Son of the Enemy (2 page)

“I make a great dessert.”
In and out of bed
, he was tempted to say.

A gust of wind blew Hannah’s hair into a tangle around her face, and she raised a hand to push it back. At the same time she shifted her path slightly, putting more space between them. “The book isn’t about me, John. It’s about Arthur and the Grange School.”

John closed the gap as though he didn’t realize what she was trying to do. “True, but Arthur doesn’t run the school anymore. You do. Readers will want to know who you are.”

“The readers. Uh-huh.”

After a few steps she suddenly stopped walking, and John fully expected her to turn around and tell him to back off. For a guy who’d spent the last thirty-five years wrapping women around his little finger, this one was making him break a sweat.

For a long time she stared across the field, silent. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Did you see that?”

“What?” He automatically moved closer to her and shifted the totes to one hand, in case he had to reach across his chest to where his SIG pistol was holstered. He scanned the field and surrounding trees and saw nothing suspicious, but there was a prickling under his skin he’d been trained not to ignore. Even though he was on leave, FBI agents were expected to carry a firearm, but he sure as hell wouldn’t reveal it unless he was certain the threat was real.

Hannah hadn’t moved. He listened, but the only sound was the wind rustling the bare branches. This close to her, he caught the scent of lilacs and felt something stir inside him. Had Sharon Duncan smelled of lilacs?

“It was probably nothing,” she said after several moments. She swallowed hard, then started walking. Her pace was slower now, as though she wasn’t quite so eager to get home anymore.

“What did you see?” he asked, continuing to scan as they walked.

“I’m not sure. Probably a deer.”

They were close to the edge of the field, and he could see the dim glow of a porch light through a thick stand of trees. “Is that your house, through there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll check around outside. If there
is
someone—”

“I’m sure it was an animal,” she said. “I can take those bags now.”

“I’d rather walk you right to your door. You know, just in case.”

“That’s really not necessary. I’m a big girl.”

Sure, she was. A big girl who had watched her mother get stabbed to death when she was six.

Who was holding the knife, Hannah? What did you see?

“Well, then, I’ll stand right here and wait until I hear a door slam.” He wasn’t going anywhere until she was inside and had turned on some lights. Maybe after that he’d poke around a bit, to make sure all was well.

“If it makes you feel better,” she said. “But it really isn’t necessary.”

“See you Monday, then.”

She grabbed the totes from him, murmured good night and disappeared into the trees.

Hannah locked the door behind her, flipped on the light and dumped her bags on the couch. Then she headed straight into her tiny kitchen, poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and took a long, steadying sip. At least there were no dead squirrels tonight, lying by her porch steps like a gift from some predator. But something was out there.

Or someone.

Don’t give in to the fear.

She was inside now and the door was locked. At six thirty Thornton would pick her up, leaving less than an hour to pull herself together. She had to shower and make herself up and pull on one of the gowns from the Junior League thrift shop. What was it tonight? Some fundraiser. They all blended together.

John Emerson’s face swam into her consciousness. He had stared at her in her office like she was some kind of apparition. It had felt as though he could reach inside her, if he wanted to, and touch the raw wound at her core. She rubbed at her solar plexus, deeply unsettled by the sensation.

Crazy.

She carried her wine into the living room and knelt down to build a fire. She had no idea what to make of the man. He didn’t seem dangerous, but he didn’t exactly exude honesty, either. His looks were certainly striking enough to hide behind. If not for that weird connection she’d felt, she could focus on the fact that he was too handsome not to know it, and dismiss him as just another guy who thought he was God’s gift to women.

I make a great dessert.

No doubt.

“Pretty damn sure of yourself, Emerson,” she muttered, and concentrated on balling up newspaper and shoving it under the grate. As always, her gaze kept straying to the dark hallway that led to her bedroom and tiny spare room. Once the fire was going and the wine had penetrated her gray matter, she would venture back there and turn on all the lights.

