Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (10 page)

“You might want to bring Mom on board. She didn’t seem too sure last night. Are we calling a family meeting?”

Chase looked away. “I hoped if you talked to him first, like this afternoon, we might not have to do that.”

He was throwing her to the wolves, or rather wolf. Her stomach knotted. As a child, she’d been able to twist her uncle around her little finger. Not so much after she became a teenager. “Okay, I’ll do it this afternoon.”

The thin line of his lips twitched, finally forming a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to put pressure on you, but it’s our heritage he’s trying to sell.”

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a white minivan and pointed toward it. “Is that yours?”

Chase turned. “Yep.” He caught the sidelong glance she shot him. “Hey, I have an eight-soon-to-be-nine-year-old. I need something to haul kids and soccer balls in.”

She laughed. “I never thought I would see Chase Martin in a mommy mobile.”

“Yeah, well, now you have.” Scarlet nosed against Chase’s back. “All right.” He rubbed her nose, and she snuffed his hand, nibbling his fingers.

“You’ve spoiled her rotten.”

He grinned at Taylor. “I know. Let me get a treat, or she won’t leave us alone.”

He went to the barn and came back with a flake of clover and pitched it in the corner of the lot. The mare tossed her head and trotted over to the hay.

“Does Abby ride Scarlet?”

“A little, but Scarlet is more horse than she can handle. She’s been bugging me for an Indian pony for her birthday. Mom thinks I ought to wait a couple of years.”

“Mom would.” Taylor inhaled, taking in the sweet scent of the hay. The colt bounded away from Scarlet and kicked out his back feet. The last time she saw her niece a year ago in Newton, Abby was going through a growth spurt and had been all gangly and awkward, just like the foal. “How is Abby? You know . . . about Robyn.”

Tight-lipped, he braced his foot against the bottom fence rail and leaned with his arms over the top. “Abby’s okay.”

Taylor stiffened at his terse reply.

Chase fiddled with something around his little finger. Finally, he cleared his throat. “We need an understanding.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may be a psychologist, but nothing’s broke here, so don’t come home and try to fix us. Let Abby work through this problem with her mother in her own way—just like we did with Dad.”

Maybe you did but not me, Taylor wanted to shout. If the subject of her father hadn’t been taboo, maybe some of her questions would have been answered. And maybe she wouldn’t be having nightmares about him now.

The nightmares. There hadn’t been one last night. Maybe they’d ended. They had before. She glanced at Chase. What did he keep twisting on his finger? Taylor’s breath stilled in her chest. The ring.

Chase still wore the small gold ring engraved with his initials. Seeing it reminded Taylor of her necklace, and she touched her neck. A ring for Chase and a necklace for her—gifts from their father the day he’d walked out of their lives—like a ring or necklace would make up for his presence. But the memory of the golden heart with her name on it was all she had. She’d lost the necklace that same day.

Taylor’s hands curled into tight fists. She didn’t know if she could do it—stay here where her father’s absence and betrayal slapped her in the face at every turn.

N
ick shifted in the straight-back chair. Barely cool air filtered into the small room Lieutenant Reynolds left him in. Where
was
the detective? She’d brought him here and immediately left.

He glanced around. Drab gray walls. No windows, only a mirror. A two-way? Was she watching him even now? He almost laughed at his writer’s imagination running amok. The door opened, and Olivia Reynolds stepped inside.

“Sorry about the air-conditioning. They’ve just gotten it repaired.”

That explained the heat, but not being put in an interrogation room. Nick sized up the detective. In person Lieutenant Reynolds had been very different from his mental image. He’d pictured someone taller, more muscular, not a petite blonde with disarming dimples in her cheeks. She placed a folder on the table, then combed her fingers through her short hair.

“I don’t understand why you wanted me to come downtown,” he said. “I’ve already told you, I don’t know where my brother is.”

The detective pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “I know. But I wanted to meet you face-to-face.”

“You could’ve come to see
me
, Detective Reynolds.”

She acknowledged his point with a nod. “But then we would have been on your territory.”

Her point-blank honesty surprised him.

“You can call me Livy.” She opened the folder. “And thanks for autographing
Dead Men Don’t Lie.
I feel like I already know you through your writing, anyway.”

Interview Technique 101. Create a sense of familiarity with the suspect’s brother.
Wait.
“You’re that Livy?”

She nodded.

Taylor’s
good
friend, and if he were a betting man, he’d bet she had shared more than just basic information. Probably all her biases. He leaned forward. “I really don’t know where Scott is. I do know he’s in trouble, but I’m not sure it’s of his own making. I think he’s being framed.”

“Taylor thought you might say that. Who would frame him?”

“Someone who has a grudge against her.”

The detective seemed to consider his point. “You could be right. From Taylor’s assessment of him, your brother is too smart to charge a bracelet to his account then send it to her with a death threat. Except, there’s Scott’s presence in Newton and the Memphis postmark on the envelope. And then there’s
my
victim. He has words with your brother, they almost come to blows, and an hour later, the guy is dead.”

