Читать книгу Stonebrook Cottage - Carla Neggers, Carla Neggers - Страница 11

K ara couldn’t get out of her brother’s house fast enough. She ignored the heat and her spinning head, her queasy stomach, and ran down the walk to her car parked on the street. She’d just been interrogated by two Texas Rangers, one her older brother, one a man she’d slept with in a moment of sheer insanity. The more they talked and got into Ranger mode, the less comfortable they were with the events in Connecticut. A near-fatal July Fourth bonfire, an accidental drowning and now two missing middle-schoolers, all involving the political elite of a wealthy New England state—none of it sat well with either Lieutenant Jack Galway or Sergeant Sam Temple.

Their instructions to Kara were simple: stay out of it.

Jack found the injured-bluebird theory unpersuasive. Was the pool deck wet from rain, someone swimming, watering the flowers? What was Big Mike’s blood-alcohol level? Who else was at his rented house that day? Who owned the house? Kara had to explain Big Mike’s passion for the Eastern bluebird, a native species that had lost ground to the more aggressive starling and English sparrow non-native species that were also cavity nesters and competed with bluebirds in an increasingly scarce habitat. Mike had been a big promoter of bluebird trails, uninterrupted networks of bluebird houses suitable for nesting, thus encouraging a resurgence in the bluebird population.

Her brother had listened to her, dumbfounded. “A bluebird with a broken leg ends up in the pool of a man who happens to have a thing for bluebirds and can’t swim? I don’t buy it,” he’d said. “Not for one damn second.”

It was obvious his fellow Texas Ranger didn’t, either. Kara had tried to insert her own professional opinion into the conversation. “The police need proof of a crime.”

Jack was unmoved. “It’s not going to drop out of the sky into their laps. It’s their job to investigate.”

“They are —”

He’d turned his dark gaze onto her, but she’d never been intimidated by her brother. “Then why did a local detective check your story instead of one of the state detectives on the case?”

“Zoe West is new to Bluefield, but I understand she’s like that. Very independent. I’d bet the state cops would slap her down hard if they knew she was meddling in their investigation. It doesn’t mean a thing that they haven’t called me themselves—I’m the last person anyone would suspect of killing Big Mike.”

She’d hated even saying it. Killing Big Mike.

“Who else knew he couldn’t swim?” her brother asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jack didn’t like that, either. There wasn’t anything about the events in Connecticut that he or Sam liked. “No one wants the unsolved murder of a governor on their hands. I understand that. If it’s an accident, it’s over. Everyone can move on. What toes do the investigators have to step on even to look into this as a possible homicide?”

Kara saw his point, but disagreed with it and didn’t mind saying so. “If you and Sam were in their place, would you worry about what toes you stepped on? Not a chance. You wouldn’t give up until you were satisfied that you knew exactly how Big Mike died. Give Connecticut law enforcement some credit. I think they’re inclined to regard what happened as an accident because that’s what the evidence suggests—”

“Then they know something we don’t know or they’re idiots.”

Sam concurred. “Jack’s right. This thing stinks.”

Kara knew it did, too, but she couldn’t resist arguing with them. Maybe it was the attorney in her—maybe it just gave her something to do instead of worrying about Henry and Lillian. More likely, it kept her from looking at Sam the wrong way and alerting her brother to what they’d done after they’d had coffee two weeks ago.

“Lord,” she muttered as she reached her car, “no wonder I have a bad stomach.”

She’d forgotten about the two home pregnancy test kits still in her tote bag when she’d dug out the kids’ cards and letters. She could just imagine the scene if either man had spotted them.

“Kara—wait up.” Susanna trotted down the walk to Kara’s car, coming around to the driver’s side. “Are you all right? That was a little rough in there. I’d like to strangle those two. You’d think you were a murder suspect.”

“I’m fine, Susanna. Thanks. I put up with that kind of attitude all the time in my work. I didn’t tell anyone Big Mike couldn’t swim. I didn’t push him into his pool. End of story. I just want to find Henry and Lillian.”

“I know. But do you think Governor Parisi was murdered?”

“I’m trying hard not to get too far ahead of the facts. Anyway, I have no say—it’s up to the investigators.”

Her sister-in-law crossed her arms on her chest, the milky, humid darkness deepening the green in her eyes. “You hid it well tonight, Kara, but I know something happened between you and Sam at the Gordon Temple opening. Come on. I know. I admit he’s one of my favorites, but he’s not—well, you’re not stupid. You know what Sam’s like.”

