Читать книгу Finding Her Son - Robin Perini, Robin Perini - Страница 9

Mitch grimaced as he limped into the police department. What a night. And it wasn’t over. He’d called in the hit-and-run. Two reports of assault in less than an hour. He’d never live it down. Especially since the busy downtown street had suddenly gone ultrasilent right after the attack. No witnesses. No nothing.

Just a woman who’d seemed quite satisfied to have been attacked. She’d met his gaze and without blinking had said, “I’ve got them worried. That means I’m onto something.”

Unbelievable.

Half of him admired her tenacity. She scared the spit out of his other half. Come to think of it, she’d acted a lot like his late mother when he or his siblings had been on the short end of trouble. Fearless. Mitch got that. Mama-bear syndrome. Do anything for your child. But with such an overt attempt on her life, Emily’d found more trouble than she realized. She’d made someone very nervous.

She’d even fought leaving. Had wanted to stay, canvas the neighborhood. Only the threat of spending the night in the police station had convinced her to leave. He’d tailed her to confirm she went home and hadn’t doubled back. She was safe—for now. With an unmarked unit watching her, just in case.

He glanced at his watch. Midnight was around the corner. He was on Emily duty first thing in the morning and still had reports to file. He straightened and struggled to hide his awkward stride. At this hour, maybe he could get past the desk sergeant and the SWAT Den without seeing anyone he knew.

His thigh was on fire; his muscles were seizing up. He had less than two months to pass the physical to get his real job back. If he didn’t do something drastic, he’d lose his career.

With a sigh, he sank into the hard wood of his desk chair and massaged his leg. What if he couldn’t go back to SWAT? He wasn’t an investigator. He didn’t like analyzing and waiting. He liked breaking down doors and grabbing the bad guy. No talk. Just action. It’d felt good bringing down Ghost tonight.

“What did you do, Bradford?” Detective Dane Tanner, his temporary supervisor, stalked into the room. “You’re hobbling like an old woman.”

Mitch stiffened at the truth in Tanner’s words. “Nothing. Just a little twinge. What are you doing here this late? I thought high-powered detectives kept banker’s hours.”

“Ever hear of a police radio? I keep tabs on my guys, especially those wet behind the ears like you. I heard from dispatch about your adventures tonight—you bagged this guy, Ghost, for targeting young girls. Good job.” Tanner’s face twisted into a scowl. “Unfortunately, he broke out of holding. A couple of street thugs created a diversion and the perp fought his way out. Put two of our guys in the hospital.”

Mitch shot to his feet. “He got away? You get his prints?”

“No such luck, but we have an APB out on him.” Tanner shook his head. “He’s a dangerous guy. You took a big risk going in alone.”

“I tried to get backup.”

“Yeah, you had a fourteen-year-old kid call 911 and then try to find Vance—who’d just gone off duty, by the way. Better men than you haven’t walked away from psychos like Ghost.”

“Point taken,” Mitch said. His father, Paul Bradford, had been paralyzed in a shootout five years ago. Being a cop and carrying a weapon hadn’t protected him. And his dad hadn’t been trying to fight on an injured leg.

“I hope so. I understand investigating’s not your gig. But until you pass the SWAT physical, you’re stuck with us. You follow our rules. One of which is not to go in without backup. The other is not to reveal your identity to a suspect. In your case, Emily Wentworth.”

“Detective—”

“Don’t even try to tap dance. Lives were on the line. I get it, but you better comprehend how lucky you were.” Tanner crossed his arms, staring Mitch down with a warning the ex-special forces officer clearly expected to be heeded. “Did you at least salvage the Wentworth case?”

“She noticed my leg. She offered to help me with rehab, and I’ve got another angle I can work to stay near her.”

Mitch ran down the Kayla Foster situation, and Tanner smiled. “It sounds like you’re in. We might make a detective of you after all.”

“Over my dead body,” Mitch growled.

“I hope not. Your dad would kill me.” Tanner bent closer, his expression deadly serious. “I want this collar. Someone orchestrated Eric Wentworth’s death. His murder case was stone-cold until his mother discovered that bank account in Emily’s name. It’s a lot of money and puts a whole new spin on the investigation. I want to know how the wife’s involved, and I’m not backing down this time.”

