Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  That plea echoing in her mind, she skimmed the digital display. The number wasn’t familiar, but the name was.

  Devlin.

  Her pulse took a leap—as did her spirits.

  She put the phone to her ear. “Any news?” Her words came out in a breathless, hopeful rush.

  “Some. Did Brianna’s mother call you?”

  “Yes. Early this afternoon. She wanted to confirm I’d hired you and promised to talk to her daughter as soon as she got home from school. I never heard back from her.”

  “I did. Brianna balked at her questions, so she waited for her husband to get home and they double-teamed it. I got the impression they threatened to ground her until she graduated if she didn’t talk, but whatever they did, it worked. She gave them the name of the girl Darcy planned to stay with in Chicago. It’s someone Brianna met at summer camp two years ago and has kept in touch with through texting and email. Rachel Matthews.”

  The name rang no bells.

  But it was a great lead.

  Laura groped for the edge of the table and sank into a chair. “Knowing where she’s headed is a huge step forward.”

  “True—but I’d prefer to find her before she leaves . . . and before Brianna somehow tips her off that you’ve discovered her destination.”

  “I agree.”

  “I also called Rachel’s number and left a message. She hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I’ll keep trying if I don’t hear from her.”

  Laura gently probed her aching jaw. “What do you suggest in the meantime?”

  “I’ve done some legwork today—figuratively speaking, given the weather.”

  She listened as he filled her in, suppressing a shudder at his theory that Darcy and the girl she’d met might have gone to a homeless shelter to wait out the storm. It made sense, given her limited funds, but she wouldn’t wish that on any sixteen-year-old, no matter how grown-up and street savvy they thought they were.

  “Only one downtown winter emergency shelter sent teams to Gateway Station on Friday. I spoke with the director, who reviewed their check-in records for the past two nights. Darcy’s name wasn’t on the list.”

  As Dev concluded his recap, Laura’s spirits nose-dived. “So it was a dead end.”

  “Not if she used a fake name.”

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that people have to show IDs to get a bed at a shelter?”

  “That’s the usual procedure, but temporary overflow emergency facilities might be looser. I’ll scope out the place. If Darcy’s not there, I’ll ask around, see if anyone remembers seeing a girl who fits her description. Even though the director wouldn’t violate the privacy of volunteers by giving me their names, he did offer to let me hang around at the shelter and talk to the people on duty. That could be fruitful.”

  “You’re going down there tonight?” Laura stared out the window. The snow hadn’t abated, and according to news reports traffic remained at a standstill throughout the metropolitan area.

  “That’s my plan. I’ve got sturdy boots, an Explorer with four-wheel drive, and the roads to myself. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Would it? Laura stretched out her jeans-clad leg and toed the wayward can of soup out from under the counter. Yeah, probably. James Devlin seemed capable of taking on any challenge, including a megastorm. His confident, decisive manner had no doubt served him well in his ATF days.

  Handy guy to have around in this situation too.

  “Would it help if I came along?”

  As the words left her mouth, Laura froze. Where on earth had that come from? Desperation, perhaps. While battling a blizzard held zero appeal, it was preferable to pacing through her quiet-as-a-tomb house with only worry for company. This way she’d be participating in a productive effort—even if it would tax her coping skills to the limit.

  The silence that greeted her offer, however, suggested Dev wasn’t keen on the notion. Most likely he figured she’d get in the way—as well she might.

  Time to regroup.

  “Sorry. Bad suggestion, I guess. I don’t want to cramp your style.” She tried to lighten her tone so he wouldn’t think she was offended.

  “No. It’s not that. I was just mulling over your offer. It’s not a bad idea. People are often more inclined to open up to a woman—especially a concerned sister. But are you sure you’re up for it? Homeless shelters aren’t the most . . . refined places.”

  Laura bent and picked up the soup can, weighing it in her hand as she debated how much to reveal. “I’ve been exposed to worse environments.”

  “Okay.” His cautious inflection was infused with skepticism.

  He wasn’t buying her reassurance—and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. He’d read her contact sheet, noted her profession, and stereotyped her as a quiet, bookish, stick-in-the-mud who led a sheltered life and whose knowledge of the world came vicariously through the tools of her trade.

  So not true.

  Still, this stranger didn’t need to know that.

  Let it go, Laura. No need to open up that can of worms.

  Yet even as the admonition sounded in her mind, her mouth opened. “My mother and I once lived in a tenement we shared with rats. The neighbors on our left were drug dealers and the woman on the right—let’s just say she had a lot of male visitors who never stayed long. The halls stank of pot and urine, and I never went out alone. That was my life for a year when I was twelve, after my mom blew through my dad’s life insurance money.”

  She set the can carefully on the table and pried her fingers loose, flexing them to restore circulation as she relaxed her too-taut tone. “However, my story had a happy ending. Mom got her act together, landed a decent job, and we left the rats behind—both the human and rodent varieties. Trust me—I can handle a homeless shelter.”

  After a moment of silence, Devlin cleared his throat. “I guess you can.” A rustle came over the line, as if he was consulting a sheet of paper. “You live in Manchester, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m close—Valley Park. But with the weather, give me thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  The line went dead.