Sexy, straightforward, independent, dedicated to his work as a Texas Ranger. Ambitious. People liked him—Jack often said Sam could be governor if he ever wanted to quit the Rangers and go into politics. But who knew what Sam Temple wanted? Kara remembered him smiling at her over coffee, so unexpectedly easy to talk to. Her heart had jumped, and something more than superficial desire seemed to suffuse her mind and body, awaken her to a longing so deep and complicated she didn’t know how to describe it.

Since that night, she’d tried to dismiss what she’d felt—what she’d done—simply as a by-product of the shock of learning about Big Mike’s death. But it was more than that, only it didn’t matter now. Whatever Sam Temple had been to her, those sixteen hours were over. She didn’t have to understand what had happened between them because it would never be repeated. Their lovemaking was like some kind of out-of-time experience that would stay with her forever—she didn’t hold it against him.

But her brother would.

“Sam’s the classic dangerous man,” Susanna went on.

“Yes, I know.” Kara managed a smile. “I promised myself when I moved back here that I’d stay away from Texas Rangers. Having one for a brother is bad enough. They’re all know-it-all rock heads.”

Susanna laughed. “Well, if it’s a question of rock heads, you fit right in, Kara. Honestly. Sam? What were you thinking? ” She held up a hand, stopping Kara from answering. “Never mind. You weren’t thinking.”

“What happened was just as much my responsibility as Sam’s.”

“Jack won’t see it that way.”

An understatement. “He doesn’t suspect—”

“No. He hasn’t thrown Sam out a window.” Susanna dropped her arms, shaking her head with affection. “You were away a long time, Kara. A part of Jack still sees you as his naive little sister, not an experienced, thirty-four-year-old professional.”

Not so experienced when it came to sex, Kara thought, stifling a surge of awkwardness. At least Sam didn’t know how inexperienced. “Jack can mind his own damn business. I haven’t seen or heard from Sam since we—since the opening.” She paused, the heat settling over her, making her feel claustrophobic, unable to breathe. “It’s over.”

Susanna eyed her sister-in-law knowingly, skeptically. “Nothing’s over. I saw you two tonight, Kara. Don’t kid yourself.” She pulled open Kara’s car door, touched her shoulder gently. “Go on. See about those kids. I hope they’re back in their beds at the ranch by now. Jack’s getting ready to saddle up and go over there—”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“I wouldn’t try to tell him what he has to and doesn’t have to do right now. He’s on a tear.”

“What about Sam?”

“Ditto, I would think.”

Kara nodded, holding back sudden tears. Nausea burned up into her throat, cloying, bringing a tremble to her knees. Maybe it wasn’t nausea—maybe it was fear. But she rallied, easing behind the wheel of her car. “They’re scrappers, those two.” She hesitated. “Susanna—I don’t have to ask you to keep this conversation between us, do I?”

“Absolutely not. Jack’s mad enough as it is about the kids and this bluebird theory.”

It was a ninety-mile drive back to Austin, an hour and a half for Kara to obsess on where Henry and Lillian could be, the dangers they could encounter, whatever the hell had possessed them to run off. The clear, deep water of the ranch’s lake, the possibilities of rabid animals, hundreds of acres of trails and hills, reckless drivers, pedophiles—the list of dangers was endless. It didn’t matter that they were smart, clever or rich, that they’d run off deliberately. They were kids.

And Sam and Jack were on the case. Her fault.

God, what was she to do about Sam Temple?

“Nothing,” she told herself as she pulled into her short driveway. There was nothing for her to do because he was running as fast from their weekend together as she was.

She locked her car door and headed up the short walk to the front porch of the little Craftsman-style bungalow she’d bought in Hyde Park not long after she’d moved to Austin last September. It was just a few blocks from the historic house Susanna’s parents were renovating, another few blocks from their art gallery. Kara liked the tree-lined streets and diversity of the neighborhood, so different from the 1830s house she’d rented in a Hartford suburb on the west side of the Connecticut River. She’d never bought property in Connecticut. That should have been a sign to her, but it wasn’t—it took Big Mike to get her finally to admit it was time to go back home.

She’d met him in law school, on a weekend visit with Allyson and Lawrence to the Stockwell Farm. Her friends were deeply in love, the twenty-year age difference never seeming to matter to either of them.

