In Close

2

David had a copy of the case files on her mother. Everything was here, from the missing-persons report to the last interview. Claire had seen some of this before, but even she hadn’t been privy to all of it. How had he come by this much information?

He must’ve gotten it from Sheriff King. Either that or he’d called in a favor from his old hunting buddy, Rusty Clegg. Rusty had been a deputy for the past six or seven years. It helped to have a friend on the force.

But what felt so strange about finding this was that David had made his own notations on many of the reports and interviews. It was almost as if he’d picked up the investigation where the sheriff had left off.

Why hadn’t he told her what he was doing? The dates on the log he’d kept correlated with the first year of their marriage and included a number of entries in the months leading up to his death. The last time he’d written anything was two days before the accident. She found detailed information on her stepfather and Leanne, plus her mother’s only sibling—a sister living in Portland, Oregon—and a complete chronology of Alana’s last movements.

Some of it Claire didn’t want to read. It brought back That Night, the longest night of her life, during which every adult she knew, including her stepfather, was out searching. She and Leanne hadn’t been allowed to leave the house. They’d waited for their mother, or some word of her, praying all the while for her safe return—to no avail. When the sun came up, their stepfather and one friend after another checked in with the bad news that they hadn’t been able to find any sign of her.

Reluctant yet determined, Claire’s eyes skimmed the handwritten log fastened to the left side of the thickest folder.

May 10: Spoke to Jason Freeman. Claims he saw Alana at the bakery between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. Watched her go in and come out carrying a bag of doughnuts while he drank a cup of coffee in the cab of Pete Newton’s truck. Jason says she got in the car with Tug and drove away. Tug confirms this in original interview. Other than Tug, Jason is the last person to see Alana.

May 12: Tried to reach Joe Kenyon.

Now there was a name, the one most often mentioned by those who theorized that Alana had been unhappy in her marriage and had gone looking for fulfillment in the arms of another man. If she’d had one affair, it was plausible she’d have more and might even have run off with whatever new lover she’d taken, right? That explained the mystery to some. But it explained nothing to Claire, who couldn’t believe her mother had ever cheated.

He wouldn’t open his door when I knocked, but Carly Ortega across the street told me Alana stopped at Joe’s house quite often. She even saw her car parked in his drive once, late at night.

Late? How could that be possible? Tug was always home at night. Alana would’ve had to slip out of bed without his noticing in order to leave the house. And why would she do that? Joe had come to cut down the diseased cottonwood tree that was about to fall onto their roof, but other than the few hours they’d spent together then, Claire couldn’t remember them ever speaking.

May 13: Tried again to get an audience with Joe Kenyon. Refused to speak to me. Prick.

David’s log went on for several pages. Figuring she’d read the rest at home, Claire switched to the other side of the folder and skimmed several interviews originally done by Sheriff Meade.

Carly wasn’t the only one who believed there was something going on between Joe Kenyon and Alana. Joe’s twin brother, Peter, thought they were involved. He insisted that he’d heard his brother take a call from Alana while they were at work one day. He said he couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could tell by the tone of Joe’s voice that it wasn’t a simple request for tree-trimming services.

Cringing, Claire dropped her flashlight in her lap. Did she really want to continue reading? This was making her sick, making her wonder if she’d really known her mother. Had Alana been leading a double life?

Claire didn’t want to suspect her, but…how much more about Joe, about Alana and Joe, could she endure?

That depended on how strongly she believed in Alana, didn’t it? Maybe Leanne had been a daddy’s girl from the moment Tug had come into their lives, during Leanne’s first year, but Claire had always preferred Alana. She trusted her mother more than to accept, on circumstantial evidence alone, that Alana was an adulteress.

Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Claire picked up the flashlight. “We’ll show them, Mom,” she promised. “We’ll show them all.”

Beneath the log, she ran across a list of typed “inconsistencies.” These didn’t appear to be written by David, but she was willing to bet he was the one who’d highlighted various passages. According to the date at the top, the list was Sheriff King’s summary after taking over from Sheriff Meade.

Tug said he was at work until he received Claire’s call. Concerned that Alana’s car was still in the drive and yet she was nowhere to be found, he left immediately.

The next part was highlighted.

Why would he be instantly worried? There’s never been a kidnapping or a murder in Pineview.

There’d been one murder since—Pat Stueben, the town Realtor—but that hadn’t yet occurred when this was written.

Unless she kept it to herself, Alana had never been threatened and wasn’t having problems with anyone. For all Tug knew, she’d walked down the block to talk to a neighbor and would be back any minute.

