frustration pulled at his face, making his mouth taut. "Stop this, Karen. Let me bow out of your life with some dignity, okay?"
Her hackles rose, and she pulled herself to her full height, a good five or six inches short of his. "Where did you get the fool idea I wanted you to bow out of my life?"
He shook his head and looked sad, an emotion she’d never before associated with Tyler. Sadness didn’t look right on his face. God had meant for him to smile so the network of lines around his eyes crinkled and that sexy mouth curved. The joy was gone from his voice, too. "It wasn’t hard to figure after I told you how I feel about you."
"Wait just a minute there, Tyler Shaw," Karen said with asperity. She would not let him pin this on her, not when her heart hurt because he wouldn't smile at her. "When you tell a woman you love her, it takes some getting used to."
"You mean you never noticed how I took the long way to class in high school so I could pass you in
the hall? Or how I always show up at the Dew Drop on Tuesdays because that’s your regular night to be there." Tyler’s voice was weary. "Didn’t you know the only time I’ve ever been sick-as-a-dog drunk was the day you married Summerfield?
"If you had been paying attention at all, Karen, you wouldn’t have to get used to me loving you. You'd already have known."
Regret that she hadn’t seen what was always right in front of her flowed through Karen like a river of tears. "Oh, Tyler," she said on a sigh of regret.
"I don’t want your pity," he bit out. He turned to go. She grabbed for his good arm, and he stopped moving. The muscles in his arm were wrapped as tight as a coiled spring. He still kept his face averted.
"Don’t go, Tyler," she pleaded, her voice a throaty whisper. "I’m inviting you in."
"And I told you I'm not in the mood to sip a cup of tea with you," he said thickly, not looking at her.
"I’ve made such a mess of this." She ran her free hand over her face. Drawing in a deep breath, she wondered why, after a lifetime of effusiveness, she found it hard to express herself. "What I meant to do, back there at the car, is what I should have done a few nights ago. Remember, Ty? Remember when you asked me to invite you in. Well, I’m inviting you in."
He turned around so slowly Karen had time to realize this was the most important crossroads of her life. Her happiness depended on whether acceptance or rejection would be written on his face. Because finally, after a lifetime of indecision, she knew what she wanted.
She wanted Tyler Shaw.
What she saw when he turned was wonder. It bloomed in his eyes and arced his lips. "You're inviting me in for more than tea?"
She nodded, the ache that wound her heart like a band starting to ease.
"Are you saying," he asked slowly, still standing there, still not touching her, "what I think you’re saying?"
"I’m saying I love you, you big dunce," Karen said, thumping him once on the chest. Her words were brave but her voice quivered. What if he didn’t want her anymore? What if her ridiculous, misguided pursuit of Gray had made him stop loving her? Despite the doubts, she plowed ahead with typical brashness. "Now I want to know what you’re going to do about it."
He smiled, that quintessentially Tyler smile she’d been resisting all these years. It warmed her insides right through to the center of her heart, because it answered all her doubts. Despite everything, he loved her. He always had.
"I was kind of hoping I could talk you into making love to me," he said, his eyes lighting and those charming little laugh lines appearing around them. "Would you do that for me, darlin’?"
"I’d do darn near anything for you," she said, repeating the words he’d spoken to her a few days before. She went into his arms, where she’d always belonged, thinking that this time she wasn’t going anywhere. She whispered the rest of her words against his lips. "But I’d already decided to make love to you for myself."
CHAPTER THIRTY
The lights of the midway twinkled in the distance like a cluster of brilliant stars, burning away Cara's terrible knowledge that somebody was trying to kill her.
"Oh, look," Cara exclaimed, as excited as a four-year-old. "A double Ferris wheel! And the tilt-a-wheel! There’s nothing better than the tilt-a-wheel."
Gray momentarily took his eyes from the road to slant her a sideways look and the corners of his mouth lifted. "I wouldn’t have pegged you for a carnival goer."
"Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved the carnival. Give me some gooey cotton candy, a chance to win a stuffed animal and a roller-coaster ride, and I’m in heaven."
"If you hadn’t gotten out of the hospital ten minutes ago, I’d give you heaven," Gray said, smiling. "We’re going to have to pass for tonight, but the carnival will be here through next week. I’ll take you another night."
She was about to tell him she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay in Secret Sound when he braked for a family of four headed for the midway. The mother laughed at something her husband had said, and their two children, a boy and a girl, skipped ahead of them, their hands linked and excited smiles on their young faces. Neither child was older than five.
A picture flashed in Cara’s mind of two other children, just as thrilled at the prospect of a night on the midway, before it faded into the darkness, replaced by the laughing, dancing, skipping brother and sister.
