A Daughter's Story (14 page)

“Which, for the record, we’re not,” Emma stated emphatically to
the detectives. She didn’t want them to get the wrong idea.

“Which we’re not,” Chris agreed, and then said, “but if we want
him to think we are, then it makes sense that I stay here for a few days. Or
nights, rather. I have to work during the day.”

“Right.” Emma glanced over at him and then back to Lucy and
Miller. “He’s self-employed. He has to work.”

Miller nodded and pinned Emma with a stare that would have
scared her if she didn’t know he was on her side. “I’m going to have specific
rules for you to follow,” he said. “If I hear that you are not following them to
the letter, I will call an end to the operation.”

She nodded. “You have nothing to worry about on that score,
Detective,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Rules are the one thing
I’ve lived successfully with my entire life.”

After Emma and Chris agreed to the plan the department had
already approved, the detectives assured them that plain-clothes officers would
be watching Emma, and regular duty officers would do random drive-bys past her
house. For the next few days she wasn’t to leave her house without checking in.
And she wasn’t to be without a recording device at any time. They would be
putting a tap on her phone.

“My captain has given us the go-ahead from the cold case
budget,” Miller said. “With the missing evidence box, Evert’s uncharacteristic
threats, his insistence that he’s earned something from you, his stalking—we
need to know what he’s up to. And since he’s unwilling to cooperate…”

“And—” Lucy Hayes reached over for Emma’s hand “—you have to be
prepared here, Emma. We could be dealing with murder and we just don’t know it
yet. Someone could be covering up your sister’s murder.”

“That’s right,” Miller jumped in. “Rob clearly wants something.
And whoever stole that evidence is trying very hard to keep us from finding
something. Something they might be willing to spend a lot of money to keep
quiet. Maybe they’re paying Rob. Maybe not. Kidnapping is a serious charge.
Murder even more so. Could be that the kidnapper is afraid of being discovered
and will do whatever it takes to stay out of jail. We’re only supposing here,
but Detective Hayes and I have a lot of collective experience between us and
this looks serious.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
HE
PLAN
WAS
FOR
C
HRIS
and Emma to spend that night together, to meet up again after
Chris finished work on Sunday and then regroup with Ramsey on Monday. Hayes was
heading back to Indiana tomorrow as planned.

In the meantime police personnel were running a full check on
Evert’s phone records and contacts, and canvassing the accounting firm where he
worked, as well as his known hangouts, for anything that might shed light on
their investigation.

The whole thing left Chris uneasy. He didn’t like the idea of
exposing Emma to whatever Evert might have in store. The guy knew her well, knew
her vulnerabilities. And felt no shame in using them to manipulate her. Chris
also didn’t put it past the guy to harm her physically, if doing so would serve
his end.

Clearly Chris had seen a different side to the man. A side Emma
had never seen.

Emma locked the door behind the detectives.

He had to ask.

“Did you get your period?”

“No.”

She explained that she wanted to see her own doctor. And while
the wait wasn’t easy, he understood.

Chris needed a shower.

They could shower together. He pictured her firm breasts with
beads of water on them. And got hard.

Like some horny teenager.

“I invited my mother for dinner tonight.” She stood in the
foyer, looking as uncomfortable as he felt.

“And you don’t want her to meet me.”

Her eyes shadowed, but she said, “It wouldn’t be a good
idea.”

He understood. “I’ll leave. Come back later tonight.”

Emma wrapped her arms around the breasts he’d just been
fantasizing about. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. If Rob’s watching
he’d know two things. First, that you aren’t spending time with Mom when I am,
and that would tell him that I’m not serious about you. And second, that Mom and
I are here, alone, and he might see that as his opportunity to try to get back
in with us. I don’t want Mom involved in this at all. I’ll call her and
cancel.”

“You aren’t going to tell her what we’re up to?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t you think you should? What if she stops by?”

“She doesn’t ever stop here without calling first. It’s her way
of giving me space. And, believe me, it’s best not to tell her. She’d be worried
sick and there’s nothing she can do. Which wouldn’t stop her from coming up with
her own plan and acting on it.”

“Maybe it would help you to share some of the stress with
her.”

“No,” she said adamantly. “All I’d be doing is opening myself
to weeks, possibly months, of her paranoia where I’m concerned. Constantly
checking on me to see that I’m okay. Repeatedly warning me about every dire
possibility.”

“Is it really that extreme?”

“It really is.”

Chris had the impression that things were even worse than Emma
was portraying them.

He wanted to make them better.

Which was ludicrous.

As was handling her with kid gloves. Emma was a strong, capable
woman.

