Wishful thinking, she told herself. As far as Zach Hollis was concerned, she couldn’t let herself think beyond the moment. The truth was, despite their changed circumstances, Zach continued to exist solely in the realm of fantasy. It was definitely safer that way, if more than a little frustrating.
She wanted very much to tell Stacey about Zach, to unburden herself of this secret life she was now living, but she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t until their dessert arrived that Zach’s name entered the conversation—and then it was Stacey who brought it up.
“They’ve got his picture everywhere,” Stacey told her. “Chief Colby seems to think he’s somewhere in the area.” She sighed. “You know, I still can’t believe he tried to kill Harvey Summers—and neither can a lot of other people.”
“Apparently, twelve jurors thought so,” C.Z. observed neutrally.
“That’s not really true. I talked to one of them afterward, and they didn’t really want to convict him. But they just couldn’t buy Zach’s story that Harvey had tried to kill him. Do you think he did it?” Stacey already knew C.Z. was Zach’s psychologist in prison.
“No, I don’t. He told me he was innocent, and I believe him. But I don’t understand why Harvey Summers would shoot at him, either.”
“You see? That’s just it. If it had been anyone else, I’m sure the jury would have believed Zach—but Harvey? It makes no sense.”
“Could there be something in Harvey’s background that he was afraid Zach would find out?” C.Z. asked.
“Like what? The man’s lived his whole life in Ondago County and he’s been in public life for years. No one’s ever said an unkind word about him that I know of.” Stacey paused and frowned.
“Still, it wouldn’t be the first time someone we all thought we knew well turned out to have a dark side. Remember Mike Taylor?”
C.Z. did. He was a quiet, pleasant man, well-liked in the community. Only after he killed his mother did everyone learn about his dark fits of rage. It was the talk of the town right before she had moved away.
“And afterward, several people admitted to having known about his violent tendencies, but they’d kept their mouths shut because they didn’t want to believe anything bad about him.”
C.Z. nodded, wondering if Harvey Summers could have his dark side, as well—and how she could find it.
SHE STARED in disbelief at the faint, dusty footprints on the hallway carpeting. The first print was directly beneath the trapdoor that led to her attic storage area, then the trail vanished in the direction of the stairs. When she bent to look closer, she also saw the faint impression left by her kitchen step stool.
They were large prints, definitely those of a man’s shoe, and an image of that black Bronco quickly came to mind. She stared at the trapdoor. She had left such prints when she’d gone up there to get her father’s gun for Zach. The attic floor was dusty.
Someone had broken into her home. C.Z. questioned her assumption that she was being followed by the police. Surely if they’d suspected she was harboring Zach, they would have gotten a search warrant and confronted her.
But who else could it be—and why would they go up to the attic? After making a thorough check of all her possessions, she became convinced that whoever had been here was no ordinary burglar. Nothing was missing—not even her brand-new laptop computer. Surely no burglar would have missed that. Nor would they have left without her stereo system and her grandmother’s silver tea service.
She checked the small room downstairs that she used as a home office and found everything in order—no indication that anyone had touched her personal papers.
Finally, she got the step stool and climbed to the attic. In the light that poured in through a louvered window, she could see more footprints, a lot of them, though at least some of them were undoubtedly her own.
She surveyed the boxes, trying to determine if anything was missing or had been moved. It was impossible to tell. She’d moved things around when she’d been up here searching for her father’s gun. But no boxes had been opened, except for the ones that contained her father’s things, and she’d opened them herself.
She considered calling the police—but what was the point? Nothing was missing, and as far as she could tell, nothing had been disturbed in any way.
Could it have been the police—searching to be sure she wasn’t hiding Zach? That was certainly the most obvious explanation and would even explain their going up to the attic. But she couldn’t believe the police would engage in an illegal search.
And if it wasn’t the police, then who could it be, and what were they after?
The question remained on her mind as she went through her day. She went out for a while, driving around aimlessly to see if she was being followed. But there was no sign of the black Bronco, or of any other vehicle tailing her. Finally, she returned home, confused and uneasy and wishing she could see Zach.
It startled her to realize just how much she missed him, how quickly he’d become such a powerful presence in her life. That had never happened to her before. Cautious by nature, she’d never allowed any man to alter the course of her life—until Zach Hollis came along.
She thought about those boxes in the attic that contained her father’s things, and suddenly it seemed like a good time to undertake a chore she’d been putting off for too long. In all likelihood, she’d be moving again soon. It made no sense to drag them with her to another home.
So she brought the boxes down to her office and began to sort through them. The first two boxes contained only old financial records, so she set them aside to carry to the trash bins. A third box also held financial records, but contained a surprise, as well—all the letters she’d written to her father from the time of her parents’ divorce until the end of grad school.
