Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

I puffed out a breath and forged ahead. “I sort of came to in a cabin in Maine . . . with . . . strangers. They um . . . they didn’t exactly have legal custody of me.”

  He blinked. “Are you tellin’ me you were abducted?”

  I sighed and rested my forehead on the broom. “I knew you were gonna take it there.”

  “Well, where else should I take it?”

  For all I knew they had rescued me, but that didn’t make my relationship with them any less strained. “They were good to me. So can we just set aside the kidnapping conspiracy for the moment?”

  Marx’s expression became unreadable, but he still sounded irritated. “Fine. By all means, continue.”

  “They knew about my memory, and I know it’s probably nothing, but whenever I was scared—really about anything—Izzy would remind me that . . . the bad man couldn’t hurt me again.”

  “The bad man,” he said carefully. “They saw this bad man?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t remember him, so I never said anything. They seemed to think he was the reason I was always afraid of the dark, the trees . . . pumpkins.”

  “You’re afraid of pumpkins?”

  “Just the ones with faces.”

  “What happened with this family?”

  I chewed anxiously on my bottom lip before saying, “They were arrested for drug trafficking . . . in Maine.”

  “Dru —” He bit off his words and stared at me. “You lived with drug traffickers?”

  I smiled at the look on his face. “Don’t worry, I didn’t pick up any nasty habits.”

  He rubbed his forehead and glanced down at the picture again. He knew as well as I that if we were ever going to get ahead of the man who intended to kill me, we had to find a way to identify him first. The only hope of that was fingerprints or DNA on the evidence, which I doubted he was clueless enough to leave behind, and whatever details lay in my past.

  I’d given him everything I had with exception of the latest memory, so the only thing left to do was speak to the people who may have taken me out from under the killer.

  “We need to go visit your second family,” he decided, spitting the phrase with distaste.

  “I was really hoping we could just call.”

  He shook his head. “It’s only an eight-hour drive. We’ll set up an appointment and talk to them in person. We’re likely to get more information that way.”

  I really didn’t want to see them again.

  “We can’t just . . . ,” I started to protest. “I won’t abandon Jace while this lunatic is still around.”

  I couldn’t begin to understand the mind of the man stalking me, but I hoped he would recognize that he already had my attention and there was no reason to hurt her.

  “He won’t come back. He came here for you, not for her. But just to be on the safe side, Sam will stay here with her.”

  My gaze shifted to the officer who reappeared in the doorway. “I swear, Sam, if you leave her for any reason and she gets hurt, I will . . .”

  “I won’t leave her.”

  “Sam will do what he needs to do, Holly. You don’t need to threaten him,” Marx said. “Besides, it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

  I looked at Sam, who probably outweighed me by fifty pounds and was at least six inches taller, and then at Marx. “Because he has a gun?”

  “No, because he knows if he so much as lays a finger on you, I’ll make him cry.”

  “Why?”

  Sam tried to suppress a smile as he looked at the floor. “Because his Southern mama raised him to always be respectful of women, even if they’re screaming in your face or throwing punches. Which means, if you decide to swing a skillet at my head, he just expects me to dodge. And if you manage to hit me, it’ll teach me to get out of the way faster next time.”

  I slid a curious look at Marx. What kind of family did he come from where they swung skillets at each other?

  “In other words,” Marx said. “It’s not a fair fight, because you’ll always win.”

  Interesting. I would have to keep that in mind. I looked around the apartment. “We can’t just leave things like this.”

  “We’ll look into doors first thing in the morning,” Sam said.

  “Maybe something blue. She likes blue.”

  “Holly,” Sam said a little impatiently. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “It’s almost three in the mornin’, Holly. We should get some sleep. We have a long drive tomorrow,” Marx reminded me.

  I rubbed my hands on my jeans to wick away the nervous sweat that this entire situation was causing. Leaving Jace, being stuck in a car with Marx for eight hours, the uncertain sleeping arrangements, and seeing the woman I had promised myself I would never see again . . .

  I was going to be a wreck tomorrow.

  Chapter 22

  I WATCHED THE RAINDROPS trickle down the glass as I stared out the passenger window of the car. I huddled as close to the door as possible, craving space.

  I couldn’t recall the last time I had been in a car for such a long stretch of time. I could grit my teeth and endure a ten-minute trip across the city, but our time in this coffin on wheels was approaching three hours.

  I was about ready to crawl out the window and take my chances on the highway. I pressed the lock button on the door and watched the lock pop up and down repeatedly. I flinched when Marx’s voice broke the silence.

  “Holly, you’re gonna break my lock.”

  I pressed it one more time to make sure it was unlocked, and then lifted my finger off the button. “Sorry.” I gave him a small, tense smile.

  He chanced a look in my direction, and I could see the gears churning in his head. He was trying to figure out just what exactly was twisting me into a bundle of nerves.

  Tapping an anxious rhythm on my thighs, I glanced at his hands on the wheel. Ooo, a distraction. “Why do you still wear your wedding ring if you’re divorced?”

  He blinked in surprise at the sudden question. “How do you know I’m divorced?”