“That could be a coincidence. But someone is framing him for the attack on Taylor.” The detective raised her eyebrows, and Nick shifted in his chair. The scenario the detective described sounded like the plot of one of his books. “What’s Scott’s motive?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s a psychopath—”

“No!” Nick’s hands curled into fists on the table. “My brother is a sweet, gentle kid.”

“How do you know?” Detective Reynolds folded her arms across her chest. “I understand you haven’t seen him in several years.”

“Only two and a half years.” Nick reined in his emotions. “Look, I’m sorry for my outburst. But I raised Scott for six years. He has a tender heart. He couldn’t do what you’re accusing him of.”

“Does your brother know how lucky he is to have an advocate
like you?” She sighed. “We’re going in circles, so I won’t keep you any longer. If Scott contacts you, would you give me a call?”

Unsure of whether he would or not, Nick remained silent.

“Don’t try to handle this yourself. You’re not a cop.” Then Livy smiled. “But, if you’re anything like the characters you write about, I know you’ll do the right thing. Thank you for coming by.”

Detective Reynolds was good, but he wasn’t quite ready to be dismissed. Nick held up his hand. “Wait. The victim. How did Scott know him?”

“Albert Duncan Ross frequented the place where Scott had worked for the past two weeks. Movies 2 Go.” Livy’s eyes questioned him. “I understand your brother receives a substantial allowance from a trust fund. Do you know why he’d be working?”

Nick flared his nostrils. “Because he blows his money on drugs and booze before the month is over?”

Taylor stacked the dirty lunch plates on the counter. The restlessness inside her was like an itch that needed scratching. Jonathan hadn’t come to lunch, and that talk still loomed before her. Maybe meeting with Livy and searching for her dad’s records would help soothe the itch. “I’ll be going in to Memphis later to see Livy.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

Taylor nodded and put the mustard jar in the refrigerator, marveling at how easily she’d slipped into the routine of mundane Martin family life. But mundane was better any day than constantly looking over her shoulder. At least she wasn’t alone.

She leaned against the marble countertop. “I forgot to tell you last night, but I like your haircut.”

“Thanks. It’s easier.” Her mom filled the sink with sudsy water.

Was that a blush creeping over her mom’s cheeks? Puzzled, she grabbed a drying cloth, and they fell into a quiet rhythm of Mom washing and Taylor drying, just like old times. The kitchen had always been her favorite room. Something about the way the win
dows let in the light, bouncing against the warm maple cabinets and the light sage-green walls.

Her mom broke the silence. “You’ve been awfully quiet since you got home. Anything wrong?”

“It’s been a tough year.” She had to be careful what she discussed with Mom. She definitely couldn’t mention Dad. Taylor never knew how she would react. The last time she asked something about him, her mom ended up in tears. And any hint of danger and there’d be no let up of pressure to come home—where it was safe. Sometimes, Mom created her own reality and didn’t hear anything to the contrary.

Her mother dunked the last plate into the suds. “I’m sorry about Michael. He seemed like a nice young man. Want to talk about it?”

Taylor reached for the plate as her mom rinsed it. “There’s not much to say. Michael said I didn’t need him, and he found someone who did.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“Me too.” Taylor rubbed the middle of the plate with a vengeance. “I don’t get it. I didn’t know I was supposed to
need
him. I thought marriage was about love.”

“Oh, Taylor.” Her mom dried her hands. “Marriage is about love, but a man’s definition is often different from a woman’s. I imagine Michael wanted to be your knight in shining armor.”

Taylor snorted. “No wonder our relationship was doomed. I don’t need someone to take care of me or rescue me. I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, you can. I just wish your father had been here and you could’ve seen what—”

“Don’t! I needed him, and he left, and it hurt. No one will ever do that to me again.”

Her mother took her hand. “Your father didn’t reject you. For whatever reason he left, I promise, it wasn’t about you.”

Taylor stared at her mom. “Do you know what happened to him? Where he is?”

Her mother paled. “No, of course not . . . Just don’t let his absence keep you from finding love.”

“I’m not looking for love.” After Michael, she wouldn’t trust her judgment if she found someone. Nick Sinclair and his chiseled jaw and broad shoulders materialized in her thoughts. She shook away his image.

“Honey,” Mom said, “the right person is out there, and God will bring him into your life at the right time.”

Her mother sounded like Sheriff Atkins. Taylor squeezed out the drying cloth and spread it across the drainer to dry. “Ever read Nicholas Sinclair’s books?”

Her mom gave her the “we’re not done with this discussion” look. Taylor ignored it and waited.

“He’s one of my favorite authors. I caught his interview on
A.M.
News
recently.”

“Really? Would you like to have an autographed book?”

“Of course I’d like one.”

“Wait right here.” Taylor hurried to her bedroom and retrieved Nick’s book. Her mom beamed when she put it into her hands.

