Find Me (The Donovan Family Book 3)

by Margaret Watson

  Knowing each other.

  He twined their fingers together and pressed their palms together. They fit. It was as if their bodies recognized each other immediately, and now their brains had to catch up.

  He tugged her over to the couch, then sat beside her. "Tell me, Lizzy." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You helped me last night. I'd like to return the favor."

  She wanted to lean against his shoulder and let it all spill out. The pain, the fear, the horror. Instead, she gripped his hand more tightly and stared straight ahead, the memories unspooling in her mind.

  Maybe she just wanted to share with Mac the way he'd done with her. She'd tell him about her father. She could give him that.

  "It started when I was eighteen," she said, swallowing hard. "The summer before I went to college." Dredging everything up made her chest ache. Brought everything to the surface, where she couldn't ignore it.

  Maybe Mac was right – telling him would defuse the power of those memories. Maybe bringing them into the light would banish the darkness that had coiled around her for so long.

  "We lived in northern Wisconsin. My dad and mom were school teachers. I have a brother, seven years older than me. We lived outside the town, on what used to be a farm." She swallowed. "I was so excited about going to college. The University of Wisconsin. Excited about having one last summer with my friends. Then the sheriff hired a new deputy. Kyle Diggens. He introduced himself to me and my friends, and I thought that was nice. It made me feel like a grown-up." She closed her eyes at her naive younger self. "I'd see him in town, he'd wave and smile, but I never spoke to him. I didn't think of him as a...a guy. He was just the new deputy. Way older than me." She smiled wearily. "He was twenty-five, but for a kid, that's ancient."

  Mac had curled his arm around her shoulders. His other hand still held hers. She felt safe next to him. As if this story was someone else's, and she could recite it without breaking down. "Yeah?" he said, turning to face her. His mouth was inches from her, his breath ruffling her hair. She thought his mouth brushed her hair, but couldn't be sure.

  "He started calling and asking me out. I turned him down, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd follow me around town, sit in his car and watch me. Finally, my dad went to the sheriff and asked him to speak to the deputy. The sheriff made a joke, but my father was insistent. So the sheriff said he'd say something."

  "Then what?" Mac's mouth was a hard line, and his fingers tightened on hers like a vise.

  "It was better for awhile. He still watched me, but he didn't call me again. Then I went off to college.

  "Gifts started to arrive every couple of months. A book of poetry. A DVD of a television show about a guy who was in love with a woman who barely noticed him. A sweater." She swallowed. "The last one was lingerie. The kind of things a guy would buy for his girlfriend."

  "Did your father go back to the sheriff?"

  "He did, but the sheriff didn't do anything. I knew the stuff was from Kyle, but I couldn't prove it. The sheriff said it could be anyone. There was no proof it was Kyle.

  "The language teacher at the high school knew what was going on, and Mr. Gary suggested Dad send me to the language camp here on Skipjack. They were always looking for counselors who had language skills. So my parents sent me here for the summer."

  Mac was caressing her shoulder, and it was soothing. Comforting. She swallowed. "Kyle was furious. He wanted to know where I was, but of course my father wouldn't tell him. No one but my family knew where I'd gone. Things started happening around the house – a flat tire, phone calls late at night, doorbells ringing at four in the morning. The sheriff agreed to have one of his deputies watch the house."

  Mac's jaw worked. "Let me guess. Kyle."

  "You catch on quick. Nothing more happened, and the sheriff said it must have been kids." She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Then my father went fishing one day in August. He didn't come home when he was supposed to, and my mother went to the lake, looking for him. His boat was drifting not too far from shore, but he wasn't there.

  "Long story short, he'd drowned. He had a gash on his head, but the sheriff said he probably slipped and hit his head on the pier. My mother, brother and I were certain it was Kyle, but again, we had no proof. The state police looked at the evidence, said it was possible the wound had been caused by an oar, but it was inconclusive.