“If Emily’s guilty, why would she offer to help me?”

“To gain an ally in the office. To get intel on what’s happening in the investigation. If she arranged the hit-and-run to take out her husband, then she’s willing to do anything— including slitting her own throat—to make herself look like a victim. You and I both know that’s not as uncommon as it should be.”

“You’re reaching. Emily almost died. Her voice will never be the same. And my neighborhood contacts don’t know squat about her being involved in anything, except she’s a do-gooder.” Mitch knew he’d been mistaken in the past, but he couldn’t get past his feelings about Emily. If he could trust them. “What if we’re wrong? What if she’s just trying to find her son?”

“Could be.” His boss’s jaw tightened. “But she knows something. And someone tried to kill her tonight. And that someone wasn’t Ghost. I want an explanation.” His eyes were cold. “There’s dirt there. I can smell it. Find the proof. Whatever it takes.”

NO MORNING SUN PEEKED through the winter clouds closing in on the cemetery. The day should be dreary. Nothing good should happen on December fifth. Ever again. Emily ran her fingertips over the engraved inscription on the wall of stone. Eric Wentworth. Beloved son and father.

“Beloved husband,” she whispered the words his family had denied her and wiped away a single tear.

She stood alone just inside the open archway of the Went-worth Family Mausoleum, the large marble temple as cold and unforgiving as Eric’s family. They’d made their feelings perfectly clear with his marker. They had never accepted her. They blamed her for Eric’s death and Joshua’s kidnapping. If only she could remember that night. Something more than headlights, screams and a hooded man.

A gust of icy winter wind buffeted against her, and she stuffed her hands in her pockets. She should know what happened to her child. The diaper bag had been left in the car, but Joshua and his car seat were gone. “I still haven’t found our baby, Eric,” she said in the husky voice her husband wouldn’t have recognized. “I’m sorry.”

A lonely bell tolled from afar, and just as the tones died, a rustle of grass fluttered. She tensed. She’d had a sense all morning someone was watching her—again. For weeks she’d fought her instincts, but after last night’s attack, she didn’t doubt the feelings.

A looming shadow crossed the side of Emily’s face. “You don’t belong here.”

Emily shivered at her mother-in-law’s sharp words and turned slightly. Victoria Wentworth looked the perfect, elegant role of grieving mother, her black veil hiding her expression and eyes Emily knew were accusatory.

“You’re not family.”

“He’s my husband,” Emily countered softly.

“You killed him.”

“Mother, you know that’s not true.” Victoria’s son, William, stepped forward to pull her back. He shot Emily an apologetic look. “It was a tragic accident.”

Victoria slapped William’s hand away and faced Emily. “You set up the murder of my son and grandson. And someday I’ll prove it.”

Emily winced. She’d been eager to get along with Eric’s family, but from the beginning the Wentworths had pushed her away until finally Eric had made a choice. He’d turned his back on them, their money and their corporation until Joshua was born and Emily had persuaded him to reconcile. Their baby deserved a family. The snowy drive to Cherry Hills Village last December had been her idea. In so many ways, his death in the hit-and-run truly was on her shoulders. “I loved Eric.”

“You wanted a way at the Wentworth money,” Victoria said as her husband, Thomas, entered the tomb and stood by her side. She reached out and clasped his hand. “Well, we won’t allow it. Eric disinherited himself, and we told the insurance company his death was your fault. We even found your secret account. You’ll get nothing. Nothing.”

Account? “What are you talking about?”

“As if you didn’t know.” Victoria turned to her son. “William, get her out of here.”

Victoria tilted her head into Thomas’s shoulder and broke down in sobs. William whispered something to his mother and hurried to Emily.

“I think you’d better go now,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I didn’t do anything. You know that. He was my husband. I loved him.” With one last look at Victoria and what might have been, Emily slid on her gloves, fighting tears of confusion, anger and hurt. William escorted her out of the cold building. Their footsteps crunched over frozen grass as they crossed toward the parking lot.

“I know you loved him,” William said. “Mother can be a real witch when she wants to be. She can’t let go of Eric. None of us really can.”

“You think I’ve let go? I fight to find our son every day.”

“And that’s something else we have to talk about.”

