by Beverly Long
“Slow down,” he said. There wasn’t anything much more dangerous to a lone woman than a group of testosterone-charged teenage boys. It happened once or twice a year. One idiot would get an idea and then normally good boys, boys with futures and plans, would follow, forever altering their lives and the life of the victim.
“Want to get out?” Tom asked.
“No, keep driving,” Sam said. It looked like this group of boys was focused on their card game.
They circled the block twice, giving Sam a chance to inspect both sides of the street. No Claire. Not anywhere.
“Head down toward Patriot’s Park,” he said. When Tom pulled up outside the wrought-iron gate that marked the park’s entrance, Sam jumped from the car. “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to check the running path.”
“You don’t look like you’re dressed for a run.”
Sam looked down at his now-wrinkled suit and dress shoes. He’d been home twice since he’d dressed this morning. Both times he’d rushed out. Once to avoid Claire, and now, to find her. He could take his jacket off, but then his shoulder holster would be in full view. He wanted the benefit of surprise if Claire was in trouble.
Fifteen minutes later Sam had run every path. He’d pounded down the cinder-covered trail, sweating like a dog, no doubt scaring the hell out of people going for a late-night stroll.
When he got back to Tom’s car, he leaned against it, breathing heavy. He dialed her cell phone number, listening impatiently while the phone rang. When it switched over to voice mail, he slammed his phone shut and jerked open the door. “Let’s go. Head back toward my house, but take Trainer Street this time.” It was the high-rent district, but that didn’t mean it was any safer.
He saw Nightmare before he saw Claire. The dog lay on the sidewalk, his head on his paws, in front of a three-story brownstone. Claire, dressed in long pants and a loose T-shirt, thank You, Lord, sat three steps up next to a man. She didn’t look hurt, harmed or scared.
That didn’t help the ball of angry fire heating up in Sam’s belly. “Stop the car,” he ordered.
Tom pressed the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. “There’s no place to park,” he said.
“We won’t be staying long,” Sam said, opening his door. He reached Claire in nine strides. He counted them, trying to get his emotions under control. It didn’t work.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Sam?” Claire’s head jerked up in surprise.
“What are you thinking? You must be some kind of fool.”
The guy next to Claire shifted, like he wasn’t sure if he should run or not dare make a move. Sam pointed his finger at the man. “Sit. This is none of your business. And who the hell are you anyway?”
The man opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Claire frowned at Sam. “Sam, this is Pete Mission. We work together. Pete, this is Sam, the detective I was telling you about.”
When Claire smiled at the guy, the heat in Sam’s gut turned up a notch. “Kind of late for a business meeting, isn’t it?”
She frowned at him. “Pete and I are both finalists in a design contest. There’s an awards dinner early next week. We were making a few plans.”
“Whatever,” Sam said. “Can we just get out of here?”
She got up and dusted off her butt. Sam didn’t miss that Pete’s eyes followed the motion. He might have to kill the guy after all.
Claire walked down the steps, her pretty pointed chin in the air. “You look a little flustered, Sam,” she said.
Flustered? Sam Vernelli didn’t do flustered. “I couldn’t find you,” he said.
“I left a note,” she said, bending down to grab Nightmare’s leash.
A car pulled up behind Tom’s car and the driver leaned on his horn. Sam grabbed Claire’s elbow and steered her toward the car. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said. “Just do what I say.”
She stopped, dead in the middle of the street. The man in the car stuck his head out of the window and started yelling in Spanish. Dogs up and down the street started barking. Lights flipped on. Window shades went up.
It was a damn circus.
Sam yanked on her arm and barely budged her. For a little thing, she’d dug her heels in. Literally.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re making a scene.”
She turned on him. “I’m making a scene? How dare you?”
“I swear to God, Claire, if you don’t move, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to that car.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
The guy, still screaming, opened his car door.
Sam leaned down, put his shoulder next to her stomach and upended her.
She shrieked. Then kicked.
And for one crazy minute, he let himself fantasize about spanking her feisty butt.
He held her legs down with one hand and yanked open the car door with the other. Nightmare, for once acting like he had a brain, jumped in without prodding. Sam dumped Claire onto the seat and slid in after her.
“Drive,” he said.
Tom, scrubbing at his acne medicine with one hand, reached his other arm over the seat. “Hi. I’m Tom. I live above Sam.”
Claire, acting like she was at some damn tea party, extended her own hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Could we hold off on the introductions for a few minutes?” Sam asked, furious with both of them. Horn Blower had gone back to his car, but Sam figured, given his luck lately, it was only to retrieve a gun from under the seat.
“Of course,” Tom said, winking at Claire.
Claire winked back.
What was there to wink about? If Tom had started beating his head against the window and pulling out his hair, now that would have made some sense.
When they got to Sam’s house, it took Tom two tries to squeeze back into his parking spot. Sam barely waited for the car to stop moving before he opened the door and got out. Then he tapped his fingers against the hood of the car. Nightmare came out first, followed closely by Claire. She moved quickly. He had to slam the car door and chase her up the front steps of his house. He could hear Tom running behind him.
