by Lisa Childs
“You’re family—you and his baby,” Blaine said. “His parents and brother should have at least given you those letters.”
“Maybe they just didn’t have time...” She kept defending them.
Maybe she was naive. Maybe she just tried to see the best in everyone. But that was how she had wound up with Susan Iverson as a roommate. She didn’t need protection just now; she needed it every day. She needed protection from her own sweetness and generosity.
“His brother’s been checking on you,” he said. The image from the security footage of him hugging her hadn’t left his mind. “He could have brought the letters to you then. He’s had six months to get them to you.” Unless he had been using them for something else—to help him plan the bank robberies.
“We’re here,” she said with a sigh of relief as he pulled the battered SUV to the curb across the street from the brick Cape Cod.
He could have sworn earlier today that she hadn’t wanted to come back here. Of course, she thought she was going to prove to him that Andy’s family wasn’t involved. But with every new thing he learned, his suspicions about them grew. He didn’t even need confirmation from Dalton Reyes that Mark Doremire was the one ordering those stolen vans.
He was so convinced that Doremire was involved that he’d had a local officer watching the house before they arrived. The car was parked a little way down the street. Too far down the street if Doremire and his father were armed. The other men from the bank could be there, too.
Maggie reached for her door handle, but Blaine caught her arm and held her back from opening the door. With his other hand, he grabbed his cell and checked in with the officer.
“Nobody’s come or gone, Agent Campbell,” the officer assured him.
So what did that mean? That they had holed up in the house with weapons? At least the driver of the van, and whoever else might have been riding inside, couldn’t have joined them. They wouldn’t have had time to ditch the van for another vehicle and drive up without the officer seeing them.
Blaine clicked off the cell and turned back to Maggie. “I want you to stay here until I check out the inside of the house.”
“Mr. Doremire may not let you in unless he sees me,” she warned him. “Andy’s parents kind of kept to themselves when we were growing up. They didn’t socialize much. So he’s not going to open his door to a stranger.”
Blaine tugged his badge out of his shirt. He wasn’t hiding it this time. “This will get him to open the door,” he said. Or he would knock down the damn thing. “You need to stay here until I determine if it’s safe or not.”
He waited until she reluctantly nodded in agreement before he stepped out the driver’s side. But moments later Mr. Doremire proved her right. When Blaine knocked on the door, a raspy voice angrily called out, “Go away!”
“I am Special Agent Campbell with the FBI,” Blaine identified himself. “I need you to open up this door, sir. I need to talk to you about your son.”
“It’s too late for that!”
That was what Blaine was afraid of. That Mark was already gone—that he’d taken off to some country from which he couldn’t be extradited. But then, who had tried running them off the road on the way here? Only Mark would have known they had stopped at his house looking for him. Only Mark would have known where they’d been heading.
“Go away!” the older man yelled again.
“Let me try,” a soft voice suggested as Maggie joined him at the solid wood door to the Cape Cod. It was painted black—like the shingles on the roof. And there was no welcome mat.
“I told you to stay in the vehicle,” he reminded her. Even with the squad car not far away, she wasn’t safe; someone could have taken a shot at her as she had crossed the street.
Ignoring him, she knocked on the door. “Mr. Doremire, it’s me—it’s Maggie. Please let us in...”
Inside the house, something crashed and then heavy footfalls approached the door. It was wrenched open, and a gray-haired man stared at them from bloodshot eyes.
Blaine could smell the alcohol even before the man spoke. “Have you heard from him?” he demanded to know.
“Mark has been by to see me,” she said. “At the bank. Is he here?”
“Mark?” the older man repeated, as if he didn’t even recognize the name of his eldest son. “I’m not talking about Mark.”
Did the man have other boys? Maybe there were more Doremires involved than Blaine had realized. Maybe they made up the entire gang.
But Maggie’s brow furrowed with confusion, and she asked, “Who are you talking about?”
“Andy,” Mr. Doremire replied, as if she was stupid. “Have you heard from Andy yet?”
She reached out and clasped the older man’s arm and led him back inside the house. “I’m sorry, Mr. Doremire,” she said as she guided him back into his easy chair. A bottle of whiskey lay broken next to the chair. But no liquor had spilled onto the hardwood floor. He’d already emptied it.
She crouched down next to the old man’s chair and very gently told him, “Andy’s dead. He died in Afghanistan.”
“No!” the gray-haired man shouted hotly in denial. “He didn’t die. That’s just what he made it look like. He’s alive.”
She shook her head, and her brown eyes filled with sympathy and sadness. “No...”
“I’ve seen him,” the man insisted. “He’s alive!”
“No,” she said again. “That’s not possible. His whole convoy died that day. There’s no way he survived.” And her voice cracked with emotion and regret.
Mr. Doremire shook his head in denial and disgust. “That boy wasn’t strong enough for the Marines,” he said. “He had no business joining up. He got scared. He took off. He wasn’t part of that convoy.”
Why was Andy’s father making up such a story? Just because he couldn’t handle his son being dead?
“They wouldn’t have reported that he was dead if they hadn’t been certain,” Maggie continued, patiently. “They wouldn’t have put us through that and neither would Andy.”