  For several seconds, Laura kept the phone pressed to her ear. Then, brow furrowed, she slowly settled it back in its holder.

  Why in the world had she told James Devlin about that terrible year in her life? She’d never, ever shared that sordid chapter of her history with anyone, let alone a man who was little more than a stranger.

  Flummoxed, she stood and opened the can of soup, dumped the contents in a bowl, and slid it into the microwave, moving on autopilot. How had he managed to infiltrate the wall she’d built around those memories?

  Retrieving a spoon from the utensil drawer, she inhaled the comforting aroma of the soup as she pondered that question. It wasn’t his good looks, even if he did have killer eyes and a deadly dimple that would reduce most women to putty. Rick had been handsome too, and she’d never shared her past with him despite their seven-month dating relationship.

  The microwave pinged, and she withdrew the soup. Cradling the bowl in her hands, she settled at the table, wisps of steam tickling her nose. As she backed off to let the broth cool a few degrees, she came to the only possible conclusion.

  It was all about character. Bottom line, there was an honorable quality about James Devlin that inspired trust—a trait she’d never fully picked up in Rick. Call it women’s intuition, but she had a feeling the PI she’d hired was the kind of man you could count on when the chips were down. A man who stuck to his principles. Who didn’t seek fights but never backed away from them if the cause was just.

  In other words, the knight-on-a-white-horse type, straight from the pages of the fairy tales she’d devoured as a child.

  Her mouth twitched as she picked up her spoon. Now there was a fanciful notion—one she suspected James Devlin would find amusing on the off chance she ever decided to share it with him.

  She dipped her spoon into the
soup, lifted it, and blew on the liquid before taking a very cautious sip. The last thing she needed was a burned lip.

  And given how easily the handsome Phoenix PI had circumvented her defenses, caution might be a sound strategy with him too.

  Because she didn’t need a burned heart again, either.

  Feeling relaxed for the first time since her flight from Laura’s house, Darcy set her half-empty mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, leaned back on the couch, and smiled at their host. “That was a great dinner.”

  Mark took a chair across from her. “It’s hard to ruin a meal cooked in a Crock-Pot.”

  “My mom did—regularly. Then again, it’s not easy to cook when you’re smashed 24/7.” Star took a sip of the wine Mark had offered her and slung a jeans-clad leg over the arm of the director’s chair she’d claimed.

  Darcy snuggled deeper into the soft upholstery, hugging a pillow close to her chest. She’d learned a lot about her new friend’s life over the past few days, but far more tonight after the wine loosened her tongue. And none of it was pretty. With an apathetic drunk for a mother and an abusive meth addict for a father, it was no wonder she’d hit the road at fifteen. If she’d been forced to do some questionable things to survive, at least she wasn’t getting attacked with broken beer bottles by her father anymore.

  As she pictured the long jagged scar on Star’s arm, hidden now under the sleeve of her turtleneck sweater but displayed for both her and Mark earlier as they’d cleaned up after dinner, Darcy tightened her grip on the pillow. In light of Star’s story, she almost felt guilty for running away. Compared to the aspiring musician’s home life, hers was—and had always been—cushy, despite the frequent clashes with her father and Laura. Maybe she ought to rethink her plan to go to Chicago after all.

  “A penny for them.”

  At Mark’s comment, she picked up her cocoa again. No way was she ready to admit she was having second thoughts. “Not worth it. Star, why don’t you sing us that new song you were working on at the station the first night?”

  “It’s not done yet.” Star swung her leg back and forth and inspected her wineglass, lifting the golden liquid to the light.

  “That’s okay. Play whatever you have.”

  With a shrug, she shifted around in her chair. “I guess I could. The refrain’s about there, and it might be helpful to get some audience reaction.” She finished off the wine, set the stemmed goblet on the side table, and picked up the guitar that was never far from her side. After a few strums, she launched into a haunting melody, singing in a pop soprano that displayed an impressive range.

  As Darcy listened to the words about a young woman searching for love but living a nomadic existence of one-night stands, she wondered how much of the angst and yearning in the music was showmanship and how much reflected actual experience.

  Probably more of the latter than she’d want to know.

  The hot cocoa soothed her as she sipped, and her eyelids grew heavy. It had been great to take a real shower, and it would be wonderful to sleep in a bed instead of on a cot. Maybe tomorrow Mark would let her do some laundry too, while she debated her future. Listening to Star’s stories of life on the road had taken some of the luster off her Chicago adventure.

  Stifling a yawn as the song wound down, Darcy set her mug back on the coffee table. “That was great, Star.”

  “I agree.” Mark looked her way. “Tired?”

  “A little. Hot chocolate makes me sleepy sometimes. Yours is great, by the way. There’s a hint of some flavor I can’t quite identify.”

  “My secret ingredient.” He winked at her. “Feel free to turn in anytime. I tend to be a night owl.” He transferred his attention to Star. “You seem wide-awake. Would you like another glass of wine?”

  She held out her glass. “I was beginning to think I’d have to ask for the second one too.”

  “Well, you are underage.”

