She already knew that, and she was still doing it, because she did not want to face Logan or her fears or the knowledge that her niece was out in the world, and she was sitting around waiting for permission to go visit her.
Too much. All of it.
And so she’d run into the room and locked the door and willed herself to sleep, but sleep hadn’t come. She’d just lain there staring at the clock, wondering how long it would take for a dozen things she wanted to happen actually to happen. Picasso had nosed at the door, whining softly. She would have let him in, but someone called him, the gruff voice either Logan’s or Malone’s.
The house had grown silent.
The sun had risen.
No voices. No people moving up and down stairs or through the hallway outside the door. Just her and every thought she didn’t want to think about her niece, her sister.
And Logan.
She eyed the clock. Four hours. Six minutes. Nine seconds.
If she lay there one more minute, she’d go nuts.
She jumped up and opened one of the dresser drawers. There were clothes there. Lots of them—brand-new jeans, brand-new T-shirts, sweatshirts and sweaters with the tags still on. She grabbed something that looked as if it would fit, walked into the attached bathroom and took a quick shower.
It did nothing to cheer her mood.
If someone had told her a week ago that her niece was alive, she wouldn’t have believed it. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about Amelia and the possibility that she was alive, living with a couple in York, Pennsylvania.
Possibility?
It seemed like a certainty.
I don’t believe in coincidence.
That was what Logan had said, and she agreed. It was too much of a stretch to think that a nine-year-old girl—eight?—would arbitrarily decide she wanted her name to be Amelia.
Autumn/Amelia had told the pastor and his wife her name. Had she told them about her old life? The one she’d lived in the fancy house in DC, with the blonde mother who was larger than life?
Had she told them about the murder?
About being taken from everything she’d loved?
Had they brushed off her concerns, chalked the stories up to an overactive imagination?
Or had they somehow been involved in her kidnapping?
Harper walked to one of the windows, pulled back the curtains and opened the blinds. The day had dawned, thick layers of clouds covering the sun and pressing close over trees and distant houses.
If she’d been home, she’d have gone outside with Picasso and her bucket, gathered clay in preparation for the winter. That chore, the one she’d been working on so diligently as late summer and fall arrived, seemed part of another life, and she wondered how she’d go back to it. The routine of finding the perfect clay, preparing it, throwing it onto a wheel? It didn’t seem nearly as consuming as it had the previous day.
A selfish life.
The thought flashed through her mind, and she tried to push it away. There was nothing selfish about what she’d been doing. There’d been no one who needed her, nothing that she’d left behind unfinished or neglected.
Maybe, though, there’d been a lot she could have done with the past four years. Not that she wasn’t proud of the art she’d created and the name she’d made for herself. She’d redefined herself after she’d lost her job, and that was something she stood behind, but what else had she done?
Hidden? From life? From the complications it brought?
The thought didn’t fill her with good cheer and happiness. There were so many things that she could have done. Even at the small church she attended, there were people in need—elderly people who had no one, young mothers who would have loved a few hours a week to themselves. Harper didn’t have family, but she could have made some friends if she’d wanted to.
She’d been too hurt, too sad and too certain that it would all turn out the way it had before—dust in the wind, scattering here and there and impossible to gather up. Just memories of a few fun times and some sad ones.
She was a coward.
Even now, she had looked into Logan’s eyes and seen exactly what she’d been feeling—interest and attraction and a little bit of hope—but she’d been too scared to do anything with that, too worried about what she might lose to reach out and try to take anything. As if, somehow, she knew better than God what her life would be. As if, somehow, she understood the path she was on better than He understood it.
She moved away from the window, shoved her feet into her shoes and unlocked the door, disgusted with herself. She’d been hiding for a lot of years, but she wasn’t going to hide anymore. Her niece was alive, and she deserved to be found, to be comforted and to be offered as much information as she could handle.
Eight was young to have her life turned upside down again, but maybe Amelia had always known it would happen. Maybe the memories were still alive and well, and maybe she’d be happy to have her father and aunt in her life again.
Maybe.
One way or another, the truth was going to come out, secrets were going to be revealed and someone wasn’t going to be happy about it.
Who?
That was the question Harper couldn’t answer.
She’d have thought Gabe. He was the easiest one to point the finger at. Maybe he’d secreted his daughter away, hidden her until he could bring her home and make it seem as if they were both victims of a crime.
But that didn’t sit right with Harper. Gabe had never been much of an actor. His feelings were always there for the world to see. He didn’t hide them and he didn’t apologize for them—anger, frustration, irritation, impatience. She’d seen them all flash across his face on more than one occasion. And she’d seen his grief at the funeral. She’d seen the tears.
Was it possible he’d faked them?
She doubted it. She really did.
And yet, someone had arranged all of this—Lydia’s death, Amelia’s kidnapping. It hadn’t been random. It must have been carefully planned out and executed. Four years had passed, and not one person had suspected Amelia was alive. Someone had wanted it that way. And then someone hadn’t.