William’s tentative voice, so similar to Eric’s, sent a chill of foreboding through Emily.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’ll just tell you. Mother and Father found my receipts for your private investigator and some of the airline tickets I bought. They came unglued when they learned I’d been helping you financially. I had to promise I’d quit.”

Emily halted and faced William. “You can’t stop now. I’m counting on your help.” She clutched at his arm. “I’m so close.”

“You’ve found Joshua?”

William gripped her arm, the eagerness in his voice gratifying, but she couldn’t mislead him. “Not exactly. I’m collecting information on adoptions from last year because I discovered these missing babies downtown. Well, at least there are missing pregnant girls, and—”

“Oh, Emily. How many times have we traveled down this path?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but they’re my family. In some ways they’re right. It’s been a year. We have to accept reality. We’ve tried to find him. Even my parents tried. But Joshua’s gone.”

“I’m not giving up. Not ever, but I need more time. With your parents painting me as a Black Widow in the gossip rags, my clinic is barely making it.”

“I can’t help anymore. I’m sorry.” William opened the door of the decade-old compact Eric had complained about so often. When she slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, William knelt beside the car. “Take my advice. Move on with your life. Close this chapter.”

“How can I do that when my son is out there somewhere? You may not believe I’ll find him, but I refuse to accept that I won’t.”

William gripped her hands, his gaze regretful. “Then I’m sorry for you. Goodbye, Emily.” He shut the door and, after a pitying look, walked back to the family crypt.

She shuddered and let out a slow breath, the cold filtering into her bones. This couldn’t be happening. She started her car and cranked up the heater as high as it would go to ease her shivering, though that had little to do with the weather. She’d wondered why the life-insurance company kept stalling on the check. She had her answer. And what was that about the so-called secret account? She’d have to call the bank, but she’d never get at the money. The Wentworths would see to that.

She glanced at her watch. Officer Bradford had an appointment and would be waiting at her clinic. Could she trust him? Right now, she needed him as much as he needed her. The second phase of her plan made her stomach churn, but she had to take drastic action. She needed funds to ramp up her search for Joshua. Eric would’ve understood.

Snagging her purse, she dug into her pocket for the number she’d saved. With one last glance at the marble resting place of the man with whom she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life, she placed the call. “Karen, it’s Emily. Put the house up for sale. I’ll take the first offer. I need the cash. Now.”

THE PHYSICAL-THERAPY clinic looked too familiar. Mitch hated the fact he had a reason to enter the place, but after following Emily all morning, after zero leads on either the attempted hit-and-run, Ghost or Kayla’s disappearance, the trail was subzero. He had to shake something loose.

Mitch groaned as he pushed open the door and surveyed the plethora of exercise equipment and tables. The scent of menthol wafted on the air—an odor far too familiar for his liking. Several rehab patients worked on recumbent bikes. A few more did stretching exercises with the help of staff.

When he’d discovered she had an opening this morning, he’d scrambled to get a copy of his records, threw on his sweats and headed out the door. Mitch could now infiltrate Emily’s life, but he wasn’t an undercover cop. He didn’t like lying, he hated deceit and he was doing both. The bonus? He got the pleasure of being tortured in physical therapy for his trouble. A real win-win.

A young receptionist rounded her desk. “May I help you?”

With a quick, plastered-on grin, he scanned her name tag. “Hi, Cindy. Mitch Bradford. I have an appointment with Emily Wentworth.”

The door behind them flew open, and a familiar dynamo dressed from head to foot in black raced into the room. “Cindy, I know I’m late. Please tell me my new patient isn’t—”

She skidded to a halt, clearly dismayed to see Mitch standing there. “Shoot.”

Holy smokes. Emily Wentworth looked good. He didn’t know how he could’ve missed the impact of her up close and personal last night. She was completely his type, with a petite, fit body and long, light brown hair swinging from a ponytail—obviously so silky it would be amazing spread across his pillow. Then he stared into her eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. Thick lashes framed the bluest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen. For a moment he felt lost. Her look was kind and sympathetic, with depth that could embrace his soul.

Where had that come from, waxing poetic? He had a job to do. But as he took in the plain black dress, with its high collar circling her neck, he recalled her complete aloneness at the cemetery. He’d been watching, forced to back away once the Wentworths arrived. It was the anniversary of her husband’s death. Was she still in mourning, or was this all for show, all part of an elaborate plan to get at the Wentworth money?

