Trusting a Stranger (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Keira raced to
keep up with Calloway as he tore through the large home with easy familiarity. They hit the front door in moments, but once they were there, Calloway paused, glanced through the curtains and shook his head.

“Henry’s got a man out there in his car,” he told her. “I can see him from here.”

“Out the back, then?” Keira breathed, her throat still raw.

“Probably just as risky.”

Behind them, she could hear the thump of the three men as they fought through the small blockade.

“I’ve got an idea,” Calloway said.

He yanked on her hand, and they moved from the entryway, through the family room, then paused at the bottom of the stairs.

“C’mon!” Calloway called loudly. “The master bedroom!” Then he put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “Wait here.”

He thundered up the stairs, two at a time, his feet hitting the steps, loud and hard. When he reached the top, he turned around and tiptoed back down. Without asking permission, Calloway slid his arms around Keira and lifted her from the ground. In complete silence, he carried her into the kitchen.

Moments later, the bang of booted feet and deep voices carried through the house.

They’re free.

But Calloway ignored them as he set Keira on the countertop.

“Just a sec,” he murmured.

Keira watched in amazement as he crouched low, found a loose floorboard, lifted it, then reached into it. With a heave, he pulled on something inside and an old-fashioned trapdoor squeaked open. Calloway held it up.

“In,” he commanded. “There’s a railing on your right.”

Keira didn’t bother to argue. She stepped down into the darkness, her hand finding the railing immediately. She used it to guide her all the way to the bottom of the stairs. As she reached the floor, the light above her cut out, and the door clicked shut. In seconds, she felt Calloway reach her side. They stood there wordlessly, shoulder to shoulder, for a long minute.

“Wine cellar?” Keira finally whispered, just to break the silence.

“Man cave,” Calloway corrected, just as softly.

He moved away briefly, then there was a click, and a blue-and-yellow neon sign came to life in one corner.

Vaguely, Keira was aware that her surroundings were similar to those of Calloway’s hidden cabin. Wood panel walls and rustic decor.

Mostly, though, all she was aware of was Calloway.

It had only been two hours—maybe three—since she’d seen him. It seemed like a lifetime. She had to feel him. Touch him. Breathe him in and hold him there.

She slipped her hands around his shoulders, molded her body to his and tipped her face up expectantly. Calloway didn’t disappoint her. He pressed his palms into the small of her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and tilted down to push his lips into hers.

Calloway’s mouth was perfect.
He
was perfect. Perfectly imperfect. Perfectly
hers.

For the duration of the kiss, the world disappeared. No crazy past haunting them, no violent men hunting them.

The men. The brothers, she remembered, and pulled away reluctantly.

“Dave Stark and Drew—the man I thought I was running to—they’re
his
sons,” Keira said in a rush. “And Holly’s brothers.”

He cupped her cheek. “I know. Dave explained it.”

“So you were right,” Keira added, “About there being no coincidences.”

“Sometimes I wish I was wrong,” Calloway replied grimly.

He kissed her once more, then moved across the room toward a raised, blank space on the far wall.

“That’s just panel drywall,” he said. “I sealed up a window, and it’s still there on the other side. It comes out in the side yard.”

“You want to break through?” Keira asked. “You don’t think they’ll hear it upstairs?”

“It’s probably our only chance.”

Calloway had already snagged a hammer from the tool chest. He angled the claw under the drywall and pulled at the points where the nails had been hammered in. It was a nearly silent endeavor, and in just a few minutes, he’d freed a quarter of the drywall. When he paused to tap the edges, several pieces of the chalky material crumbled away.

“Not too bad,” he stated, sounding pleased.

The second half was even easier. The loose bits on the side Calloway had already pried off seemed to have compromised the structural integrity of the one he was taking apart now. It only took a few moments for the whole thing to come down.

The windowpane was covered in grime, and the latch squealed in protest as Calloway forced it back.

Keira sent up a hurried prayer that it would open in spite of its worse-for-wear appearance, then watched anxiously as Calloway put both hands on the glass and pushed. It resisted for only a second before it flew to the side, sending in a waft of fresh air.

Keira inhaled deeply.

“I’ll go first,” Calloway told her. “Then I’ll help you through.”

