Stonebrook Cottage (6 page)

Susanna laughed. "Well, if it's a question of rock heads, you fit right in, Kara. Honestly.
Sam?
What were you
thinking?
" She held up a hand, stopping Kara from answering. "Never mind. You weren't thinking."

"What happened was just as much my responsibility as Sam's."

"Jack won't see it that way."

An understatement. "He doesn't suspect—"

"No. He hasn't thrown Sam out a window." Susanna dropped her arms, shaking her head with affection. "You were away a long time, Kara. A part of Jack still sees you as his naive little sister, not an experienced, thirty-four-year-old professional."

Not so experienced when it came to sex, Kara thought, stifling a surge of awkwardness. At least Sam didn't know
how
inexperienced. "Jack can mind his own damn business. I haven't seen or heard from Sam since we—since the opening." She paused, the heat settling over her, making her feel claustrophobic, unable to breathe. "It's over."

Susanna eyed her sister-in-law knowingly, skeptically. "Nothing's over. I saw you two tonight, Kara. Don't kid yourself." She pulled open Kara's car door, touched her shoulder gently. "Go on. See about those kids. I hope they're back in their beds at the ranch by now. Jack's getting ready to saddle up and go over there—"

"He doesn't have to."

"I wouldn't try to tell him what he has to and doesn't have to do right now. He's on a tear."

"What about Sam?"

"Ditto, I would think."

Kara nodded, holding back sudden tears. Nausea burned up into her throat, cloying, bringing a tremble to her knees. Maybe it wasn't nausea—maybe it was fear. But she rallied, easing behind the wheel of her car. "They're scrappers, those two." She hesitated. "Su-sanna—I don't have to ask you to keep this conversation between us, do I?"

"Absolutely not. Jack's mad enough as it is about the kids and this bluebird theory."

It was a ninety-mile drive back to Austin, an hour and a half for Kara to obsess on where Henry and Lillian could be, the dangers they could encounter, whatever the hell had possessed them to run off. The clear, deep water of the ranch's lake, the possibilities of rabid animals, hundreds of acres of trails and hills, reckless drivers, pedophiles—the list of dangers was endless. It didn't matter that they were smart, clever or rich, that they'd run off deliberately. They were
kids.

And Sam and Jack were on the case. Her fault.

God, what was she to do about Sam Temple?

"Nothing," she told herself as she pulled into her short driveway. There was nothing for her to do because he was running as fast from their weekend together as she was.

She locked her car door and headed up the short walk to the front porch of the little Craftsman-style bungalow she'd bought in Hyde Park not long after she'd moved to Austin last September. It was just a few blocks from the historic house Susanna's parents were renovating, another few blocks from their art gallery. Kara liked the tree-lined streets and diversity of the neighborhood, so different from the 1830s house she'd rented in a Hartford suburb on the west side of the Connecticut River. She'd never bought property in Connecticut. That should have been a sign to her, but it wasn't—it took Big Mike to get her finally to admit it was time to go back home.

She'd met him in law school, on a weekend visit with Allyson and Lawrence to the Stockwell Farm. Her friends were deeply in love, the twenty-year age difference never seeming to matter to either of them.

Big Mike was already a force in Connecticut politics, wealthy, blueblood Lawrence Stockwell an unlikely friend and ally. Lawrence had guessed Kara and Mike Parisi would hit it off, and they had. When Big Mike said something factually incorrect about the law, Kara corrected him, arguing her point with all the hubris of a first-year law student—Mike insisted it was because she was a stubborn Texan, too. They became instant friends. He was her mentor on so many things, but not politics—she wasn't interested. She wouldn't even tell him whether she'd voted for him.

When June, Big Mike's wife, was charged with driving while intoxicated, he asked Kara to take the case, and agreed when she insisted she do it her way and he stay out of it. June admitted to her alcoholism and entered treatment. Mike stepped back and let his wife, whom he loved so much, take responsibility for her recovery. The incident could have undermined his friendship with Kara, but instead it deepened it.

June died six years ago, and not until he came out and told her did it occur to Kara that Big Mike was half in love with her.

