“Yes.” She shivered. “How horrible. You were involved in that investigation?”
“I was. The thing is, I remembered when those women disappeared. One had lived in Cannon Beach. I was just a kid, but my parents were freaked because my sister was a teenager. She was blonde and blue-eyed like those women, too. She sulked because they restricted her activities, but, me, I started devouring the news about it.” He scraped diced cucumber into the salad bowl. “I was really bothered when the whole furor dwindled into nothingness. Those women were just gone, and nobody knew why. There were no arrests. Eventually, it seemed as if everyone forgot.”
“And you ended up helping make that arrest.”
“I was support, that’s all. Daniel Colburn was instrumental in bringing that scum down. He and Sophie, his fiancé. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I donated some pieces to the auction to save Misty Beach. I like her.”
Sean watched as she dumped noodles into the now boiling water. “Then there was my brother.” His voice had changed. Become terse. “He was murdered.”
She whirled to face him. “Oh, Sean.”
“It wasn’t a great mystery. He’d started going with a girl whose previous boyfriend didn’t want to let her go.” His throat worked. “He caught Matt alone—”
At the hitch in his voice, she whispered, “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”
“Yes, maybe because we were only eighteen months apart. He was older, a senior when he was killed. The guy was arrested.” Sean’s mouth twisted. “He was an adult, so he got some time, but he’s long since out of the pen and moving on with his life. Unlike Matt.”
No wonder Sean had gone into law enforcement.
This part of his past, however briefly told, had changed her perception of him. The grief he still felt so powerfully might be part of why she had been so drawn to him from the beginning.
“Anything else I can do?” he asked, and she realized he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. The door he’d cracked open wasn’t the kind to be left standing open.
“Salad dressings are on a shelf on the door in the refrigerator. I’d like the balsamic. Will you grab it and whatever you want?”
He carried the salad and dressings to the table in the nook looking out at her backyard.
Still thinking about his story, she slid the pan of asparagus under the broiler in the oven. She hesitated, but finally decided to ask her question. “Do you know what happened to your brother’s girlfriend?”
Sean shook his head. “I’ve wondered. She was devastated. Completely blamed herself. But she didn’t come back to school and didn’t stay in touch.”
Emily identified better with that girl than he would ever understand. Rationally, she knew nothing about the accident had been her fault, but Tom had wanted her to go with them that weekend and she’d refused. She was too busy with the store, she always felt as if his mother didn’t like her, and then there was the question of whether they would take Braden or leave him, but with whom? Her mother-in-law wouldn’t have approved of them having taken a teenager into the house with her precious grandson. “He’ll be trouble,” she would have announced, in her all-knowing way. Tom had intended to tell her about Braden that weekend, but Emily had no idea whether he actually had.
What she did know was that if she’d gone, everything would have been different. They might have left for home sooner, or later. They wouldn’t have been where they were at the exact wrong time. And if they had been…she would have died, too. For a long time, she wished she had.
She still felt guilty about Braden, too, so she fell back on the only possible solution. She wouldn’t think about him.
There was nothing she could do to change the past.
“You look sad,” Sean said, and she saw that he was watching her again.
“It was a sad story.”
His expression told her he knew there was more to it than that, but he didn’t push her. In fact, for a very pushy man, he had a gift for knowing when to back off. Perhaps because he had his own closed doors.
“How about you?” he asked. “How did you learn to quilt?”
This was an easy answer. “My grandmother. This is my mother’s parents. They have a farm near Corvallis, and a lifestyle that probably hasn’t changed much from that of Nanna’s parents, who had the farm before them. Most women of her generation didn’t quilt even if their mothers had, you know. It was a dying art. Mom never had the least interest, but I was captivated watching Nanna piece and hand-quilt. I learned so young, it’s as natural to me as breathing.”
“Are they still alive?”
“Yes. I…visit.” But not as often as she should, she was guiltily aware. They knew her too well, and worried so much about her. She had to pretend with them.
The kindness on Sean’s face made her suspect that again he’d known what she was thinking. “Is that where you grew up? Corvallis?”
“No, Mom fled to the big city. Seattle, actually. I went to the University of Washington, and met my husband when he was in medical school there.” There. The explanation was out of the way. Casual.
“What do your parents do?”
“Dad’s a businessman, Mom an interior designer. We’re not close.” They had been more so until the tragedy. Mom couldn’t understand why Emily wouldn’t just get over it, remarry, start another family.
Forget the family she’d had.
The thought struck a chord in her as she remembered Sean talking about the women who had gone missing all those years ago. He had sounded outraged because people let themselves forget so easily. He might understand, she thought, but the next second wasn’t sure why she thought his understanding mattered.
“Do you still see your husband’s family?”
His question felt like a blow. “No. No.”
He didn’t ask, but the speculation in his eyes drove her finally to say, “His mother never liked me. She dismissed me as ‘artsy.’ She blamed me for Tom not being as ambitious as she wanted him to be. She’d hated Cape Trouble when they lived here, and couldn’t understand why he’d choose to bury himself in a small town in the middle of nowhere. She liked to see Tom and—” Aghast, Emily couldn’t believe she had let herself ramble like that.