Was his reaction a bit too fast? There was always the threat of bears. They came around if people left out food. But no one in town, other than Isaac Morgan, who tracked and filmed wild animals for a living, had ever been attacked.

Claire’s arms and legs tingled with apprehension. Tug was normally the last person to assume the worst. Why had he reacted so quickly?

She tried to remember every word of the conversation that had passed between them when she’d called that day.

What do you mean she’s gone? she’d asked the minute she told him.

I’ve searched the whole house.

Did you check the bathrooms?

Of course.

She didn’t leave a note?

Not that I can find. You haven’t heard from her?

No. Stay there. I’m on my way.

At that point, it hadn’t occurred to Claire that her mother could be in danger. She’d expected him to say something like, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” But he hadn’t. And once he reached the house, he’d acted so tense, the same fear began to percolate through Claire. That was the first inkling she’d had that they were facing a major tragedy, and she’d taken her cue from her stepfather.

Had he already known what was wrong? Had he and Alana argued earlier, maybe when he came home for lunch? Possibly about Joe Kenyon? And had that argument gotten out of hand?

As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew things like that happened....

Chilled by the thought, she ran her free hand over the goose bumps on her arm. But it didn’t help because she found Sheriff King’s next point equally disturbing.

On the day Alana disappeared, she picked Leanne up at school at 11:15 a.m. for reason of “illness,” but someone who didn’t come to the office took her back shortly before two. The sign-in/sign-out log in the attendance office reflects this partial absence but Leanne has never mentioned that she was home for a portion of the day. And she has never said whether or not her mother was with her during that time.

“Impossible,” Claire muttered. After all the years of searching and questioning, how was it that Leanne had never spoken of missing school? Why would she keep it to herself?

There had to be a reason. Hoping it might become apparent, Claire kept reading.

If she was sick, how did she recuperate so fast?

Exactly!

At 2:00 p.m. she brought a note to the office excusing her absence and signed herself in. The attendance lady didn’t keep the note and doesn’t remember who wrote it—mother or father—but she stands by her log. When asked if she could’ve gotten the date wrong, she insists it would be almost impossible. “If that’s wrong, all the dates before it would have to be wrong, as well as the dates after.”

Another highlighted part.

All the days are accounted for and run Monday through Friday, as they should.

Stunned, Claire sat staring at the yellow circle her flashlight created on the page. What did this mean? Why had the sheriff or his deputies even thought to check with the school? At sixteen, she could be considered a suspect. Everyone close to the missing person had to be ruled out. But Leanne? She hadn’t yet had the sledding accident that broke her back, but she’d only been thirteen. What could she have done to Alana?

The discomfort of the hard floor and the scrabbling of some rodent in the corner began to bother Claire. It was too difficult to read for an extended period sitting in such an unfriendly spot, holding a heavy flashlight and trying to ignore the pack rats.

It was time to take the files home, where she could scour every interview, every note, at her leisure. No doubt David had been trying to find her mother for her. He was that kind of man. He probably hadn’t told her in case he didn’t come any closer than anyone else. He wouldn’t want to raise her hopes, only to see them dashed. Probably a smart move. He certainly seemed to have run into more questions than answers. But she loved him for making the attempt.

Relieved to be going, she closed the files. But just as she slid them into the accordion folder, a noise from below brought her head up.

What was that?

Movement? If so, whoever or whatever made that noise was definitely bigger than a rat.

She’d thought she heard footsteps when she first arrived—and there’d been no one here.

Irritated that she kept spooking herself, she climbed down the ladder. She’d just set foot on the stairs heading to the ground floor when a draft of cool air, smelling distinctly of smoke from the fireworks, swept up to meet her.

Fresh air. From outside…

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. No corresponding rustle, either.

She angled her flashlight in every direction to illuminate the dark recesses below, but the beam would only reach so far. “Anybody there?”

Silence.

Her mind conjured up the gruesome images that sometimes came to her in nightmares, images of her mother being tortured and strangled by some crazed psychopath. Most people were killed by someone in their circle of family and friends. But not all. Murders committed by strangers were among the most difficult to solve.

Was that why no one could figure out what had happened? Was her mother’s killer lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to move closer?

Half expecting the truth she’d been chasing for so long to become apparent in the most frightening way, she stood as if her feet were encased in concrete. The possibility of a violent ending didn’t escape her.

But there were no footsteps, no madman rushing toward her, no more movement.

Had she imagined the change in temperature? The noise? In such an old structure, even a slight wind caused creaks and groans.

