Stolen: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (37 page)

The
E
she mentioned, yeah, she
knew
who that was. Elliot … poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

Rolling a pen back and forth between her fingers, she thought about the unfinished business she’d left behind in Alaska. If she’d
finished
it then, he’d be back there, dealing with the mess she’d wanted to leave. Lorna. The store. Her heart gave a wistful little sigh. She should have just done it, really. It wasn’t as if anybody could have traced it to her. Not really.

Now they were heading to Arizona?

Doing God knows what … looking for God knows what. Looking for …

Swearing, she shoved up from her chair and started to pace. She
knew
what Shay was looking for—what she’d always looked for. She’d made numerous references to it in her diary, even in her books, although Shay couldn’t see it as easily as
she
could.

The silly little bitch wanted answers. And she wasn’t content to look for them alone this time. She had him with her. She’d actually left Alaska and come back home. Did she need them that bad …

“No,” she muttered, reaching up and grabbing a lock of hair, absently smoothing it between her hands, over and over. Shay didn’t
need
anything, or anybody, except her. Coming here was stupid. It was only going to cause more nightmares and more problems and more sadness.

Bringing
him
along was just more proof of how fucked up Shay’s head was. Did she actually think she could handle a relationship
now
? When she hadn’t been able to hack them before?

Didn’t she remember how bad it got the last time?

“Of course, she remembers.” But remembering wasn’t enough. She had to keep trying and when she failed,
somebody would have to pick up the pieces, all over again.

“Me … it will be up to me.” She’d have to pick up the pieces, help Shay move on.

As she said it, she smiled, some peace coming to her mind. Once the world fell apart around her, Shay would realize she couldn’t do this alone.

“She’ll need me again. And I’ll be able to take care of her.”

That was all she’d ever really wanted, anyway.

Well, mostly.

TWENTY-ONE

“I’
M GLAD YOU
’
RE HERE,
” S
HAY SAID QUIETLY
.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He kissed her fingertips and then looked over at the building that sprawled out before them. The police station, like many of the buildings, was done in tones of rust and earth, sprawling out across the city block. People came and went in an unending flood. “So why are we here?”

“There was this one cop who worked my case.” Shay slid her hand up until she could grip his, squeezing tight. “I remember him … he was so kind when he talked to me, and when he was working the case, he made me a promise.”

She blew out a breath and then continued, “He told me it wouldn’t be easy to testify and that he’d understand if I couldn’t. But he also told me that if I’d stand up against my stepfather, he’d do his damnedest to make sure the man went to jail for a very long time. He kept that promise … and he came to Virna’s funeral. I saw him there, the day before I ran away. I think he knew what I was going to do. I think he knew, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

“You were just a kid, Shay. You had every right to run—it’s not like there were a lot of good things here to hold you back.”

“No.”

After Virna had died, once Jethro Abernathy was in jail, there hadn’t been much of anything for her here.

But here she was anyway.

Back in Phoenix and ready to go find a man who’d seen her at her absolute lowest …

The interior of the police station seemed terribly cold after the heat outside. She shivered, arms wrapped around herself, hunching in for warmth as she walked down the hall toward the round desk located in the middle.

Elliot reached up and in that easy, casual way of his, laid a hand on her neck. The warmth of his skin was a shock—she was so damn cold. So cold. She could remember being in this place. Too many times. All the questions. Accusations. People made the victim into the criminal and even as battered as she’d been, as young as she’d been, it had been no different with her. And that was all
before
she faced the bastard who’d destroyed her childhood.

“May I help you?”

The question came from the cop sitting behind the desk and the look on his face was anything but friendly.

“Shay …” Elliot leaned down, pressing his lips to her ear. “Shay, breathe …”

Breathe. Yeah. Good idea
, she thought as she eyed the cop just a few feet away.

He had a grim, unamused expression, and he looked as though he’d rather be doing just about anything other than talking to her. No sympathy, and for that, she was glad. Whether he’d realized she was on the verge of freaking out or not, she didn’t care.

She was tired of sympathy and understanding.

She just wanted to get this done. Without bothering to smile, she said, “I need to speak to Captain Hilliard, please.”

“Is he expecting you?” the cop asked.

“No. Just …” She paused, and then, without letting herself think, said, “Ask him if the name Jeanette Hall means anything to him.”

The cop stared at her narrowly and gestured to the seats behind them.

“Sit down. He’s in a meeting that can’t be interrupted, but he should be done in a few minutes.”

Shay sat.

And as she did, she noticed he’d picked up the phone. He wasn’t very good at being subtle. She could feel him watching her.

Elliot, too. Although his study wasn’t quite so intense, she could feel the curiosity in his eyes, the wondering questions. As he reached over and took her hand, she swung her head around to face him. His hair was tousled and getting long. He needed a haircut.

There was stubble on his cheeks and he looked tired as he rolled his head around to smile at her.

“I think Jeanette Hall was my mother,” she said, her voice sounding terribly loud in the room.

Elliot’s lids flickered but he made no other sign that he’d heard her, that he was really even listening. It made it that much easier to pretend she wasn’t really talking to him … almost like she was writing in a journal. Except …

His arm came around her, pulling her snug against him. That sense of comfort, of not being alone, that silent strength—she’d never gotten that from writing in her online diary. Had never gotten that sense of peace from anybody … except him.