“How did you get this?”

“Oh, I—”

The back door scraped open, and she glanced toward it, expecting her uncle. The man entering the kitchen bore no resemblance to Jonathan.

“Mail, Ms. Martin.” The lanky farmhand wasn’t looking at her mother as he waved a large envelope and several business-sized letters. His scrutiny sent a shiver down Taylor’s back.

“Thanks, Pete. Would you mind putting it in the office? I’ll have you a glass of iced tea waiting.” Her mother nodded toward Taylor. “You remember Pete Connelly?”

Pete? From high school? What happened to the skinny little runt the older boys always picked on? This Pete stood a menacing six-one with biceps that strained against his white T-shirt and a buzz haircut. Suppressing a shiver, she folded her arms across her
chest as his black eyes traveled the length of her body and then back to her face.

“Good to see you again, Taylor.” He tipped his head.

Her eyes narrowed as he sauntered toward her mother’s office. She didn’t like the way he stared at her any better now than in the past. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s staying in that little camper of Jonathan’s. Works off and on for your uncle. The rest of the time he works for Ethan.” Ice cracked as her mom poured tea into a tall glass.

“Ethan?”

“Your uncle’s longtime friend and business associate. Ethan Trask. He’s an attorney. Do you remember him?”

“Mmm, somewhat. Tall? Good looking? Something about magic?”

“That’s Ethan. They were college roommates.” Her mom shot Taylor a curious glance. “But it was such a long time ago that he and Jonathan did magic tricks. I’m surprised you remember that.”

Taylor had a vague recollection of being a flower girl at his wedding, and a marriage she didn’t remember lasting too long. “Did he ever remarry?”

“Uh, no.”

An inflection in her mother’s voice caught Taylor’s ear. “Tell me more about Ethan.”

Her mom’s cheeks reddened. “Well, he and Jonathan have adjoining offices in downtown Memphis, and Jonathan keeps the books for several of Ethan’s trust accounts—”

“I meant personally.”

The redness deepened, but before she could answer, Pete returned. “Here’s your tea.” She handed him the glass, avoiding Taylor’s eyes.

“Thank you, Ms. Allison. It’s hot out there.”

“Did Jonathan finish the tractor repairs?”

“Yes, ma’am. He wants to make a few rounds, and then I’ll finish baling.” Ice clinked against the glass as he drained it and set it on the counter before turning to Taylor. “Are you home for good?”

“Just for the summer. I heard you left town after high school.”

He rocked back on his feet, an amused gleam in his eye. “I come and go.” Then he nodded at her mom. “I better check on Jonathan.”

The door banged shut, and she wanted to bolt it behind him. “Does he always just barge in?”

Her mom shrugged off her question. “Sure. Pete’s worked here off and on for quite a while. You don’t like him?”

“He’s—” She caught the word
pervert
before it shot from her mouth. He’d never actually done anything in high school except leer at her. But she’d always felt him undressing her with his eyes. “He creeps me out.” She’d make it her business to stay out of his way.

“Taylor, it’s not like you to be judgmental. Especially with someone who’s had it hard all his life.”

Her mom didn’t know the same Pete Connelly that Taylor knew.

The tractor clattered by, and Taylor peered out the window as her uncle made a round on the field. Every few yards the baler dropped a rectangle of hay. Soon, hundreds of hay bales would dot the field, a scene she’d seen time and again. “You haven’t said much about Jonathan and the land deal. Have you decided how you’ll vote about selling it?”

Her mother didn’t answer right away. Misgiving grew in Taylor’s mind. “You aren’t thinking about selling, are you?”

Mom sighed. “I don’t know . . . I would hate to see the old home place go.” She smoothed her hands on her pants. “We need to talk.”

Uh-oh. Taylor knew that drill. Anytime her mother wanted a serious discussion, it began with those words, moved to the kitchen table, and usually ended with Taylor doing something she didn’t want to do. She took her usual chair. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it last night.”

“No need to go to bed stewing about something that can wait until morning.”

Taylor recognized one of Granna Martin’s old sayings. “Why would you sell? The land’s been in the family forever.”

“It’s only land, Taylor, and a million dollars is a million dollars.” She took the chair opposite Taylor.

Taylor pressed her fingertips together. “Is it worth dividing the family over? You know Chase doesn’t want to sell. Even Dad would never agree to it.”

“I know, but your dad’s not here. If we do accept the offer, I plan to sell this house and move into town.”

“What?” Her mother couldn’t sell this house. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to talk about it last night.

“This place is a constant reminder of what I don’t have.”

Taylor rocked back in her chair. She didn’t always consider how her father’s desertion had affected her mother’s life. Her heart sank. And she’d certainly been no help. So anxious to get away from home, then staying away for nine years. Even though getting her education consumed her for so many years, she should have taken the time to come home.
But Mom had Chase and Abby.
The guilt didn’t ease. She’d have to come home more often.