  "My mother sold our house and she and I moved to Chicago. My brother was living in Milwaukee." She bowed her head, blinking away tears. "He blamed me for my father's death."

  "What happened to Diggins?"

  Lizzy clenched her jaw and stared out the window. "He started stalking another girl. The sheriff didn't do anything, and Kyle climbed in her bedroom window one night and tried to rape her. She fought him, screamed, and her father came running in. With his gun. He shot and killed Kyle."

  "Don't tell me the sheriff blamed the father."

  "The father didn't let the sheriff into the house. He called the state police. They listened to the girl's parents, and Mr. Gary told them what had been going on with me. The sheriff retired. That was it."

  "God, Lizzy." He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her close. "I'm so sorry. That's awful. Horrible. But you know most cops aren't like that, right?"

  She jerked away from Mac. "Are you standing up for him?"

  "Of course not." He tried to draw her closer, but she batted his hand away. "He was a criminal, and so was the sheriff who looked the other way. I'm just saying you can't judge all police officers because of a few. Most of them are good guys. My brothers and sister are police officers. So was my dad."

  She knew he was right, but it didn't change the way she felt. She didn't trust the police. As far as she was concerned, officers had to prove themselves trustworthy. "I'm not saying your brothers would do anything like that. Just that...I'm cautious." It was why she'd run from the FBI. She was afraid they wouldn't believe her. Afraid they'd stick up for the killer.

  "Cautious is good," he said, pulling her against him again. "Thank you for telling me," he whispered. "For trusting me."

  He swept his hand up and down her back, lingering on each bump of her spine, reaching beneath her collar to touch her nape. She heard him draw in a shaky breath. Her heart hammered against her chest, and she felt his beating just as hard.

  "Beth," he murmured. His breath feathered over her ear, making her shiver. "I'd like you to meet my siblings sometime. You'd like them. Maybe they'd restore some of your faith in the police."

  Meeting his siblings implied she'd see Mac again. Her heart beat faster. Did she want that?

  Yes.

  Could it happen?

  No. Not now.

  As disappointment welled inside her, Mac leaned closer. "You have beautiful eyes," he murmured. "I can see everything you're feeling in them." He brushed his mouth along her jaw. "You want that to happen, don't you?" You want to pursue this...thing between us.

  "You're trying to distract me," she muttered, trying to ease away from him. Not that hard, though. She felt him smile against her cheek.

  "Is it working?"

  It was working far too well. Any more distracting and they'd be in her bedroom. She eased away from him and stood up, horrified to find her legs weren't as steady as they should be.

  "Um...I'm...yeah." Great. Now he'd stolen her words as well as her common sense.

  She backed up, stumbling against the wall. Mac watched her, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dilated.

  She knew what he was thinking.

  The same thing she was thinking.

  "Books," she blurted, waving toward the bookcases. "Help yourself. I'm going to, ah get to work."

  "Thanks." He pushed away from the counter. "'I'll make myself a cup of coffee first."

  He looked around the kitchen, then over at their jackets, hanging by the door. Then he frowned. "Did you put the coffee away?"

  At last a conversation that didn't make her swallow her tongue. "No. You had it, reme
mber?"

  He walked toward their jackets and boots, and when she found herself watching the way his jeans hugged his ass, she spun around. Pretended to search for the coffee.

  "It's not here," he announced. Then he closed his eyes. "I must have dropped it when I landed in the mud."

  "We can get it later."

  "You clearly don't have a nasty caffeine habit," he said with a sigh. "I'll go back for it now. Pretty sure I remember how to get there."

  Lizzy thought quickly. How could it hurt? He wouldn't have the keys to any of the buildings on the island. And maybe she trusted him a tiny bit. "You sure? I could go with you."

  "No, you said you needed to work. This is an island. It's not like I can get completely lost, right? Even if I do, as long as I stay along the shoreline, I'll eventually find my way back here."

  "Okay." She glanced at his boots, lying in the entryway. "Your boots are wet."