“None of the remains recovered have actually been identified, so there is no way of proving that he was part of the convoy,” the older man insisted. “They never even recovered his dog tags.”
“They are still working on DNA,” Maggie said with a slight shudder. “But they know that Andy’s gone...” And from the dismal sound of her voice, she knew it, too.
Blaine hated that she was reliving Andy’s last moments. Or had those actually been his last moments? Was Andy’s father right? Was Maggie’s fiancé still alive? Mr. Doremire had claimed that he’d seen him.
If so, Blaine had another suspect for the robberies—one who had definitely read her letters and knew about the bank’s policies and procedures, and the duties and responsibilities of the assistant manager.
“Will you be okay in here?” Blaine asked Maggie.
She nodded. “Of course.”
But she stared up at him with a question in her eyes as if wondering where he was going...
“I have to make a call,” he said.
From his years as a marine, he had connections, people he could call to verify if Andy Doremire had been identified among the convoy casualties. Maybe they hadn’t identified the remains immediately after the explosion, but in the past six months they would have. And he couldn’t trust that Mr. Doremire’s drunken claims were valid. Or was Andy alive and robbing banks?
* * *
MAGGIE BIT HER bottom lip to stop herself from calling out for Blaine. She didn’t want to be left alone with Andy’s dad and his outrageous story. He was drunk, though. That had to be why he was talking such nonsense.
“He’s calling someone in the military,” Dustin Doremire said. “He’s going to talk to some marines.”
Blaine had been a marine. He would know whom to talk to.
“Probably,” she agreed. “He’s wasting his time, though.” Andy was dead. Therefore, he was not robbing banks—as Blaine probably n
ow suspected.
“They’re not going to tell him anything,” Mr. Doremire said with a derisive snort. “It’s a cover-up.”
So he was drunk and paranoid. “What are they covering up?” she asked. She wasn’t even sure who “they” were supposed to be. First Andy had faked his death and now someone else was covering it up?
“You know what they’re covering up,” he accused her, suddenly turning angrily on her.
She edged back from his chair, not wanting to be so close to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was definitely the truth.
“Andy told you everything,” he said. “You know...”
But now she wondered. Had Andy told her everything? He had never mentioned his father drinking so much. Maybe it had started only after his death. But now she wondered—because she hadn’t come over to Andy’s house very often. He had always come to hers. And if his car was broken down and she had to pick him up, he met her on the street.
Maybe she hadn’t been the only reason Andy had joined the Marines. Maybe he hadn’t done it just to support her, the way he had old-fashionedly claimed he’d wanted to do. Maybe he had also joined to escape his father.
“That boy loved you so much,” Mr. Doremire continued. “He was crazy about you.”
Andy had loved her. If only she could have loved him the same way...
The older man uttered a bitter laugh. “The boy was such a fool that he couldn’t see you didn’t feel the same way about him.”
“I cared about Andy,” she insisted. “He was my best friend.” And she would forever miss him and she would regret that his son or daughter would never know him—would never know what a sweet guy he’d been.
“But you didn’t love him,” the older man accused her, as if she’d committed some crime. “It’s your fault, girl. It’s all your fault.”
“What’s my fault?” she asked.
“It’s your fault he joined the Marines, trying to prove he was man enough for you.” Mr. Doremire shook his head. “He wasted his time, too. You never looked at him like you’re looking at that man...” He gestured toward where Blaine had gone out the open front door.
“That man is an FBI agent,” she said. “He’s investigating the robberies at the banks where I’ve worked.” He had to have heard about the robberies; they’d made the national news.
But the older man just stared bleary-eyed at her. Had he even known she worked at a bank?
“I don’t care who the hell he is,” Mr. Doremire replied. “He’s not going to be raising my grandchild.”
She hoped Blaine had stepped far enough away from the open door that he hadn’t overheard that. But her face heated with embarrassment that he might have. She assured the older man, “Agent Campbell is not going to be raising my child.”
She knew that once the robbers were caught he would move on to his next case. She was nothing more than a witness and possible suspect to him.
“That’s Andy’s child!” Mr. Doremire lurched out of the chair and reached for her as if he intended to rip the baby from her belly.
She jerked back to protect her baby. She didn’t even want his hands on her belly, didn’t want him hurting her child—before he or she was born or after—the way he must have hurt Andy had he ever spoken to him the way he’d spoken of him.
“Mr. Doremire,” she said, “please calm down.” And sober up.
“Andy won’t be letting some other man raise his kid,” he ominously warned her. “You’ll see. He’ll show himself to you, just like he’s shown himself to me.”
She wondered how many bottles of whiskey it had taken for Andy to show himself. She suspected quite a few.
“Andy is gone, Mr. Doremire,” she said. “He’s dead.”
His hand swung quickly, striking her cheek before she could duck. Tears stung her eyes as pain radiated from the slap.
“That’s what you want,” Mr. Doremire said. “You want him dead. But he’s not! He’s not dead!”
“Okay, okay,” she said, trying to humor the drunk or deranged man. “He’s alive, then. He’s alive.”