Big Mike was already a force in Connecticut politics, wealthy, blueblood Lawrence Stockwell an unlikely friend and ally. Lawrence had guessed Kara and Mike Parisi would hit it off, and they had. When Big Mike said something factually incorrect about the law, Kara corrected him, arguing her point with all the hubris of a first-year law student—Mike insisted it was because she was a stubborn Texan, too. They became instant friends. He was her mentor on so many things, but not politics—she wasn’t interested. She wouldn’t even tell him whether she’d voted for him.

When June, Big Mike’s wife, was charged with driving while intoxicated, he asked Kara to take the case, and agreed when she insisted she do it her way and he stay out of it. June admitted to her alcoholism and entered treatment. Mike stepped back and let his wife, whom he loved so much, take responsibility for her recovery. The incident could have undermined his friendship with Kara, but instead it deepened it.

June died six years ago, and not until he came out and told her did it occur to Kara that Big Mike was half in love with her.

He’d tried to make light of his admission. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re going to fall for Hatch, after all.”

“Hatch? He doesn’t have a thing for me.”

“Ha.”

Mike Parisi and Hatch Corrigan. Instead, she’d ended up in bed with Sam Temple.

This, she thought, was why she had her problems with men.

Mike had always known she’d go back to Texas. “No bluebonnets in Connecticut,” he’d say, then pull up every stupid stereotype he could think of about Texas and Texans, just to goad her—just to make her realize she was chronically homesick.

Maybe he’d known telling her he was in love with her would seal the deal, his way of making sure she didn’t get cold feet. “You have demons to lay to rest, Kara,” he’d told her, his worn, lived-in face without any hint of humor, “and you can’t do it here. You need to go home.”

In her months back in Texas, she’d only managed to stir up new demons. She hadn’t laid any of the old ones to rest.

The night air was still hot, without even a hint of a breeze. Her little house had a decent front yard that needed reseeding and a front porch that needed scraping and painting—well, the place was a fixer-upper. She didn’t know why she’d bought it. Why not a brand-new condo? She didn’t have time to cook, never mind scrape paint and strip hardwood floors. The previous owners had kept the place clean and tidy, maintaining the original woodwork and floor plan, giving the house, as her Realtor had put it, potential.

She heard someone laughing down the street, music from a nearby house. She unlocked her front door, feeling less panicked. If she didn’t hear anything more tonight, she’d call Allyson in the morning and drive out to the ranch herself. She knew she wouldn’t sleep.

When she pushed open her door, the cool air from inside washed over her, but she stopped abruptly, hearing something. And when she glanced in her living room, there on the floor, eating microwave popcorn and watching television, were Henry and Lillian Stockwell.

The missing children of the governor of Connecticut looked up at Kara from their bags of popcorn. They were blond, blue-eyed and well mannered for eleven and twelve. Even sweaty and tired, they were obviously well off. They had on neat khaki shorts and polo shirts, and Lillian had tied a western-style red bandanna on the end of her single long braid, wisps of white-blond hair sticking out of it. Henry had dirt smudges on his chin.

He spoke first, his tone everyday casual. “Hi, Aunt Kara. We found your spare key under a flowerpot.”

“ I found it,” Lillian said. “Henry was looking under the doormat.”

“Does your mother know where you are?” Kara walked into the living room from the small entry and raked a hand through her hair, debating how to handle the situation. “How did you get here? What did you do, hide in a hay wagon? Steal a horse? Come on, you two. Fess up.”

“We took the ranch shuttle to the Austin airport,” Henry replied calmly. “It makes the trip twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon.”

“The shuttle? How? Didn’t anyone ask questions?”

He shrugged. “We were prepared.”

Lillian flipped her braid over one shoulder. “Henry arranged everything on the camp computer—he even printed out a form we needed. The driver thought we were meeting Mom. When we got to the airport, we pretended to see her and jumped out with our backpacks. It was easy.”

“It’s not like we’re little kids,” her brother added.

Kara stared at the two of them. “You mean you conned your way out here. At the very least you owe this poor driver an apology.” She could think of two Texas Rangers who’d be interested in the kids’ story. “How did you get from the airport to my house?”

“Taxi,” Henry said.

“When?”

“A little while ago.” His chin was thrust up at her, as if he was daring her to try to pin him down to an exact time or tell him he’d done anything seriously wrong.

Kara paced in her small living room, its cozy fabrics and woods having no soothing effect on her. The kids’ backpacks were leaning up against her couch, unzipped, water bottles and CD players poking out. Who wouldn’t believe anything they said?