  "I've survived worse," he said, heading to the door and putting on his jacket. "I'll be right back." He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. "Anything else you need from the kitchen? Or anywhere else?"

  She glanced at the dwindling pile of fire wood. "I could use more wood. Would you mind bringing some in?"

  "Coming right up." Damn it, he looked excited to be able to do something useful.

  The door closed behind him, and what felt like moments later he nudged it open, his arms full of logs. He deposited them carefully on the floor, then eased the door closed and went back for more.

  By the time he was finished, there was enough wood for at least two days. "That's good," she said, and he nodded.

  "Be back soon, then."

  ***

  Mac pulled the collar of the jacket more tightly around his neck to keep the cold rain from dripping down his back as he slogged through the mud. It wasn't raining hard anymore, and the wind had died down. But the branches and leaves above him dripped steadily onto his head, soaked through his hat and ran in tiny rivulets down his chest and back. The wilderness experience sucked.

  His legs ached, but he forced himself to pick up his pace and trotted toward the main building. The bag of coffee was lying on the ground next to the prickly bushes, and he snatched it up, wiped the mud off on the wet grass and tucked it under his arm.

  Instead of going back to the house, he followed a path that led away from the building and toward the harbor. Mud sucked at his boots as he walked downhill, and stones hidden in the mud dug into his soles. God. The sooner he got off this miserable island, the happier he would be.

  The storm was easing, and he needed to get a good look at those boats. Would he be able to get Lizzy into one against her will?

  He'd touched every inch of her body, and he knew how strong she was. How fit. If he wanted to overpower her, he'd have to take her by surprise because she'd fight like hell.

  He didn't want to do that to her.

  Maybe he'd let her think she was dropping him off near the ferry dock. He'd cuff her at the last minute. He'd found some zip ties in the kitchen and slid them into his pocket.

  The thought left a nasty taste in his mouth. Yeah, it would be the easiest way to get her off Skipjack. Any other suspect and he wouldn't hesitate.

  But Lizzy had saved his life. He'd slept with her. Multiple times. She'd shared her painful past with him.

  They'd found meth in her house, he reminded himself.

  She hadn't put it there. His instincts screamed she had nothing to do with Kelly's murder. Or the meth. After hearing her story, he knew she had run because she didn't trust the police. The meth? The voice in his head whispered that someone was setting her up. But he was afraid to trust that voice. Afraid it might be coming from his dick.

  Before he'd left the house, her eyes had hungered. For him. He scowled and kicked at a branch in the path. He sounded like a guy who watched Lifetime movies.

  But it had been impossible to miss. She wanted him. Wanted to connect with him. And he wanted her, as well.

  That made him an asshole. He was here to haul her back to Chicago. She was a woman who'd lived alone for three months. Who was desperate for human contact. Making love with her had been wrong on so many levels.

  Hadn't felt wrong, though.

  When she'd locked her mouth with his, twined around him, he hadn't been able to stop himself. What did that say about him?

  That it had been too long since he'd been with a woman. Too long since he'd been in a relationship. He'd been all about his job for the last nine months – searching for that dirtbag Valentino for six months and finally nabbing him. The same fucking day that Kelly had been killed.

  He'd spent the past three months searching for Lizzy.

  Because he'd been obsessed with her. Had been since the minute he'd seen her. Just like he'd been obsessed with finding Valentino.

  Was that his deal? Obsessing over what he couldn't have? Was that his way of avoiding commitments? Relationships? Because he'd acted irresponsibly after his father died, and he didn't trust himself with commitments?

  His brothers would laugh their asses off if they could hear him. Idiot was the nicest name they'd call him.

  He'd never hear the end of it if they knew how he was obsessing about Lizzy.

  Sleeping with her hadn't made it go away. It had made it worse.

  So it was time to do his job. Get back to the real world. Great sex or not, he needed to get Lizzy back to Chicago.

  As he rounded a curve, the harbor opened up in front of him. There were still whitecaps, but they were smaller. As if the ocean had had its fun and was now settling back down.

