Читать книгу Her Stolen Past - Lynette Eason - Страница 11

TWO

Brandon saw the weariness on her face—and a sort of horrified curiosity mixed with embarrassment that she would even consider asking the question. When he didn’t answer right away, she pushed him. “Well?”

Brandon shrugged. “I can’t say the thought hasn’t occurred to me. I think it’s a real possibility. We’d have to prove it—or disprove it—of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured then gave a disbelieving laugh. “I really don’t think I could possibly be her. I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. I’m not adopted.” She swallowed hard. “At least I was never told that I am.”

“I understand that you’d feel that way, but I think it’s something we need to consider and look into.”

She bit her lip and gave a slow nod. “So where do we start?”

“Let me think about it.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “You need some rest. Is there anyone that could stay with you tonight?”

She shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”

“I really don’t think you should be alone. Today was traumatic, a tragedy that’s already playing on every news channel in the country. You probably have the media camped out on your doorstep.”

Sonya froze. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

He knew she hadn’t. “So. Is there anyone you could stay with?”

“I could call Missy Carlisle, I guess.”

“Who’s that?”

“A friend from work. Even though I haven’t been there very long, we’ve become pretty close.”

“Close enough to spend the night?”

“Of course.”

He nodded to the device still strapped to her arm. “Is that your phone?”

Sonya looked at her biceps as though she’d never seen it before. “Yes.” She released the device from the strap and dialed her friend’s number. While she talked, Brandon watched her. When she’d first come into the office, he’d seen her with Erica and wondered about her.

Erica had caught him watching. Later she’d patted his arm and said, “Don’t worry, she’s the real deal. She’s not here to gawk at our resident hero.”

Brandon had rolled his eyes. “Cute, sis. I’m not the one who worries about that and you know it.”

“Well, you have to admit, thanks to the media, we’ve had a few loonies looking to become your next girlfriend.”

He couldn’t help the wry twist his lips took.

A hero.

Just the thought made him shake his head. He wasn’t a hero; he’d just done his job. But the media had dubbed him a hero for being a part of bringing Molly home. Erica’s three-year-old daughter had disappeared while on a field trip with her preschool class.

Brandon had been a detective with the police force in Spartanburg. Banned from working the case because of his relation to Molly, he’d resigned and come on staff full-time with Finding the Lost. They’d brought Molly home three years later. Longer than he’d intended, but at least she was finally home with her mother.

And then he’d been in the right place at the right time two months ago. He’d caught and subdued an abusive husband trying to kidnap his child in the grocery-store parking lot. The media had gone nuts. Grudgingly, he admitted Erica had a point. Put the word hero on a guy and things got interesting—and extremely embarrassing. Not too long after the story broke he’d started getting marriage proposals via mail, email and even text messages.

Women. He’d never understand them. And frankly wasn’t sure he ever wanted to after the fiasco with his fiancée leaving him. All he’d learned was that most women weren’t to be trusted. The only exceptions he knew of were Katie Randall and Erica. He had no doubt they were a different type of woman.

But there was something about Sonya that made him wonder if she fell into the same category as his sister and friend. He also wondered if she ever smiled. A genuine smile, not strained or sad or worried.

She hung up and looked at him. “Missy said that would be fine. I need to go home and get some things, though.”

“I’ll take you.”

Sonya stood. “It’s not necessary.”

“Maybe not, but I want to.”

She tilted her head, and her ragged ponytail flopped onto her left shoulder. She studied him for so long, he almost started to squirm. “Okay.”

Her quiet acquiescence stirred his heart. And his mind. Was her innocent little-ole-me an act? Or was Erica right and she was the real deal? He decided he’d have to keep his distance until he figured it out.

* * *

Sonya sat in Missy’s living area and debated whether or not they were close enough friends for her to share her heart. She noted the Bible on the end table and the plaque on the wall that stated, As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

Neither one of those necessarily meant Missy practiced what she displayed, but chances were she wouldn’t have the items if she didn’t.

“What is it?” Missy handed Sonya a mug of steaming coffee flavored with vanilla.

Sonya blew on it, then took a sip. She smiled. “My mother always said one little puff isn’t going to make one bit of difference in the temperature.”

Missy laughed. “Well, she’s right.”

“I know but I do it anyway.”

Missy sat in the recliner and curled her legs beneath her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

The television played in the background on mute. Fox News carried the latest about the shooting, and Sonya shook her head. “I’m all right. Still shaken up, of course. The whole thing is surreal and I’ll probably have nightmares for weeks, but I’m just grateful to be alive.” She took another sip of the steaming brew. “How is the woman who was brought in?”