So they were going to spend this time together. And then they’d
part ways. He couldn’t go on pretending to be something he was not.

“I need a shower.”

“There are fresh towels in my bathroom. Or you can use the
spare bathroom upstairs.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of using my own. We could
drive to my place and then have dinner out before heading back here for the
night.”

He knew he was making a mistake even as he said the words. That
didn’t stifle them. He didn’t take people to his house. Ever. A sick feeling
came over him as she agreed to the plan.

Which was partially why he said what he said next.

“And tomorrow, I think you should come out on the boat with
me.” He didn’t like leaving her alone—even with police protection. And he had to
get her into his world, to see and understand her distaste for it so they could
get past whatever this thing was between them. “I don’t like the idea of you
here all by yourself until we find out exactly what Evert’s doing.”

“What if I get seasick?”

“Then you hang your head overboard. The fish won’t care. I have
plenty of towels. And believe me, nothing is noticeable over the smell of the
catch.”

“You ever been sick out there before?”

It took him a second to realize she wasn’t saying no. She
wasn’t backing away.

He smiled. “Hell, yeah, I’ve been sick. More than once. And not
just as a kid, although I had my share of miserable moments back when I first
started going out with my dad.”

“So you speak from experience.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not sure I have the proper attire, but I’m game,” she said
before he could rethink the wisdom of taking her out on the water with him.

“I’ll rustle up some small coveralls,” he said, remembering
Sara. Her whole future had rested on her liking it out on the water. She’d
wanted to like it more than anything.

She’d had nothing against the docks. And she’d loved the
ocean.

She’d hated lobstering. Hated it enough to leave him over it.
She didn’t want to stay onshore alone and she didn’t want to go out with him,
either.

And he couldn’t give it up.

Emma said something about collecting her purse and keys. They
were going to ride together in his truck.

He eyed her backside as she left the room.

And, remembering Sara’s reaction to the haul, he figured he was
going to be just fine.

* * *

O
F
COURSE
THEY
’
D
had sex
again that night, too. It didn’t mean anything. They’d used a condom. There was
always the possibility that having sex would make her start her period. And as
soon as Rob’s intentions were revealed, which she hoped would be soon, and Emma
started her period, which would also be soon, they would say their goodbyes and
Chris Talbot would be nothing more than a sweet memory.

A man she’d remember every time she heard piano music.

Feeling bulky and unattractive in the gold-colored, stained
coveralls he’d borrowed for her, she stood on the dock before dawn Sunday
morning watching as he readied his bait—herring that he’d brought down from
Manny’s in a large plastic tray—and made a quick check of the
Son Catcher
before they headed out. She was putting
off for as long as possible the moment when she’d have to climb aboard.

And thinking about last night only so that she didn’t panic and
chicken out.

Going to bed with Chris just got better and better. The night
before, she’d fallen asleep in his arms knowing full well that she’d be waking
in them, as well. The fact that she’d had a nightmare-free slumber might or
might not have had anything to do with him.

But it didn’t matter either way.

Chris was a fisherman. Even with her new outlook, her
determination to change the way she lived, she knew better than to think she
could take on a life that encompassed real danger every day.

Danger aside, Chris was forty years old. And he didn’t want a
family.

“You ready?” He squinted up at her, the dock light putting his
face in stark relief.

Her heart tripped. Because of what she was about to do? Or
because of who she was about to do it with?

“Crazy that getting on this boat with you seems more wrong than
going back to your hotel room to get naked.” She was nervous. Babbling.

“Give me your hand.” She took the palm he offered. And when she
felt his slight tug, she stepped down into the boat.

* * *

F
IVE
MINUTES
INTO
the ride Emma would
have given everything she owned to be back at Chris’s house instead.

She’d never have pictured him to live in a place like that
quaint, glorious cottage on the cliff, where he’d taken her the night before.
Not that she’d seen much of it. He’d sat her in the kitchen, at the bay window
overlooking the ocean, and picked her up there less than ten minutes later,
walking her right back out the door they’d come through.

She’d loved the view from up on the cliff. Out on the ocean,
she still loved the view. But she was going to throw up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“H
OLD
ON
TO
THE
SIDE
rail.” Chris gripped the trap’s
rope with one hand and Emma’s wrist with the other, knowing that if he let go of
either one, someone could die.

He’d already pulled up the buoy and had the trap halfway up
when Emma had hurled herself to the side of the boat again, retching so
violently she lost her balance. He’d turned to catch her before she pitched
overboard and got his left ankle caught in the trap’s rope. If he let go, he was
going back down with the trap.

