Chapter Sixty-Two

An hour later, Bridge was storming down the sidewalk a block from the station, still trying to walk off the betrayal roiling in his stomach. He stopped in mid-stride in front of an old-fashioned plate glass storefront. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to a display of gold bands against a blue velvet background.

Oh, God.

His heart hurt so much he unconsciously reached up and rubbed it.

All these years his own father had lied to him.

Lied to him.

Lies that had caused Bridge to push away love and relationships because he was too afraid of what might happen should any woman get too close.

He didn’t want to think about the untold regrets that might have been in store for him if his father hadn’t found the courage to confess his lies. And he knew the reason he’d done it, too.

Mary Alice.

As long as Bridge had been happy, his father had kept up the pretense, the deception. But when he saw that his only son was miserable, and all because of his deception, he’d owned up to what he’d done—regardless of the consequences to their father-son relationship. Bridge knew eventually he’d have to find the strength to forgive his dad. But he’d deal with those feelings later.

Right now, he had to fight his way through the morass of emotions clutching at his guts, and figure out what to do about Mary Alice.

Not that there was any question in his mind.

He refocused his gaze on the gold rings displayed in the window before him. Deep down, he’d known all along what he wanted. This new information just eliminated any reservations he’d about trying.

He’d get down on his knees and beg if he had to. Then it would be up to Mary Alice whether she could accept the risks.

Before he had a chance to change his mind, he strode to his car and drove to her house. He was in luck, her car was parked in the driveway.

“Mary Alice!” he shouted as he burst through the unlocked door. “Where are you?”

The house echoed with silence.

Odd.

Uneasiness crawled up his spine. He would’ve heard if the Watson case had been solved, so Officer Deane should be here, at the very least. “Deane?” he called hesitantly, his inner alarms screaming.

Instinctively, he drew his weapon.

The answering quiet coiled about his nerves like a venomous serpent. The skin pricked at the back of his neck.

Throwing caution to the wind, he pounded through the house, pitching open doors and calling Mary Alice’s name.

He found nothing and nobody.

Ice slowly filled his veins and he made a calmer search, checking every possible place of concealment. There were no signs of a struggle, but Mary Alice’s dresser drawers had been left open, their contents disheveled and hanging over the sides. The closet door was gaping wide. In his time with her he couldn’t accuse her of being a neat freak, but she would never have left her room this messy.

He hurriedly checked the FBI equipment in the spare room. It had all been shut down or disassembled. His laptop sat on the desk, its lid closed.

Pursing his lips, he fingered the black plastic. He flipped up the lid and turned on the computer, frowned, and quickly punched a few keys. The hard drive had been wiped clean. There wasn’t a byte of data or software left on it.

He scowled. Thinking furiously, he walked back to the living room and carefully scanned it for any clue as to what had gone down. The question kept screaming inside his brain, over and over.

Where is Mary Alice? Where the hell is she?

He would not panic. He would not.

He’d be calm and professional about this, methodically eliminating the possibilities one by one, so he wouldn’t look like a fool or an hysterical paranoid when he called Grayson.

Like hell.

He was a fool and a hysterical paranoid, and he couldn’t afford to waste a second.

He whipped out his cell phone.

Suddenly, his frantic gaze snagged on a photo that sat half-concealed under the vase of roses in the middle of the coffee table. Reaching for it, he examined the printed photo. Miss Beadle of the Historical Rose Society beamed back at him. He pushed out a frustrated sigh and was about to toss it back onto the table when his eye snagged on something in the picture’s background.

Oh, shit.

Oh, holy fucking shit.