Mitch’s gut told him she was sincere. He didn’t want to believe the pain on her face, the sorrow in her eyes, had been anything but real.

Then again, his gut hadn’t been all that reliable lately. A few months ago, Mitch had learned his mentor had been a traitor to the badge. He wouldn’t be fooled so easily now. Not anymore. He couldn’t afford to give Emily the benefit of the doubt.

Mitch gave her a deliberately innocent smile. “Did I get the time wrong?”

She bit her lip, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks.

“No,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Not a great way to make a first impression as a therapist. Let me change, and I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Not until he knew for sure whether he’d completely lost his ability to tell the good guys from the bad guys. If he was wrong about her, he’d get the evidence he needed. And if she was guilty, he might as well just turn in his badge.

With a smile of gratitude, she disappeared behind a staff door.

Cindy handed him a stack of paperwork. “Emily will be right back. If you’ll fill out these forms…”

Mitch took the clipboard and sat in the chair closest to the receptionist before stretching his leg out. “So, I guess I was lucky to get in to see her so quickly. I heard she’s really good. I thought I’d have to wait longer for an appointment.”

“Oh, Emily’s the best, but…” Cindy hesitated. “She’s not that busy these days. Clients stopped coming because of her in-laws. They’ve said some things about her, and, well, some people gossip too much.” Cindy bit her lip and took a furtive glance around. “I need to get back to work.”

Obviously, Emily’s business had taken a big hit. That money angle his boss had mentioned reared its head again, but Mitch didn’t see the connection. If that secret account were hers, why not use it to save her business? Why work at all? Why not just disappear?

Mitch tried to get comfortable, but his leg had been giving him fits ever since that confrontation with Ghost. His body had revolted against a move he’d used a thousand times.

Once he finished the paperwork, he settled in for the long wait, but she returned in less than five minutes. Women usually took forever with clothes. Not Emily. Which shouldn’t have been surprising really. Nothing had been usual when it came to this assignment. The turtleneck she wore under her scrubs was a subtle reminder of what he knew lay beneath. He’d reviewed the crime-scene photos, had seen the jagged cut across her throat that had permanently damaged her vocal cords.

“Officer, come on back.” Her husky voice sent a shiver through him. He didn’t know what her voice had sounded like before, but this one was downright sexy.

“Call me Mitch. If you’re going to have your hands all over me, we should be on a first-name basis.” He followed her into a private examining room, trying to avoid studying the sway of her hips under the scrubs she’d changed into. Down, boy. Do not let yourself get taken in by a pair of baby blues and luscious curves. If she were innocent and wore black on the anniversary of her husband’s death, the implications made her so far off-limits, there wasn’t a measurement long enough.

She shut the door and cleared her throat, nodding at the exam table. Mitch was just relieved she didn’t offer to help him. His pride could only take so much. “Here’s my chart, just like you requested.”

He levered himself up on the table as she sat down and flipped through the pages. “You’ve been in therapy four months.” She closed the chart. “I didn’t really think you’d take me up on the offer.”

“Normally I wouldn’t have.” The words slipped off his tongue easily—since they were the truth. “I’ve got two months to requalify for SWAT. I’ll do anything to make that happen…Emily. Anything. And your reputation as a physical therapist…You’re one of the best.”

She nodded slowly. “The gunshot wound caused a lot of damage to your femoral artery and the surrounding nerves and muscles. What did your doctors say?”

“That I might never walk again. I didn’t listen too hard.”

A laugh escaped her, and the smile brightened her eyes. She sure was pretty.

“Good attitude. As long as you don’t go too far too fast. You came a few centimeters away from losing your leg.” She leaned back in her chair and set the chart aside. “Do you have the patience to follow orders? I won’t work with someone who goes off on his own. Even though you saved my life. You’ll need to do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

He understood chain of command, but from this slip of a thing…He bristled and met her unyielding gaze. He couldn’t afford not to play along. He’d seen the toughness in her before, the challenge. He’d give her a shot. It wasn’t like he had a choice. She was his assignment. But could he get his leg strength back and investigate Emily at the same time? Without going crazy?