  “The first time we met you mentioned your ex-wife thinks your handwriting looks like chicken scratch.” I thought she was being generous. “Do you wear it because you miss her?”

  His lips flattened into a reluctant line. “That’s a very personal question, Holly.”

  “You ask me personal questions all the time.”

  “Pertainin’ to the case.”

  “Not always.” I looked back out the window, following the sparse trees that whipped by. The scenery made me long for my camera.

  Marx drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in agitation. “Because I still love her,” he finally admitted. “And I hope we’ll be able to work it out eventually.”

  His answer surprised me. I had expected him to just brush off the question because it was personal. “She left because she didn’t want kids?” Wow, did I just blurt that out?

  Marx’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t look at me. He was trying to figure out how I knew that. “Yes, that’s part of it. She also didn’t like my job. It got in the way of a lot of things.”

  I could only imagine. If he spent half as much time on other cases as he did mine, his wife would’ve been a very lonely woman.

  “How about you?” Marx asked after a quiet, thoughtful moment. “Has there ever been anyone special in your life? Aside from your friend.”

  Given everything he knew and probably suspected about my history, I would’ve thought the answer to that question would be obvious. “No. This . . .”—I gestured to the two of us—”is the most in-depth relationship I’ve managed with . . .”

  “A man?” he finished. There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

  I wasn’t sad about it; I was quite proud of this relationship. If someone had told me a month ago that I would willingly sit in a car next to a man and do something other than claw my way through the upholstery to escape, I would’ve thought they were insane.

  “No pressure, Detective,” I said, adopting a teasing tone. “Y
ou’re just the first stable male relationship I’ve ever had. Don’t screw it up.”

  He laughed and some of the uncomfortable tension in the car broke. “I’ll do my best.”

  I rolled down the passenger window to extend the claustrophobic space, and damp icy air swirled through the warm car. I rested my chin and arms on the door and closed my eyes, savoring the open air as it wrapped around me. It was refreshing, but it wasn’t enough to soothe the growing anxiety in my chest.

  I jumped when Marx honked the horn. “What are you doin’?” he demanded. “That’s not a lane!”

  I relaxed slightly when I realized he wasn’t yelling at me. The highway was clogged with traffic, probably due to an accident, and a man in a blue sports car was trying to weave his way between the crowded lanes.

  Marx grumbled angrily at the driver, and I felt obliged to point out the obvious. “You know he can’t hear you, right?”

  “Thank you, Holly, I figured that much out for myself,” he replied irritably. “He’ll hear me if I roll the window down.” He slammed his hand on the horn again, but the man paid him no mind.

  I rubbed my ears to alleviate the ringing. “You’re one of those angry drivers, aren’t you?”

  “I am not angry,” he said carefully as he rested his right wrist over the steering wheel. “I just hate people who don’t know how to drive.”

  I gave him a funny look, and it took him a moment to recognize his mistake. “I hate people with licenses who don’t know how to drive,” he amended with a glance my way. “You don’t count.”

  “You’ve only been in the car with me for three hours,” I said. “We’ll see how you feel in three more.”

  “I don’t think there’s anythin’ you could do to make me hate you, Holly. Unless you get your license and drive like this . . .” The person in front of us honked, drowning out Marx’s voice, but I saw his mouth shape an inappropriate word.

  “I don’t foresee that happening,” I sighed. I had long ago accepted the fact that my life would never be “normal”: worrying about yoga classes and hair appointments, having a driver’s license and a debit card with an account that actually had money in it. Those were luxuries meant for people who weren’t hiding from psychotic foster siblings.

  Of course, Collin already had all the information he needed to find me. That thought fed my already expanding anxiety.

  “You’re not gonna have to hide from him forever,” Marx said.

  “If that day comes, I’m not sure I’ll know what to do,” I admitted honestly. I had never even considered it, because it seemed like little more than a desperate fantasy.

  “Whatever you want.”

  I’ll settle for not being afraid anymore.

  The compassion in his green eyes when he glanced at me made me think he’d read that thought loud and clear on my face. I released a frustrated breath and turned my attention back to the window.

  I tapped a rapid staccato rhythm on the passenger door with my fingers; there was no chance I could endure five—possibly six—more hours of this. I despised small spaces and the way they seemed to suck all the air out of my lungs and slowly fold in around me.

  I could feel Marx watching me as we crawled down the highway. “Is my company just that bad or are you claustrophobic?”

  “Both?” I offered, trying to keep my voice light.

  He peeled the car out of the line of traffic and onto the shoulder. The moment the car rolled to a stop, I whipped off my seat belt, flung open the door, and hopped out of the car. It probably looked like I was trying to escape a madman.

  Oh, blessed freedom.

  I pressed my hands to my stomach and took a few deep breaths of the open air, letting the space and freedom wash over me.

  “You should’ve told me you’re claustrophobic, Holly.” Marx crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the passenger door.

  I hadn’t known what to expect when I got in his car. Apart from my bathroom, I hadn’t been in a confined space for that long in years. “I’m sorry.” I seemed to be causing him no end of trouble.

  “Is this a childhood anxiety or a recent development?”

