TOM MADE IT back to the police station a full hour after he expected. He’d been nonstop busy all day, and it seemed the station had, too. There were three people in the waiting room. Leann had barely greeted him, she’d been so preoccupied collecting fines and arranging for a fingerprinting. Just down from her, Lucas Stilwater dealt with a weeping woman who seemed to have a lot to say but difficulty saying it.
She had to be a leftover visitor from the Founder’s Day celebration because he didn’t recognize her.
He shook a finger at Oscar as he passed his desk.
“I was going to tell you,” his deputy defended, shaking a piece of paper in the air, “but I took a call and got busy.”
“No excuse.”
“Me-ow.”
Peeking in his office, he sighed in relief. No mayor, no stack of new papers that needed his attention, not even the light on his phone shining red, signifying missed calls. He had paperwork to do and needed time to do it. He wanted to give Heather all his attention tonight when they visited Debbie Stilwater.
No, his mind backpedaled. He didn’t want to give Heather his undivided attention; he wanted to give figuring out what caused her mother and father to change their names his undivided attention.
He logged on to his computer and started making his reports. He’d gone to the Duponts after talking to Shelley, a visit that resulted in an inflated missing list from the husband and a secretive here’s-what’s-really-missing list from the wife. After he left there, he’d given a speeding ticket to the town’s oldest resident, who definitely should not be driving. Tom had stopped by the man’s son’s house on the way back to the station and mentioned the consequences of an accident.
Before he’d made it to the station, the Alzheimer’s care center on the outskirts of town had called. Carson Brubaker, Shelley’s dad, had gone wandering again. Tom had turned the SUV around, heading in that direction, and made it partway to the care center when he got the second call saying Carson had been found.
“Me-ow.”
Tom misspelled a word. The sound definitely hadn’t come from his deputy. Pushing back from his desk, he followed the sound to the waiting room. Lucas, still dealing with the weeping woman, gave a funny smile. Not good. Leann suddenly got very intense about pleasing the woman standing in front of her.
“I can’t believe a dog license costs this much—”
“I agree,” Leann said, “but I don’t set the price and—”
“Me-ow.”
The dog-license woman frowned. “Where’s the cat? Does it have a license? Did you pay it? Or, is it just us common citizens who—”
“Yes,” Tom interrupted. “Let me see the cat.”
The whole waiting room grew quiet. Leann glanced at Lucas, who shrugged and quickly looked away. The dog-license lady backed up, clearly not wanting to be in Tom’s scope. Leann said, “I found her under a car this morning and took her to the vet. She’s undernourished, has a broken leg and needs a home.”
“Then,” Tom said slowly and carefully, “take it home.”
“I can’t,” Leann wailed. “Peaches will eat it.”
Even the weeping woman had quieted. Lucas leaned toward her and loudly whispered, “Big dog. Huge, in fact. Good with kids. Eats everything.”
Tom immediately honed in on Lucas. “You like cats.”
“I told my wife three was the limit. No way am I adding to our number. Ain’t happening.”
“Why don’t you take it?” a voice asked from the entryway. Tom hadn’t even heard the door swoosh open.
“I don’t do cats,” Tom told Heather. “But every bed-and-breakfast should have—”
“Can’t,” Oscar bellowed from his office down the hallway. “Aunt Bianca is allergic. She can do dogs but not cats.”
Tom took a deep breath. “Does anyone want a kitten?”
The dog-license woman handed over a five-dollar bill and told Leann, “Keep the change,” before scurrying out the door, bumping into Heather on her way out.
The weeping woman said, “I live in New York. Pets aren’t allowed in my apartment building.” The other three people sitting on chairs in the waiting room were teenage boys. The first one addressed Tom. “Dude, I—”
“Never mind,” Tom said, watching as Heather stepped over to Leann and took possession of a mostly black but partially white kitten.
Lucas, suddenly all smiles, said, “Wife said to come to supper at seven.” He checked the time on his cell phone. “She, by the way, is making your favorite.” Looking at Heather, he added, “Spaghetti. Hope you like it. Oh, and you can bring the cat for that short a visit.”
“She’s only like four weeks old. The veterinarian is amazed she’s alive.” Leann walked around the counter and with one finger stroked the tiny kitten’s head while explaining the food and the medicine. “I’ve been feeding her every few hours. It’s easy. She’s already eating gruel, and you can give her kitten food. She just needs you to rub her throat a little.”
“Not me.” Heather smiled up at Tom, who’d come over to stare down at the kitten.
