Don't Tell

by Karen Rose

  Dana sighed, releasing the stronghold she had on herself and raked her freed hand through her short hair. “Sure. I’m a sucker for plastic pizza and I still have nothing in my cupboards.”

  Caroline pushed away from the table. “Then I’ll make a salad. I swear you’d have scurvy in a week if it weren’t for me making you eat some vegetables.”

  “Caroline?”

  Caroline turned in the doorway of the little kitchen, feeling another spurt of annoyance at the smug, knowing look on her best friend’s face. That was the problem with best friends. They always knew you way too well. “What?”

  “Black suits you. And don’t forget to touch up your roots before work tomorrow.”

  State Bureau of Investigation

  Raleigh, North Carolina

  Monday, March 5

  7 P.M.

  Special Agent Steven Thatcher of the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation had one hell of a headache. A consistent, nagging headache. She was named Aunt Helen. His mother’s sister. She meant well. She really did. And she hadn’t always been a headache. She was, in truth, his favorite aunt and he loved her dearly. When he was a redheaded freckle-faced boy of eight, she’d take him fishing. Damn, but that woman could cast like a pro. She balked at cleaning her own catch, but she made up for it by frying up whatever he cleaned. When he was a gangly, redheaded, pimply- and freckle-faced adolescent of thirteen, she taught him to dance and how to pin a corsage on a girl’s dress without practicing acupuncture or getting slapped in the face. When he was an awkward, nervous groom and father-to-be at eighteen, she tied his bow tie and told him he was doing the right thing. She’d cooed over and helped change the diapers of every one of his three boys.

  And she’d held his hand when at thirty-three he put his wife in the ground. That was three years ago. She’d moved in with them before the boys’ tears were dry and taken care of them. She still took care of them all. Cooked, cleaned. Made sure the boys’ socks were bleached white and even matched. Made sure he didn’t wear a paisley tie with a herringbone jacket. Sang lullabies to his youngest son and tucked him into bed with a kiss and a bedtime story of faraway lands and dragons. She fished with his middle son and taught his oldest to dance and pin corsages on girls.

  Yes, she was his favorite aunt. And he loved her dearly.

  Yet she was the cause of the pain shooting behind his eyes at this very moment.

  Because now, at thirty-six, with his red hair tamed to what Aunt Helen called strawberry blond, his freckles faded, and his ring finger bare, he was an available male and his children needed a mother. He should know. Aunt Helen said so. Daily. At this very moment, in fact. And she had just the right girl …. He rolled his eyes. She always had just the right girl.

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t any use. The headache just stayed and stayed. Helen had the tenacity of that damn pink battery bunny. And the fact that what she wanted most was the very thing he’d vowed to avoid at all costs … Well, that would just be one more snag in the tangle of his life. Steven switched the phone to his other ear and grabbed the file he’d been reading when she called. “No, Helen. N-O. I do not want to go out with your friend’s niece’s cousin. I don’t care if she did win the local beauty pageant when she was seventeen. I don’t care if she’s so sweet that she makes Mother Teresa look like Hitler. The answer is still no.”

  “She has her own bass boat,” Helen wheedled. “With a depth finder. And a GPS.”

  Steven sat up in his chair. “Really?” He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Helen?” This might be an out with fringe benefits. A way to keep Helen off his back for a few months and squeeze in some legitimate recreation at the same time.

  “Two hundred horses.”

  Steven bit his lip. He hated Helen’s blind dates. Hated them. But, hell, the woman had a depth finder and a global positioning system and a boat with a two hundred–horse motor. How bad could she be? One, maybe two dates with the beauty queen and Helen would lay off the matchmaking, maybe until Fall if all the cards fell his way. “Okay, okay. Give me her number.”

  “I thought the boat would do the trick,” Helen said, obviously taking great satisfaction from her victory. “You’re a hard man to matchmake, Steven.”