He grabbed the edge of the dirty sill, his biceps flexing as he pulled himself up. He went out quickly, then jabbed his hands back through.

Keira let his warm hands close on her wrists and drag her up. For a relieved moment, they stood toe-to-toe in the window well. It was short-lived.

Henderson’s deep, calm voice carried through the air. “And here I was, thinking you might actually get away.”

Keira looked up. All three men stood staring down at them. Drew’s eyes were full of muted fury. Dave’s were almost apologetic. And Henry’s...they were bright with anticipation.

“This is it, isn’t it?” he asked, sounding nearly gleeful.

Calloway didn’t answer, and Keira though that was a bad sign for them. And Henderson seemed to take it as encouragement, too.

“Should we go back into the house?” His question was far too pleasant.

Calloway clearly thought so, too. “Are you giving us a choice?”

“Not even a little bit,” Henderson told them. “Back the way you came.”

They all slipped through the window—first Drew, then Keira and Graham, then Dave and finally Henry Henderson.

* * *

O
NCE
THEY
WERE
in the basement, Graham stood protectively in front of Keira. His father-in-law took a slow look around the dim room.

“Amazing,” said Henry. “My wife
built
this house and I had no idea this room was down here.”

“Maybe there was a good reason for that,” Graham retorted.

Henderson shot him one of his usual impassive stares. “Yes. I’m sure there was. She probably planned on using it as a place to hide her wine. She was rather fond of it. Just like Holly.”

“You have no right to say her name,” Graham growled. “You lost that right when you took her life.”

Henry sighed. “It was never my intention to harm her physically. It wouldn’t have happened if Drew had taken care of incapacitating her properly in the first place.”

Drew spoke up. “How was I supposed to know she had such a high tolerance for prescription drugs?”

“So you’re blaming the murder on him?”

Henry shrugged. “Partially. I pulled the trigger because she got in the way. All I wanted was the painting. It was rightfully mine. But my wife somehow deemed Holly a better choice.”

How the other man could be so blasé about the murders of his own daughter and his own grandson—murders the man had just admitted to committing himself—was completely beyond Graham.

“Speaking of the painting...” Drew piped up again.

Without bothering to think about the consequences, Graham turned and swung a fist. He hit Drew straight in the face and the other man collapsed to the floor, his eyes rolled back in his head and blood dripped from his nose.

His father-in-law took a quick step toward the unconscious body, but Graham was faster. His hand shot out and caught Henry straight in the throat. He backed the older man to the far wall.

“Are you going to
do
something, Stark?” Henry asked.

The policeman shook his head. “I’d rather not.”

Graham smiled coldly. “Do you know what that is behind me?”

He watched as the man’s brown eyes—so like Holly’s, so like Sam’s—traveled up and went wide as they found the framed piece of art, sandwiched between a Budweiser ad and a Rolling Stones poster.

“That’s it,” Graham said. “The thirty-plus million-dollar painting you killed them for, you sick son of—”

“Just her,” Henderson corrected.

Graham went still. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I didn’t kill Sam,” Henry stated casually.

“That’s a lie,” Graham replied in a hoarse whisper. “I saw the blood.”

“There was blood,” Henry agreed. “Lots of blood.”

“Sam is dead.”

“He’s not. If you let me get my phone from my pocket, I’d be happy to show you.”

Graham wanted to tell the other man where he could shove his phone, but a small part of him filled with hope. He tried to fight the burgeoning emotion. He failed.

“Show me.”

He loosened his grip just enough that the other man could reach into his coat. He pulled out a smartphone, held it up and punched in a pass code. In moments, a picture flooded the small screen.

A little boy with perfect blond curls and oh-so-familiar brown eyes. He was bigger, and not really smiling in the carefree way Graham had always remembered him. But...

“That’s impossible,” Graham breathed.

He couldn’t take his eyes from the photograph.

“You know it’s him,” Henry said.

It was. Graham was sure.

“How?” he asked.

“The kid took a through and through,” the older man explained. “Holly’s second bullet. Went through her abdomen and nicked Sam in a pretty big artery. And you were right about the blood. Way more than I thought one small person could lose. Drew and I bandaged him up pretty tight, took him to a retired doctor I knew. Saved the kid’s life.”

“Why would you hold that back all these years?” Graham asked.