“I want my SWAT uniform back. You tell me to sweat bullets, run stadium steps, go to yoga, I’ll do it. I’ll even wear a Texas Longhorns jersey, and I’m an Oklahoma Sooner, born and bred. You come up with a program to help me pass that physical, and I’m with you one thousand percent.”

“I’d have thought you a Colorado Buffaloes fan. But I believe you. So let’s get a baseline. You wearing workout shorts under those?” She stood and indicated his sweats.

He nodded. “And just to be clear, my grandparents came from Oklahoma. Once a Sooner…”

“I get it.” She smiled. “I like your loyalty to your roots, Mitch Bradford. I’ll go get some equipment while you take your pants off.”

A few months ago that order would have had him pulling her into his arms. Now Mitch simply slipped off his shoes, socks and sweats. He knew the drill. He’d never felt naked in a clinic before, but as he rubbed the gnarled scars on his thigh, he tensed. She’d know soon enough how damaged he really was.

After a slight knock, she entered the room. She glanced at his leg but didn’t give anything away—not pity, not disgust. She moved in closer, and he caught a waft of sweet mixed with tartness. Vanilla and some kind of berry, perhaps? His heart thudded as she placed her hands on his thigh.

“Let’s get started,” she said.

A dozen measurements later, Mitch swiped at the sweat rolling down his face and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. The white-hot shards of pain shooting across his thigh were much worse since his heroics of the night before. He tried to ignore them as he strained against the minuscule weight Emily had pressed against his leg. His muscles behaved like traitors. Weak as a baby.

She frowned at her notes as she compared them to his records. Then she glared at him. “What have you been doing to yourself? You’ve lost at least fifteen percent of your strength and flexibility gains in the past month. That didn’t happen because of a single jujitsu turn. What aren’t you telling me?”

Mitch grimaced, and she just shook her head. “Never mind. I know. You thought you’d be a cowboy and do a little extra on your own. More is better. Am I close?”

She shifted forward and placed her warm hands on his thigh, working the spasming muscles. Slowly, her touch eased the pain. As the agony became bearable, his focus shifted toward her fingertips on his skin, moved up her arms, to the concentration on her face. He wanted to lift her chin and lose himself in those blue eyes of hers. He wanted to forget everything that was happening around them and just escape in her caresses.

“Man, you’re good,” he groaned. “Can I take you home with me?” Emily on call 24/7. Part-time to massage his aching leg and part-time to take those magic hands and lips a little higher and to the left.

She worked the muscles up and down his thigh. “I know you want faster results, but if you keep working out on your own, you’ll do permanent damage. You’ve really screwed up your leg, Mitch.” She removed her hands. He missed her touch already, but her face had gone deadly serious. “I want a straight answer. Will you follow my rules?”

As he took in her no-nonsense expression, a shaft of fear sliced through him. Had he lost his chance to get back to SWAT? Follow her rules? He had no choice. For more reasons than she could comprehend. “You’re the boss in the gym, Emily. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done. I promise you that.”

She paused and finally reached out her hand. “Okay. But you go off on your own, and I’m done. No second chances. Got it?”

He nodded.

The ringing cell punctuated her orders, and Emily’s heart tripped at the sound. Every time she got a call, part of her leaped at the thought of good news while a small dark place trembled with fear of horrifying news. She shoved aside the terror and pulled her phone from her pocket. She glanced at the familiar number. Her pulse raced. Maybe this time…She tapped the phone and stepped away for privacy.

“Hello?” She struggled to keep her voice from being too eager, too hopeful, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” Her private investigator’s voice crackled through the phone.

“Perry, any more on Ghost that I can use when I talk to him?”

“He lives up to his handle, ma’am. He really is a ghost, but I did get a lead. Sister Kate connected me with one of the girls. She saw a tattoo that he tried to hide. She won’t go down to the police department, but she described portions of it. The art was complicated and colorful. I can fax you a picture of something similar, but I can’t get into the police records, mug shots or tattoo database to verify his gang affiliation.”

A tattoo. Pain shot through her temple, and she kneaded the throbbing spot, the burn behind her eyes so familiar. A small whimper escaped her lips. It happened whenever she felt on the cusp of remembering the night of the accident. The threatening memories slipped away, and Emily pushed aside the pain.