She struck a match and torched the newspaper.
I’ll be fine
, she told herself. It calmed her to kneel on the hearth and watch the flames spread and catch, first the tiny bits of kindling, then the logs, while she sipped her wine. This was her ritual in the dark months when she jumped at shadows and woke up sobbing in the night.

And felt eyes on her. Watching her.

Her fingertips traced the outline of the card in her pocket, sending a chill skittering down her spine. She wrapped her hand around the cast-iron poker and stood. Fear, like an obsessed lover, gripped her throat and hissed softly in her ear,
You can never leave me behind.

A couple of deep breaths later, she crossed the hall and flipped the wall switch in her bedroom. The lamp on her nightstand flooded the room with warm yellow light, the sight of her unmade bed reminding her of all the sleep she hadn’t been getting lately. Last night something, some sound, had woken her, and she hadn’t gotten back to sleep until just before her alarm went off, at which point she’d drifted off again and barely made it to school on time. Other nights it was bad dreams that woke her, or the irrational sense that someone was in the room with her.

Those nights were the worst.

Those were the nights she lay still under the covers, too scared to move, or even to breathe, until she was convinced the creaking floorboards were just the old cottage settling. Then she would reach over and flip on the lamp. But in that moment between reaching for the lamp and when light flooded the room, she experienced a terror so deep, so primal, she was unable to think. The tune of an old nursery rhyme played in her head, over and over.

London Bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down…

Now, armed with a half-empty glass of wine and a fireplace poker, she checked under her bed, in the closet and the attached bathroom, then went next door to her office, flipped on the light and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was as she’d left it that morning. She mentally added another day to the long list of days when no one had come into her house to kill her—and called herself an idiot for putting herself through this absurd exercise every time she walked into the house after dark.

She opened the top drawer of her desk, slipped the card out of her pocket and placed it inside. It was signed simply B, like the others. At first she’d assumed the roses were from Thornton. B for Bradshaw. But they hadn’t been, and the notes… She closed the drawer and rubbed her arms. Not important. Someone’s idea of a joke. She went back into the living room and stood by the fire to recite her affirmations.

“I am not my mother,” she began, poking at the logs, sending up sparks. “No one wants to kill me. I am strong and independent and safe. I will not give in to my irrational fears. I do not need a man to protect me.” Afterward, as always, the last affirmation—the one she didn’t tell the shrinks about, not even Geoffrey, even after they were lovers—rose unbidden from that dark, secret place inside her, that black, black hole filled with terrifying, blurry images and words she couldn’t remember.

“I will never trust a man who says he loves me.”

Chapter Two

John thundered into the gravel lot and parked his Harley Davidson facing the side windows of Grange Hall. From this angle someone could easily see it from a window. This baby was his pride and joy, and he wasn’t interested in some budding delinquent taking off on it.

Took one to know one.

He yanked off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. The roar of the bike had attracted a lot of attention from the kids hanging out on the benches and picnic tables scattered around the perimeter of the large central lawn. The day was mild and sunny, the light snow that had fallen on Friday night all but gone. He smiled and held up a hand in greeting. A few kids did the same. Then a couple of boys strolled over to where he was taking his time cleaning his aviator sunglasses on his shirt.

“Morning,” he said.

“Cool bike,” one boy said. He had wheat-colored hair cut short, a mild case of acne and pants so big he’d pulled them up twice on the walk over. “Looks new.”

“I’ve had it about six months,” John said.

“Happy with it?”

“No, it sucks,” the second boy said. “You doofus. What do you think?” This one, a taller kid with a backward baseball hat and a torn Nirvana tee shirt, turned to John. “I bet riding that thing’s better than sex, right?”

John chuckled. “I wouldn’t go
that
far.” The boys grinned and moved closer. John figured them to be around fourteen.

“Care if I sit on it?” Big Pants asked.

“Help yourself.”

“Sweet.” The kid had to pull his pants way up so he could lift his leg over the seat. He grabbed the handlebar grips, leaned forward so his nose was an inch from the gas tank and made gunning sounds.