“Did the cab take you to my door?” she asked.

Henry stretched out his legs and dipped his hand into his popcorn bag. “We had him drop us off on the corner.”

That wouldn’t divert Jack and Sam for half a second. “You left a hell of a trail. I’m surprised I got here before the police. You know they’re bound to be looking for you by now, don’t you?” She groaned at the mess these kids had made for themselves. And they no doubt thought they were so smart. “You’re calling your mother right now. ”

Lillian glanced at her brother, and his mouth drew into a straight, grim line. “She knows we’re here.”

“No, she doesn’t. I talked to her earlier—”

“Then she lied to you because someone was listening and she couldn’t tell you the truth.” Henry gazed up defiantly, Lillian following his lead. Given her years as a criminal defense attorney, Kara could sense fear behind defiance, bravado, loud, false protests of innocence—and she did now, with her godchildren. There was a quaver to his voice when Henry went on. “Mom told us we had to get out of the ranch as fast as possible and go to you. She couldn’t come for us. We had to get away on our own. She knew we could do it.”

“Henry. Lillian.” Kara continued to pace, her head pounding. The smell of popcorn turned her stomach. “Your mother would not have asked you to run away like that. No one in their right mind would. She’d call me and have me go pick you up—”

“She didn’t, ” Lillian said.

Kara sighed. “You two have put me in a hell of a position,” she said, not unkindly.

“We know.” Henry spoke softly, but his eyes—a clear, pale blue almost identical to his father’s—grew wide and serious. “Aunt Kara, we’re in trouble.”

Lillian nodded, gulping for air. “Big trouble.”

There was no bravado now, no pride in having slipped off to Austin on their own, with no one the wiser. Kara stopped pacing, staying on her feet as she waited for them to continue. Their fear was palpable.

“That’s why Mom’s acting so weird,” Henry said.

Lillian reached into her backpack and withdrew the first of the Harry Potter books, its cover greasy and torn. She opened up to a page marked with a twig and stared down at it, her braid flopping down her front, hands greasy from the popcorn.

“Mom sent us a letter to give to you.” Henry unzipped the outer pocket of his backpack and pulled out a grimy water bottle, a CD player, two fruit-bar wrappers, a compass and, finally, a limp, rumpled envelope. He handed it to Kara. She noticed it was sealed, no postmark. He said, “She put it in with other stuff she sent down for us. We didn’t read it.”

Kara sat on the edge of an overstuffed armchair a few feet from her godchildren. She’d gone to a store decorator with the dimensions and style of her living room and said go to it. She liked to think she’d have time one day to fuss with proper renovations and decorating, but this was her life, she thought. Here she was, listening to two middle-schoolers defend their inexplicable actions.

Henry had always been precocious and quiet, skilled at getting people to do what he wanted them to do without them even realizing it. He wasn’t manipulative so much as an effective negotiator, always certain of what he wanted the outcome to be. In this case, apparently, it was to convince his godmother that he and his sister had run away with their mother’s permission because they all were in big trouble.

Kara recognized the heavy cream-colored stock and dark green ink, the elegant lettering, of Allyson’s personal stationery. Nice touch. The letter inside was handwritten. Smart. If it had been typed, she’d have nailed Henry and Lillian immediately. The handwriting was similar enough to Allyson’s to pass initial muster, and whoever had done the writing had even thought to use her signature black fountain pen. Kara still wasn’t willing to declare the letter genuine. She read skeptically:

Dear Kara,

I know this will come as a shock, but you’re the only one I can trust right now. Henry and Lillian are in grave danger. We all are. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Please take them to Stonebrook Cottage and wait for me there. Tell no one! Don’t call me. It’s too dangerous. I’ll come to you. Please, Kara. I’m trusting you with my children. I have no other choice.

Please believe what they tell you and do as they ask. I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Allyson

When she finished, Kara quelled any sense of panic or urgency she felt in response to the dramatic words she’d read. She had to stay calm and reasonably objective, and above all, she had to think. At the very least, she had a tricky situation and two troubled kids on her hands. But if the letter was genuinely from Allyson, it was a dangerous situation, confusing, mystifying, illogical…and, still, she had two troubled kids to see to.

Stonebrook Cottage was located at the end of a dirt road on the southern border of Stockwell Farm. Allyson owned it, and Kara had stayed there a number of times during her years up north.

