Читать книгу Season of Secrets - Marta Perry - Страница 11

Dinah slid back on the leather couch in the family room, cradling a mug of hot chocolate between her palms, and looked at Court. He’d collapsed on the couch next to her into that oddly boneless slouch achieved only, as far as she could tell, by adolescent boys. His mug was balanced precariously on his stomach.

“More cocoa?”

He shook his head, the mug wavering at the movement. “I’m okay.” He watched her from under lowered lids. “How about you? You feeling okay? Anything you want?”

He was attempting to take care of her, obviously. The thought sent a rush of tenderness through her. She tried to keep the feeling from showing in her face. He wouldn’t appreciate that when he was trying so hard to be nonchalant about the prospect of an intruder in the house.

Marc’s footsteps sounded, far above them. He was searching the attic, probably. She was convinced he wouldn’t find anything. She’d simply overreacted to being in the house alone, and, in turn, he’d overreacted. There’d been no one in the house.

It was probably best not to talk to Court about that. She nodded toward the bare tree, propped in its stand in the corner. “Do you always have a big tree at home?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, making him look very like his father. “Not big enough. We have a town house. It’s plenty big enough for the two of us, but Dad always says there’s not room for a big tree.” He sent a satisfied glance toward the tree. “This is more like it.”

“Aunt Kate—well, I guess she’s actually your great-grand-aunt—hasn’t had a real tree since I grew up. She’s content with a little artificial one on a table.”

Court’s great-grand-aunt. Aunt Kate had to be made to see that she must talk with Court about his ancestors. She didn’t have to discuss his mother, if she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t deny a relationship with the boy.

“Yeah, that’s what my grandma and granddad do, too. They say real trees are too expensive in Arizona, anyway.”

“Do you see them much?” Marc’s parents had left Charleston within a year of Annabel’s death, moving to Arizona supposedly for his mother’s health. It might have been that, of course, but she doubted it. Did they feel they were living in exile?

“We were out for Thanksgiving.” Court maneuvered himself upright, letting the mug tip nearly to the point of no return before grasping it. “Maybe I should go see if Dad needs any help.”

“I don’t think—”

“Dad doesn’t.” Marc came in on the words. “Everything’s fine.”

Dinah sensed some reservation behind the words, and her stomach tightened. There was something he didn’t want to say in front of Court.

“You sure? I could check the cellar.” Court obviously considered that he should have been included in the search.

“Already done.” Marc glanced at his watch. “If you want to e-mail your buddies before we call it a night, you’d better go do it.”

“How about the tree? I thought we were going to decorate.”

“Tomorrow’s time enough for that. Dinah has to go home.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, but went toward the door. “You’ll help tomorrow, won’t you, Dinah?”

She was absurdly pleased that he wanted her. “I have to go into work in the morning, but I’ll come and help in the afternoon.”

Court lifted an eyebrow in Marc’s characteristic expression. “I wouldn’t mind seeing police headquarters, you know.”

“Dinah’s going to work, not giving tours.” Marc gave him a gentle shove. “Go on, and don’t stay online too late. I’m walking Dinah home.”

Court disappeared across the hall, raising his hand in a quick goodbye. Dinah waited until the office door closed behind him.

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing to take to the police.” His level brows drew down. “Anyone could have popped the back door with a screwdriver, though. I blocked it tonight with a two by four, but I’ll put a new lock on tomorrow.” He picked up her jacket, holding it for her. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s not necessary.” She slid her arms into the jacket. He adjusted it and then clasped her shoulders.

“Maybe not, but I’m going to.”

The sense of being protected and taken care of was entirely too tempting. But she wasn’t the little cousin any longer. She was a big girl now. She took a deliberate step away, putting some space between them.

“You’re overreacting. All that was wrong was a creaking old house and my overactive imagination. There was no need for you to come rushing back here like a…a superhero, out to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Is that what I did?” His face had gone still.

“Yes.” Marc had to understand that their relationship had changed. They were never going back to the way things had been between them. “I didn’t need rescuing.”

He frowned at her for a long moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her.

“Probably you’re right. But I didn’t feel like taking it for granted after reading that.”

She smoothed out the crumpled sheet of yellow tablet paper. The message on it was printed in pencil, in block letters. It informed Marc, with the embellishment of considerable profanity, that he was a killer and that he would be punished.

She resisted the urge to drop it and scrub her hands. “Where did you get it?”

“It was shoved in the mailbox sometime today. Luckily I found it, not Court.”

“In the mailbox—not mailed?”

“No.” His expression became grimmer, if that was possible. “That means the author of that missive was on my veranda today. If I overreacted when you thought someone was in the house, I had good reason.”

“I guess I would have, too. But people who write anonymous notes don’t usually act on them.”

“Is that the police consultant speaking?” He shook his head, taking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. “Sorry. I know you mean well. I know what you say is true. But it’s not easy to be rational when—”

She knew what he was going to say. “When someone you love has been killed in this house.”

He gave her a baffled, angry look. “Exactly. Irrational or not, that’s what I felt. And maybe it’s not so irrational. The person who killed Annabel is still out there, remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget. But if he has any brains at all, he’ll stay as far away from you as possible.”

“Maybe so. Still, I’m not taking any chances. So tomorrow I’ll put a new lock on the back door. And tonight I’ll walk you home.”

There was more that she wanted to say, but she didn’t think he was in the mood to hear it. So she went ahead of him to the front door, stepping out onto the piazza where she’d fled so precipitously earlier, listening to him lock the door carefully.

The air was chilly, and she stuffed her hands into her pockets. A full moon rode low in the sky, sending spidery shadows across the walk. She heard Marc’s footsteps behind her, and he reached out to push the gate open when she reached it.

She paused on the walk. “You could just watch me to my door, you know.”

“I could. But I’m not going to.” He slid his hand into the crook of her arm.

The street was still and deserted. She glanced up at him as they crossed. “Are you sure you want to stay, after all this?”

“Court would never agree to leave now. And I keep my promises to my son. Besides—”

He paused, and she couldn’t make out his expression in the moonlight.

“Besides?”

He shrugged. “I told you. Now that I’m here, I know I can’t go back to being content with the status quo.” His fingers tightened on her arm, and she felt his determination through their pressure. “Do you know why I went into a private firm when we moved away?”

The change of subject bewildered her. “Well, I suppose I thought you wanted a change. Or to make more than you could as a prosecutor.”

“There’s certainly that.” There was a certain grim humor to his tone. “I’ve done far better financially. But that’s not why. I went into a firm because no prosecutor’s office or state’s attorney’s office would have me. Not with the shadow of my wife’s murder hanging over me.”

The bitterness in his tone forbade any facile answer. For a moment she couldn’t say anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I didn’t realize. I should have.” She hesitated, feeling her way. “I guess I’ve continued to look at what happened then as if I were still sixteen.”

“You’re not sixteen anymore.” They’d reached the gate, and he opened it for her. “Now you can face what happened as an adult.”

Marc sounded very sure of that, and he didn’t seem to expect a response. That was just as well, because she wasn’t sure she could give one.