  “I know. The number?” With an inward sigh he wrote it on his desk blotter. “I’ll try to call her tomorrow.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “Don’t push it, Helen.” Steven massaged the back of his neck. “Besides, I’ve got calls to return. Don’t hold dinner for me, but tell Nicky I’ll be home in time to tuck him in.”

  He returned four of the six calls, checking each one off his list. Two more to go, then home to a warmed-over dinner and hopefully a cold beer. And his boys. Always his boys.

  “Steven?”

  Steven looked up to find his boss leaning against the doorjamb of his office door, his normally jovial face creased in a frown, a manila folder under one arm. Steven placed the phone receiver back in its cradle. “What’s up?”

  “New case in from Asheville.” Special Agent in Charge Lennie Farrell laid the folder on Steven’s desk blotter, dead center. Farrell was a stickler for detail, sometimes to the point of annoying everyone in his command. But he was a good man, a good leader. And Steven respected him. “I need you to go down there tomorrow and check it out.”

  Steven opened the file, scanned the first few pages. “I remember this one, vaguely. Wife and son of a cop missing, when? Seven years ago now? How did you get this file so fast? They just pulled up the car yesterday morning.” He squinted up at Farrell. “Why isn’t the Asheville field office responding to this? It’s their jurisdiction. What’s up, Lennie?”

  Farrell shrugged. “I got a call right at noon from the head of the Asheville office. He was in the district attorney’s office seven years ago and he thought the husband did it back then, but there wasn’t sufficient evidence to charge him. He’s concerned this’ll get brushed under the carpet again. Apparently enough of the Asheville PD have personal history with the husband to make him concerned about conflict of interest within the Asheville office.” Farrell hesitated. Then straightened his spine. “I also got a call from the investigating detective. Retired now. He and I go back a lot of years. He also thought the husband did it. He wants the right thing done by the wife and boy this time around.”

  Steven regarded Farrell for a long moment. “Did the investigating officer call you or the Asheville field office first?”

  Farrell looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Me first. I recommended he go through channels, to call the field office and get them involved. He did and the field office asked us to get involved.”

  Steven glanced down at the file, then back up at Farrell. “Your dad’s a retired cop out of Asheville PD, isn’t he?”

  Farrell jerked his head in what Steven interpreted as a nod. That was enough. Steven massaged his temples, feeling his headache worsen. He’d been through cases like this one before and the outcome was rarely pretty. The SBI was rarely welcomed by local law enforcement with open arms. Usually at least one local cop viewed SBI Special Agents as trespassers on local turf. Truth was SBI resources were better equipped to investigate cases that, thank God, weren’t daily occurrences in North Carolina’s small towns. Nevertheless, his presence was likely to be considered “outsider interference” by the local police. “Is local law enforcement aware I’m coming in on their investigation?”

  Farrell nodded. “Actually, the Lieutenant in charge at Asheville PD gave the field office a call this morning.” He checked his notepad. “Her name is Lieutenant Antoinette Ross. Goes by Toni. Well respected by the Asheville field office. She asked for SBI support, so you can at least count on cooperation at the top.”

  Steven smirked. “Before or after your father talked to her?”

  Farrell shook his head with a slight smile. “You’ll have to ask her that question.”

  Steven scanned the file once again.
There was precious little information. “No bodies found?”

  “No.” Farrell perched on the corner of his desk. “And there was no evidence of foul play when the wife and the boy first disappeared seven years ago.”

  Steven frowned at the troubled look in Farrell’s eyes. “And now?”

  Farrell gave a facial shrug. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  Steven closed the file. “I’ll head out first thing in the morning.” He allowed himself a final smirk up at Farrell. “Oh, and I’ll give your daddy your regards when I talk to him.”

  Farrell stood and headed for the door. “Make sure my mamma offers you some of her sweet potato pie. It’s the best.”