“Henry, Lillian. Listen to me.” Kara refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “If this is a forgery, I’m not going to be happy about it. Do you understand?”

They nodded solemnly, their expressions serious, frightened, tired.

Kara was unmoved. These were her godchildren, and she loved them, but she couldn’t let that lower her defenses. “What grades did you get in English?” she asked. “You first, Henry.”

He gave her a blank stare. “What?”

“Language arts, English, writing—what were your grades?”

“A’s.”

“He got a D in math,” Lillian said without looking up from her book.

“What did you get in language arts?” Kara asked her.

“A’s.”

Henry and Lillian are in grave danger. We all are.

The letter didn’t make any sense. Allyson was the governor of Connecticut. If she thought her children were in danger down in Texas, why not call Texas authorities? Or send a couple of state troopers to fetch them? At least why not call Kara and ask her to intervene? Why take such a huge risk and have them sneak off to Austin on their own?

If she didn’t want to involve law enforcement, Allyson was rich—she could hire a private bodyguard.

Nothing in Allyson’s call had prepared her for this development. Her friend had sounded genuinely near panic.

Kara knew how to shoot and had taken a couple of self-defense classes, but that was it. She didn’t have the training, the expertise, the weaponry or the mandate of the Texas Rangers, the Austin police. Allyson had to know the entire state of Texas—including Kara’s brother—would be on alert for the two missing kids of a New England governor. How did she expect Kara to get them out of Texas on the sly? Allyson’s actions defied logic.

For two middle-schoolers to engineer such an elaborate plan and think it made sense—that might not defy logic. The trauma of Big Mike’s death, homesickness, isolation and a natural sense of drama could have gotten Henry and Lillian plotting, but there had to be more. Something else had to be going on.

What?

Suddenly hot and frustrated, Kara shot to her feet and turned the air-conditioning up a notch. She heard it hum, felt the rush of cooler air. It was almost ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock in New England. She recalled her brief conversation with Allyson. “I have a million people around right now, so I can’t talk, but Kara—please, keep an eye out. I know you’re a ways from the ranch, but maybe they’ll turn up.”

Was that a hint?

Not bloody likely, Kara thought. Henry and Lillian’s story had to be bogus. It was the only reasonable conclusion, and it meant their mother and the people at the dude ranch were still worried sick about them. It meant the searches for them would continue. It meant all hell would be breaking loose in Texas and Connecticut until someone tracked them to their godmother’s doorstep—or until Kara called her brother and told him what was going on.

Lillian yawned, her book looking heavy on her skinny thighs.

“Don’t you two want to call your mother and tell her you arrived safely?” Kara asked.

Henry seemed to know she was trying to trip him up. “She told us not to call. You’re supposed to take us to Stonebrook Cottage and wait for her there. Doesn’t she say that in the letter?”

He’d know if he wrote it, wouldn’t he? Kara tried to keep her skepticism from showing. Her godchildren had gone through a lot of trouble to get her to believe them—it was important to them. She needed to be very careful about how she unraveled their story.

Lillian lifted her thin shoulders. “We’re just doing what Mom told us to do.”

Kara returned to her armchair, sinking into its soft cushions. She was still hot, the cooler air making little difference, and she was tired and torn about how to proceed.

One thing she knew for certain. The kids’ story had a million holes.

“Aunt Kara, you’re a lawyer, right?”

She narrowed her eyes on her godson, wondering what was coming next. “Yes, why?”

“I was just making sure. If you’re a lawyer, that means everything we tell you is confidential. You can’t tell anyone. Right?”

Kara stared at him. “Henry, I’m a lawyer, but I’m not your lawyer.”

“But that’s why Mom sent us to you! She said we can trust you because you’re our lawyer. Aunt Kara, you can’t tell anyone! We trusted you!” He balled his hands into fists, his mouth set, his face screwed up with determination. “We wouldn’t have said anything if we didn’t think you were our lawyer.”

“You mean you told me this whole story believing I was representing you? Henry, Lillian—I’m your godmother. I can’t be your attorney! Well, I can be, but I’d need explicit permission from your mother, or a court would have to appoint a guardian ad litem for you and then you could hire me.” Kara groaned, her head screaming now. “I’m not your lawyer, so get that out of your heads.”

Henry was near panic. “But that’s the only reason we told you—”

“Hold on—relax.” Kara got back to her feet, wondering who was in control of this situation, her or the kids. “If you told me this whole tale believing I was acting as your attorney and it was privileged information, then that’s what it is. Privileged information. I can’t tell anyone.”