“Another flash?” Perry asked, obviously hearing the familiar sound.

“Just images of pink, green and red.”

“Like a tattoo?”

“Maybe.” She let out a hiss of frustration. “I don’t know. But the episodes are happening more frequently.”

“You know something important, Mrs. Wentworth. You’ll recall that night eventually.”

She couldn’t wait. She had to go to the police department. She didn’t want to ask the detective in charge of her case for assistance, but wouldn’t he have to listen this time? A car had tried to run her over. Ghost had threatened her. She was remembering something. “Keep digging. I’ll talk to Detective Tanner.” She tried to keep optimism in her voice, but even to her own ears she sounded frustrated. “Maybe he’ll help this time.”

Their connection ended, and she bit her lip as she studied her phone list on the small screen. A call wouldn’t do any good. Tanner would only put her off again. She’d go over there and wait as long as it took to look at those tattoo records. He would give her access. She’d make sure of it.

She snagged Mitch’s chart, grabbed her bag and turned to schedule the next session. He’d moved so quietly, she hadn’t heard him, but there he stood, inches from her. She almost stepped on his foot and stumbled into his arms. He reached out to steady her, so close she could feel his warmth. She couldn’t stop her body’s reaction to his nearness.

“Whoa, there. Are you okay?” Mitch said.

Her cheeks burned hot, and she pushed back the hair that had fallen in her face. She wanted to ask him for help but just wasn’t sure enough of him. Not yet. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Ten a.m. day after tomorrow okay with you?”

“I’ll be here.”

She bent her head to make a note, and her unruly locks fell forward again. With gentle fingers, Mitch pushed the hair back in place. His pupils went black as his gaze strayed to her lips.

She cleared her throat and stepped back, touching her fingertips to her mouth. “Um…I’d better go.”

Mitch slowly nodded his head. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Emily filed away his record and raced out the door, her heart slamming into her chest. Her nerves tingled with awareness. Okay, so Mitch was strong and funny and determined. And hot. Despite his injury, he had a body that didn’t stop.

Each step, each rub of her cotton turtleneck against her skin reminded her of what she wanted. What she hadn’t experienced since before Joshua was born. Her breasts ached beneath her clothes. She couldn’t deny her reaction to Mitch, but that didn’t mean anything would ever happen between them. Besides, she didn’t have time for a relationship. Not with anyone. Not until she found Joshua. Thinking of Mitch in any way other than a client or a potential resource was a big mistake. She was a widow. In some ways, she’d become one even before Eric had died, but her aching loneliness was her problem.

She looked back. He stood, watching her, his expression hooded and thoughtful. She might need him and his contacts. She’d promised to help him, otherwise she would’ve handed his case over to one of her colleagues. He and Carl would probably hit it off, but she couldn’t risk letting go of even one potential collaborator.

She would find her son and just prayed Mitch would heal fast—before this unsettling temptation got the best of her.

THE ICY SHOWER HADN’T worked. Mitch secured the towel at his waist and padded across the cold tile of his bathroom. He’d almost kissed Emily. He’d wanted to, more so when he’d recognized the awareness that flashed in her eyes and echoed within him. He could think of a hundred reasons not to give in to the feelings, but that didn’t make him want to touch her any less.

At least he’d bargained for a few hours not having to watch her. He was getting to know every curve of her body, every expression on her face. Bad news. Let another cop get tempted—until he had himself back under control.

The Oklahoma fight song sounded from his phone on the nightstand. His brother, Chase, and his best friend, Ian, gave him a hard time, but “Boomer Sooner” made Mitch grin. Who wanted Mozart or a simple ringtone? Just because his best friend and one of his siblings happened to be one pancake short of a stack and attended the University of Texas…well, sometimes you just had to live with your family’s weaknesses.

“Bradford.”

“It’s Ian.”

Mitch sank onto the bed. “Are you calling as the Coroner’s Office Investigator or my goddaughter’s father?”

“Sorry, bud. Haley’s great, but you asked me to contact you if we received any pregnant guests. Jane Doe came in today. Not pregnant, but she gave birth just before she died. Blond hair, like the girl you asked me to watch out for.”

“Is it Kayla Foster?” Mitch braced himself for the answer.

