Facing It (9 page)

Jennifer focused her attention on Calvert. “So you didn’t learn anything?”

“No.” He tapped his thumb and forefinger on the tabletop in a jittery rhythm. “I’m hoping you and Beech will be able to get somewhere with Chason today. But considering how his recent actions don’t make sense…I’m not really hopeful.”

Lifting his coffee cup, Beecham gave an affirmative grunt of agreement. Shanna returned with plates and the men ate, although Calvert did more picking at his food than consuming.

Finally, Calvert rotated his wrist to check his watch. He blew out a long breath, as if in dread of some unsavory task. “I need to go make a couple of phone calls.”

Falconetti nudged him. “We’ll walk out with you. I need to get going as well.” While Calvert extricated their son from the high chair and wiped the baby’s face, Falconetti enfolded Beecham in a quick embrace. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Pretty sure he’s going to be around for a while, Cait.” Calvert tugged his wallet from his pocket with his free hand. Juggling Lee and the billfold, he pulled a twenty free and tucked it beneath his empty coffee cup.

When they were gone, Jennifer waited to see how quickly Beecham would move to the opposite side of the booth. To her surprise, he remained next to her, spinning his half-empty mug in a slow circle. Silence hovered over them, broken only by Shanna’s arrival to take Falconetti and Calvert’s ticket with the twenty and refill coffee cups before whisking away the empty plates.

After a long sip, he continued to rotate the cup in that slow, maddening revolution until Jennifer, nerves already stretched and jangling, wanted to scream at him to stop. “Do you still intend to ask Weston to assign you a new partner?”

She rubbed damp palms over her knees. “Do you want me to?”

He turned a fierce stare on her, his eyes blazing. “What do you think?”

“I think I don’t get you.”

He glared at his coffee. “What does that mean?”

“It means I thought I knew you.” Sadness left her feeling small and cold even this close to him. “But it seems like every time I turn around, I realize how very little I do know you.”

“That’s crazy, Jen.” He shifted, a tight, uncomfortable gesture. Like he felt trapped. She swallowed a sigh. “You’re my partner. Of course you know me.”

“As an agent.” She took a final swallow of her coffee, hoping the warmth of the strong brew would alleviate some of the ice around her heart. She’d
failed
with him and there was nothing about this conversation to give her hope, either. “Give me any situation with you as my partner, and except for yesterday in that conference room, I’d know exactly what you were going to do or say.”

“See?”

“But I don’t know you as a man.” She cringed from the hint of pain that made it into her quiet voice. “You won’t let me.”

He closed his eyes. “Jen—”

“You know what I don’t get, Beech?” She waited for him to raise his lashes. “How you can have so much faith and belief in them.” She indicated the vinyl seat Falconetti and Calvert had shared. “And so little in what we could have.”

“What exactly is it you think we could have, Jen?” Beneath the rough exasperation lay a hint of entreaty. She grabbed on to that whispered emotion.

“A future.” She held his gaze. “A partnership like the one we have professionally, on a personal level. Don’t you feel that too?”

He looked away without answering.

“You could give me a chance, Beech. Talk to me.” She traced a pattern on the back of his hand. He drew it into a fist but didn’t pull away. “Why don’t you believe in me?”

“That’s the problem.” He did tug free then and rose to draw his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. His withdrawal, emotional and physical, hurt. He laid a bill on their ticket, and when he finally met her gaze, the cold bleakness had taken root in his eyes again. “I believe in you, babe. It’s me I don’t have any faith in.”

Ruthie set small bowls of bananas mixed with strawberry yogurt and sprinkled with graham teddy bears before the children. John Robert and Camille chattered excitedly to one another and Ainsley about their time at the beach the day before and what might lie before them today, but she only half-listened. Her being seemed focused on Chris Parker, her ears attuned to the muffled movements in the small bathroom as he showered.

She needed him on her side. Keenly aware that
something
had happened back in Chandler County, she needed him to trust her enough to tell her with a desperation that frightened her. Being in the proverbial dark was almost as bad as being at the mercy of Stephen’s whims.

She really wanted to know what lay behind that bizarre overreaction of his last night as well. But that answer surely would not be forthcoming any time soon, if ever.