Nirvana Boy poked his leg. “My turn.”

“No way, man, I just got on.”

John’s eyes were drawn to a slim figure in corduroys and a thick gray turtleneck crossing the lawn at a brisk pace. Hannah could have passed for one of the kids, if not for the straightness of her spine and the confident stride. A shiver ran through him at the sight of her.

“That’s Hannah,” Big Pants said, and John realized he’d been staring at her.

“Hannah’s cool,” Nirvana Boy said. He shoved at Big Pants. “Get off, douche bag.”

Big Pants climbed off. “Tell him the truth, Peter. You think she’s hot.”

“Fuck you. Like you don’t?”

“Keep an eye on her for me,” John said, nodding toward the Harley. He slipped his sunglasses into his jacket pocket and followed Hannah across the lawn into a tiny clapboard house painted lime green. He trailed her through a bright red door, up a flight of purple stairs and into a small room crammed with easels, canvases and shelves of paints, jars and rags.

Hannah was crouched beside a boy with long dreadlocks who was curled up, apparently asleep, in the corner. A very thin woman with light brown skin and large silver hoop earrings was on her knees beside her.

“What happened?” he asked.

Both women turned to him, and Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh…John,” she said, as though she’d forgotten he was coming. “Hello. Um…why don’t you go ahead and wait in my office? Larissa, could you—?”

He squatted beside them. “Is he okay?”

Hannah sighed heavily. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

John grabbed the boy’s wrist and felt for a pulse. It was slow and even. “Is he on any medication that makes him sleepy?”

Her expression had set into a worried frown. “If you count self-medication, yeah. Let’s try pulling him up. If that doesn’t work, we’ll call an ambulance.”

“That ought to make his daddy real happy,” Larissa said.

“I’ll do it,” John said. He tugged on the boy’s arm.

The second his head lifted off the floor, the boy began to come around. When he realized someone was pulling him up, he yanked his arm away and sat with his back to the wall.

Larissa stood. “He’s all yours, Hannah.” She turned arresting turquoise eyes to John and held his gaze for a couple of seconds, then gave him a coy smile on her way out the door.

“Why are you so tired, Christian?” Hannah asked the boy.

He shrugged. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Uh-huh. What did you take this morning? And don’t tell me nothing, because you’re stoned out of your mind.”

Christian’s remaining brain cells must have suddenly registered that there was someone else in the room besides him and Hannah. He turned to John. “You a cop?”

“No.” John had to admire the kid’s instincts. “But I’d be happy to call one.”

Hannah shot him a look and turned back to Christian. “He’s writing a book about the school.”

“Oh, shit. If my father reads about this he’ll kill me. I’ll never get into college and it’ll fuck up my life.”

“I think you’re doing a pretty good job of that all by yourself,” Hannah said. “I’m going to have to get your parents in for another conference.”

Christian snorted. “Go ahead. My dad’ll just yell at you like he did last time.”

John bit his tongue hard. Hannah tried to hide her frustration, but it was there in her eyes. “Go to class,” she said. “We’ll talk later. Have you eaten anything today?”

Christian shook his head. Hannah reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. “Get some trail mix from the vending machine. No candy.”

“Thanks, Hannah.”

When Christian left, John found he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “That kid is a master manipulator. He knows exactly which of your buttons to press to get what he wants.”

Those golden eyes flashed, but she kept her tone even. “You’re here as an observer, John, not an amateur psychologist.”

“I’ve had training in psychology.”

“Well, Christian has his own psychologist. And I don’t need one at the moment.”

“I was a lot like him when I was a kid,” John said. “Strong willed and arrogant. I used to charm the assistant principal into letting me off the hook every time I got in trouble. What I really needed was a kick in the ass.”

“Well, we don’t kick ass around here. That’s what they do in military school. We’re more about mutual respect and understanding. Be sure to include that in your book.”

She started to brush by him and he caught her by the arm, knowing it was a bold move, but wanting to get her used to his touch. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away.