“She was in a shallow grave, so the animals—”

“Yeah. I get the picture. Was it Kayla?”

“I can’t tell from the photo you sent. Her face is unrecognizable, but she has a gecko tat on her shoulder. I’m waiting on dental records.”

Mitch kneaded his shoulder with his hand, working out the tension that had settled there. “How’d she die?”

“We can’t tell from the external exam. Other than the birth, the body looks trauma free.”

“I’d hate your job.”

“At least my customers don’t carry guns,” Ian said.

“Funny.”

“Seriously, how’s the leg?”

“Almost good as new.” The lie came easily…too easily. Denial or something more after misleading Emily? “I’m a half hour away.”

“See you then.”

Mitch ended the call and sighed for Ricky’s sake. Mitch hoped this girl wasn’t Kayla. But if she wasn’t, then someone else’s family had a daughter who was dead, a grandchild who was missing, and they didn’t know anything had happened.

By the time he reached the coroner’s office, Mitch had contacted Kayla’s grandmother. He’d kept the questions lowkey, but he couldn’t fool her.

“You bring my girl home,” she’d said. “Either way.”

He entered the building housing the coroner and her staff and strode down the hall to the cracker box Ian laughingly called his office. The stench of formaldehyde and death rose to greet Mitch. He hated the odor in this place. Had since he’d been forced to visit as part of driver’s ed.

He rapped on the door and pushed it open to find his friend and a woman swallowed up in a white coat comparing two photos taped to a cork board. Mitch didn’t give Ian’s visitor a second look. He couldn’t stop looking at the pictures. One the high school photo of Kayla, the other—

“Is that Kayla?” His stomach churned at the sight of what was left of a blond-haired woman’s face. Truth be told, he could only tell the features were a woman because she didn’t have an Adam’s apple. Her eyes were missing, her nose had been gnawed away by animals. She barely looked human. He couldn’t show this body to Mrs. Foster. No way. No how.

One more reason to hate his temporary assignment and get back to SWAT.

Ian grimaced and stood, blocking Mitch’s view. “This is Dr. Tara O’Meare. She specializes in facial reconstruction and identification. Without dental records, I thought she could give us her opinion.”

The woman rose and shook Mitch’s hand.

“Is it Kayla?” he asked.

Dr. O’Meare shook her head. “No. When comparing the two photos, the distance between the zygomatic arches—the cheekbones—is wrong, and so is the position of the eyes. The girl found in the shallow grave is still a Jane Doe.”

“Her grandmother said Kayla didn’t have a tattoo, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Grandmothers don’t always know everything,” Ian finished.

“Yeah. Even if the body we found isn’t Kayla, I still have a missing girl out there.” Mitch rubbed his eyes. A missing girl, a missing baby and a Jane Doe. Not to mention Joshua Wentworth. With Emily in the middle of it all. Which pieces fit where? He had to pull it apart section by section. Somehow. “At least for the moment, Mrs. Foster gets good news. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope you don’t call anytime soon except for a game of touch foot…” His voice trailed off.

“I’ll keep calling,” Ian said. “You let me know when you’re up for it.”

Avoiding a last look at the photos, Mitch exited the room. He tried not to breathe too deeply until he left the building, then sucked in the crisp winter air. After he inhaled several times through his nose and mouth, he could finally smell and taste the snow tumbling around him.

Once in his car, he slipped on his hands-free device and dialed Kayla’s grandmother’s number.

“Mitchell?” Mrs. Foster’s voice trembled as she said his name.

He hated hearing the uncertainty in the woman’s voice, but he couldn’t guarantee the next time he called, the news wouldn’t be what she dreaded to hear. “It wasn’t her.”

“Thank the Lord.” A small prayer slipped from the older woman’s lips. “You’ll keep looking?”

“Definitely. I have a deal with Ricky,” Mitch promised. “He shows up for practice—”

“Oh, he’ll be at practice, don’t you worry.”

“Mrs. Foster, you know I wouldn’t stop looking for Kayla, even if Ricky never—”

“I know, dear. You’ll find her.”

He disconnected the phone and immediately “Boomer Sooner” filtered through the car.

“Bradford.”

“Get your butt down here,” Dane Tanner barked. “Now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your assignment just walked in the front door of the police department. Without you.”