  “Childhood.”

  He fell silent for a long, thoughtful moment as he watched me pace. “People aren’t usually claustrophobic for no reason. Is this because of him? Somethin’ he did to you?”

  I cringed at the memory of being locked inside a box so small that it had been difficult to breathe, and I gave Marx an icy look.

  He pressed his lips together. “Right, I said I wouldn’t ask.” He glanced at his watch. “Our appointment isn’t until tomorrow mornin’, so we can take as many breaks as you need. Is there anythin’ else I should know for this trip?”

  “I can’t share a room.”

  “I figured as much, but my room is adjoinin’ so I’m right there if you need me. Anythin’ else?”

  I thought about it, but if we had separate rooms, I didn’t see an issue. “I prefer a king-size bed with chocolates on my pillows.”

  “Now you’re just pushin’ it,” he said with a suppressed smile.

  He waited for me to completely unwind before we got back in the car, and by that time the traffic had thinned. The rest of the road trip became routine: we pulled over every two hours, and Marx leaned against the car as he waited silently and patiently for me to wear myself out and climb back in. It was dark by the time we reached Maine.

  Chapter 23

  I STOOD ON THE PATIO outside the single-story hotel with my bag and surveyed the row of numbered bright-red doors as Marx unlocked the door to my room.

  I hadn’t been in a hotel since I was twelve. My foster family had taken a trip for a funeral, and my foster sister Sarah and I had shared the second bed. It had been my first time in a hotel, and I’d been thrilled.

  Now, as I looked at the doors, I longed to be home. Living on the run had stripped away any thrill about staying in some random place for the night.

  Marx pushed the door inward and waited for me to enter. I stepped into the room cautiously. It didn’t smell musty like my home, and I missed the comfort of that smell.

  Marx flipped the light switch on the wall and closed the door behind us. I took in the bland, functional space and the queen-size bed. Wow . . . a queen-size bed all to myself.

  There was something resting on the pillows. I stepped tentatively toward the bed and looked at the item: a packet of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. I drew in a breath and looked at Marx.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “I called the hotel while you were takin’ a break,” he replied. Was that what we were calling it then—taking a break? “I thought it would help make you feel more comfortable. Oddly enough, most people don’t just have bags of marshmallows lyin’ about.”

  It was such a small gesture, but it meant so much more to me than what it had cost him. “Thank you.”

  Marx stood by the wall as I inspected the room, memories of the last time I was in a hotel drifting to the forefront of my thoughts. Sarah and I had bounced on the beds and pummeled each other with pillows. The memory brought a smile to my lips. We’d grown quite close in the six months we spent together. We had opened every drawer and every little complimentary item in the hotel room. We’d washed each other’s hair with tiny shampoo, and even tried the coffee, which was awful.

  I opened one of the tiny shampoos in the bathroom and smelled it: a similarly vague scent.

  “How long’s it been since you were in a hotel?” Marx asked, watching my behavior with interest.

  I rubbed a dot of lightly scented lotion into the back of my hand as I walked out of the bathroom. “Sixteen years.”

  He did the math. “You were with your first foster family or your second?”

  “First. We were here for a funeral. I loved it.”

  “Yes, funerals are a real riot,” he said dryly.

  I smiled. “Not the funeral. The hotel. My foster sister Sarah and I had a lot of fun.”


  “You were happy with that family,” he observed.

  “I was. But . . . they only wanted one child, and they fell in love with Sarah.” It hurt when I learned they’d only taken both of us so they could decide which one they wanted to keep. Sarah had been sweet and bright, and I couldn’t blame them for choosing her over the girl with the unknown history and defective memory.

  “I’m sorry, Holly.”

  I shrugged off his sympathy. “Sarah deserved a good home.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  I stared at the flowered wallpaper above the bed. There were a lot of good kids in the system who were shuffled from one placement to the next with no hope of finding a home. I hadn’t been the only one. “You said that when I don’t have to hide anymore, I can do anything I want.”

  “You can.”

  “I don’t wanna move anymore. Ever.” I didn’t even want to travel.

  “You don’t have to move,” he assured me. “You’re not alone anymore. There are people in your life who will look out for you. I can’t speak for Sam, but I’m only ever a phone call away.”

  I sank onto the edge of the bed and regarded him thoughtfully. I had never expected to be more to him than an inconvenience he felt obligated to protect—the unfortunate case that had dropped into his already busy lap. But the past few weeks had left me feeling uncertain. “Would you really show up?” I asked, my voice tinged with doubt. “If the case was over and you and Sam went back to your daily lives, would you really come if I needed you?”

  He looked a little startled by the question. “Of course I would come. Why would you even doubt that?”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “I did notice that when I got dressed this mornin’.”

  “Cops step in and out of people’s lives on a daily basis,” I said, trying not to let my deep dislike of law enforcement infect my voice. “They don’t get attached to the people they help or hurt. They resolve the issue one way or another and they move on.”

  “I’m not just a cop, Holly, and you’re not just some case to be solved.” He studied me from across the room as if he were trying to read my thoughts, and I made a valiant effort to keep my face blank. “What’s this about?”