He'd tried to make light of his admission. "Christ, don't tell me you're going to fall for Hatch, after all."

"Hatch? He doesn't have a thing for me."

"Ha."

Mike Parisi and Hatch Corrigan. Instead, she'd ended up in bed with Sam Temple.

This, she thought, was why she had her problems with men.

Mike had always known she'd go back to Texas. "No bluebonnets in Connecticut," he'd say, then pull up every stupid stereotype he could think of about Texas and Texans, just to goad her—just to make her realize she was chronically homesick.

Maybe he'd known telling her he was in love with her would seal the deal, his way of making sure she didn't get cold feet. "You have demons to lay to rest, Kara," he'd told her, his worn, lived-in face without any hint of humor, "and you can't do it here. You need to go home."

In her months back in Texas, she'd only managed to stir up new demons. She hadn't laid any of the old ones to rest.

The night air was still hot, without even a hint of a breeze. Her little house had a decent front yard that needed reseeding and a front porch that needed scraping and painting—well, the place was a fixer-upper. She didn't know why she'd bought it. Why not a brand-new condo? She didn't have time to cook, never mind scrape paint and strip hardwood floors. The previous owners had kept the place clean and tidy, maintaining the original woodwork and floor plan, giving the house, as her Realtor had put it, potential.

She heard someone laughing down the street, music from a nearby house. She unlocked her front door, feeling less panicked. If she didn't hear anything more tonight, she'd call Allyson in the morning and drive out to the ranch herself. She knew she wouldn't sleep.

When she pushed open her door, the cool air from inside washed over her, but she stopped abruptly, hearing something. And when she glanced in her living room, there on the floor, eating microwave popcorn and watching television, were Henry and Lillian Stockwell.

* * *

The missing children of the governor of Connecticut looked up at Kara from their bags of popcorn. They were blond, blue-eyed and well mannered for eleven and twelve. Even sweaty and tired, they were obviously well off. They had on neat khaki shorts and polo shirts, and Lillian had tied a western-style red bandanna on the end of her single long braid, wisps of white-blond hair sticking out of it. Henry had dirt smudges on his chin.

He spoke first, his tone everyday casual. "Hi, Aunt Kara. We found your spare key under a flowerpot."

"
I
found it," Lillian said. "Henry was looking under the doormat."

"Does your mother know where you are?" Kara walked into the living room from the small entry and raked a hand through her hair, debating how to handle the situation. "How did you get here? What did you do, hide in a hay wagon? Steal a horse? Come on, you two. Fess up."

"We took the ranch shuttle to the Austin airport," Henry replied calmly. "It makes the trip twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon."

"The shuttle? How? Didn't anyone ask questions?"

He shrugged. "We were prepared."

Lillian flipped her braid over one shoulder. "Henry arranged everything on the camp computer—he even printed out a form we needed. The driver thought we were meeting Mom. When we got to the airport, we pretended to see her and jumped out with our backpacks. It was easy."

"It's not like we're little kids," her brother added.

Kara stared at the two of them. "You mean you conned your way out here. At the very least you owe this poor driver an apology." She could think of two Texas Rangers who'd be interested in the kids' story. "How did you get from the airport to my house?"

"Taxi," Henry said.

"When?"

"A little while ago." His chin was thrust up at her, as if he was daring her to try to pin him down to an exact time or tell him he'd done anything seriously wrong.

Kara paced in her small living room, its cozy fabrics and woods having no soothing effect on her. The kids' backpacks were leaning up against her couch, unzipped, water bottles and CD players poking out. Who wouldn't believe anything they said?

"Did the cab take you to my door?" she asked.

Henry stretched out his legs and dipped his hand into his popcorn bag. "We had him drop us off on the corner."

That wouldn't divert Jack and Sam for half a second. "You left a hell of a trail. I'm surprised I got here before the police. You know they're bound to be looking for you by now, don't you?" She groaned at the mess these kids had made for themselves. And they no doubt thought they were so smart. "You're calling your mother
right now.
"

Lillian glanced at her brother, and his mouth drew into a straight, grim line. "She knows we're here."