“Still alive when I left an hour ago, but critical.”

Sonya leaned her head against the back of the couch. “I don’t understand people who can do that kind of thing,” she whispered.

“I don’t, either, and I don’t want to.” Missy paused. “So who was the good-looking guy who followed you here?”

Sonya felt the flush creep up into her cheeks. “That’s Brandon.”

“And? You haven’t talked about him at work.”

That wasn’t her style, but she didn’t say that. “I hired him to look into something I found going through my mother’s things after she died.”

“What’d you find?” Missy turned serious, her brow creasing.

So Sonya spilled her story. Missy stared wide-eyed, her flavored coffee forgotten. Sonya finished with “The shooting happened just across from Brandon’s office with Finding the Lost. He heard the shots and came running.”

“That’s just crazy. And this Heather Bradley was kidnapped twenty-eight years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And Brandon works for this company.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me more about Brandon. You blushed when I asked you about him.”

Sonya groaned and gave a half laugh. “I can’t figure Brandon out. On the one hand, he’s kind, concerned and obviously very good at his job. On the other, he comes across aloof and—suspicious.” She’d been aware of his intense scrutiny while she’d been on the phone with Missy, but had pretended not to notice. He’d walked her back to the park and waited while she’d retrieved her car. Very serious, very businesslike. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. Which meant it was time to change the subject. “I think I’ll grab some sleep. What time is your shift tomorrow?”

“Seven A to Seven P.” Meaning seven in the morning to seven at night. “What about you?”

“The same, but I’ll have to go home and change before I go in.”

“I have some clothes and scrubs you can use if you want to borrow them.”

She almost took her friend up on the offer. Instead, she said, “I’ll just go home early in the morning and get ready. My house is on the way to the hospital, so it’s no big deal. And besides, I have to feed Chaucer.”

Chaucer, her cat, independent and aloof until it was time to eat, but she’d filled his bowls before her run earlier and he would be physically fine for the next few hours. His temperament would leave a lot to be desired, but she’d deal with that later.

Missy shrugged and yawned. “Okay. Well, if you need anything, feel free to ask or browse.”

Sonya smiled. “Thanks. Shampoo and conditioner are all I need for now.”

“All right. See you in the morning.”

Sonya sat on the couch for a few minutes after Missy padded down the hallway to her bedroom. She stared at the clock on the mantel and listened to it tick.

Each click of the second hand felt like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Now that she was alone, the thought that she could have died today ate at her. “I don’t know why You left me here, Lord, but I thank You for that,” she whispered. She knew she’d die one day, and she was ready for when it happened. Meaning she knew she’d go to heaven, but until that time, she wanted her life to count, to mean something.

She saw death on a daily basis, but coming face-to-face with the fact that a bullet could have so easily taken her out made her shudder.

And made her all the more determined to find out what had happened to little Heather Bradley. To find out if Brandon’s hunch was right and she was Heather. Because if she was, her entire life had been a lie.

* * *

From his deck, Brandon sat in the darkness, ignoring the humidity that caused sweat to bead across his forehead. He stared at the half-moon and allowed his mind to process the day. At two in the morning, he sipped a soda, a rare drink for him, but one he enjoyed on occasion.

Living in the middle of downtown had its advantages, one of which was proximity to both of his offices. When Jordan Gray had looked him up after his last tour in Iraq, at loose ends and grieving the death of his brother, who’d recently died of an overdose, Brandon had offered him the spare bedroom.

And now Jordan was getting married to Katie Randall this summer. A June wedding Katie admitted she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl, but never really thought would happen. They’d bought a small house about fifteen minutes away and Katie was moving in tomorrow.

After the wedding, Jordan would join her, and Brandon would be left alone. He could afford the payment, but had to admit he’d be a little lonely. Not that things would be much different than they were now. Jordan spent every spare minute with Katie, coming home only to sleep and shower.

First Erica and Max had tied the knot, now Jordan and Katie. Brandon wondered if he’d ever meet someone. Someone real, someone who didn’t want to be with him just because the media had labeled him a hero.

His jaw tightened. Then relaxed as Sonya came to mind. She seemed so likable and genuine. He hoped that was the case, but would keep his guard up. His ex-fiancée had seemed quite likable and genuine—until she’d met someone who didn’t come with as much baggage attached to him.