Tears spilled from her eyes as she reread them and relived moments long forgotten that had once been important enough to set down in great detail. Although she’d always known her father loved her, she’d never have guessed he could be the sentimental type who would save all his daughter’s letters. And yet he had, not only the letters but cards, as well.
The old, familiar pain gripped her, tormenting her with the knowledge of the time they hadn’t had together. She’d promised him she would come for a long visit after she finished school, but by then, he was gone.
Finally, she set the letters aside and turned to the final box. She was surprised to discover that it held police records—official forms, ugly photographs of dead bodies, incomprehensible autopsy reports, many pages of notes in her father’s bold handwriting.
The dates on them indicated they were all old cases, and all of them appeared to be unsolved. She recognized several of the names and remembered her father mentioning them.
She guessed he must have made copies of the records and had probably continued to work on them on his own, long after they would have been officially filed away. She knew her father and knew these unsolved crimes must have offended his sense of justice and his pride in his work. Zach, she suspected, was probably just like him. It wouldn’t surprise her to find out he, too, had been looking into these cases.
Lost in a reverie about her father, C.Z. was slow to make the connection—and when she did, she stared at the files in shock. Was it possible? Could there be something in one of these files that threatened Harvey Summers? Could he have been the intruder?
Not yet ready to believe that, she nonetheless began to read the files. Then suddenly, she stopped. If the intruder had been after a file, it would no longer be here. He would have taken it. She had no way of knowing what was missing, but it was possible Zach would.
THE A-FRAME was locked and empty. C.Z. pounded on the door, then peered through the windows. With each passing second, she became more convinced that Zach had gone. The warmth inside her that had been growing with each passing mile became a cold, empty space.
Then her thoughts made an abrupt turn and she was sure he’d been captured. Somehow, the police had found out
about the cabin—or they’d found him because they were searching all cabins in the area.
She sat on the steps and ignored the autumn beauty all around her as that empty space grew larger. Her world was spinning out of control. She’d helped a convicted felon to escape, then helped him hide from the police. She no longer had a job. The job Stacey had mentioned sounded perfect for her, and yet her involvement with Zach could cost her that, as well.
By all rights, she should be glad he was gone and out of her life. If there was ever a case of the wrong man and the wrong time, this was it. And yet…
“What happened?”
Startled at the sound of that very familiar voice, C.Z. turned to find Zach coming toward her from the side of the A-frame. His ice-blue gaze pierced that cold, empty spot inside her and sent shock waves through her. How could he have such an effect on her? How had this man managed to take possession of her very soul?
The stubble on his face was slowly becoming a beard, and it was gray, just as he’d said, contrasting sharply with his thick black hair. It gave him a raffish look that added to his already powerful appeal, even though she’d never really liked beards and certainly didn’t like that unshaven look so popular with rock and film stars.
“What do you mean?” she asked belatedly, thinking somehow he knew about the intruder.
He stopped a few feet away at the bottom of the stairs that led to the deck. “Why aren’t you at work?”
She told him about her meeting with the detectives, then explained about the warden’s cancellation of the project. As she talked, he sat on the step below her, and it felt to her as though her body were melting into his.
“So you think they believed you?” he asked when she’d finished.
“I thought so at the time, but then I found out someone was following me.” She told him about the Bronco then hurried on to let him know that she’d been very careful when she came here.
She thought she detected an underlying frustration. Lost in her worries, she’d failed to understand how difficult this must be for him. He’d exchanged one prison for another, and she knew that passivity was not his strong suit. Zach Hollis was a man of action, not one given to quiet contemplation.
As if to prove that, he got up and began to pace back and forth in front of the cabin. He moved with an athletic grace, light on his feet despite his size. She’d never met a man who so clearly exemplified maleness and all it meant.
“Now I’m not so sure it was the police who were following me,” she said.
He stopped his pacing and stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She told him about the intruder, about how she’d discovered the dusty footprints. “Would the police do something like that, break into my home to search for you?”
He shook his head. “I might have, under certain circumstances, but they wouldn’t. They could have gotten a search warrant. Every cop knows who the friendly judges are—the ones they can go to if they don’t really have probable cause. I’ve bypassed that a few times, just to save myself the trouble, but I don’t think they’d do that.”
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “But you said that nothing was missing, so who else could it be?”
She hesitated. She had begun to have serious doubts about her theory. There were many holes in it.
“Something might be missing. I’m not sure.”
He had resumed his pacing but stopped again, his dark brows knitted into an impatient frown. She hurried on, certain he would think she was being foolish.
“Like I told you, he was in the attic. I have some of my own things up there, but I also have some boxes of Dad’s stuff that I just never got around to dealing with. Most of it I’d never even seen because his attorney packed it for me, but I’d put his gun in one of the boxes and I had to open all of them to get it for you.