"No, she doesn't. I talked to her earlier—"

"Then she lied to you because someone was listening and she couldn't tell you the truth." Henry gazed up defiantly, Lillian following his lead. Given her years as a criminal defense attorney, Kara could sense fear behind defiance, bravado, loud, false protests of inno-cence—and she did now, with her godchildren. There was a quaver to his voice when Henry went on. "Mom told us we had to get out of the ranch as fast as possible and go to you. She couldn't come for us. We had to get away on our own. She knew we could do it."

"Henry. Lillian." Kara continued to pace, her head pounding. The smell of popcorn turned her stomach. "Your mother would not have asked you to run away like that. No one in their right mind would. She'd call me and have me go pick you up—"

"She
didn't,
" Lillian said.

Kara sighed. "You two have put me in a hell of a position," she said, not unkindly.

"We know." Henry spoke softly, but his eyes—a clear, pale blue almost identical to his father's—grew wide and serious. "Aunt Kara, we're in trouble."

Lillian nodded, gulping for air. "Big trouble."

There was no bravado now, no pride in having slipped off to Austin on their own, with no one the wiser. Kara stopped pacing, staying on her feet as she waited for them to continue. Their fear was palpable.

"That's why Mom's acting so weird," Henry said.

Lillian reached into her backpack and withdrew the first of the Harry Potter books, its cover greasy and torn. She opened up to a page marked with a twig and stared down at it, her braid flopping down her front, hands greasy from the popcorn.

"Mom sent us a letter to give to you." Henry unzipped the outer pocket of his backpack and pulled out a grimy water bottle, a CD player, two fruit-bar wrappers, a compass and, finally, a limp, rumpled envelope. He handed it to Kara. She noticed it was sealed, no postmark. He said, "She put it in with other stuff she sent down for us. We didn't read it."

Kara sat on the edge of an overstuffed armchair a few feet from her godchildren. She'd gone to a store decorator with the dimensions and style of her living room and said go to it. She liked to think she'd have time one day to fuss with proper renovations and decorating, but this was her life, she thought. Here she was, listening to two middle-schoolers defend their inexplicable actions.

Henry had always been precocious and quiet, skilled at getting people to do what he wanted them to do without them even realizing it. He wasn't manipulative so much as an effective negotiator, always certain of what he wanted the outcome to be. In this case, apparently, it was to convince his godmother that he and his sister had run away with their mother's permission because they all were in big trouble.

Kara recognized the heavy cream-colored stock and dark green ink, the elegant lettering, of Allyson's personal stationery. Nice touch. The letter inside was handwritten. Smart. If it had been typed, she'd have nailed Henry and Lillian immediately. The handwriting was similar enough to Allyson's to pass initial muster, and whoever had done the writing had even thought to use her signature black fountain pen. Kara still wasn't willing to declare the letter genuine. She read skeptically: Dear Kara,

I know this will come as a shock, but you're the only one I can trust right now. Henry and Lillian are in grave danger. We all are. I'll explain everything when I see you. Please take them to Stonebrook Cottage and wait for me there. Tell no one! Don't call me. It's too dangerous. I'll come to you. Please, Kara. I'm trusting you with my children. I have no other choice.

Please believe what they tell you and do as they ask. I'll see you soon. Love, Allyson

When she finished, Kara quelled any sense of panic or urgency she felt in response to the dramatic words she'd read. She had to stay calm and reasonably objective, and above all, she had to think. At the very least, she had a tricky situation and two troubled kids on her hands. But if the letter
was
genuinely from Allyson, it was a dangerous situation, confusing, mystifying, il-logical…and, still, she had two troubled kids to see to.

Stonebrook Cottage was located at the end of a dirt road on the southern border of Stockwell Farm. Allyson owned it, and Kara had stayed there a number of times during her years up north.

"Henry, Lillian. Listen to me." Kara refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. "If this is a forgery, I'm not going to be happy about it. Do you understand?"

They nodded solemnly, their expressions serious, frightened, tired.

Kara was unmoved. These were her godchildren, and she loved them, but she couldn't let that lower her defenses. "What grades did you get in English?" she asked. "You first, Henry."