Brandon knew he had issues that stemmed from his family situation—and he was working on them. It had hurt when Krystal had decided she didn’t want to work on them with him.

Brandon turned to head back inside. The lamp in his den went out. He stopped. Looked at his kitchen window. The light over the sink was off, too.

For a moment, he stood silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The town house to his left had power. So did the one to his right.

A blown fuse?

Maybe. But in his line of work, he wasn’t going with that assumption.

Brandon set his drink on the small table next to the chair and reached for his weapon. The one that wasn’t there because he’d left it on his kitchen counter. Next to his cell phone.

Wary, Brandon slipped to the edge of the deck and waited. Watching through the French doors. Even though it was dark inside, the moon offered a bit of light, coming through the open blinds and into the den.

His patience paid off when a thin shadow moved into his line of sight. The person paused, then moved to his desk. A thin beam of light came from a small penlight. Who was it?

Itching to confront the intruder, Brandon held still, waiting and watching. A weapon appeared for a brief moment, and the large barrel on the end said this was no random break-in.

His gut twisted as he mentally moved into battle mode. His right hand twitched, wanting the comforting feel of his Glock against his palm.

The town house had two levels. Right now, they were on the bottom level. Upstairs he had three bedrooms. One for him, one for Jordan and one he used as an office. The antique desk in the living area simply served as decoration.

But his intruder didn’t know that.

Did the person not realize he was home?

The weapon said yes. The leisurely search of the desk said no. Or he wasn’t worried about it.

Brandon waited for a lull in the traffic, then slid the glass door open and slipped inside. He closed the door with a quiet hiss.

The figure at the other end of the town house paused. Lifted his head as though listening. Brandon stayed still, his only thought to get to his weapon. The person moved toward him, his weapon held expertly in front of him.

Brandon took note. Weapons training. Breaking-and-entering training. What else? Not wanting to be caught unprepared and while the element of surprise was still on his side, he moved on silent feet through the darkness to the kitchen.

The intruder’s gun popped, flashed. The bullet slammed into the wall next to Brandon’s head.

So much for being quiet.

He dived for the kitchen and rolled as another bullet burned a hole in his newly laid tile floor. Anger fizzled. His back hit the cabinets. He lifted his hand and snagged his Glock from the counter, keeping his head low.

He’d been shot before. He had no intention of letting it happen again. With his other hand, he reached up and grabbed his phone.

“Come around the corner and you get shot. Tell me what you want and you might keep breathing.” He kept his voice steady. Controlled. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. Not even this person intent on killing him. He did, however, want to know who it was. But he wasn’t going hunting blind.

Brandon listened as he punched in 911 and pressed the phone to his ear.

Silence from the den. The 911 operator’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded incredibly loud. He lowered the phone.

A whisper of movement from the living area reached him. Brandon stilled. Moving closer or moving away?

Brandon tried again. “Get out while the getting’s good.” He pressed the phone back to his ear and whispered his address.

“Yes, sir. I got it. What’s the emergency?”

He didn’t answer, just listened.

Still the intruder said nothing and made almost no sound. Brandon waited, nerves bunched, muscles quivering with his tension. A low voice finally came to him. “Stop looking for Heather Bradley.”

And then the quiet snick of the door shutting.

Brandon stayed still, ignoring the adrenaline rush racing at fever pitch through his veins. Was it a trick to get him to show himself? He moved and peered around the kitchen cabinet, into the den area. No movement, but it was so dark, someone could be hunched down and he’d never see him.

Brandon flattened himself on his belly and kept his weapon in front of him. Army crawling, he moved toward the den, eyes probing the darkness.

He could see nothing. He heard nothing. He turned the volume down on the 911 operator frantically trying to get him to answer.

The sirens in the distance caught his attention and he figured they were headed for him. If the intruder was still in his house, he was going to be trapped.

No one spoke. No more shots came his way.

Brandon’s adrenaline ebbed as he finally decided he was alone. He stood, still cautious, watchful. He flicked on the small light above his sink, not wanting to turn on the bright kitchen light after being in the darkness for so long. He needed to let his eyes adjust slowly.

Still keeping himself protected from anything that might come from the den area, he waited to make sure.

Then slowly, methodically, he swept each and every room, weapon ready.

The place was empty.

Only now he knew someone didn’t want him looking for Heather Bradley. The question was: Why?

That someone had just made a very bad mistake because now Brandon was more determined than ever to get answers to all of his questions. All of them.