“We’re not fugitives.” Lillian was blinking back tears, clearly exhausted. “We didn’t break any laws.”

Kara studied the two tired, frightened children. Something was wrong. Their story didn’t add up, but they hadn’t run off just because they were bored. Maybe Big Mike’s death was too much for them—maybe they’d overreacted to innocent events and created some wild scenario involving secrets and grave danger and were so wrapped up in it that, at this point, they couldn’t distinguish fiction from reality.

Regardless of their motives, however real their fear, they were here now, and they were her obligation. Her sole obligation. Nothing else mattered. Connecticut politics, bluebird theories, concerned authorities in two states, not even their mother. If Allyson wrote the letter, she had to be out of her mind. If she didn’t write the letter, she would expect Kara to do her best to sort out the situation and get Henry and Lillian safely home as soon as possible.

“We could call your mom on her cell phone—”

“No!” Henry yelled in panic, and Lillian almost cried. “We can’t call her. She told us not to call. We’re supposed to have you take us to Stonebrook Cottage and wait. Aunt Kara, please, you have to believe us!”

“All right, all right. Look, you two need baths and a good night’s sleep. I only have one bedroom, but you can share my bed. I’ll sleep out here on the couch.” Kara hugged them, one arm around each one, as they got up from the couch. “Let’s get some rest and come at this fresh in the morning.”

Henry looked up at her, his thin face etched with concern. “Then what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m on your side. Okay? Do not doubt that for one second.” She thought a moment, the bare bones of a plan coming together. One way or another, these kids were going back to Connecticut. “Unless I have good reason to do otherwise—you tell me it’s a forgery, or I find out by other means or get new information—I’m going to do what it says in your mother’s letter and get you to Stonebrook Cottage.” She thought of the trail they’d left and didn’t imagine they had much time if they were going to keep this little adventure among themselves and out of the public eye. But she needed to think. Staying a step ahead of Jack and Sam now that she’d enlisted their help—and aroused their suspicions—wouldn’t be easy. “Don’t be surprised or scared if I have to wake you up in the middle of the night.”

Lillian’s eyes widened. “Why would you have to do that?”

“Her brother’s a Texas Ranger.” Henry whispered as if the place was bugged. “Everyone at the ranch probably got nervous when they couldn’t find us and called the police or something.”

His sister gasped. “Oh! Does that make us fugitives?”

“It doesn’t matter. Aunt Kara will help us. Big Mike used to say she was the best defense lawyer he ever knew.”

“Big Mike exaggerated,” Kara said. “Go on, you two. Get cleaned up and get some sleep. I’m not worried about my brother.”

Well, she was, but she was more worried about Sam Temple. He’d made it plain he hadn’t liked the call from Zoe West. When he found out the missing Stockwell kids sneaked a ride to Austin—and he would—he’d be in full Texas Ranger, by-the-book law enforcement mode. Kara didn’t object to him doing his job, but his interests weren’t necessarily compatible with her sense of obligation to her godchildren. She needed to get them back to their mother as soon, and as quietly, as possible.

There was nothing by-the-book about this situation.

She led Henry and Lillian down a short hall to her bedroom and the bathroom. Lillian was the first in the tub, Henry next, and twenty minutes later, the lights were out and they were asleep.

Kara cleaned up their popcorn mess and flopped onto the couch, rereading the letter purportedly from Allyson. You’re the only one I can trust right now…don’t call me…I have no other choice.

It had to be phony.

And Henry not mentioning attorney-client privilege until after he and Lillian had told Kara everything—what a ploy.

“Smart-ass. He knew what he was doing.”

She ground her teeth and placed her palm on her lower abdomen, but her nausea had finally abated. It had to be seafood tacos, the heat, her still-palpable grief over Big Mike’s sudden death—she wasn’t pregnant. She tried to remember any slips she and Sam had made, but stopped herself short because it entailed replaying every move, every caress, and that was pure torture.

She thought of her towheaded godchildren asleep down the hall. They were so damn young. How could Allyson have sent them on such a crazy trip?

She didn’t.

But something was wrong—very wrong. Henry and Lillian weren’t bad kids. They wouldn’t deliberately scare their mother and manipulate their godmother if they weren’t frightened themselves. But of what?

Kara knew she had to think. She didn’t have much time, and she had to get this one right. Too much was at stake.