But it was too late. His expression had changed, faint shock becoming the pity she had feared. “And?”
If he hadn’t asked so very gently, she would have retreated with a shake of her head, but as it was she whispered, “Cody. We had a son.”
“They died together.”
She looked down at her half-finished dinner and knew she wouldn’t be eating another bite. “Yes.”
“How old was he?”
“Two.” Her throat felt tight. All she could see was her son’s face. Drowsy brown eyes, his thumb still often tucked in his mouth despite their best efforts. If she closed her own eyes, she would be able to hear his giggle. “Only two,” she said, so quietly she wasn’t sure the man across the table would hear.
“Will you tell me what happened, Emily?”
A flush of anger let the words come. “They were on their way home from Portland. There was a police pursuit. An officer tried to pull over a pickup. It sped away, and he went screaming after instead of letting it go. The state patrol joined in. I’m told…” She faltered. “The pickup was going over ninety miles an hour when it hit our Civic. Tom and Cody were killed instantly. The driver died on the way to the hospital.” Hate filled her. Her eyes burned. “Unfortunately, the deputy who chose to endanger everyone on the road didn’t die. He wasn’t even fired.” What she’d eaten felt like battery acid in her stomach. “The man they were chasing wasn’t a suspected murderer or rapist. His license was suspended because of DUIs. He wasn’t supposed to be driving. That’s all. If they’d let him go…”
Sean half stood, as if he meant to come to her, then sank back down on his chair. “Oh, damn, Emily. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Her hostility nearly choked her as she stared an accusation at him. “I
suppose you think the police weren’t to blame.”
CHAPTER FIVE
With Emily glaring at him, all Sean was able to think was, Oh, hell. Her wounds went so much deeper than he’d guessed. Losing a husband was hard, but he knew what losing a child had done to his parents. In Emily’s case, both had been ripped from her in a moment, leaving her utterly alone.
He’d known how resistant she was to getting involved with him on any level, but hadn’t guessed that he bore a particular handicap. In her mind, a cop was responsible for her husband’s and son’s deaths. Sean was a cop, and therefore, on a cosmic level, also guilty. He doubted she wanted to hear the truth from him, but he also didn’t want to be dishonest.
“I don’t know the exact circumstances,” he said carefully, and saw her lip curl. Okay, that sounded mealy-mouthed. “Here’s my perspective, as a police officer. If the entire chase happened because an officer tried to pull him over, then no. The high speed pursuit wasn’t justified.” He paused, watching the shift of emotions on her face. “But is there any chance he caught that officer’s eye in the first place because he was already exceeding the speed limit? Perhaps dangerously so? If that’s the case, sticking with him, summoning other officers in to maneuver him to a stop, might have been the right call.”
“They claimed he was speeding,” she said furiously, “but they would, wouldn’t they?”
Sean wished he could deny that law enforcement officers ever lied, but that would be a lie. Of course they did. They were human beings. Seeing your career about to go down the toilet, the temptation was great. “Why are you so sure it was a lie?” he asked, trying to come across as neutral.
Her glare didn’t soften. “Why are you so sure it wasn’t?”
“I’m not,” he said bluntly. “Cops screw up, like anyone else. Situations escalate. You get caught up in the moment, quit thinking about consequences. I can’t deny it happens. But you need to remember that a guy who’d been stripped of his license got behind the wheel anyway. He was the one who chose to flee instead of maybe getting thirty days in jail. He killed your family. Hate him, Emily.”
Sean remembered hearing about that particular chase and it’s horrific ending. He’d long since forgotten the names of the people who died. He did recall that a small child had been among them. What he didn’t know was how the chase had begun. He couldn’t answer the question Emily had been asking herself since police came to her door to tell her that her husband and son were dead. Even if he were to ask around and find her an answer, what would that change?
High-speed pursuits looked exciting in movies and on TV cop shows, but they were actually pretty controversial. Sticking to the tail of someone trying to get away was one thing, but when speeds climbed like that, the smart thing to do was back off. Let the driver think he’d gotten away. Radio cops down the road to watch for him. There was rarely a justification for risking the lives of other people on the road. The Boston bombers…maybe. A guy driving with a suspended license and a history of drunk driving? No way. The one thing his record had told them was that he wasn’t safe behind the wheel of a car, far less handling that vehicle at high speeds.
Emily held that burning stare long enough to singe Sean’s skin. Finally, she shoved back her chair and rose, picking up her dishes and silverware. He’d swear she looked betrayed along with furious. “I have plenty of hate to go around,” she said with a coolness belied by the turbulence in her eyes. Then she carried the dishes to the sink.
Sitting in front of his unfinished dinner, Sean was both frustrated and ashamed. He’d let her down. Had he automatically leaped to the defense of a police officer he didn’t even know, out of some kind of fellow feeling?
He couldn’t be sure.
“Emily.”
