No One Left to Tell (26 page)

Throwing the comforter off, she got out of bed and made her way toward the large window in her bedroom. Clad only in a large CPD tee, she pulled back the drapery and stared into the void. Immediately, her eyes trailed to the heavens, their attention stolen by the brilliant moon. Nearer the horizon, the lights of the city robbed the sky of its own brilliance, their beauty obscured by man's cheap imitation.

Outside her window, the hiss of brittle winter grass crunched under foot. Her body reacted to the implied threat. Raven peered though the darkness, careful not to jostle the drapes. Her eyes darted across the backyard. She held her breath, ruling out every familiar sound from in and around her old house, listening for the exception. Just then, a shadow moved to her right.

She remembered what Sam had told her earlier.
Just in case you hear any noises outside, I 'm gonna have our guys take regular walks around the perimeter.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the shape became clearer. The shadow was one of her watchdogs. Leaning against the window frame, she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Heaving a breath, she expelled tension from her lungs. The earlier home invasion had spooked her more than she realized. She closed her eyes, calming her heart. She was a prisoner in her own home. Resentment colored her attitude—until her thoughts turned to Christian.

She wondered what he was doing this very second. Outside the city, at the Dunhill Estate, the night sky would be glorious. Perhaps one day, when the nightmare of this ordeal was over, they'd share its beauty. The hope of that moment soothed her beyond measure.

Christian spent the afternoon digging through Fiona's life. Her delicate perfume still in the air, it reminded him of her absence. He'd grown melancholy with the futility of his effort. Searching the study and her bedroom took longer than he'd expected. Tomorrow, he'd tackle the attic, not knowing what he'd find there.

Hours ago, darkness had crept across the bedroom in lengthening shadows, forcing him to flip on several of the lamps nearby. He'd become so engrossed, he hadn't been affected by the gloom closing in. Any other day, the impending darkness would have captured his attention, like holding a snarling beast at bay. But today, he was on a mission.

Letters faded with age and old photographs lay cluttered across the carpet of Fiona's bedroom. Sitting cross-legged in the midst of it all, Christian realized he knew so little about her. Many of the mementos he'd never seen before. But then again, he'd been so defined by the violence in his life, he hadn't reached out to Fiona except to eventually take the lifeline she offered. Her life was more of a mystery than he cared to admit.

And something peculiar troubled him. No newborn baby pictures. Gaps existed in his early life. Some of that could be explained away. His childhood had not been normal. For the most part, his mind was a blank slate. Post-traumatic stress had destroyed much of his memory.

The one constant in his life, since that tragic day, had been Fiona. And now, he felt like such a voyeur, delving into her past. But he was certain the answers would be there, if he only knew where to look. Or, perhaps,
how
to look—

Slowly, he reached for a photo of Fiona and Charles, flipping it over. One word was written across the back, along with a date.
Honeymoon.
He recognized Fiona's script. Something in the photo gnawed at him. His eyes had been drawn to the image several times during the course of his search. Yet he couldn't put his finger on the reason for this. Dressed in summer attire, the honeymooners squinted into the bright sun, standing at a harbor dock. Charles was beaming, his arm around the beautiful woman he'd married. And a young Fiona graced the scene, barely out of her teens. On the surface, an idyllic moment captured by the photographer.

Then, it struck him.

Fiona wasn't smiling. And her body language showed tension. It was etched in her face. In contrast to her young husband, who clung to her like a prize, she showed no such affection. The single-word description on the back was purposefully written, without embellishment. Not even the location had been given, so contrary to what a newly wed might have done.

Sifting through other photos, he began to see a pattern.
Why hadn't he noticed it before?
Christian knew the woman well enough to grasp it.

Fiona hadn't loved Charles. And the years hadn't improved their relationship, chronicled in the many pictures spread before him. A discernible pattern.

"Why, Fiona? Why did you marry a guy you didn't love?" he muttered. It didn't make any sense, given the strength of the woman he'd grown to love. He couldn't imagine her being coerced into a loveless bond.

As he picked up the honeymoon photo once again, another thought roused him from out of the blue— something Raven had asked him at the armory.

Can you think of anyplace else that Mickey might have kept some kind of locker? I found a key
— Raven's voice teased his memory.

An image popped into his mind.

Now, Christian knew where to look for the answer.

But tomorrow would be soon enough. The tension and stress of the day invaded every sinew. Standing, he stretched the muscles of his back. His stomach growled in emptiness, but he was too restless to indulge it. He wandered to the French doors and onto the balcony off Fiona's bedroom.

After sucking in the chilly night air, he exhaled a warm breath in a vapor trail. In no time, the cold absorbed into his shirt, chilling his skin with every brush of the fabric. The sensation invigorated him, clearing the fog from his brain. With only the dim radiance from Fiona's room shining through white window sheers, the grounds of the estate were cast in a bluish haze, charged by the moon's energy. Shining brightly, the moon loomed overhead, growing larger by his estimation. The night sky cloudless, it proudly displayed its dazzle. He felt small and insignificant.