She wasn’t convinced it was the wind, but she didn’t see how staying on the landing, holding her breath, was going to help. She needed to get out.

Tightening her grip on the files, she crept down the stairs, using her flashlight to scout for trouble—until she reached the living room. Then she aimed the beam straight ahead and ran for the door. But just as she reached it, she twisted around to look behind her.

And that was when she saw it.

A man’s booted foot.

Someone was crouching behind her mother’s old piano.

The scream curdled Isaac Morgan’s blood. He’d seen headlights pass by his place, knew it was probably Claire. It’d been a while since she’d come to her mother’s studio. He had a feeling his proximity served as a deterrent, especially since David’s death. But even the chance of coming face-to-face with him in such a private setting didn’t scare her away entirely.

He usually turned a blind eye to her visits and pretended not to notice. He understood what she’d been through, why she couldn’t let go, and felt she deserved privacy to deal with her demons.

Lord knew he preferred privacy to deal with his.

It was the second set of headlights, appearing only a few minutes later, that had drawn him out of the house. He doubted she’d bring anyone up here; she tried too hard to act as if she was fine, as if the past didn’t bother her, but it did. The amount of weight she’d lost was alarming.

Determined to investigate, he’d walked over. It was the Fourth of July, after all. The last thing he needed was a group of teenagers—teenagers who were even half as reckless as he’d been—coming up here and setting off fireworks. As dry as it’d been this summer, they could start a forest fire that would take every single cabin. But all he’d found was Claire’s Camaro. He’d been skirting the property and using his flashlight to comb through the trees in search of the second car when that scream sliced through him.

Claire!

Forgetting everything except getting to the cabin, he took off at a full run, moving much faster than he should have amid so many rocks, logs, gopher holes, pinecones and trees. With his flashlight bouncing every time his foot landed on the forest floor, the ground blurred beneath him. But he didn’t dare slow down—and that was why he never saw the tree branch that knocked him on his back.

The sudden impact left him breathless. Blinking up at the sky, he struggled to fill his lungs.

By the time he recovered and picked up his flashlight, which had gone flying, an engine roared to life on the far side of the property.

The other car. It’d gone beyond the cabin and circled behind, to an area he hadn’t yet reached.

Isaac almost changed direction. He hated that someone might’ve hurt Claire and would get away with it if he didn’t at least see the car. But if Claire was still alive and needed help, every second could matter.

The driver was tearing out of the forest as fast as possible, regardless of the damage such rough terrain might cause his vehicle. Isaac spotted a flash of taillights through the trees and wished he could see more, but he wasn’t in the best condition to follow, even if whoever was behind the wheel had been moving more slowly. Blood soaked his shirt, causing the fabric to stick to him. That branch hadn’t only knocked him down, it’d punched a hole in his chest.

But he might be in good shape compared to Claire. Afraid he was already too late, that she’d been killed as her mother had most likely been killed when they were in high school, he ignored the pain and hurried to the stoop, where he slowly pushed in the door. He wouldn’t have been able to hear her scream so clearly if she hadn’t been close....

Sure enough, there was blood at the entrance. And the door would open only partway....

Something, or someone, lay behind it.

When Claire came to, it was pitch-black and she was being carried. Where, she couldn’t tell. A man’s muscular chest provided a resting place for her head; one arm supported her back, the other her knees. She had no idea who she was with or where she was at, but she wasn’t frightened because both her surroundings and this person smelled so familiar.

David’s was the first name she thought of, but she disregarded that guess instantly. Her husband was dead. She’d had to remind herself of that every morning for the past thirteen months and had finally started to believe it, mostly because she felt so empty inside and she’d never felt empty when David was alive. Besides, David had sold insurance; he’d smelled like cologne, the occasional cigar and his briefcase. This man smelled like…soap and fir trees and wood smoke.

Where had she noticed that scent before?

With a groan, she lifted her head in an effort to see his face, but it was too dark. They were in the forest. The thick branches overhead blocked even the moon’s glow, but the beam of the flashlight he held in one hand—the hand cradling her legs—showed the ground and confirmed her location. So did the pine needles that threatened to catch in her long, curly hair as they hurried through the trees.

Why was she in the forest? Who was she with? What had happened?

Then it came to her. She’d been attacked. At her mother’s studio.

The man carrying her hadn’t reacted when she first stirred. He was too focused on getting them wherever they were going. But when she screamed and tried to get down, he dropped the flashlight.

“Shh,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? “Who are you?”

“How quickly they forget.”

