by JoAnn Durgin
He’d never been to the small cemetery on the edge of town—never had a reason—he knew it wasn’t far. Spotting a sign for the cemetery, he turned at the next intersection, resisting the urge to floor the accelerator. Another sign told him it was a half-mile down on the left. As he turned inside the well-kept entrance, Jackson wondered if Serenity ever came here. Would it comfort her or bring her more grief? He’d never understood the need of others to visit a gravesite, although he knew it gave a lot of people—his parents included—a kind of comfort. In a way, it was paying respect to a loved one who’d passed on. Perhaps it was one of those things he’d understand more as he grew older.
Driving as far as he could along the narrow, winding gravel road, Jackson slowed the car, looking left and right, searching for a headstone appropriate for a child. Weren’t they usually a white or light gray stone marked by a lamb or some kind of kid-friendly symbol? Spying one with a teddy bear, he stopped the car and hopped out. Walking closer, he saw it was a grave for a six-year-old girl who’d died nearly twenty years ago. Fresh flowers were planted at the foot of the headstone and it was immaculately kept. After twenty years. With a quick glance, he noted all the graves were neat and well-maintained, making it difficult to determine which ones might be more recent.
Lord, show me the way.
He paced up and down the rows. Pausing in his quest long enough to stop and read the occasional headstone, he spied one about three hundred yards away. Made from white marble, it was small and simple with an etched starfish.
Creeping closer, Jackson’s heart pounded and his pulse accelerated. Even before he read the name, he had the suspicion this was the one he sought. He stopped and knelt down in front of it, wincing as he did so. A toy car, a small truck and a set of plastic building blocks sat in front of it. Jackson ran his fingers over the inscription, holding his breath.
Liam Justin Kincaid. Beloved infant son.
The verse on the headstone was well-known and beloved from the Book of Matthew. He spoke the words of scripture aloud, “But Jesus said, Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.”
Jackson bowed his head for a quick prayer, even though he suspected this particular grave was empty.
Next he’d visit the library. What was the name of the librarian Jillian at the Vital Records Office mentioned? Myra? No, whatever the name was, it rhymed with a name in the title of one of the Dr. Seuss books in his office, Yertle the Turtle. Myrtle! That was it.
Ten minutes later, he pulled the car to a stop in front of the library, driven by a deeply personal mission to confirm his suspicions. A few people walked the streets, and he waved and exchanged a few words with a couple of people as he headed up the stone stairs and pushed through the front door. He nodded to the librarian behind the counter at the reference desk. When she asked if he needed help, he paused.
“Is Myrtle in, by any chance?”
A broad grin creased her face. “You’re looking at her. How can I help you?”
“Jillian in Vital Records gave me your name. I need to look up something in the archives of the Croisette Shores Daily News. It’s probably on microfilm.”
“From what date?” the middle-aged, dark-haired woman asked with a friendly smile.
“Five years ago.”
She nodded. “That should be easy enough. Come with me, young man, and I’ll get you all set up. Are you new to the area?”
“I’m Jackson Ross.”
“Oh, the new psychologist who’s working with Doc Rasmussen?”
“The same.”
“Nice to meet you.” She directed him to a desk, turned on the machine and gave him a quick tutorial. “If you have any trouble, let me know. I need to do some reshelving, but I’ll check on you in a bit to see if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Myrtle. Much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Dr. Ross.”
“Me, too,” he mumbled under his breath. Within ten minutes, Jackson had his answers. A birth notice was printed in the paper shortly after Liam’s birth, but no death notice was ever recorded. He searched thoroughly under every variation of the name he could think of under both the names Kincaid and McClaren and cross-referenced everything. He checked three months before and three months following Liam’s supposed “death.”
Wait a minute. Serenity recognized Dr. Saunders as the name of the doctor who’d signed Liam’s death certificate. Was it possible he was somehow in on whatever Elise’s scheme had been, if that’s what it was? Think. When Serenity pulled out Liam’s baby things from the box at her house, she had his hat, receiving blanket, birth certificate and the tiny wrist band. He didn’t recall seeing a death certificate. What had happened to it? She might keep it in a place where she wouldn’t see it often. If she did, he couldn’t blame her. Those other items represented Liam’s precious and all-too-brief life, but a death certificate? It’d bring all the sadness and heartache rushing back, and she wouldn’t want the reminder.
With a wave of thanks to the librarian, Jackson departed and took the front steps two at a time on his way back to the car. Why would there be a record of Liam’s birth but not his death? While it was entirely possible it got lost in the shuffle, he didn’t think so. If the family didn’t make sure it was done, wouldn’t the coroner or the funeral home send the death notice to the local paper? Even a child who’d died would have an obituary.
As he climbed back in his car, Jackson knew one thing: either Liam’s death notice was purposely omitted from being published in the local newspaper.
Or Liam never died.
Standing with a grocery basket over one arm, Jackson eyed the selection of fresh-baked breads at McHenry’s Market mid-afternoon.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Jackson turned around slowly, not recognizing the female voice. He tried to keep the shock from his expression. With a bright floral scarf tied over her head and big sunglasses, it was her. Carmen.