“What good would it do to tell anyone he was alive?” Henry countered. “Besides which, it made the police search for you that much harder. And I thought the guilt—or the desire for revenge—might get to you eventually. Bring you home.”

“Where is he?”

“Close.”

“Take me to him,” Graham said.

“Let me have the painting, and I will.”

“Sam first. We can come back for the painting.”

Henry sighed. “Fine.”

“Get Drew’s gun, Keira,” Graham ordered.

She’d been silent, letting the scene unfold, and now she shot an uncertain glance toward Dave.

“He’s not going to stop you,” Graham assured her.

Dave nodded, and Keira moved. But Graham had misjudged the other man’s alertness, and as Keira’s hand almost closed on the weapon, Drew sat straight up, twisted and pulled the girl forcefully into his lap.

“Put him down, Calloway. Or I’ll shoot the girl,” Drew announced coldly.

“He’ll shoot me anyway,” Keira stated.

Graham’s heart squeezed. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose Sam again.

“I have to take the chance that he won’t,” he said. “I love you too much.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered back.

Drew snarled, “Enough!”

Graham’s arms fell to his sides, and Henry shoved past him, his hands already reaching for the painting. But as he moved, Graham’s foot shot out. The older man stumbled, straight into Keira and Drew. The gun flew from Drew’s grasp. It discharged loudly, and a
riiiiiiip
echoed through the basement.

“No,” Henry gasped.

Graham’s eyes followed his gaze, straight up to the painting. To the brand-new bullet-sized hole that adorned its center.

And Graham smiled.

Epilogue

Five Weeks Later

“Do you think the smoke has finally cleared?” Keira asked, unsure if she was hoping for a yes or for a no.

Graham seemed to sense the flip-flop nature of her question.

“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not. We can wait here awhile longer. Your work said to take the time you need, and I’m not in a hurry, either.”

He uncurled himself from the brand-new, built-for-two rocking chair on the front porch of the old log cabin. He stretched, wide shoulders flexing in a way that made Keira’s blood heat up in spite of the chilly air.

“Is he asleep yet?” she wondered out loud.

Graham smiled, that same silly, dopey, love-filled grin that he always grinned whenever Sam was concerned.

“I was just going to check,” he told her.

Keira watched his back as he retreated into the cabin, admiring the view.

My Mountain Man
, she thought affectionately.

He was almost always at ease now that his father-in-law was behind bars. His own name had been officially cleared, too. Dave was let off with a slap on the wrist. And Sam... He’d spent four years shuffled between nannies, with—thankfully—little direct contact with his grandfather and the man’s underhanded activities. He was as serious a kid as Keira had ever met, but he smiled a little more every day. And twice this week, Keira had heard him drop the word
Daddy
when referring to Calloway.

No
,
she decided.
I’m not in a huge hurry to get out of here.

* * *

G
RAHAM
PEELED
BACK
the curtain to the closet-turned-tiny-bedroom and gazed down lovingly at his kid. His living, breathing kid. He’d never get tired of staring at that perfect little face. He was so glad that Sam had been spared the darker parts of Graham’s father-in-law’s life.

Graham’s heart swelled, gratitude and awe nearly overwhelming him as it did almost every time he took stock of his life.

Accused murderer. Redeemed father. Loving husband.

Well, soon-to-be husband, if the ring in his pocket worked like he thought it would.

“Calloway?”

Keira’s soft voice made him turn.

She’d stepped into the cabin, dropped her jacket and stood in front of the blissfully small bed they shared every night in nothing but one of his T-shirts. His favorite outfit.

“Sam’s okay?” she asked.

“Perfect,” he replied.

Keira smiled. “Like always.”

“Like you,” Graham teased, happy when she blushed.

He walked to her, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly, just to make the pink in her cheeks brighten even more.

“Hey,” he murmured when he pulled away. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

He dug his hand into his pocket, yanked out the little box and balanced it on his palm. “On a sliding scale...how happy are you that you drove into a snowstorm, got rescued by a mountain man and almost got killed by a corrupt politician?”

Keira’s eyes lit up. “Ten out of ten!”

Graham grinned and kissed her again, secure that fate was well in hand.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
EXPOSED
by Carla Cassidy
(Part 1 of TOUGH JUSTICE).