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Eric spent the afternoon talking with business owners about a break-in at McNeal's. Fortunately, not much had been stolen. A couple of bucks and, oddly, a case of jarred black olives. The robbery had taken place in the middle of the night, and, naturally, nobody had seen anything unusual. Eric had asked people to keep an eye out after dark and suggested they upgrade their security systems and consider video surveillance. Most folks just laughed.
"The great olive caper of the century," quipped the owner of a souvenir shop. "Or maybe, the great olive-caper salad of the century." She'd cackled as she'd shown him the door.
Admittedly, crime was rare this time of year. There was always the drug trade to focus on, year round. But during tourist season, there was more to keep them busy. Nutfield's population nearly doubled in the summer, when folks populated the cabins surrounding their beautiful lake and filled the rooms of the many B and Bs and hotels that had cropped up. Autumn brought folks, too. The local apple shop had a steady stream of visitors. People loved to pick apples and pumpkins and enjoy the breathtaking foliage that surrounded the town. Eric had to admit, chilly as Nutfield was, it was a far sight more beautiful than north Texas. He gazed at the little downtown area as he strolled to the police station, just a few blocks away. Even in February, Nutfield was charming. The leafless trees were beautiful in their starkness. The sky was as sapphire as a field of Texas bluebonnets in spring. Icicles dripped from every roof and plinked in a melody that accompanied his footsteps. Last week's snow, piled against the sidewalks, was melting in the heat.
He chuckled at that. Heat? The sun was shining, and the temperature hovered near forty. That'd be considered downright frigid in Texas. Here, folks didn't bother with jackets when the temperature got this high in the winter.
What had possessed him to move to New Hampshire?
The question chased the lighthearted moment away. He knew why he'd taken a job here, and he knew why he stayed, even now. Even when all hope was lost. He figured he'd die keeping vigil for a woman who'd never return.
He wouldn't think about her.
He let his mind drift to Daniel. True to his word, Brady had found out where they'd taken the boy. Apparently, it hadn't been that hard. Brady's friends, Marisa and Nate, had recently been approved to be foster parents, and Daniel had been taken there Monday night. There was something to be said for small-town living.
Nate and Marisa had been delighted to hear from him when he'd called to check on Daniel on Tuesday. Apparently, Daniel had told them all about the nice police officer who'd found him in the woods. He'd already been to visit a few times that week. Marisa had gone on and on about how smart the kid was. "Daniel was helping Ana with her homework today," Marisa had said. "No idea how he ended up in foster care, but his home life can't have been that bad. The kid is smart, especially for an eight-year-old. He reads like a fifth grader."
Marisa would know. She'd been working as an aide at the local school. Maybe the boy had had some good teachers in his life. No way that rotten mother of his was responsible.
They'd had zero luck finding her. She was probably zoned out in some heroin haven in Manchester by now. At least Daniel was safe. Nate and Marisa were good folks with enough love to share with the boy, but he knew they weren't hoping to adopt. Marisa'd worked in an orphanage in Mexico for years, and she had a heart for abandoned kids.
If they didn't find Daniel's mother, what would happen to the kid? Maybe he'd be better off if they never found her. Except long-term foster care? Would Nate and Marisa keep him for a decade? Would Daniel thrive there?
It wasn't his problem, but he couldn't seem to keep thoughts of the boy far from his mind.
Eric pushed through the front door of the police station and passed the dispatcher with a wave. Inside the squad room, he headed for his desk. Only one desk was occupied. His friend, Donny, was booking a long-haired woman. All he could see from here was a thin parka and the woman's shoulders. The way she was sitting, it looked like her hands were cuffed behind her back. Donny asked for her name, and her answer carried across the empty room.
"I can't tell you that."
Eric froze in the middle of the room.
The voice was familiar. Pleading, afraid. He'd never heard her voice like that. He shook his head. It couldn't be her.
The woman leaned across the desk. "You have to call that number I gave you."
Donny was using his most patient voice. "How am I supposed to ask about a woman whose name I don't know?"
She leaned even further forward, almost a posture of begging. Her voice... That voice. "When you have her on the phone—"
"Name." Donny's voice left no room for arguing, but the woman only shook her head.
"I can't. You don't understand. I can't."
It was the way she said those words. The accent. Southern, but not Texas. Deep south. Like...
"Fine." Donny stood. "Maybe a couple hours in jail will change your mind."
Eric crossed the room, his heart pounding a drumbeat, hoping, afraid to hope.
Donny pulled the woman to her feet, and she turned. Just a fraction. Just enough.
There were no words. Or maybe every word he'd ever know. Words of love, words of hate. Word of heartbreak. Too many words. Too many feelings.
She hadn't seen him. She stumbled, crumpled, and Eric stepped forward, took her arm, spoke to Donny. "Don't touch her."
Donny swiveled to face him, eyes wide.
"I..." Eric swallowed, couldn't look at her. Had to, to be sure. He took a deep breath and faced her.
Her hair was much longer, lighter than it had been. But her eyes, the color of the sky. Wide with fear. Maybe something else. Her jaw dropped. Looked like she didn't have words, either.
"Remove the cuffs."