  The metal pier clanked beneath his boots as he walked down a set of stairs and studied the motorboat tied to the dock. He ignored the sailboat and the big, awkward tug moored farther out in the harbor. Lizzy clearly didn't use them.

  She used the motorboat. He studied the levers and gauges, knew he was out of his depth. He'd have to let Lizzy think she was taking him back to Orcas.

  The thought of cuffing Lizzy and forcing her into the boat made his stomach knot. Maybe if he explained who he was and why she needed to go with him, she'd come willingly.

  Right. She'd run two thousand miles and gone to extraordinary lengths to hide from the FBI. And he thought he could sweet-talk her into giving herself up?

  Lizzy was too tough for that. Too savvy. If he told her who he was, she'd run again.

  He was done mooning over his suspect. He needed to start thinking like the FBI agent he was and get her off this island.

  ***

  Lizzy stood at the window, watching Mac trudge down the muddy path toward the main part of the camp. He'd flipped up the collar of his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and hunched his shoulders.

  He was limping.

  He looked miserable, and a nicer person might have offered to get the coffee for him. Right now, though, it wasn't her job to be nice. It was her job to protect herself. To keep her identity secret. To get rid of Mac as soon as possible.

  Thank God the boat was still floating. She figured she'd be able to use the boat in two days, but it would have to be sooner than that. She needed to get rid of Mac. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Possibly late this afternoon.

  The longer he stayed on Skipjack, the more dangerous he was.

  And if a part of her regretted that, if a part of her wished he could stay, wished she could be a normal woman interested in a man, that was too bad. She'd learned a long time ago that life wasn't fair and it didn't care what she wanted. She'd learned to suck it up and deal. Because there was no other choice.

  When he was out of sight, she slid into the chair at her desk and turned on her computer. As it booted up, she drummed her fingers on the desk and stared at the screen, impatient. She didn't have long before he'd be back.

  Franny laid her head on Lizzy's lap, staring at her with soulful brown eyes, and Lizzy sighed. "You need to go out?"

  Franny's butt hit the floor, and Lizzy pushed herself out of the chair. Of course she need
ed to go out. That was their morning routine. Eat. Go out. Throw some sticks for Franny to retrieve, then put her through the agility course a few times. Come inside and work.

  She grabbed her jacket, hat and gloves and opened the door, and Franny bounded into the woods to take care of business. After a few minutes, she came running back, and Lizzy searched the beach for a piece of wood small enough to throw.

  A small branch lay near the water line, next to a bumpy, square object. A plastic bag. She stepped into the light rain and headed down the water-slicked rocks to grab the stick, heaving it toward the grass on the side of the house. Then she reached for the bag lying at her feet.

  She recognized the opaque plastic with the yellow band across the top immediately. It was a waterproof bag, meant to hold valuables while a person was in a boat or a kayak. She'd used them herself.

  She picked it up, surprised at how heavy it was. Far heavier than a bag holding only the usual wallet or cell phone or set of keys.

  As she headed toward the house, Franny skidded to a stop in front of her, sat down and dropped the stick. Without even looking, Lizzy picked it up and threw it again.

  She stood on the porch, protected from the drizzle by the overhang, and unzipped the plastic seal.

  The first thing she saw was the gun.

  Chapter 12

  The handgun was matte black. Enormous. Lizzy crushed the edges of the bag in her hands as she stared at it. The hole in the end of the barrel was small – far too small for the amount of damage it could do to a human body.

  The gun sat on top of two wallets, one thicker than the other. A phone.

  A pair of handcuffs.

  She closed her eyes, dread slicing through her.

  Yesterday, she'd found Mac lying on these rocks. Washed up from the Sound, just like this waterproof bag.

  Images from the past twenty-four hours spooled through her brain. She and Mac, twined together. His hands on her body. Her hands on him. The sounds she'd made when she came. The way he'd cried out when he followed her.

  Mac's nightmare. The way he'd told her about his past. As if she mattered to him.