  Chicago

  Monday, March 5

  9 P.M.

  Max relaxed behind the wheel of his car, pleasantly exhausted from his first day at Carrington College, finding the drive to his house comfortably familiar. It was still hard to think of it as his own house. It had belonged to Grandma Hunter since before he and his brothers and sisters were born. Situated west of Chicago in what was still rolling farmland, it was old and drafty and massive … and absolutely wonderful. He smiled as he turned onto his own road. He’d hung from those tree limbs as a boy, raced up and down the road, David and Peter at his side, Catherine at their heels, Elizabeth crying because they’d left her behind again. He’d missed them, his family. He hadn’t realized how much until Cathy called to ask him to come home. Her oldest was taking a job in Virginia and the house would be empty again. The call from Dean Whitfield had truly been providential, just as he’d told Caroline Stewart that morning.

  Now, he thought, she had been a very pleasant surprise. All the history department secretaries he’d known had been gray, fifty-ish and grandmotherly. Caroline was anything but. A wave of arousal surged at the memory of her rounded curves, of the charming way she blushed when she realized he’d been studying her. She was everything he’d been looking for. Beautiful, compassionate. Obviously intelligent. Too bad she didn’t seem to have the same assessment of her value that he did. If she had, Monika Shaw would never have been able to extinguish the light from her eyes so quickly. Fury had spiked inside him and it had taken every ounce of restraint to keep from telling Monika Shaw to go to hell. The elderly professor Wade Grayson warned him about Shaw. He’d been right. But watching Monika wave Caroline away as if she were a servant and Shaw the queen lit a possessiveness in him, a sharp need to protect Caroline that took him by surprise. Remembering, hours later, the feeling still took him by surprise.

  Surprise took an upward surge as he pulled into his driveway, finding a classic T-bird taking up more than half the width.

  “David,” he muttered, joy and annoyance competing. He parked his car as far to the left of the T-bird as he could, ending up partially on the snow-covered grass. The recent spring thaw teased, leaving piles of slushy ice in its wake. He’d have a shoe full of slush before he got into the house. But joy won out. David was here. And Max had missed him.

  Max found the door unlocked and the sizzle and aroma of stir-fry met his ears and nose. He dropped his briefcase on the hardwood floor of the foyer and hung his overcoat on one of the pegs Grandpa Hunter had hammered into the wall sixty years ago. He’d finally come home.

  “David!”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Max let his nose lead the way and found his brother dramatically shaking vegetables in a large wok over the gas stove. David looked up with a grin and the years seemed to melt away. “About time you got home.” He dropped the long handle of the wok to fold Max in a bear hug. The seconds ticked as the brothers held tight in a true embrace. Similar in size and weight, they’d made a formidable pair, once upon a time. And despite the two years separating them, they’d always been a pair. With a last hard squeeze, David let go first and turned back to his cooking.

  Max looked over David’s shoulder at the sizzling vegetables. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since me and Ma finished your grocery shopping three hours ago.” David rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for patience and Max laughed. “Your cabinets are officially stocked.”

  “Better you than me.” Max’s heart softened. “She went to a lot of trouble for me.”

  “She’s glad to have you home. Finally.” David did something magical with his wrist and all the vegetables took a dangerous slide, miraculously ending up back in the wok.

  Max took a fond look around him. The kitchen was garish and old, enormous goldenrod and lime vegetables adorning the walls. Grandma Hunter hung the wallpaper when Max was a boy and he’d hated it as much then as he did now. But it was as much a part of this place as the horseshoe hung over the door and the antique table and cane-backed chairs. Ma called them antiques. Grandma had just called them old.

  “I’m glad to be home. That smells good.”

  David smirked. “I thought you had a dinner meeting.”

  “Appetizers.” It had been a steak, but … well, that had been hours before.

  With a flourish, David served, then joined him at the old table. “Sit and enjoy. You got some calls while you were gone.”

  Max’s back tightened against the cane-backed chair. “Who?”

  “Your realtor in Denver. You got an offer on your condo, a good one. I told her to take it.”

  Max’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief. “You told her what?”