Why?
She stepped into the hall and walked down old wooden steps, the soft creaks and groans reminding her of the old apartment buildings she’d lived in when she was a kid. Ten or fifteen different places, one after another, because they’d been evicted over and over again. Her mother hadn’t been able to keep money in her pocket. If she had it, she gave it to whatever guy she was with at the time, or she spent it on makeup and creams and hair products to attract the next guy.
Not a good memory, but she had loved her daughters.
There’d been no doubt about that.
It hadn’t been a stable love or a productive one, but she’d given what she could. Lydia had done the same with Amelia, offering her even more than she’d had. If there was any success in their family, it was that.
Harper jogged down the last few steps and turned down a hallway that stretched the width of the house. The hallway opened into a large kitchen—stainless-steel appliances, granite counters, beautiful wood flooring. All of it updated and spotless. A coffeemaker sat on the counter. She checked the filter and plugged it in, her heart thudding hollowly in her chest. Going through the motions of a morning routine didn’t change anything. Her entire life had been turned upside down. So had Gabe’s. So had Amelia’s. So had the couple’s who’d adopted her.
Harper opened the fridge. Someone had stocked it, but she wasn’t hungry. She grabbed creamer and was setting it on the counter when Picasso bounded into the room. He went straight to a giant bowl that someone had set near the back door, nosed the emptiness and gave her the eye.
“What?” she asked, scratching him behind the ears. “I don’t have any
food for you.”
“Under the sink,” Logan said, his voice so surprising she jumped.
She whirled to face him, her heart jumping as she looked into his dark eyes. “I...didn’t hear you.”
“The sound of your giant puppy masked my approach,” he responded. He looked as if he’d just woken up, his hair mussed, his clothes a little wrinkled, his eyes bleary.
“I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought. Sorry for waking you.”
“I had to be up anyway.” He took two mugs from a cupboard, set sugar beside them. “Everything has been arranged. We’re meeting Chance’s friend in an hour. He’s going to escort us to the church where Amelia’s adoptive family is waiting.”
“Is she there?” she asked, her hand shaking as she poured steaming coffee into both mugs.
“No. Everyone thought it was best if she go to school and continue about her day without knowing anything about this.”
“Her face was all over the news. She’s going to hear from someone.”
“The FBI had the story pulled once her...once the pastor called them. I doubt any of the kids at her school saw it. If they did, the pastor and his wife will deal with it.”
“If they aren’t in jail,” she murmured, spooning sugar into her coffee, pouring creamer.
“They won’t be going to jail.” He took his coffee black, sipping it as steam drifted from the mug. “Everything the pastor said checked out. Dozens of people from his congregation were interviewed. They all confirmed the story.”
“That makes things even harder, I think,” she said, setting her mug on the counter. Her stomach was in knots, and she didn’t think she could drink the coffee.
“It complicates them, that’s for sure.”
“I wonder how Gabe is handling it,” she said as she poured dog kibble into Picasso’s bowl and put kitten food in another smaller bowl that was sitting nearby.
“You’re going to find out. He’s coming to Pennsylvania with us.”
“Wow,” she said, because it was all she could think. Three days ago, she’d been collecting clay, not thinking about anything but the next art show, the next project. Gabe had been planning a wedding...
“Does it seem strange to you,” she asked, “that all of this is happening right before Gabe’s wedding?”
“Strange?” He pulled out a chair and urged her into it, his arm skimming her shoulder as he leaned to set the mug on the table. “Convenient, maybe.”
“How so?”
He settled into the chair beside her, took another sip of coffee. His eyes were brighter now, but his hair still looked mussed from sleep. She wanted to run her hand over it, smooth strands the way she had when he’d had pine needles stuck there.
She grabbed the coffee instead, chugged down the sugary brew.
“Gabe’s daughter was dead. Now he’s getting married and she’s alive again. He can bring her home and settle her back into the house with his new wife. A woman who will probably be a great mother.”
That hurt. Thinking about Lydia being replaced by Maggie, thinking about Maggie moving into the house Lydia had taken so much pride in—it was like a blow to the heart.
“I’m sorry.” Logan took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”
“It’s okay. It’s the truth.” She could have pulled her hand away, but she didn’t. It felt too nice to sit there with Logan, their coffee mugs abandoned on the table, Picasso lying at their feet. It felt too much like all the things she’d wanted when she’d been young and naive enough to think she could have them.
“A truth that didn’t need to be spoken this early in the morning. Did you sleep at all?” he asked, changing the subject.
It was for the best.
There was nothing more that could be added. Until they met with the FBI, Gabe and the couple who’d adopted Amelia, they wouldn’t have a clear picture of what had happened.
“No, but I thought a lot.”
“About?”
“The way I hid for four years. I could have done a lot for many people during that time. Instead, I just kept to myself.”
“You needed time to heal,” he said, smoothing his hair the way she’d wanted to.