“I’m not rubbing a kitten’s neck every time I feed h—” Tom stopped. He didn’t care that everyone in the waiting room was looking at him. He cared that Heather was looking at him. Those eyes, they were doing something to him, making him feel emotions he’d long locked away. For the second time in an hour, both times because of her, he backpedaled. “I can’t believe I’ll be rubbing a kitten’s neck every time she needs to eat.”
Heather smiled and handed him the kitten.
The people in the waiting room applauded.
Yup, he was toast.
* * *
“I’M FINISHED. Sorry it took me so long.” Tom walked along the police station’s hallway and shrugged into his jacket, while frowning at her.
Make that frowning down at the kitten.
“You might,” Heather said, “find that having a cat is fun. They’re good company, and unlike a dog, they can handle being left alone for a few hours.” She took his hand when he offered it, letting him help her to her feet, and handed him the box with the kitten in it.
She figured he took the box because she’d surprised him, rather than him wanting it. His expression as he gazed at the sleeping feline looked very much like someone who’d just received a Christmas present they weren’t sure what to do with. She half expected him to hand it back. Instead, he took a few steps toward the door and said, “I’m not a cat person.”
“How do you know? Have you ever had one?” This came from the female officer who’d rescued the cat earlier. Leann, Officer Leann Bailey, Heather remembered.
“No animals, not since I was a kid.”
“Not true,” Officer Stilwater objected. “You had Trigger.”
Tom stopped so quickly that Heather ran into his back. “That was a long time ago, Lucas.”
“Yes, boss.”
Heather noted the tension in his shoulders. It hadn’t been there until Lucas mentioned Trigger. Why? Could the chief of police have owned a horse? Surely a kitten was easier. Definitely less expensive.
Outside the Sarasota Falls police station, a gentle swish of cool air messed up Heather’s hair. She didn’t care. She had too many other things on her mind and was grateful that a tiny kitten had managed to distract her for a short while. She’d left work with a few questions and even more concerns. Worse, she had a feeling the answers wouldn’t be the you’ve-won-the-lottery kind.
More the you-should-have-left-this-buried kind.
“We have an hour before we’re due at the Stilwaters,” Tom pointed out. “Why don’t we go to Little’s Grocery Store first and see if I can convince them to share what they have about Raymond Tillsbury.”
“Good idea.”
She climbed in the passenger side, slid the seat belt on and tried not to hurry him along. They were getting answers. Not always the kind she expected, but definitely answers.
“It’s weird not to have a chain grocery store,” she remarked.
“There are a few Littles around.”
“Not like Safeway or Albertsons.”
“That’s true.”
The store was fairly empty. She followed Tom through the aisles as he greeted people and stopped to answer a question about a barking dog.
“Can’t you go anywhere without people wanting or expecting something from you?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s gotta be hard to be you.”
He didn’t bother to answer.
Tom led her over to the manager. A small man who looked like he’d been inside all his life, he apologized and kept explaining that “I’m new, just two years.” It took him almost an hour to find the information on her dad because it wasn’t on the computer, but was in a faded brown file folder with about a dozen papers inside. One, Raymond Tillsbury’s application. Two, his hiring contract and tax papers. There were three employee reviews, all stellar. Then there were letters of thanks from customers he’d assisted.
Tom went through the letters, took photos of them with his phone and passed them on to her.
She only recognized one name. Sarah Lewis. Her mom had written a letter thanking Bill for stopping someone who’d tried to snatch her purse. Heather nodded at the confirmation.
“The only thing I can see that’s negative,” the manager said, “is he quit without two weeks’ notice. Whoever managed the store back then put a comment in the margins about how it surprised him.
“I wonder why he quit?” Tom mused.
Heather did, too.
They left the store and went right to the police station so she could retrieve her car. “I’m just stopping by my house to leave the kitten,” Tom told her.
When she started to protest, he said, “We’re not going to be out that long, and we’ll feed her before we go.”
We’ll feed her.
Four days ago, he’d wanted to throw her in jail. Now, he expected her to help feed his kitten.
“I can do that.” She got in her car and followed him a mere three blocks. She turned just past the courthouse, with its stone gargoyles, and pulled up behind him at an old but well-preserved small redbrick house. Parking in front of the house, she stepped out and noted how dark it was—only a porch light, and it didn’t fit in with the surrounding homes. “You’re not decorating for Halloween,” she noted.
“Don’t need to,” he said. “All the neighbors have, so I figure no one will notice that I haven’t.”