She shook her head hard. Her braid flopped from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t know why I did.”
“Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly.
That was it for conversation. His own appetite gone MIA, he helped her clear the table and clean the kitchen. Her face remained stony. He didn’t know how angry she was at him. She might also be covering up grief. Talking about the deaths of the two people she’d loved most probably felt like tearing open a gaping wound.
He was afraid she’d balk at going home with him, but once they were done in the kitchen, he asked if she’d rather they stayed at her house for the evening or go to his.
“Yours,” she said shortly. “I can bring work with me.”
He waited while she disappeared down the hall. He used the time to study the quilt she had in the huge frame in the living room, awed at the incredibly tiny stitches she somehow made through the thickness of batting and two layers of cotton fabric. Sometimes more, he realized, because the quilting frequently crossed a seam from the piecing that added another layer, yet the stitches remained even in length and spacing. He touched a part she’d already quilted, fascinated by a stiff texture despite the soft materials, then withdrew his hand guiltily when he heard her coming.
She pulled a small rolling suitcase and carried a huge tote bag from which fabric bulged. Seeing his gaze go to it, she said stiffly, “I use a hoop to quilt smaller pieces. That’s what this is.”
“My mother has a quilt passed down from…I think she said her grandmother, but it might be a great-grandmother,” he heard himself tell her, sounding as awkward as he felt. “Mom calls it a flower garden. The stitches aren’t quite as small and close together as yours, but almost.”
“Grandmother’s Flower Garden,” Emily said unexpectedly. “That’s what the pattern is called.”
That’s why he’d had ‘grandmother’ stuck in his mind. “It’s worn some, but still pretty,” he said, for no good reason.
Ignoring his meaningless conversation, she turned out lights and locked. With them more exposed outside than he liked, Sean kept his body between hers and the street as they covered the short distance to his house. His gaze roved nonstop, probing every shadow. The salty smell of the ocean was sharp in his nostrils, the muted rush of the ocean as familiar as his own heartbeat. He’d missed it when he was away at college and working those first few years inland.
They’d reached his porch when Emily said, “I’m sorry.”
Startled, he looked at her. “What for?”
“You got stuck with me.”
He thrust his key into his front door lock with unnecessary force. “Don’t apologize. You’re the one being inconvenienced. If I’d caught the bastard…”
“How could you?”
He only shook his head. He didn’t want to increase her nightmares by telling her how vulnerable she’d been when he left her alone in her yard.
Inside his house, he locked. “I forgot to ask. Did you get in touch with anyone about a home security system?”
“Yes.” She told him which company she’d selected, and he nodded. “He’s coming tomorrow morning at ten.” She nibbled on her lower lip, having an unintended effect on him. “I was sort of hoping…”
“I’d be there?”
Her nod was as timid as her apology, rubbing him the wrong way. She must have thought she’d lost everything that meant anything when her husband and son were killed, and now she was finding out that she had more yet to lose – her right to feel safe in her own home. Conceivably even her own life.
“Of course I want to be there,” he said. His chest hurt, thinking about this woman having to be afraid on top of everything else.
Whoa, he thought. He needed to watch it. He was getting in deep, and with a woman whose sense of gratitude probably stung given his profession, not to mention her own, desperate need to keep a distance from everyone else.
Maybe not everyone. He couldn’t be sure. She might have close friends.
But he knew better. He hadn’t seen anyone coming and going from her house. The very fact that she chose to spend her days working alone, that she limited even her time in the store she owned, said it all. And
he remembered what she’d said about running on the beach: I appreciate the solitude.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, after which her eyes widened. He didn’t like thinking what she’d seen on his face. Whatever it was, she offered a hasty excuse and disappeared immediately into the guest bedroom.
He heard the door close, and made her evening even more perfect by knocking on it. When she opened it, her chin high but her eyes already red, he had to say, “I won’t intrude, but please leave the door partly open. I won’t shut my bedroom door, either. If someone happened to be watching, he’ll have seen you coming home with me. My house doesn’t have a security system, either. I want to be able to hear if there’s any disturbance.”
The disquieting memory of that pane of glass so neatly and quietly removed from the Lowe’s French doors blurred with the intrusion at Emily’s house to make him want to insist she sleep with him. Hell. He could wrap himself in a blanket on the floor. But he knew he was overreacting. If the guy intended to come after her again, he’d wait until he thought he could get her alone, not break into a cop’s house. This wasn’t Frank Lowe’s assassin.
She swallowed, then nodded. Sean retreated.
In the living room, he turned on the TV, but five minutes later stabbed the remote to turn it off. There wasn’t anything on he wanted to watch, but more to the point was his fear it would drown out some faint noise he should hear.
A watcher would know what bedroom she was in, because that light never came on in the evening. His attention had been on her house, but if he was observant at all, he’d have taken note of what time neighbors went to bed, whether their rooms faced her house or away from it.
Sean found the book he’d been reading. But as he tried to concentrate, he had to keep flipping back because he didn’t remember what was on the previous page.
Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3) Page 7