  “I’m also in a private house and I’m not planning to drive anywhere tonight—unless you want to loan me your Porsche.” She giggled, swallowing a hiccup.

  Mark chuckled. “I wish.” He rose and started toward the kitchen, speaking over his shoulder. “Darcy, would you like anything else?”

  “No, thanks. Star . . . are you sure you don’t want to call it a night?” Based on that giggle, her roommate had already had too much liquor.

  “After this last glass of wine.”

  “Okay.” Darcy set the cushion aside and stood, suddenly bone weary. “I’m heading for bed.”

  “I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can sleep through anything.” That was true enough. Laura had to bang on the door every morning to rouse her for school, thanks to her clandestine late-night texting and surfing. “’Night, Mark.”

  “Sleep well.”

  She left the two of them chatting, yawning again as she climbed the steps in the two-story brick row house Mark had gutted and refurbished in the historic downtown district. She didn’t know much about rehabbing, but it looked nice and he seemed proud of the way he’d modernized the interior without changing the character of the exterior. Plus, it was really neat and orderly—even more so than Laura’s house, where everything had a place.

  But all she cared about was the private, snoreless room where she could fall into bed without worrying about her belongings disappearing.

  Ten minutes later, teeth brushed, dressed in her favorite fleece sweatpants and a T-shirt, she crawled under the covers, pulled them up to her neck, and snuggled into the comfy mattress. The voices in the living room below were muted, though Star’s higher-pitched laugh floated up through the ceiling as Darcy’s eyelids drifted closed. It was nice to hear her laugh, even if her upbeat spirits were wine induced. After the tough life she’d had, she deserved a few pleasant, carefree hours.

  And in the final seconds before sleep pulled her into oblivion, Darcy made a mental note to thank their gracious host for giving her newfound friend an evening to remember.

  With a glance at his watch, Mark grimaced and twisted on the tap in the master bathroom sink. He’d hoped to be in bed by ten, but Star hadn’t cooperated. She’d nursed that last glass of wine forever, growing more garrulous with every sip.

  But all was quiet now—and the wine had been better in many ways than other options.

  After testing the water, he adjusted the temperature and washed his hands, drying them on a nubby towel. Then he examined them under the light. They weren’t as chapped as usual; that was a plus. The cold, dry weather wasn’t helping, though. He’d have to put some lotion on before he went to bed or the skin would crack and peel again.

  First, though, he’d visit the closet.

  Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he walked to the wall in the master bedroom. The closet door slid open noiselessly, and he pushed his own clothes aside to give him access to the long garment bag that hung on the high hook at one end.

  His pulse began to pound, and he took a deep breath. Months had passed since he’d had any reason to open the bag, week after week of despair when his search had seemed doomed to failure. But thank goodness caution and logic had triumphed over the temptation to take another chance on the days he’d hit bottom.

  A shudder rippled through him as he recalled his previous poor choices. But he’d learned from those mistakes. Hard as it was to accept, the truth was that while redemption was possible, miracles weren’t. Some people were beyond saving. The trick was to find a person tottering on the brink. A person about to plunge into the abyss but who could still be pulled back. A person who would be grateful for his intervention and reward him appropriately.

  And now, it seemed, his patience may have paid off.

  Wiping his palms against the denim fabric of his jeans, he reached up and unzipped the bag.

  It was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.

  Gently releasing the garment from its protective bag, he draped it over his arms and crossed to his bed. The
perfume-saturated sachet in the bottom of the bag had infused the fabric with the subtle but familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine, and he breathed it in. Love, hope, pain, fear, disappointment, hate . . . the emotions swirled around him, jumbled, indistinct, indistinguishable, the memories surging and crashing over him like waves in a storm-agitated sea.

  He stopped at the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, waiting for his chaotic thoughts to quiet.

  A full minute later, as the clock in the living room emitted a muted bong to mark the half hour, he opened his eyes. Better. He could think again.

  He lowered the dress to one side of the queen-sized bed, straightening the skirt so it ran the length of the mattress. Then he hesitated and looked toward the door. Should he lock it?

  No need.

  No one would bother him this night.

  He left the garment to finish his preparations for bed, finally padding back barefoot in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Pausing beside the dress, he traced the scalloped edge of the sweetheart neckline. Stroked his fingers down the long, smooth, white satin skirt studded with glistening beads. Touched the buttons, one by one, at the bottom of the delicate alencon lace sleeve.

  The gown was perfect.

  And ready.

  All it needed was a deserving occupant.

  After circling the bed to the other side, Mark slathered lotion on his hands, tugged on a pair of cotton gloves, and turned out the lamp on the nightstand. He slipped under the covers, shifting onto his side to gaze at the gown shimmering beside him in the moonlight from the window.

  Maybe this time.

  4

  The trip to the shelter was a bust.

  From his spot at the far end of the room, Dev gave the basement-turned-dormitory a final scan. Every cot had been claimed, and his walk-through with Laura had confirmed Darcy wasn’t among the occupants. Not a single guest had professed any recollection of the teen after studying her picture. None of the volunteers on duty had worked either weekend night. And even though he and Laura had hung around for a couple of hours, Darcy hadn’t shown.