“Easy,” he said, his right arm burning with the effort it was
taking to hold on to his trap. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She’d already thrown up twice. For her sake he hoped this was
the last time. Her ribs had to be bruised, though she’d yet to complain. “It’ll
just be dry heaves soon,” he said. “You can’t have that much more in your
stomach.”

They’d had toast and coffee for breakfast. Dry toast, in case
of this eventuality. It hadn’t helped. Nor had the ear patch he’d given her—a
sometime remedy for seasickness. He should have insisted she take the antinausea
pill, but he’d been unsure what effect it would have on a fetus if she was
pregnant.

“Uh.” Emma hung her upper body over the side of the vessel as
though she didn’t have enough energy to right herself.

“Deep breaths,” he told her. “It’ll be better soon.”

He hoped. Unless she was pregnant and what they were seeing was
a horrible combination of sea and morning sicknesses.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and glanced sideways. “Oh, no, you’re
in the middle of hauling up a trap!” Emma stood and reached for the rope. “I
didn’t realize you’d pulled up the buoy! The rope’s around your ankle.”

Before he could react she’d freed herself from his grasp and
was down on the deck of the boat, helping to untangle him from the rope that
could have taken him overboard.

The catch was good—worth a burning arm—and Chris worked
swiftly, measuring the carapace of the lobsters with his steel gauge, throwing
back the ones that were too small or too large, and then rebaiting the trap
before sending it back down.

He turned, ready to band the claws, and found Emma a step ahead
of him, using the banding tool to apply the elastic rubber band to the lobster
in her gloved grasp. It wasn’t easy work. Or for the queasy or fearful. It took
her a bit longer than it would have taken him, but she’d mastered the skill
faster than he had his first time out.

“I can do that,” he said. “You should rest.…”

“I can do it, too, Chris. I need to stay busy—if I just sit
here I feel worse. And besides, you need to be steering this thing to the next
stop. You’re not going to have time to get all your work done before the sun
goes down.”

“You amaze me,” he told Emma, watching her for a second.

She wrinkled her forehead. “Why? Because I can learn a new
skill?” She grunted as she wrestled with another lobster.

“No. Because you puke and pop right back up,” he said. “You
spend twenty-five years looking for your sister and still have the ability to
believe that she might be alive. Do you ever give up?”

“Oh, no, you don’t, buddy.” Emma repositioned the lobster,
which had almost slipped from the clasp she had around his claws. “I give up,”
she answered him in the next breath. “Ask Rob. I gave up on him.”

Dropping the banded lobster in the bin, Emma moved on to the
next one.

And Chris moved on, too. She was right; he was behind
schedule.

* * *

T
HERE
WAS
A
missed
call from Rob on Emma’s cell phone when she returned to shore late Sunday
afternoon. There was one from Cal, too. She had aches and pains in every place
her body had sensation. Her arms and shoulders throbbed, her ribs cried out
every time she moved. And even though she’d been wearing gloves, the lobster
pinches had still managed to bruise a couple of her fingers.

“I stink,” she announced, dropping her phone back into her
purse. Shower first, then voice mail. Right after Chris sold his catch and took
care of the rest of his business at the dock.

“You want to head straight back to your place as soon as I’m
done here?”

She wanted to head straight to bed with him. “Yes, please. I
thought I’d make a big Caesar salad with French bread for dinner tonight. How
does that sound?”

As soon as the question left her mouth, she realized how much
it sounded as if they were an old married couple and she promptly lost her
appetite. Hopefully her call from Rob would garner Ramsey whatever information
he needed so that she and Chris could end this charade.

“How about fresh lobster salad?” he called from the deck of the
boat.

Right. They’d just come back with a full cargo of lobster. “I
don’t know how to prepare lobster.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to make dinner together.”

Emma started to shake—and she wasn’t the least bit cold. She
was petrified. The man wanted to cook with her.

Which was her idea of a perfect date.

* * *

“H
EY
, M
ILLER
, I’
VE
got your
results.”

Another possible victim of Walters’s.

Looking up from his desk, Ramsey studied the face of the
forensic scientist coming toward him. Shawn was a good kid. A hard worker. Based
in the Boston lab, Shawn didn’t complain about the extra hours Ramsey caused for
him in Comfort Cove. Ramsey’s biggest problem with the guy was his fear that
Shawn hero-worshipped him.

For a scientist, the kid sure was slow to discover that
Ramsey’s feet were made of clay.

Right now, Shawn didn’t appear to have discovered anything. His
face was a blank slate.