The wry humor in his voice gave away his identity. This was Isaac Morgan. Of course. He lived closest. And it was no wonder she’d recognized his scent. During the two-year period when she and David had split up, when he’d attended Boise State and they’d both dated other people and been undecided about their future, she’d had sex with Isaac at least a hundred times. Maybe more. Often enough for her to have formed an addiction to his touch that hadn’t been easy to break. Even after so long, she avoided him if possible; just the sight of him could send a powerful charge through her. The memories were that good.

She raised a hand to her aching head. “Why—why’d you hit me?”

With a groan, he squatted and managed to recover the flashlight. “I didn’t hit you.”

“Who did?”

The way he sucked air through his teeth as he lifted her again suggested he was struggling to bear her weight, but she couldn’t figure out why. She weighed less now than ever, and he used to lift her up, hold her against the wall as long as he wanted while he—

Stop! She didn’t want to remember, had trained herself not to remember.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said when they were moving again.

The image of a man’s booted foot appeared in her mind. She’d seen that foot just before someone sprang at her and knocked the flashlight out of her hands.

Isaac probably had a similar pair of boots. Most men around here did. But she knew the person who’d shoved her after knocking her flashlight away hadn’t been Isaac. Any confrontation with Isaac happened head-on. The few people in Pineview who’d experienced the brunt of his temper made sure they never tangled with him again. Cynical and remote, he was indifferent to her and, as much as she’d once wanted to believe otherwise, always had been. If she needed proof she only had to remember their last encounter. When she knew David was returning from school, she’d tried to talk with Isaac, to tell him she’d developed feelings for him. She and David hadn’t promised each other anything, but they had a long history and he wasn’t seeing anyone. She’d wanted to determine how she should respond if he called her, whether or not she and Isaac had a commitment—and Isaac had let her know she’d been mistaken in thinking sex equaled love.

That night when she left his house hurt and humiliated, she swore she’d never go back. And despite the terrible cravings he’d evoked over the years—dreams that were sometimes so vivid she woke gasping with the kind of pleasure he’d given her—she’d kept that promise so she could have a more meaningful relationship with David.

And it’d been worth it. Maybe sex with David hadn’t been as all-consuming, as raw, as it was with Isaac. Maybe she missed that bone-melting intensity. But David had made up for it by giving her so much more. Moody, unpredictable men were excellent bait, but the women who bit down on that hook were fools.

She couldn’t believe she’d ever hoped for a commitment from Isaac. He wasn’t the type to settle down. She’d known that from the beginning. Although they’d never been close friends, she and David had gone to school with him—they’d been in the same grade—so she’d seen firsthand how standoffish he could be. Ever since she could remember, he’d walked around with a camera, always on the other side of the lens, filming life but removed from it. And, if she’d forgotten how hard it was to connect with him, practically anyone in Pineview could remind her, including the women who’d tried to capture his heart and failed just as miserably.

“Where are…where are you taking me?” She had to make an effort to form coherent sentences. But if she was in Isaac’s arms again, it was definitely time to speak up, to get away if she could.

“Hold still.”

Great. He was being his typical accommodating self. But when he stopped to adjust his grip on her, she knew he’d spoken curtly from necessity. What was wrong with him? He’d never had any trouble carrying her before. Since their sexual heyday he’d become even more muscular, which should be making this easier....

“Are you trying to…tell me you think I’ve gotten fat?”

“I’m trying to tell you that it hurts like hell every time you move.”

Suddenly she realized she might not have been the only one who’d had a run-in with her attacker. “The man who hit me…he didn’t…shoot you or…or anything, did he?”

Obviously intent on making progress, he didn’t respond.

“Hello?” she said.

“Just take it easy.” It came out as a command, which didn’t surprise her. He was always in charge.

On second thought, she had to admit there’d been plenty of give-and-take in the bedroom. But she couldn’t admire that without undermining her efforts to maintain some self-respect.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—there were plenty of other things to think about. Maybe he was struggling because the ground was so uneven. Or he’d been carrying her for too long.

Regardless, Claire knew she shouldn’t let herself rely on him. He was dangerous for her, probably even more dangerous now that she had such a vacuum in her life. She missed David, but David was gone and Isaac was very much alive—as alive and capable as he’d ever been. Far too many times in the past six months her thoughts had gravitated to him and how quickly he could put an end to her lonely nights. Maybe he was a cheap substitute for David, but there were times when that seemed better than nothing.

“Put me down,” she said.

He switched the flashlight to his other hand. “We’re almost…there.”

“I can walk.” She wasn’t really sure of that, but she pushed on his chest to convince him to let her go—and immediately regretted it. They both gasped as her hand touched a wet, sticky substance.