Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel Page 10

  It would have if he’d done one, per standard operating procedure. But he’d been too focused on the case since she’d come to the office yesterday to think about it, and since Nikki hadn’t been there the task had gone undelegated.

  Besides, as he’d told Laura yesterday, background checks were more to verify legitimacy—and there was no question in his mind she was legit.

  “No time for that yet.” He grabbed a third piece of pizza. “So where else have you lived?”

  “I took a job in Charleston after college. Nice town, but very small library. After three years, I was ready for a new challenge. My next stop was Nashville. That was a pleasant job.”

  The sudden melancholy in her voice piqued his interest. “Why didn’t you stay?”

  She lifted one shoulder and took another piece of pizza. “It was time for a change of scene. Mom and Dad and I lived in St. Louis for two years when I was a kid and I had fond memories of the city, so when I heard about an opening here, I went for it. It was a smart career move. I think I have a decent shot at the next branch manager slot that opens.”

  He homed in on her first sentence, sensing a story. “Why did you need a change of scene?”

  Instead of answering immediately, she weighed the slice of pizza in her hand, as if weighing her response as well. “Let’s just call it personal reasons.” She bit into the pizza.

  He cocked his head and pursed his lips, keeping his tone conversational. “My guess? A romance gone bad.”

  She stopped chewing. “Why would you think that?”

  “When people upend their lives, there’s often a broken heart or two in the rubble.”

  A few moments of silence passed while she resumed chewing, then swallowed. “My heart was bruised, not broken.”

  So he’d guessed right. A failed romance had been at least part of the impetus for her move. But if Laura turned out to be half as strong, intelligent, caring, and principled as their short acquaintance suggested she was, the guy she’d been involved with had been an idiot for dumping her—or for letting her get away.

  Which was it?

  “But my ego took a battering.”

  Her tacked-on admission gave him his answer. She’d been dumped.

  He took another swig of soda. “May I ask what happened?”

  “Since when do you ask permission to ask questions?” She finished off her piece of pizza without breaking eye contact.

  “Touché.” He raised his soda can in salute, relieved she hadn’t taken offense at his nosiness. “So are you going to answer?”

  “Depends. Why do you want to know?”

  Dicey question. Her answer had nothing to do with the case, so he couldn’t hide behind that justification. Besides, he’d already used it last night after he’d probed about her background, and he wasn’t certain she’d bought it then. Tempered honesty might be the best option.

  “I’m a curious guy. I ask questions for a living. If something—or someone—intrigues me, I investigate.”

  He half expected her to laugh and counter with some flirty, pert remark as most of the women he socialized with would have. Instead, she grew serious and used a finger to gather together the crumbs on her empty plate.

  “He said the life I led was too boring and routine.” Irony twisted her mouth as she brushed off her finger. “This from a man whose idea of a thrilling date was miniature golf followed by an action movie and Chinese takeout. But after I thought about it, I realized he had a point. Once we broke up and I moved here, I decided to spice things up.”

  “Now I’m really curious. What did you do?”

  “Besides buying a red car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her expression grew speculative. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I promise.”

  “Wait here.”

  She scooted her chair back and disappeared down the hall.

  Dev popped the last bite of pizza in his mouth and picked up his soda. What might someone like Laura do to add some zing to her life? Take a gourmet cooking class? Join a bird-watching group? Go rollerblading?

  He tipped back his soda can, took a swig—and almost choked when she came up behind him and laid a blade with a hilt across his plate.

  Coughing, he groped for his napkin as he stared at the dangerous-looking object. “That’s a sword.”

  “No. It’s a saber.”

  Saber. His brain started clicking. “You took up fencing?”

  She sat back in her chair, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “I know. It’s kind of an odd hobby, isn’t it? I don’t tell many people about it.”

  He looked back at the saber and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that his librarian client who liked a quiet life participated in a combat sport.

  It wasn’t computing.

  “I took it up right after I moved here. I’ve always enjoyed watching the Olympic fencing matches. There’s a lot of footwork, so I thought I could tie into the ballet training I had as a child. As it turns out, I’m not half bad—and I get a real rush when I win a bout. Plus, the physical action is a great way to relieve stress.”