The water stopped in the bathroom, going from full blast to a few loud pattering drops. The metal rings jingled and clattered against the curtain rod. Ruthie, pouring a cup of freshly brewed coffee, faltered as an image flickered in her brain, of Chris’s tall broad-shouldered form stepping onto the threadbare rug before the shower, droplets of water trailing down a muscular chest to his narrow waist, sluicing from roped thighs and firm calves as he reached for a towel.

Her face burned and her spoon clinked too hard against the cheap pottery mug. Where had
that
come from? She hadn’t even looked at a man with anything remotely like sexual desire in…well, longer than she wanted to think about, let alone fantasized about one naked. That was the last thing she needed in her life right now.

Even if it wasn’t, she could surely find better candidates than her brother’s rumored-to-be-gay, edgy-around-women colleague. She sucked in a deep, calming breath, centering her thoughts away from the bathroom and its occupant.

The door to that small room scraped open and quiet footsteps creaked on the floorboards in the living room. “Ruthie?”

At Chris’s deep voice, she turned, in time to see a flash of firmly delineated abdominal muscles as he pulled a faded T-shirt sporting the logo of a local pub over his head. His short hair, still damp, stuck out in a myriad of directions. She wet her lips and stilled the tiny flutter trying to take up residence low in her belly.

“Yes?”

“Can you step outside with me a second?” He tilted his head toward the kitchen door and the small porch beyond. “We need to talk. I have to tell you something.”

Ruthie had been a cop’s daughter long enough to realize nothing good ever lay behind those particular words. Grateful he’d given them to her as an opportunity to prepare for whatever blow was coming, she straightened her spine and sucked in a deep breath. “Just tell me, Chris, please.”

Hands tucked in the back pockets of his loose, faded jeans, he scuffed a bare foot along the porch floor. Bits of paint flaked under the pressure of his big toe. When he looked up at her, fierce gentleness softened his pale blue gaze. “The FBI has lost your husband.”

“What do you mean, the FBI has lost him?”

“You’ve been… The FBI’s Organized Crime Division has had your husband under close surveillance for the past few months. Obviously, his activities weren’t as secret as he’d thought.”

“The FBI has been watching us. Organized crime.” She dug her fingers into the railing. “Did Tick know?”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

“And they don’t know where Stephen is.”

“That’s what Tick said.”

Oh, Lord. A trembling tidal wave of fear slammed her. Her lungs cramped and a sick weight lodged in her belly. If the Bureau didn’t know where he was, did he know where she was? Fighting off the alarm, she looked back at the children, spooning up their favorite breakfast, still chattering happily among themselves, the familiar strain absent from their smooth features. What would Stephen do when he found them?

“There’s more.” Chris’s tentative statement deepened her dread. With trepidation vibrating beneath her skin, stretching her nerves, she waited in silence, clinging to his gaze. His throat moved in a hard swallow. “Your mother is missing.”

“Missing?” Her voice quavered, almost breaking over the word. All sorts of possibilities flashed in her head. Like the night of her sister Tori’s rape, when they hadn’t been able to find her. Like news reports of “missing” women, their battered, bruised bodies found days, weeks, months later. “What do you mean,
missing
?”

“Her whereabouts are unaccounted for since early yesterday. When Tick went to the house, there were signs of a struggle.” The imprecise police jargon made her want to scream at him. This wasn’t another alleged victim he was talking about here. This was her
mother
. God, not knowing where Stephen was seemed bad enough—

The reality slithered into her brain with an icy hiss, coiling around all of her thoughts.

“Oh my God.” She covered her mouth, fingers trembling. She stared at Chris. “Do you think Stephen…?”

It was too awful to contemplate. Would he punish her escape by harming her mother? Was he that big of a monster? The image of a panting, wriggling pup in his large hands pulsed in her brain, making her want to vomit with the remembered sound of a startled yelp lost in the crunching of a tiny skull.

“It’s certainly possible,” Chris said, his voice quiet with sympathy. “Under the circumstances, he’d be my first person of interest.”

Her thoughts bounced in a wild array. Fingers pressed to her temples, she tried to think, to focus. If it was Stephen, he’d done this because of her, made her mother a pawn, just like he had with Ruthie’s babies. He had no qualms about using the ones she loved most as simply another means of controlling her. The fear and dislike flared into something stronger, truer—a hatred as intense as her original passion for him had been.

“I need to go home.” The unexpected words slipped past numb lips.