Claire had shoved a key into the lock by the time he caught her. He heard the tumblers fall into place and he reached past her to shove the door open. Nightmare darted in.
But suddenly Claire didn’t move. She turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. I acted like a fool at Pete’s place. I get a little crazy when people tell me what to do.”
“It’s because we’re Generation Y,” Tom said from somewhere behind him.
Tom made it sound like Sam was Generation Old.
“Can we please just call it a night?” Sam asked.
Claire nodded.
“Hope to see you again, Claire,” Tom called out.
“Sure. That would be great,” Claire said, finally stepping inside.
Yeah. Great. Sam shut the door harder than he needed to.
“Nice guy,” Claire said.
“If you like the nose-in-the-book type,” Sam said. He did not want to talk about Tom. “It’s late,” he said.
“Why was he driving you?”
“I’d had a couple of beers. Didn’t want to take a chance.”
“Oh.” She walked into the kitchen and got herself a glass of water. She stood at the sink, drinking it. “You know it’s been just recently,” she said, “that I’ve started to say no. That I wasn’t going to do exactly what I was told.” She gave him a small smile. “Trust me on this one, that’s a good thing, but I went a little overboard tonight. I caused you a problem and I shouldn’t have. I really am sorry.”
Could she make him feel any more miserable? “Forget it,” Sam said. “You’re okay and that’s all that matters.”
She nodded. “Did you get any dinner?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. His stomach was still in knots. He wouldn’t be eating anytime soon.
She chewed on one
fingernail. “Well, then, I guess I’ll go to bed.” She walked down the hallway and Nightmare fell in step next to her. She had her hand on the doorknob to the spare room when his cell phone rang.
Sam snagged it. “Hello,” he said.
“Sam, honey.”
“My mother,” he whispered and when Claire smiled, his knees felt a little weak. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, grateful for the support. It was crazy, but he really didn’t want her to be mad at him.
“Sam, we have the best news.”
His mother was practically screaming. Sam held the phone a couple inches away from his ear. “I bet you’re a grandma.”
“Yes. At four this morning.” His mother’s voice returned to almost normal. “And she’s perfect. Ten toes, ten fingers. We went to the hospital to see her tonight. She has the most wonderful strawberry-blond hair.”
A baby girl. Damn. Jake had a daughter. “How’s Joanna?”
“Fine, but tired. She was in labor most of the night.”
“And Jake?”
“He’s a wreck. Your father was the same way. I swear, big, tough men are the worst. Can’t handle childbirth. It’s a good thing the Vernelli men marry strong women. Remember that when it’s your turn.”
His turn? He swallowed and looked at Claire.
“Something wrong?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “What’s our baby girl’s name?”
“Maggie. Jake picked it. It was Joanna’s mother’s name.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks for calling, Mom.”
“She’s coming home tomorrow. Can you believe that? They keep them only twenty-four hours now. Joanna and Jake said they’d stop by here on their way back to Wyattville. We’ll have a late lunch together, a little welcome-home party for Maggie. Can you come, Sam? I know it’s a long drive and you’d have to take off work, but it would mean so much to Jake and Joanna.”
He could hardly wait to kiss Joanna and smoke a cigar with his brother. But could he leave Claire alone?
No doubt she wouldn’t be alone for long. Pete watch-her-brush-off-her-ass Mission would probably be glad to get in the game. Tom Ames could be the backup quarterback.
Sam had always hated sitting on the sidelines.
“Hang on, Mom,” he said. He held the receiver to his chest.
“Claire,” he said, “my sister-in-law had her baby today and my mom wants to do some kind of family thing. I usually stay the night. It’s short notice, but I’d want you to come, too. Do you think you could get off work tomorrow? We’d be back early enough Thursday for you to work a half day. Sound okay?”
“I...I guess. I have some personal days.”
He lifted the receiver, readying himself for a modified Spanish Inquisition. “Mom, I can come, but I need to bring a friend.”
“A friend?”
He could hear the little wheels in his mother’s head start to turn. “Don’t get excited, Mom. It’s just Claire Fontaine. She had a little trouble at her apartment, so she’s staying with me for a few days.”
“Claire Fontaine.” The wheels sounded as if they’d come to a grinding halt. His parents hadn’t been happy when the Fontaines had thrown him to the wolves.
“It’s no big deal. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
Sam hung up the phone. Claire remained at the end of the hall, staring at him.
“So we’re set?” he said.
She shook her head, suddenly looking very weary. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
Chapter Seven
“Don’t get excited, Mom. It’s just Claire Fontaine. No big deal.”
Like water dripping on a stone, his words battered her soul. She was just Claire. Which meant she was nothing to Sam Vernelli and she’d be well served to remember that.
Wait. That wasn’t exactly true. She wasn’t nothing. She was Tessa’s sister.
Which was worse than being nothing.
She flopped down on the futon. And the tears, the ones she hadn’t shed when her apartment had been burglarized or when there’d been a dead woman on her couch, they came with a vengeance, making her eyes burn and her head ache. She buried her face in her arms and pulled the pillow over her head.