Yet despite the beauty above, his thoughts of Raven moved him far more. The woman had burrowed deep under his skin, never allowing him to forget her. Her beguiling infiltration had been subtle, with a rare sensuality. But the self-inflicted wound, named Raven Mackenzie, had not been without pain. With every remembrance, Christian felt just how lonely he'd allowed his life to become. And the thought that he could lose her made his stomach churn.

Given the firepower of the attack launched against her partner, Christian feared for her safety. By all reports, her partner's home had been annihilated. By turning down his offer of protection, Raven was in denial about her ability to defend against such an assault. Her modest home would be indefensible. Yet if he was being truthful, he'd have to confess his attraction to her stirred him more than he cared to admit.

Damn it! Why had everything gotten so . . . complicated?

Her dark eyes haunted him. Still, he contemplated betraying Raven's trust, for Fiona's sake. Tomorrow, he'd investigate on his own, looking for the secret that Mickey might have kept under lock and key. But depending upon what he found, he'd have a decision to make.

Would he share it with Raven?

The details of the Blair file blurred on the page as she searched for anything she might've missed. Her ability to focus had waned, and it was only midmorning. She hadn't slept well. Raven pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she caught sight of Tony's clip-on tie tossed on his desk. The image left her hollow. Now, her eyes trailed to his empty chair, her misery complete.

A distinct chill lingered in the room. She couldn't shake it. Despite being dressed in jeans with layers under a black cable-knit sweater, she still found her skin prickled in goose bumps. No amount of layering or rounds of hot coffee fended off the cold.

"Did one of you guys turn down the thermostat again?" Normally, the question would've generated profuse finger pointing and offers on ways to stay warm, but not today. All she got was polite smiles and a few shrugs.

And the clock on the wall ticked away at an interminably slow pace. The world hadn't stopped altogether. Tony's absence loomed like a dark cloud in the bullpen. Out of respect, her fellow officers were uncharacteristically quiet. Their sideways glances and sympathetic expressions reflected their concern. Every time her phone rang, their eyes shifted nervously her way. She knew they wondered if the call meant news from the hospital. The calm made her anxious. Even her Cubs cap, turned around rally style, hadn't provided any comfort.

Feeling like a fleshy chunk of her had been carved out, she ached for her missing partner. Her early-morning visit with Yolanda at the hospital hadn't remedied her concern. He'd had a bad night. Tony still wasn't out of the woods. But a familiar face drew her back into focus, warming her soul.

"Hey, honey, got any coffee for the old man? I could use a whole pot in a very large syringe." Lieutenant Sam Winters held a cardboard box in his arms, grinning ear to ear.

"Hey, LT. Thought you'd be sleeping?" she teased, glad for the distraction.

"Got to thinking about your daddy's old cases. Been searching through the archives after I got off shift." He set down his burden on Tony's desk. "Care for a temporary partner for today, while yours is on the mend?"

Sam spoke as if Tony had a bad case of the flu. Somehow, his denial reassured her, like everything would be all right.

"I'll get you that coffee. But the preferred method of dosing around here is Styrofoam. The syringe is up to you."

By the time she returned from the break room, he had settled into Tony's desk, laying manila folders in piles.

"Figured I'd go through these, set aside any that stick in my brain as possibles. I got your old man's case notes. You ever looked at 'em?" he asked. He handed her a black spiral notebook. Her father had kept them by year. "Your daddy was the best cop I ever worked with. I still miss him."

"Good partners are like that." She fought the lump in her throat. Her hands reverently brushed the top of a bound notepad.

She knew looking into his old cases would take time. But the malicious act of the bastard who'd invaded her home and destroyed her father's photo provided insight into the man's egotistical nature. And she was determined to capitalize on his mistake.

"This is gonna be a long shot, Sam."

"Yeah, but when you're a Cubs fan—" he replied with a crooked grin, setting her up. In unison, she joined him in one of her father's old sayings, "—long shots are what we do."

The waterfront off Lakeshore Drive glistened in the sun like a jeweler's case. The dazzle caught Christian's eye as he neared the Chicago Yacht Club. Boat masts normally speared the sky, but were noticeably absent. The vessels had been pulled from the lake and dry-docked for winter. Set near the Chicago Loop amidst a myriad of cultural offerings, the yacht club was a focal point to many sporting activities and home to Lake Michigan's finest regattas. Even with the change in season, the dock drew people to the waterfront and its adjacent trail system. Nature's tranquillity was a magnet. Compared to the hustle of downtown, the harbor reflected serenity, an oasis from a more hectic pace.