There was something about him—something gruff and rough and compelling that made her want to stare into his eyes, hear what he had to say, listen the way she’d always wanted to be listened to—as if every word were important, every thought mattered.
“I wish that had been my motivation,” she said. “It wasn’t, and I’d be lying if I said otherwise. The truth is, too many people wanted too much from me—stories about Lydia, interviews about my involvement in her disappearance. Tears over the loss of my niece and sister. I didn’t want to give them anything. I figured they already had enough, were already making a mockery of her life and her death. Their lives and deaths. Only Amelia...”
“Wasn’t dead,” he finished, and she lifted her mug, took a long swallow. Too sweet, but she wasn’t going to add more coffee to it. She didn’t think her shaking hands could manage it.
Picasso bounded up from his place on the floor, ran to the doorway that led into the hall and stood there, tail wagging.
Someone else must be awake.
It was for the best.
There were a million words Harper could say, and she had a feeling Logan would listen to all of them, but there was more that needed to be done than talking. Questions that needed to be answered, secrets that needed to be revealed.
Whose secrets?
Not Amelia’s adoptive parents’.
Gabe’s?
She didn’t think so.
Maggie’s?
She’d been in the picture four years ago.
“We’ll figure it out,” Logan said as if he’d read her mind.
“Figure what out?” Malone stepped into the room, the kitten in his arms. He set it on the floor and walked straight to the coffeepot. “What we’re eating for breakfast?”
“Grab something quickly.” Chance moved into the room behind him. “It’s a thirty-minute drive, and if we’re late, we’ll be left behind.”
That was enough to get Harper moving. “I’ll take Picasso—”
“Stella is staying here. She’ll take care of the dog. All you need to do is be ready to leave.” Chance’s tone was smooth, his words even, but there was something hard in his eyes.
She didn’t think she’d want to buck his orders, didn’t think she’d want to get on his bad side, either.
“I’ll grab my phone,” she said, sprinting out of the kitchen and up to her room.
* * *
A Christmas CD blasted cheerful music into Special Agent Arnold Smith’s van, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to Logan. He didn’t ask the guy to turn the music off or down. Agent Smith was doing all of them a favor driving them to York to meet Amelia’s parents, and Logan didn’t want to get on his bad side.
Besides, he loved Christmas. He just wasn’t too keen on overly cheerful Christmas music. Especially when he didn’t feel cheerful.
Which...he didn’t.
He felt anxious, worried. Neither was productive and neither would help him keep Harper safe.
Something that everyone seemed to have lost sight of.
In their hurry to find out what had happened to Amelia, how she’d wound up with a woman who’d claimed to be her mother, the police and FBI seemed to have forgotten that someone wanted Harper dead.
Logan hadn’t.
He glanced in the backseat and saw that she’d leaned her head against the window, had her eyes closed.
She wasn’t sleeping. Her body was too tense for that. Maybe she was avoiding looking at her brother-in-law and Maggie, holding hands beside her.
Their relationship b
othered her. No matter what she’d said.
She must have sensed his gaze. She opened her eyes and offered a sad smile.
“Cheerful music,” she commented.
“Matches the cookies Sandra sent for Amelia,” Maggie commented, lifting the plastic container she’d been clutching the entire trip. Dozens of colorfully frosted sugar cookies were inside. Apparently, they’d once been Amelia’s favorite Christmas cookies, and Sandra had wanted to make certain she had some. That was what Maggie had said. Gabe hadn’t said anything. He’d climbed into the backseat and sat silently for the entire trip.
“They are...cheerful and sweet. I’m sure Amelia will love them.”
“If her parents allow her to have sugar,” Maggie responded, and Gabe stiffened.
“I’m her parent. We’ll be her parents once we’re married.”
“I know. It’s just, they have feelings, too. They love her, too.”
“You’re making assumptions,” he said wearily, and Maggie sighed.
“I’d rather assume the best than the worst, but I guess we’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“I hope so,” Gabe responded, and Maggie touched his cheek, whispered something in his ear.
Harper met Logan’s eyes, her skin pale. Maggie had foisted one of the cookies on her a half hour ago, but other than that, he didn’t think she’d eaten since sometime the previous day.
“Maybe you should have another one of those cookies,” he suggested, and she frowned.
“I didn’t even want the first one. I only ate it because everyone was commenting on how pale I looked and telling me I needed energy for the trip.”
“Everyone was correct,” he said, and she shrugged.
“What I need are answers. And,” she added, “maybe a little less Christmas music.”
“My kid’s CD,” Agent Smith said. He’d picked them up at a rest stop a half hour from the safe house with Gabe and Maggie already in the backseat. He’d followed protocol, checked everything out with his supervisor. The police and FBI in Pennsylvania were expecting them. So were Amelia’s adoptive parents.
“I don’t suppose you have any other options for music?” Logan asked, and Agent Smith sighed.
Deadly Christmas Secrets Page 15