“Excuse me?”
“Serenity McClaren. You’re in love with her.”
Not sure how to react, he extended one hand. “Jackson Ross. Before I admit to loving someone, I like to know to whom I’m speaking.” He kept his tone light. If he barraged her with all the questions in his mind, she’d run away faster than a jackrabbit. He needed answers, and she’d approached him. Mentally willing his heart to slow down, he swallowed a quick breath. “Carmen?”
Her head dipped down for a moment. “I’m a friend. Leave it at that.”
“Then we’re in agreement. I’ll admit to caring about her very much, too.” Hopefully, that would satisfy her. He loved Serenity, yes, but he wasn’t about to tell this woman. Who was she, really? Why did she want to know and what was her purpose in following Serenity?
He pretended to study the bread and picked up a loaf of rye. “She’s coming for dinner tonight. Want to come?” He glanced over at her. Yet another woman who wouldn’t remove her sunglasses.
She blew out a breath. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”
“Does David know?”
“Know what?”
“Well,” he said, trying to contain his aggravation, “for starters, does he know you follow people around? I didn’t know that’s what retired flight attendants do, as a general rule.”
Her cheeks colored. “How do you know I’m following your girlfriend?”
“Serenity’s noticed you a few times.”
A slight smile curled her ruby lips. “Don’t think I didn’t see you two in the library.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Even so, it’s obvious Serenity’s not immune to your charms, Dr. Ross.”
This conversation was heading nowhere fast. “I repeat, does David know? Because, I have no qualms whatsoever in telling him. I’m sure he’d be interested.” If she wanted to play hardball, he’d lob it right back at her full force.
Carmen visibly stiffened and squared her shoulders. “This has nothing to do with David.”
“Are you being paid to watch Serenity? Who hired you?”
“Shh,” she said, darting her head back and forth. “Keep your voice down. This town’s small enough.”
“Sure, I’ll pipe down if you answer the question. Let me guess, Elise McClaren?”
He could tell that question touched a nerve. Opening her mouth to speak, she quickly closed it.
Jackson touched her forearm, relieved when she turned back toward him instead of bolting. “Serenity’s coming to my house for dinner tonight. You’re welcome to come. Better yet, bring Elise.” He bit his tongue not to add she’d better have a good explanation why he shouldn’t go to the police.
I guarantee you’ve never heard a story like ours. Those were the words used by “Mrs. Johnson.” He couldn’t wait to hear her story and it was long past due.
“Okay, listen.” Carmen beckoned him closer. “Yes, she hired the agency I work for, but my job is only to keep an eye on Serenity. See where she goes, who she sees, that sort of thing.”
“Why?”
“She has her reasons.”
“And the boy?”
When Carmen didn’t answer, Jackson shook his head. “I’d like to know how she can justify what she’s put Serenity through the past five years. It’s unconscionable.”
“Elise is a good woman and she loves her daughter, Dr. Ross. She’s taken excellent care of Justin. Surely you, of all people, know that.” Her dark eyes bore into him. “Keep an open mind. Once you hear what happened, you might be more forgiving.”
“I’d like the opportunity to find out so I can do that very thing, if it’s warranted.” Jackson lowered his basket to the floor. Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, he looked up and found her gone. No big surprise there. His eyes opened wider as he spied a loaf of bread in his basket. Sourdough. He hadn’t picked it up, so Carmen must have added it at some point. Was it random or intentional? Well, it’d complement the rest of the planned meal—and the seal on the wrapper wasn’t broken—so why not? Gathering the last of the ingredients he’d need for their dinner, Jackson walked toward the checkout lane, lost in thought. This whole situation was driving him crazy, and he needed to try and find a way to bring it to light. Going about it in a way that didn’t compromise his ethics was the tough thing, but he had to do it.
He’d figure out something. For Serenity.
Heading out of McHenry’s, Jackson spied Carmen on the sidewalk the next block over, talking to a man. A man in a suit. Not many wore suits in Croisette Shores, especially on Saturday. Putting two and two together, this must be the same guy who’d come into Serenity’s office and looked at the photo of Elise on the wall. Now he was speaking with Carmen.
After opening the trunk of his car, Jackson lowered the bags of groceries inside. They might spoil, but he needed to follow these two and see where they went next.
Carmen said something to the man and took off as Jackson closed the trunk and walked across the street. The man might have been alerted to his presence by Carmen, and he was smooth. Shoving his hands in his slacks, he strode down the street in the direction of the hardware store, whistling a jazzy tune.
When the man pushed open the door of Harry Maine’s Hardware, Jackson followed a few feet behind. Blast that bell on the front door that jingled when he stepped inside, announcing his arrival. Why did shop owners insist on those? His footsteps sounded equally loud on the old wooden floor. A few other customers shopped in the store. Seeing one of the deacons from the church, Jackson skirted around another aisle, hoping to avoid him. Normally, he’d be glad to stop and chat—he’d be the one to initiate the conversation—but not today.
Glancing around the store, he spotted the man in the fishing aisle. Headed that way, Jackson feigned interest in a rack of tackle and assorted supplies, attuned to Mr. Suit’s every movement. Darting a glance Jackson’s way, the other man moved his arms across his broad chest, feet planted slightly apart, but he didn’t budge otherwise.