  David chuckled. “You’re still so easy, Max. I told her I’d give you the message. But you should take it; it’s a great offer.” He paused. “Then somebody named Ed called.”

  “And?” Ed was the one friend he’d made in the years he’d lived in Denver.

  David bit his lip, hesitating. “He said the wedding went off without a hitch.”

  Max drew a deep breath, then let it out as a sigh. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

  David set his fork down and propped his chin on his fists, elbows on the table. “Max, what happened?”

  Max eyed his brother warily, then all resistance melted at the caring look in the gray eyes, so like his own. “Her name was Elise. We dated for two years, I asked her to marry me, she accepted, then backed out six months ago saying she’d met someone ‘more compatible.’” It was impossible to keep the bitterness from his voice. “That was her wedding that went off without a hitch.”

  David blinked once. “Well, that was concise.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the meat of it.”

  David’s fists lowered to the table in one controlled savage motion, sending the silverware bouncing. “You mean to tell me you were engaged and you never told us about her? You never once brought her home to meet us? Even Ma? For two years?” His voice rose on each question, so by the last one he was close to shouting.

  Max winced. “Something like that.”

  David shook his head, his expression stunned. “Why the hell not?”

  Why not? “I don’t know. Maybe because I knew you wouldn’t like her.”

  David visibly forced himself to calm down. “And why would you think something like that?”

  Max pushed the food around on his plate. For all his hunger a few minutes before, he’d lost his appetite. “Because you wouldn’t have.” He shrugged, shifting uncomfortably under his brother’s steady gaze. “She wasn’t … like us.”

  “What, she was like … Protestant?”

  Max snorted a chuckle, unprepared for David’s wry humor. “No, actually she wasn’t anything. An agnostic. But that wasn’t it. Elise was … She was … Dammit, Dave, every way I start to say it makes it sound like I was ashamed of you, and that wasn’t it.”

  “So say it and let me judge.”

  Max took a bite and contemplated his answer as he chewed and swallowed. “Elise was uptown. She was sophisticated and dramatic. She was an actress.”

  “No! Say it isn’t so!” David drew back in mock horror, crossing himself.

  Max frowned. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic. I’m trying very hard here.”
>
  “Sorry.” David rose and got two beers from the refrigerator and a bottle opener from the drawer. “Here. Peace offering.”

  “Okay.” Max took the bottle, still frowning.

  “So, how did you meet Miss Uptown Gir-irl?” David gestured with his bottle, singing the last two words of the Billy Joel song.

  David was making him feel better despite himself. He’d always been able to do that. “She had a part in a local production of Richard the Third and she came to me to do some research. I don’t know, Dave. I was fascinated. She was different than any of the women I’d seen over the years.”

  “How so?”

  “She was … incredibly beautiful.”

  “You never picked out any other kind, Max.”

  “That was true before.”

  The bottle hit the table with a thud. “No way in hell am I hearing this again. You’re not going to tell me that you haven’t been able to attract a single beautiful woman in twelve friggin’ years?”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. None that stuck around long enough after seeing his scars to become anyone special. “Something like that.”

  “Dammit, Max! All that half-a-man stuff was bullshit years ago and it’s bullshit now.”

  “No, David, it’s not.”

  “You lost the wheelchair before you even went to Denver. I ought to know—I roomed with you in Boston every damn year just to kick your ass to rehab.”

  “And I’m grateful for that.” Max was more than grateful. He was forever indebted to David for giving up four years of his twenties to bully him back to almost full mobility. He could walk on his own two feet because of David. How could he ever begin to repay that?

  David crossed his arms over his chest. “I hate it when you use that tone of voice.”

  Max raised a brow. “What tone of voice?” he asked quietly.

  David muttered an explicit curse. “That tone of voice. The one that says ‘Don’t touch me.’ Don’t you understand anything at all? I don’t want your fucking gratitude, Max. I never did.”

  Max felt his own hackles rising. “Then what do you want?”