He had no idea how much she really wished that Andy was alive. Then she wouldn’t have lost her best friend. She wouldn’t feel so alone that she was clinging to an FBI agent who was only trying to do his job.
Maybe she was as crazy as Andy’s dad to think that Blaine could have any interest in her beyond her connection to the bank robberies.
The older man started crying horrible wrenching sobs. “If he’s dead, it’s your fault,” he said again. “It’s all your fault!”
She nodded miserably in agreement. Maybe it was...
If he hadn’t wanted to buy her that damn ring...
If he hadn’t wanted to take care of her...
“You’re the one who should be dead!” He swung his arm again.
And, realizing that the man wasn’t just drunk but crazy, too, she cried out in fear that he might actually kill her.
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie’s scream chilled Blaine’s blood. He dropped his phone and ran back into the house—afraid of what he might find.
Why the hell had he left her alone? He hadn’t even checked the house. Mark Doremire could have been hiding somewhere, waiting for his next chance to grab Maggie.
But when he burst into the living room, he found only the older Doremire and Maggie. She was backing up, though, and ducking the blows of the man’s meaty fists.
Blaine jumped forward and caught the man’s swinging arms. He jerked them behind his back. “Dustin Doremire, I am placing you under arrest for assault.”
“No,” Maggie said. “You don’t need to arrest him.” But her cheek bore a red imprint from the older man’s hand.
Blaine jerked Doremire’s arms higher behind his back, wanting to hurt him the way he had hurt Maggie. The old drunk only grunted. After all that whiskey, he was probably beyond the point of feeling any pain. Only inflicting it...
“He hurt you,” he said. And Blaine blamed himself for leaving her alone with Andy’s drunken father.
“He’s hurting,” she said, making excuses for the man’s abuse. “He misses his son.”
Blaine had placed a few calls. But nobody had really answered his questions about Andy Doremire. In fact, they’d thought he was crazy to even ask. Of course the man was dead. His family wouldn’t have been notified if his death hadn’t been confirmed.
Otherwise, he would have been listed as missing. Blaine knew that. But for some reason he had wanted to think the worst of Andy Doremire. He’d wanted proof that her dead fiancé wasn’t the saint that Maggie thought he was—he wasn’t a man worth loving for the rest of her life.
But he was a better man than Blaine was. Andy wouldn’t have willingly left her alone and in danger.
“Are you all right?” he asked her. “How badly did he hurt you?”
She brushed her fingertips across her cheek and dismissed the injury. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. He could hear the pain in her voice. But he wasn’t sure whether it was physical or emotional pain. He suspected more emotional. She hadn’t wanted to come here—to Andy’s childhood home. And now he understood why.
“He needs to be brought in,” he said. “I need to arrest him.” Actually he only intended to hand him over to the officer outside to make the arrest and process Mr. Doremire.
“Please don’t,” she beseeched him, her big brown eyes pleading with him, too.
“You never want me to arrest anyone,” he said. “You make it hard for me to do my job.” He had ignored her and arrested Susan Iverson anyway. He was tempted to do the same with Mr. Doremire. “I need to question him.”
“Let me question him,” she said.
He settled the older man back into his chair. The guy collapsed against the worn cushions. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture left in the nearly empty house. In fact, the Cape Cod made Ash’s little bungalow look almost homey.
Bla
ine had no intention of letting Maggie question him. But before he could ask, she already was. “When did you see Mark last?”
“Mark?” The older man blinked his bloodshot eyes, as if he had no idea whom she was talking about.
“Mark is your oldest son,” she prodded him. “His wife, Tammy, said he was here—visiting you.”
He shook his head in denial. “I haven’t seen that boy for months. He’s not like Andy. Andy keeps coming around to check on me.”
Did he have his sons confused? Even Maggie thought they looked a lot alike. He shared a significant glance with her as they both came to the same realization.
“When was Andy here last?” she asked. “When did he come see you?”
Doremire’s eyes momentarily cleared of the drunken bleariness, and he stared at her with pure hatred. “You have no right to say his name.”
The old man would have reached out again; he would have swung his arm if Blaine hadn’t squeezed his shoulder and held him down onto the chair.
“She has every right to say his name,” Blaine insisted. “They were engaged.”
The older man shook his head. “She never would’ve married him. She didn’t care about him...”
“That’s not true,” Maggie said, but her voice was so soft she nearly whispered the words.
“She loved him,” Blaine said. “You know that. You have the letters she wrote to your son. Where are they?”
The drunk blinked in confusion, the way he had when she’d asked about Mark. “Letters?”
“My letters,” she said. “The ones I wrote to Andy when he was overseas. Do you have them?”
He shook his head. “His mother probably took them—like she took everything else when she left.”
Blaine could see that she had taken most everything. And he could see why she had left, too, if the man had been like this with her. If he had been abusive...
“Where did Mrs. Doremire go?” Maggie asked.
“She took all Andy’s life-insurance money and bought herself a condo.”
That money should have gone to Andy’s fiancée and his unborn child, but Andy must not have listed her as his beneficiary yet. Knowing she was carrying Andy’s child, his family should have given her the money, though. It would have been the right thing to do.