“I didn’t bother to reseal them, and I decided it was time to deal with them. Most of it was just old financial records.” She paused, thinking about those letters and cards, feeling again that familiar pang of guilt over her neglect of her father.
“But in one box, I found a stack of police files. They look like the records of old cases Dad must have been working on in his spare time, crimes that had never been solved.”
Zach nodded. “We all have those—ones we just can’t let go. I remember he and I talked about that once.” He frowned. “Are you saying you think someone was after them?”
His tone sounded incredulous, which was just what she’d expected. “I don’t know,” she replied. “At the time, I thought maybe…”
Her voice trailed off as she realized how absurd her theory was. If it wasn’t, surely he would have made the same connection.
“Maybe what?” he demanded impatiently.
“Nothing. I don’t know what I thought. It’s just that I can’t help wondering if Harvey Summers tried to kill you because he was afraid you might find out something—something from his past.”
“And you thought it might have something to do with those unsolved cases?” he asked slowly, his tone less sharp as he paused at the foot of the steps and stared at her.
She shrugged. “At the time, it sounded like a good theory. I’d just had dinner with Stacey and we were talking about you, and about Harvey Summers. She said they convicted you because no one could believe Harvey would have tried to kill you. But then she reminded me of a case that happened a long time ago involving a man who was well-liked in the community, too, but who killed his mother. Later, it came out that he’d always had a violent streak. A lot of people had known it, but they hadn’t wanted to believe it.”
She stopped abruptly, aware she was trying to justify something she’d already rejected. Zach frowned but said nothing as he turned away from her and resumed his pacing. She laughed.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me. I promise not to try to play detective again. It’s just that I discovered the intruder right after I’d had dinner with Stacey, and—”
“I’m not criticizing you,” he interrupted as he spun to face her. Then he grinned. “You have my full permission to play detective anytime you want.”
He stood there, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “So okay, Detective Morrison, let’s talk this one through. Let’s suppose that Summers does have something to hide. That part of the theory is as good as any I can come up with. And let’s further suppose that by now Summers has found out there’s a connection between the two of us. Colby might have heard about that, since the state investigators interviewed you.
“Colby also knows I’d been nosing into some old unsolved cases—probably the same ones your father was looking into. And he would have known your father was looking into them.”
He paused and she nodded, not certain whether he was humoring her or beginning to believe her theory.
“But here’s where it gets difficult,” Zach went on. “If it was Colby—or even Summers himself—who broke into your place, it had to be because they thought there was something incriminating in those files. But even if they’ve guessed you’re helping me, why would they risk breaking into your place to get files I’ve already seen?”
“Maybe they thought Dad had added something—his own speculations?”
“Right. That would be the only reason.”
A silence hung between them as Zach watched her closely. She frowned, certain he was waiting for her to say something.
“Did you get the license of the truck that was following you?” he asked.
“No.”
“You said it was a Bronco, right?”
She nodded.
“What color?”
“Black” she said.
“I’ll be damned!” Zach swore softly. “That idiot even used his own vehicle.”
“Who?”
“Colby. He owns a black Bronco.”
She gasped. “Then we must be right.”
“Uh-huh. But what’s in those files?”
“Well, we can find out�
�I brought them with me. I read them all, but I couldn’t see anything that could point to Harvey Summers in any of them. And then I realized that it wouldn’t be there anyway. He would have taken it.”
“Right. So what we’re looking for is what isn’t there.”
“That’s why I brought them. I wouldn’t know what’s missing, but I thought you might.”
Zach was standing at the foot of the steps. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek. “You’re a great detective.”
She managed to laugh, but she couldn’t ignore the shock waves that went through her. And they weren’t the result of the brotherly peck on the cheek. What sent those ripples through her was the look in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that he wanted much more, and that he knew she did, too.
ZACH WAS SEATED on a hassock, pulling files from the box and glancing briefly through them before setting them aside. She was fixing them a meal, standing at the counter that separated the kitchen space from the rest of the room.
He had paused in his search through the files and was reading one of them. She thought again about her father and how he might well have been playing matchmaker that day she’d met Zach. It pleased her to think her father might even now be playing such a role by helping them find a way to prove Zach’s innocence.
He set aside the file and continued sorting through the rest of them. She was about to ask him if he’d discovered what might be missing when he abruptly got up and went outside. She saw him standing on the deck, his hands jammed into his pockets as he stared into space.
“Do you know yet what’s missing?” she asked when he came inside and sniffed appreciatively at the chicken casserole she’d taken from the microwave—a quick and easy recipe that was amazingly good.
“I’m still thinking about it,” he replied nonchalantly. He gestured to the row of cookbooks on top of the refrigerator. “I got desperate enough for reading material in the past couple of days to read those cookbooks, and you know what? Cooking isn’t all that difficult.”
Runaway Heart Page 8