She frowned, because, for an instant, she had seen something other than what was in front of her eyes. The faces of the children in her vision had been indistinct. She wondered if one of them had been Skippy? Or, possibly, Skippy’s ghost? If that were so, why had the children she’d seen seemed so joyous?
The vague ache in Cara’s head did a sudden, violent dance against her skull. It wasn’t because of her mild concussion. The vision had drawn her back to the present, re-establishing her strange connection with Skippy Rhett, reminding her somebody wanted her dead.
"Would you mind if I stopped for gas on the way back home?" Gray asked.
Cara processed the facts that Gray’s car had left the midway behind and that he’d asked her a question. She was so long in answering that he added a qualifier, "I wouldn’t ask if the tank wasn’t so low."
"You fill up at Sam Peckenbush’s place, don’t you?" She found it abhorrent to say the man’s name. Gray nodded, and she pounced. "Did you ask him where he was yesterday when I was attacked?"
"I asked," Gray said, his tone maddeningly non-committal. "He says he was at work, which I can’t disprove. The best I can figure, it was about four o’clock when you were attacked. One of Sam’s employees remembers him going out for a while in the afternoon. He thinks he got back before four."
"Thinks? You mean he wasn’t sure?"
"Cara," Gray said firmly. "Sam Peckenbush is not responsible for the things that have been happening to you."
Cara didn’t say anything for a full minute, grateful it was too dark to see much of the passing landscape. She didn’t want to look out the window and recognize anything else. She didn’t need another puzzle, not when she was trying to solve the one sitting next to her.
"You say that like you know who is responsible," Cara said.
She was so intent on his profile and the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw that she didn’t notice they’d reached their destination until he pulled into the gas station. He shut off the engine and turned. She’d gotten to know him well enough that she recognized the emotion darkening his eyes. It was distress.
"No need for you to get out of the car," he said. "I’ll fill up, and then I’ll take you back to the apartment."
"Is that yet another way of avoiding my question?" she challenged, sick of his evasions.
He released a slow breath through clenched teeth and seemed to come to a decision.
"This isn’t the right place to answer your questions,” he said. Her eyes must have narrowed, because he added, "We’ll talk when we get back to the apartment. I promise."
He touched her mouth with two fingers, as though sealing the promise. Cara had to force herself not to purse her lips and kiss his fingertips. She leaned back against the headrest. It wasn’t fair that he could make her want him even when she was angry with him.
She listened to the sounds of Gray pumping gas, trying not to picture how sexy he’d look as he bent over the gas-tank door with the wind rustling his dark hair and his jeans stretched taut over his bottom.
She needed to think about her uncanny connection to Secret Sound. Her head had hurt so badly for the past twenty-four hours she had avoided thinking about anything at all. Now that the pain had abated, she had to decipher the mystery of how she knew Skippy had spent his last hours in the storage shed behind Curtis Rhett’s house.
"Caaaraaa."
No sooner had she thought the boy’s name than she heard her own drifting through the night. At first, she thought Gray might have called to her. Her head pivoted toward the side of the car. Gray had finished filling the tank. He walked toward Peckenbu
sh’s office, his back toward her. She quickly looked around the station. It was nearly closing time and nobody else was there.
"Caaaraaa."
Her name sounded again, propelled by a breeze through the open window. This time she acknowledged it had been spoken in the clear voice of a child.
A chill rushed over her like a blast from an open freezer, because she knew where the voice came from.
She stepped out of the car, leaving the door open wide, and gazed at the road. Skippy stood there on the shoulder. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, like a hammer being thrown again and again. It wasn’t fear for the little boy that drove it. It was fear for herself.
"Caaaraaa," he shouted again, his little face white with terror. "Run, Cara! We have to get away!"
Panic leapt in her throat, choking off her breath, paralyzing her legs. She couldn’t move but she wanted desperately for at least one of them to get away. She wanted Skippy to get away. He stood on the shoulder of the road, unwilling to leave her.
"Run!" he yelled. "He’s behind you. Run!"
His urgency finally communicated itself, infusing her frightened body with adrenaline. She took a tentative step forward, then another and another. Satisfied that she followed him, Skippy finally turned and dashed into the road.
Cara heard the car much too late, saw the headlights advancing much too quickly. She averted her eyes, because she knew what would happen next and didn’t want to watch it. Not again.
A calm settled over her, outweighing the horror. She finally understood. The scene that kept replaying in the street wasn’t a vision featuring the ghost of a little boy who had died far before his time.
It was a memory.
On that dark night thirty years ago, Skippy hadn’t been alone. She had been with him, and he had died trying to save her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sound of Secrets Page 23