Startled surprise flickered in Chris’s eyes. “To Charleston?”

“No.” She shook her head. “
Home
, to Chandler County. If she’s gone, it’s because of him, because of what I did.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Through the screen, the shrill ring of his cell phone, plugged in and charging on the counter, forestalled her reply. He moved toward the door. “Let me get that. I’ll be right back.”

Aware of his low voice as he spoke to the children and answered his phone, she stared at the bay, visible between two other cottages. Oh please, let Mama be all right. Let it be a mistake, a misunderstanding. Let her be with a friend, someone,
anyone
but Stephen.

“She already knows.” Chris returned, phone at his ear, and Ruthie searched his impassive face for clues. “Yeah, I know what you said. I thought she needed to be aware of what was—” A grimace twisted his sharp features. “Yeah, yeah, I know—midnights for a year. Whatever makes you happy, Tick. She’s right here.

“Your mom’s okay.” At his words, relief cascaded through her. He extended the cell phone. “Tick wants to talk to you.”

Her fingers brushed his as she took the device.

“How
dare
you not tell me Mama was missing,” she said without preamble. Tick’s deep, harsh sigh and mumbled “Ruthie” didn’t deter her. The frightened anger steamrolled ahead of everything else. “Damn it, I had a right to know that when it was happening, especially since it’s because of me. It is, isn’t it?”

“Not
because
of you—”

“Is she really all right?” Her voice quivered, tears burning her eyes.

“Yes. Del’s going to bring her home later today.” Tick cleared his throat. “Ruthie, Chason is back in Charleston. He’s filed a missing-persons report on you and the kids, claims you’ve taken them as retaliation because he told you he was filing for a divorce.”

“He
what
?” The nausea trembled in her once more. What wouldn’t he stoop to? Nothing. The answer came quickly, automatically. When it came to dominating her, punishing her, Stephen had no boundaries. Oh God, what to do now? She pressed her forehead, unable to blink back the tears any longer. They slid down her cheeks unchecked.
Think, Ruthie girl. Think!
The situation teetered totally out of her control, constantly shifting around her. “I want to come home. I need…I need to be there.”

She couldn’t explain why, but the urge was too strong to ignore.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Tick said. “There’ll be an Amber Alert on the children and if you’re here…well, we just have more control over the situation then. Let me talk to Chris.”

Brushing at her wet cheeks with one hand, she passed the phone back to Chris. His expression intent, he listened. She stared over his shoulder at the tableau visible beyond the kitchen window—John Robert putting dishes in the sink, Camille wiping up Ainsley’s face, all of them so well-behaved still it hurt, but with a lightness to them she’d never seen before. She would
not
let Stephen take that away from them. She simply refused to let that happen.

She swallowed a sob, her shoulders shaking with the effort to contain her fear and grief.

“Okay. Yeah. See you in a few hours.” Chris closed the phone with a quiet click. “Are you all right?”

Wiping at her cheeks again, she nodded, but her chest hurt with the sobs clawing and fighting for freedom.

“Hey, don’t cry.” Hard arms came around her with infinite care and she found herself enfolded against a solid chest. Something about the sense of safety and refuge so long missing from her life made the tears flow harder. She bunched her fists under her chin, clamped her mouth shut and breathed through her nose, desperate for control. His clean, freshly showered scent enveloped her and he rubbed an awkward hand over her shoulders. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see. Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”

She nodded, trying to pull herself together, her brow rubbing against the soft cotton of his oft-washed T-shirt. She couldn’t let the children see her like this.

“Ruthie, you have to stop crying.” He slid his hand up to smooth her hair. “I may not have mentioned this, but weeping women tend to scare the hell out of me.”

She laughed at that, choking a little, but the tears began to slow, surely what he’d intended. His arms remained around her, and because she liked them being there a little too much, she straightened and stepped back.

“Thanks,” she said, running shaking fingertips over her wet cheeks. “But I doubt there’s much that scares the hell out of you, Deputy Parker.”

His face froze, his mouth twisting. “You’d be surprised.”

She remembered, then, that odd trembling fear in him the night before. He was already withdrawing, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze darted away from hers, his jaw set, a muscle flickering in his cheek.

“We need to get moving if we’re heading back.” He jerked his chin toward the cottage. The icily controlled cop was back in full force. “Get the kids ready while I load up the Jeep.”