"She's under arrest," Donny said.
Eric faced his friend, took a step closer. He was the detective here. He had rank. "I said, remove the cuffs."
Donny did as he was told and backed away.
"I'll take it from here." Eric tugged on her arm, and she stepped beside him, then hobbled on her left foot. She was injured.
He didn't stop to think and sure wasn't going to check Donny's reaction. He scooped her up and carried her into the conference room, where he closed the door behind him with his foot. It slammed, and the noise bounced off the silence in the empty space.
He set her on a chair, then stood back. Stared.
She stared, too.
A moment passed, and then she opened her mouth. "I—"
"Don't."
She snapped her jaw closed.
He looked at her lips. Cracked and colorless. Trembling. He'd always loved her heart-shaped face. High cheekbones. Healthy and pink. But right now, sunken. Emaciated. Her usually bright eyes were dull and rimmed in red. Her pearly skin was mottled, pale.
She was injured. Looked like she hadn't eaten in days.
She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
He stepped closer, held out his hand. She took it, stood, and stepped into his embrace.
They stayed like that a long time. His arms around her. Her face against his chest. He inhaled her scent. Beyond shampoo and sadness, his Kelsey was here.
She sobbed against his shirt, and he knew exactly how she felt.
He could have stayed like that forever.
The door banged open. Kelsey jumped like a skittish cat, but Eric held her close. He shifted, saw the chief in the door.
"Your sister?" Brady asked.
They both knew she wasn't. Eric only had brothers.
When he didn't answer, Brady said, "In-law? Mother? Cousin?"
Eric couldn't form words.
"Even if she's an old friend, Nolan, we have rules." Brady's voice trailed off as he stared at the scene. "Why don't you step back."
Eric glanced down, saw Kelsey's gaze averted. She was holding onto him as if he were the only handhold on a high canyon wall. He was holding just as tight.
"Ma'am," Brady said. "Sit down."
Her fists tightened around the fabric of his shirt.
"Give me a minute," Eric said. "Please."
Brady crossed his arms. "I need to know who she is."
There was no other option. He gazed down at the top of her head as words he feared he'd never get to say filled his mouth, settled on his tongue. He considered all the chips falling and all the places they might land. Considered how, once the words were out, he could never pull them back. Brady could never un-know. Eric could never go back to being the man he'd pretended to be for a decade.
Not that he wanted to.
"Don't," she said.
Eric ignored her. She'd lost her influence a long time ago. He met Brady's steady gaze.
"She's my wife."
Unflappable Brady flapped. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. Then narrowed. He started to speak, stopped, seemed to see the moment differently, and nodded. "I need to see you when you're finished."
"Yes, sir."
"And Eric? She's still in custody."
Brady closed the door behind him.
Kelsey exhaled a long breath, almost a sigh. But they had a lot of territory to cover before anybody could relax.
"We should sit," he said. "You're hurt."
She didn't move. "Just a sprain."
"Even so."
She let go of his shirt and sat, and he took the chair beside her. Swiveled it to face her. Couldn't stop staring at that face.
Her gaze was unwavering. "I would never have left you."
Eric swallowed a decade of loss. "I know."
"I didn't mean for you to see me."
He knew that, too. If she'd wanted to see him, all she had to do was call. He'd kept the same Texas cell phone number just for that reason, was teased about it mercilessly by his local friends and his family back in Plano.
She'd never called. Not even a hang-up that might've hinted she was alive, hinted she was thinking of him.
"I guess there's a story," he said.
"A very long one."
"Okay."
He sat back, saw her lip trembling, wanted to pull her into his arms again. But for every ounce of love he held for this woman, he had an ounce of sadness and an ounce of worry and, though he hated to admit it, an ounce of rage.
"I can't."
"Course not." He swiveled, stood so fast, his chair rolled back and hit the wall. "If you could have explained, you'd have done it a decade ago."
"I...it's a very long story."
"So you said. I guess you've been too busy in the last thirty-six hundred days, too. Too busy to call me. Let me know you're alive. Do you know they think you're dead?"
She lifted her chin. Not surprised. Not ashamed.
"Of course you know," Eric said. "You know how they grieved you? How your mother...?" He could still picture the woman now. Two daughters, both lost tragically. "She looked like...like a walking corpse at your memorial service." Not that he'd gotten that close. He hadn't been invited to sit with the family. Hadn't been invited back to the house after. He was just the friend from school. Nobody had known. Nobody'd ever known.
Tears filled her eyes, and she looked down. He could see the racking sobs, but he couldn't comfort her. Some words needed to be spoken.
"What about you?" Her voice was small, and he'd hardly heard the words.
"What about me what?"
"You didn't grieve me?"
He laughed, a short, angry sound that probably pierced her soul. "I never believed it."
She looked up then. "You didn't? Not ever?"
"No body, no weapon? Nothing but an anonymous call. You probably made the call yourself."
"A friend did it for me."
And there it was, the admission. He'd always believed she'd staged it. Believed it, but questioned his own belief. Because his Kelsey wasn't cruel, but to let those who loved her best believe her dead?
"I had to," she said. "And I have to stay dead."