“I noticed.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “but you’re walking up to my front door. You have to notice.”
“So will trick-or-treaters.”
Tom laughed. “I guarantee no one will come here unless they want to toilet paper my tree, break a pumpkin on the porch, or leave fake body parts strewn across the lawn.”
“Huh?”
“Halloween’s always great fun in a small town.”
The porch light overhead cast him in a soft yellow glow. He’d taken off his hat and his hair was mussed up and a little longer than she expected. His eyes were tired, but his smile was all for her. He looked vulnerable somehow.
“I love Halloween. My parents, Mom especially, went all-out decorating. Probably because it gave the children she took care of something special to do. They spent weeks painting boxes black, cutting black construction paper into long strips—all so they could crawl through the scary mazes we created in the backyard. Sometimes I’d put paper plates full of black Jell-O for them to crawl through. Freaked them out.”
“Messy,” he said.
“We had a hose.”
“My parents weren’t much for decorating, but when I was twelve, my mom made me a really cool Ninja Turtle costume. I still have it somewhere. Doesn’t fit anymore.”
“See, there’s hope for you, and you still have that save-the-world mentality.”
He laughed and unlocked the door. “I’ve been working it so long that Halloween is just an event that results in a long shift and a few extra reports to write.”
“That’s just wrong.” Heather stepped back, put her hands on her hips and stared at his house. It wasn’t big and it had good bones. That’s what her dad would have said.
“Built in the fifties?”
“No, the end of the forties.”
“Made to last.”
He shook his head, and she knew she’d amused him. Her dad had loved old houses. Often after he’d picked her up from school or on the way home from church, they’d stop at an open house. He’d preferred the homes that had been lived in, not showy, but perfect for his family of three.
“We always rented,” she said. “Dad dreamed of owning his own home, but we moved a lot. We finally stayed put when I was in high school.”
He stepped inside, beckoning for her to follow. Once in his living room, he lay the kitten on the couch and plumped three pillows around it: two to imprison it and one in case the kitten rolled out of her box and fell to the floor.
He was such a faker, saying he didn’t want a kitten but then going the extra mile. He left her kneeling next to the kitten and disappeared down a hall.
Clean, that was her first impression of his house, with very few photos and not a lot of color. An old, faded armchair was next to a fireplace that dominated the room. On the table next to it, a Jack Reacher book by Lee Child was facedown, half-finished. The television, of course, was huge. It and the fireplace dominated the room.
Above the fireplace was an empty space, a clear impression of where a picture used to hang.
Heather stared at the spot wondering why he hadn’t replaced the picture. Surely every time he looked at the spot above the fireplace, which had to be every day, he noticed the absence.
Unless he wanted the spot to remind him of something. Something probably best forgotten.
He returned with a tiny bowl of water, which he placed beside the sleeping kitten in her now too-full box.
“She’ll roll over and make a mess,” Heather advised.
“Oh, guess that makes sense.” He moved the box to the floor, complete with two pillows. Leaning back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him, he relaxed a bit. She’d not realized how tall he was. He seemed to take up a lot of room, and she wondered what it would be like to curl up next to him.
She sat down on the couch, folding her hands in her lap, and watched him fuss over the kitten. “So, before we go to meet Debbie, I’ve a couple of things to tell you. First, I worked all day with Maya Gillespie.”
He chuckled. “If Goodman ever stops being mayor, the town needs to put her in charge. She’s a well-oiled machine.”
“That’s not a good description for someone. She’s not a machine. She was very kind during my training today. She even shared her soup with me.”
His eyes lit up. “Black bean and sausage?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take home any leftovers?”
“No.”
“If she’s not mayor, she could cook for the Station Diner. Business would double.”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
He left the floor, coming over to sit next to her. He had to shove the coffee table away to accommodate his knees.
“What?”
It was only one word, but somehow the man’s patient, kind tone, so very different than the one he’d used with her on Saturday, told her he would listen.
“She dated my dad, Raymond Tillsbury, when he lived here.”
“That’s good. You found out a few things,” he said. “What else?”
“My dad rented an apartment above one of the businesses on Main Street, near where Sweet Sarasota is. Did you know it used to be a drugstore?”
He nodded.
“And,” she continued, “the mayor’s family owned it.”
“Still do. The Goodmans probably own half the town.” He was sitting so close to her she could feel the heat coming off of him. He was still in uniform—dark brown pants, light brown shirt and all kinds of gadgets attached to his belt. She’d never felt so safe. Maybe she could blame that on the handcuffs.