The back of Ramsey’s neck tensed.

With one last glance at the skinny, bespectacled young man, he
reached for the folder Shawn held out, opened it and read.

There’d been another positive identification of victims’
belongings found in Peter Walters’s basement.

At four o’clock on Sunday, Ramsey Miller tucked a stack of
folders under his arm and left the office.

* * *

“E
MMA
,
BABE
,
PLEASE
call me back. It’s
important.” Waiting in Chris’s truck while he conducted his business with Manny,
Emma punched the button to save Rob’s voice-mail message and listened for the
second new message to play.

“Hi, Em, it’s Cal. Great news about Claire. Great news. Please
call when you can. Morgan wants to meet you. We were thinking about taking a
trip up to Comfort Cove during fall break. Call me.”

She listened to Cal’s message a second time with tears in her
eyes. It was so hard to believe that she had her big brother back after
twenty-five years. Someone who’d known her before Claire was taken, someone who
was there that horrible day that changed their lives for eternity.

* * *

“R
OB
CALLED
,” E
MMA
said as
Chris climbed into his truck, holding their wrapped dinner in his hand.

His gaze shot to her face, trying to get a read on her
emotional state. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just asked me to call, said it was important.”

“He didn’t sound agitated, or upset?”

“Nope.” Emma’s ponytail swung from side to side as she shook
her head. “He sounded completely normal. It was pretty much like every other
call I’ve had from him in the past three weeks.”

That glorious hair was his downfall. If she’d just cut it off
he’d be fine.

“Did you call him back yet?”

“No, and I don’t intend to.”

“Good. Miller said if Rob contacted you to call him before you
did anything.”

“Detective Miller also said to act normal, to do what I’d
normally do, so as not to tip off Rob.”

“So what
would
you normally
do?”

She shrugged. “He’s been calling for three weeks now. And for
three weeks I’ve been ignoring him. It’s going to frustrate him more if I
continue to ignore him. We need him to think he’s lost all hold on me.”

She was right. And he should have reached the same
conclusion.

“But you’re still checking in with Miller, right?”

Pushing the speed-dial button on her phone, Emma did as Chris
asked. Miller agreed with her that the best defense was to ignore Rob’s
call.

And so they were off to her place.

Chris had packed a change of clothes the night before, and
almost wished he hadn’t. Wished he had an excuse to go back to his own house,
even if he couldn’t stay.

* * *

A
LMOST
AS
IF
they’d
had some tacit agreement, Emma faced her room at the top of the stairs and Chris
pointed in the direction of the spare bathroom. “You said you have towels in
there?” he asked, his overnight bag in his hand.

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs, then.”

They weren’t showering together. They couldn’t. It was entirely
too intimate—more intimate than sex, even.

But the idea of running a washcloth all over Chris’s body, of
having him standing before her so that she could see every part of him at once,
had Emma reaching for the cold-water tap.

She made sure to check that she had clean sheets on her spare
bed, too.

Chris was already in the kitchen, a pot of water on the stove,
the two-pound lobster in the sink behind him, when Emma came downstairs.

“Do you have to cut its head off or remove the shell before you
cook it?” she asked, staring into the open eyes of the critter.

“Nope. I’ve already scrubbed it. Now we’re just waiting for the
water to boil.”

“You cook it live?”

“Yeah.”

“That seems cruel.”

“It’s the only way I’ve ever seen it done,” Chris said. “It’s
how the great chefs cook them in the best restaurants. And the crustaceans’
ability to feel pain is up for debate. As human beings we tend to humanize all
organisms when, in fact, a lobster has no central nervous system and therefore
no ability to process a thought, or any sense of pain. On the flip side, some
studies have suggested that even low-level organisms react negatively to certain
stimuli, so maybe they do feel something.”

Oh.

Chris was watching her, a small grin on his face.

“The water’s boiling,” she said.

“So it is.” Turning, he picked up the lobster and held it above
the pot. “We put it in headfirst because lobsters have a habit of whipping their
tails, and you don’t want it to splash boiling water all over you.”

In a matter of seconds the crustacean was submerged. Chris put
the lid on the pot. “It’ll be ready to eat in ten minutes or so.”

“How do you know when it’s done?”

“When its shell is completely red and the meat is white with no
translucency.”

He looked so at home in the kitchen that Emma wanted to kiss
him. She buried her head in the refrigerator instead. “I’d better get busy,” she
said, pulling out lettuce and cucumber, celery, onion and any other fresh
vegetables she could find. She needed to occupy her hands. She had a fourth
entry for her journal.
I want to have great sex with the
man I marry.