Feeling bold, Jackson sauntered—the only word for it—and positioned himself next to him. “So, which one do you recommend?”
“Depends on what you’re looking to catch.” The words were tinged with a touch of humor. That was unexpected but a weird relief at the same time.
“I’m, uh, new at fishing, but I’m hoping to hook a pretty big one.”
The man chuckled under his breath. “Yeah? How many pounds?”
“A hundred and ten, give or take. Any suggestions?”
“That’s too big a challenge for a beginner without the proper equipment. I’d suggest you start out with something a little less...complicated.” When Mr. Suit’s gaze fell on him, Jackson held his brown-eyed stare steady. “Something less dangerous. After all, you don’t want to get pulled into the water, in over your head, now do you?”
“I’ll take my chances. I’ve known how to swim since I was a baby.” Jackson didn’t bat a lash although his palms grew moist and his jaws flinched.
“Good. Watch out for shark-infested waters, and you should be okay.”
Interesting exchange. It didn’t sound like a threat so much as sound, practical advice. What’s going on here? Jackson committed it to memory, something to puzzle over later. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, whistling again. It wasn’t like he could follow and badger the man with questions. Or could he? His groceries were already wilting in the trunk of the car, necessitating a return trip to McHenry’s, so why not?
Starting back toward the front of the store, Jackson pretended he didn’t hear his name called. No time. After exiting the store, he rounded the corner, but Mr. Suit was nowhere in sight.
“Stay out of it, buddy.” The man’s low growl reverberated in his ear as he strong-armed and half-hauled him away from the sidewalk, toward the bushes lining the nearby park.
Wrestling his arm free, Jackson pulled back, prepared to strike. The man caught his forearm mid-air. “I wouldn’t advise it. You’d only be hurting yourself.” His grip was like a steel trap. Where’d this guy train? He must spend most of his waking hours in the gym.
“Fine,” Jackson managed between clenched teeth. “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in Croisette Shores.”
“It might help you to know it’s about protection, pure and simple. You can trust me that I’m not going to hurt anyone, you included, if you calm down and don’t make a scene.”
For some reason, Jackson believed him. This guy could have knocked him out cold, sprawled him flat on the sidewalk. Or worse. Tomorrow he’d feel muscles he didn’t know he had since his stint in the Army.
“I’m going to release my hold now, and you’re going to behave. We’ll have ourselves a nice, calm conversation,” the man said. “Got it?”
“Got it.” At least Mr. Suit seemed willing to talk. When he released his arm, Jackson rubbed the sore spot where the man’s nails dug into his flesh. “So, talk already.”
“Relax, buddy. Your girlfriend’s involved, but she doesn’t know it.”
“What’s that mean? Speak English, buddy. Is she in danger? Tell me that much.”
The man shook his head. “From what I can tell, no. For her sake, I hope not.”
Jackson crossed his arms and stared him down. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? You must suspect she might be in some kind of danger or else you wouldn’t be hanging around town, going into her office and staring at a photo on the wall. What does this have to do with Elise McClaren?”
The man narrowed his brown eyes, and the creases surrounding his eyes deepened. “You’ve used up your quota of questions. Look, I’m not a threat, but a word of advice?” His voice lowered. “Keep her close.”
“Until when?”
“You’ll know.”
Jackson watched Mr. Suit walk away and tried to shake the pervading sense of foreboding. Suddenly, he felt very, very cold.
~CHAPT
ER 39~
After pulling his car in the driveway at the McClaren home, Jackson cut the engine and bowed his head. Lord, help me in what I’m about to do. You know my motives are pure and I’m only trying to help the woman I love. If Serenity’s in danger, I need to know so I can help her. Use me as Your servant. Let her look to You, too, and draw her close.
“It’s confrontation time,” Jackson muttered, climbing out of the car and clicking the key fob to lock the doors.
Clinton answered his knock a minute later. Swinging the door wide, he smiled. “Hey, Doc. Always nice to see you. Come on in.” The older man’s smile faded as Jackson pushed past him into the house.
“This isn’t a social call, Clinton.” Jackson’s gaze fell on a book on the sofa. A thriller. Stalking toward it, he grabbed it and held it up. “Are you reading this book?”
The older man’s face paled. “What’s going on? Has something happened? Is Serenity okay?”
Jackson dropped the book on the sofa. “Why do I find that question ironic? Tell me what’s happening. The truth.”
“About what, exactly?” Clinton licked his lips and avoided his gaze.
Stepping closer, Jackson waited until he had his eye contact. “Start with admitting your wife’s alive and right here in Croisette Shores. With a boy who might possibly be Serenity’s son. He’s the age Liam would be now, and the kicker? Justin’s the spitting image of Daniel Kincaid right down to the hair, the eyes and the dimples.” Lowering his head, Jackson fought for control. Part of him wanted to tackle Clinton and wrestle him to the floor and demand answers. Considering the man had a recent medical procedure, acting on his impetuous instincts wouldn’t be advisable.
“You’d better come into the family room so we can sit and talk about it.”