Crying wasn’t horrible. Having Sam Vernelli hear her crying was. He’d demand to know why and he wouldn’t stop poking and prodding at her until she told him. And what could she say?
For some stupid reason, when you asked if I could go, I got excited about the idea that you wanted to spend time with me. Claire Fontaine. Just because I’m me. Not because I’m Tessa’s little sister.
He’d think she was a nut. She wasn’t sure he’d be wrong.
Not for the first time, Claire wondered if it would have all been different if Tessa had lived. Would there have been Sunday dinners and late-night movies and family vacations? Would there have been joy? Would there have been love?
Would she have been able to pick up the phone, call up her mom and spill about how darn excited she was to be a finalist in the competition? Would she have been able to tease her dad that she actually had been listening all those years at the dinner table and had already enrolled in the retirement plan?
Would she send them a quick text, letting them know she’d eaten at a great restaurant, or seen a cool play or ridden the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier?
Would they have been more than polite acquaintances living in the same house?
Claire punched her pillow. What good did it do to wonder, to try to remember a time when there had been sunshine instead of shadows, warmth instead of cold, interest instead of apathy?
She couldn’t change the past no matter how much she wanted to. All she could focus on was the future and what she could control. She closed her eyes and started making plans.
Three hours later, she woke up with a stiff neck, a dry throat and firm resolve. She had a list. One, move back to her apartment. Two, focus on the advertising competition. Three, forget the horrible telephone message, the dead woman on her couch and Sam Vernelli.
Simple.
In a month, this would be a dim memory. A you’ll-never-believe-what-happened-to-me kind of story she could tell at her next cocktail party.
Like she ever went to cocktail parties.
She might, she reasoned, as she sat up and stretched her head from side to side, if she won the competition.
Right now, however, a thirty-dollar bottle of wine didn’t interest her. She wanted water. She swung her legs off the futon, careful to avoid Nightmare, who dreamed happy dog-dreams at the end of the bed. She opened the bedroom door and silently walked to the kitchen. Fortunately for her, Sam had left one dim light burning above his sink.
She ran the water for a moment, letting it get cold. Then she filled a glass and drank it, not bothering to breathe between gulps. Then she refilled it and took the glass over to the table. Quietly, mindful that Sam slept, she unzipped her shoulder bag and pulled out a stack of unopened mail. The day had been so crazy that she’d taken her overflowing in-box and dumped it in her bag.
She was halfway through the pile when she opened a large white envelope and stuck her hand inside. She pulled out one sheet of plain paper, neatly folded. She flipped the paper open and bold, black slashes of pen jumped at her.
You’re nothing special. But I do especially want to see you pay.
She jerked back, her knees bumped the table and her mostly empty plastic water glass hit the floor and rolled. She ignored it and stared at the paper.
Nightmare, evidently startled by the sudden noise in his kitchen, barked and Claire heard the unmistakable squeak of Sam’s door. She knew she had mere seconds and she desperately wanted to pick up the paper, to rip it to shreds, to pretend that she’d never seen it.
“Claire?” Sam asked, his voice quiet. He stood in the doorway, his hair rumpled, wearing nothing but pajama pants low on his hips.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said, trying hard to keep the fear, the r
age, the cacophony of emotions that the words caused out of her voice.
She evidently wasn’t successful because his glance flicked around the room, taking in the still-bolted door, the spilled water, the stack of mail. He crossed the small space in four strides and squatted next to her.
“Claire, what’s wrong?” he asked.
She pointed at the paper.
He stood up to read it. He was close enough that she could hear the quick intake of breath, could see the ripple of taut stomach muscle and could feel the instantaneous rage that consumed him.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded. He was pale and his eyes were wide and unfocused.
“I don’t know,” she said, insanely trying to defuse his tension and maybe even her own. She reached for the envelope and he grabbed her arm, his hand firm around her wrist.
“Don’t touch it,” he said.
His hand was warm and she swore that she could feel his energy radiating through the tips of his fingers. “Too late,” she said. “I already touched it when I opened it.”
He released her wrist and with the end of a pencil, he flipped the ten-by-thirteen envelope over. In the middle of it, Claire’s first and last name was scrawled in black marker. The rest of the envelope was bare. There were no stamps on it, no post office markings.
“When did this come?” Sam asked.
“Today, I think.”
He ran his hands through his thick hair, making it even messier than before. He sat down on the chair, his movements clumsy. She reached out to touch his arm. He jerked and stood up so suddenly that his chair went skidding behind him. Nightmare, lying in front of the refrigerator, barked in protest. Sam pointed to the paper, his movements sharp, abrupt.
“I’ve got to get this to the evidence techs. There might be prints, something, that will help us.”
“Sam,” she said, wrapping her arms around her middle. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know what time it is,” he said, his voice sharp. He took three steps, yanked open the drawer next to the stove and pulled out two gallon-sized plastic bags. He grabbed a pair of tongs out of the white jar on the counter. He returned to the table and carefully, picking up just the edge of the letter and the envelope, put each into a separate bag.