“Maya said something else.”
A grandfather clock was in the corner of the room. She hadn’t noticed it before. Had this been her house, she’d move the clock, make it a focal point. It tick-tocked, the only sound in the house except for the humming of a heater. Maybe that’s where the warmth came from and not him. Surely not him.
“What did she say, Heather?”
“She said I didn’t look like him.” Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through photos and showed him photo after photo of her parents, neither blond nor blue-eyed like she was. She’d always thought her mother so beautiful, with silky light red hair that hadn’t gone gray. Heather knew she’d go gray. She’d blamed it on her father, whose black mane sported silver threads, like the tinsel on a Christmas tree, back when Heather was in junior high.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t know. I’ve been a cop long enough to know that families have so many branches that sometimes you can’t tell they’re from the same tree.” He pulled out his phone and brought up a photo of his parents.
“They’re short,” she said.
“I know. I take after my uncle Danny. He’s six-two.”
“I never met any of my relatives.”
“Well, you’re going to meet Debbie tonight. So…”
“Do I look like her?”
He shook his head. “No, she’s redheaded and so is her mother.”
Heather grabbed her purse, pulled it into her lap and took out a brush from inside a Ziploc bag.
Tom raised an eyebrow.
“The day I met you, you asked for a swab of DNA as well as something that belonged to my mother. I don’t want to start there. I want to start with my own mother, make sure she is my mother.”
“Heather, I—”
“Tell me what I need to do. Do I need to find something that belonged to my father, too? I’m not sure that will lead anywhere since he was in foster care and wasn’t from Sarasota Falls.”
“You’re jumping the gun a bit. But I’m not going to say it’s a bad idea. What did you keep from your father?”
“Not much. I have his duffel bag from when he was in the army. I’ll go through it.”
“Okay. First, though, let’s meet with Debbie Stilwater, see what she has to say and go from there.”
“I have a bad feeling,” Heather said. “I keep going over all I know and concluding that my parents left Sarasota Falls because of me. But that doesn’t make sense. My father had a great job. My mother had family. You say that Debbie, her mom and her stepdad are great people. You don’t run from great people unless you’ve got something to hide.”
The clock struck seven. The sound was loud, dramatic, jarring. It was all Heather could do to not stand up, pace, run from his house.
He, of course, seemed to be feeling none of those things, and asked pragmatically, “Do you think they moved a lot because they were running, hiding, or both?”
“I wish I knew. That they were living under assumed names just floors me.”
“We don’t know why they ran yet. Give it time. Maybe they just wanted to be vagabonds. Some people are like that. Used to be, you had the West to settle in, make a cabin in the middle of nowhere all by yourself. Then, there were the hobos who rode the rails—”
“Oh, pahleeese. My dad wanted a home so badly that we went to every open house within miles of where we lived. He’d stand in somebody else’s backyard and imagine where he could put a workshop.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“It is when you actually own a home, a home with a backyard big enough for a dozen workshops.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“It was the second thing I needed to bring up. When you picked me up because you thought I was Rachel, I was actually heading out to the farmhouse just past the Turner place. The one you and Albert talked about, saying the Ramseys had lived there, and the Welborn man you keep hoping to find.”
“Why were you heading there?”
“Because I own it. My dad, who always dreamed of owning a home, owned it. I have the deed. It’s in Raymond Tillbury’s name. And, my lawyer said that my parents have been collecting rent on it for more than twenty-five years. I checked my bank statement when I got off work. I wanted to know how much I had because maybe I should be thinking about getting an apartment. I about fell over. I had an eight-hundred-dollar deposit. Took me a moment to recognize the description. It was the rent money from the farm.”
“From Richard Welborn.”
“I guess. And maybe from the Ramseys before that.”
A shadow covered his face, but only for a moment. “That’s great. If you’re the owner, we can figure out a way to get in. Maybe I can figure out not only why he’s paying rent for a place he’s not living at, but where he is. And—” his eyes lit up “—maybe there’s something there that could lead us to Rachel.”
Heather stared for a moment, feeling somehow displaced, slightly affronted. He didn’t understand. Her dad had owned a home, a dream home. Why hadn’t they lived in Sarasota Falls?
To her chagrin, she expected Tom to understand—to care—because, well, because she trusted him. She was sharing with him how much and how fast her world kept changing. She’d made a huge mistake. She’d thought he was on her side.
And he was thinking about Rachel Ramsey.
Not Heather Graves.