Leaning into him as much as she could, she stared toward the desk, watching. Waiting.

“I don’t remember her … at least not up until recently. I don’t think you can even call what I have memories, really.” Sighing, she plucked at a loose thread
from his shirt and asked, “You know that weird déjà vu feeling, like a song you think you’ve heard, or the smell of something that seems really familiar, but not quite?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like that. The memory of her is
almost
there … something I can
almost
remember. But it’s just not there. Not yet. Not completely. And I don’t think it ever will be. I was too little when she died.”

“You’re sure she’s dead?”

Shay closed her eyes. “Pretty sure … she wouldn’t have left me. Not if she loved me, not if she’s the person I think I almost remember.”

A gentle hand stroked up, then down her spine. “Sometimes people do crazy shit.”

That lingering ache remained. Sadness. Another thing that she couldn’t completely understand. “I hear a voice in my dreams … a girl. She says Mama left us. She says the baby took her away …” Side by side with that misery was that black, awful horror. She cringed—something made her want to hide.

“Something awful happened,” she whispered.

Just then, a shiver ran down her spine and she realized she was being watched. Lifting her head, she found herself looking into a pair of familiar eyes—the color of faded denim, light blue, bracketed by lines. She suspected that many of the lines were caused by laughter … and equally as many were caused by stress.

“Detective …” She stopped, shook her head. “Captain Hilliard.”

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze lingering on the scars on her face. When he met her eyes, she saw that there was no need to introduce herself; he already knew who she was.

“You know, if it was me, I’d have them removed,” he said quietly, flicking his gaze to the scars.

Shay shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to them … and for a while, these were a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“To make myself stronger. To remember I had to hide. To remember that I’d survived hell … everything,” she murmured, absently reaching up to touch one of the narrow marks. She’d thought about having them removed. For years. But then, when life got hard, when she was lonely and scared, she’d look in the mirror and see those scars and she remembered.

After what had been done to her, there was very little she couldn’t handle.

Whatever truths awaited her here, she could face them.

“I’m here because I need some answers.”

Hilliard’s shoulders rose under the old, faded suit jacket he wore. She suspected he wore it more because he was expected to than anything else. “You do know that some of those questions you have may be things I just can’t answer.”

“Will you tell me what you can?” she whispered.

“It will be hard,” he warned her.

Shay touched the scars. “I’ve lived hard … I survived it.” Then she looked back, holding out her hand to Elliot.

She’d lived. She’d survived.

Surviving it wasn’t enough anymore. She had to get through this. And she had to do more than survive it, damn it. The last time she’d just
survived
, she’d ended up living trapped inside the prison of her memories, her fear, and her misery. She needed more than that this time around, and damn it, she was going to take it.

It was about what she’d expected. Squalid, ugly, and simple. The windows were dark and dirty and the nasty
little hellhole didn’t look like it had been cleaned in a decade.

They had lived in a place like this. After Mama died. Before Mama died, it hadn’t been so bad.

Shay … no …
Michelline
 … that was who she really was … Michelline wouldn’t remember any of that, but she did.

Michelline had been their little princess and Leslie had been Mama’s best girl. Everything had been fine. Then Mama met Jethro. She got pregnant. Even then, it wasn’t bad, but Leslie hadn’t liked it. Not at all. Because people weren’t talking to her so much and Michelline was suddenly supposed to be a helper, too. That was Leslie’s job.

And Jethro … she’d always hated him.

Something mewled and she looked down. When she saw the pitiful little black ball of fluff, her heart skipped. Sinking to her knees, Leslie scooped up the woebegone cat and cradled him to her chest. Her kitten had been white.

Right up until that night.

When Jethro had cut him open and the blood turned his pretty fur red. A scratchy tongue licked her chin. “Are you hungry, boy?”

I told you to keep that damn thing away from me …

After he’d cut it open, he’d thrown it at her. She’d been covered in the poor kitten’s blood.

Mama had died only a few days earlier.

The baby cried all the time. The one thing that made her feel a little bit better had been her kitty and he’d killed it, the cocksucker.

Another pitiful mewl and two tiny teeth sank into her hand, letting her know she’d been squeezing too tight. “Sorry about that, fella.” Leslie sniffed and then stood up, glancing back at her car. She didn’t really
have anything with her to feed him, but she couldn’t leave him here. Had to be a stray. So skinny and pitiful, no tags, and she suspected he was crawling with fleas, too.

It would be nice to have a pet again.

TWENTY-TWO

“Y
OU
’
VE READ THE INFORMATION
I
SENT YOU ABOUT
him.”

Shay gripped Elliot’s hand, focused on Hilliard’s faded blue eyes, and pretended she was just researching. That was it. Researching. She didn’t have to see
him
. No reason to, right? She did have a contact in Phoenix—it was Hilliard. She’d contacted him months after she’d fled and asked if he’d be willing to let her know if her stepfather ever showed any sign of leaving the city. He’d been happy to oblige. But she could only handle so much at one time and she wasn’t here about him.