  He ran a finger down the flexible steel rod that served as a blade while he processed all that.

  “Careful.” She moved the saber to the far side of the table. “It’s not sharp, but because it continually knocks against other blades, it develops splinters. I try to keep it smooth, but sometimes I miss a few. Your finger, however, will find them. And trust me, it’s no fun digging out slivers of steel. Been there, done that. So . . . are you ready for those brownies now? And how about some coffee to go with them?”

  “Yes to both.”

  She rose and walked over to the counter, reaching up to retrieve mugs, leaning down to scoop up an errant coffee filter as it floated toward the floor, swiveling toward the refrigerator to remove a tub of ice cream.

  Okay, he was beginning to see it. She was lithe and graceful, and the footwork part of fencing made sense. The aggressive part of hacking away at an opponent, however, was still giving him trouble. But no one got hurt in fencing. It was more about art and strategy and fitness. Wasn’t it?

  “You’re surprised, aren’t you?” She slanted a look at him as she poured water into the top of the coffeemaker.

  “Honestly? Yes. It seems kind of . . . violent.”

  “For a librarian, you mean?” She didn’t wait for him to verify her assumption but leaned back against the counter and folded her arms, her posture a bit stiff. “Well, as any librarian will tell you, the old adage about never judging a book by its cover is spot-on. But it took a romance-gone-south to make me realize I was beginning to fall into the classic stereotype. So there was a positive outcome from that experience, after all.”

  She turned back to the counter and busied herself with dessert preparations while he tried to figure out how to respond. Somehow he felt as if an apology was in order—but he wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

  Half a minute of silence passed as he tried to work through the dilemma, then she swiveled back, plates of brownies in hand. “Sorry about that.”

  She was apologizing to him?

  “For what?”

  “Jumping all over you about stereotyping me.” She set the plates on the table and went back to the counter to pour the coffee. “I’m overly sensitive to that since my experience with Rick in Nashville, and Darcy’s always saying I lead a boring life too, despite the fencing. But that’s my issue, not yours.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I don’t consider you in the least boring.”

  She rewarded him with a smile as she rejoined him at the table. “Thanks for that.” She picked up her spoon. “These are very warm. Better eat up before all the ice cream melts.”

  He took her advice with gusto as he dived into brownie nirvana.

  “This is amazing.” He mumbled the words around a mouthful of molten chocolate.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She licked some ice cream off her spoon and studied him, her expression
thoughtful. “You know, I’m curious about one thing. You said earlier that when people upend their lives, there’s often a broken heart involved. Might that be true for you too? I mean, you upended your life when you left the ATF to join Phoenix.”

  The last bite of brownie got stuck somewhere near his windpipe, and he groped for his coffee to wash it down. He hadn’t expected her to turn the tables on him. Yet he was the one who’d started the true confessions session by asking her a lot of personal questions, and she’d been completely open with him. He couldn’t fault her for reciprocating.

  But he couldn’t talk about Cat tonight.

  Maybe never.

  After a cautious sip of coffee, he set the mug back on the table, wrapped his fingers around it—and hoped his reticence wouldn’t offend the woman across from him. “For now, let’s just say there is a story there and focus on our priorities for tonight.”

  She searched his face, then nodded, her manner more subdued. “Okay. If you’re finished with your brownie, I’ll show you Darcy’s room. You can bring your coffee along.”

  As she began to rise, he reached out and laid his fingers on the back of her hand, an instinctive gesture he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it. She looked back at him in surprise, and he locked gazes with her. After all she’d shared, he owed her more than that abrupt response.

  “The short answer is yes. But I’ve never talked about it in any detail, even with my partners, who’ve been my best friends since our college days.”

  Her blue eyes softened. “I understand. We only met yesterday, and trust takes time to build. My story was easy enough to share because it wasn’t tragic. I have a feeling yours is.”

  Add intuitive to his new client’s list of attributes.

  “Yeah.” The word scraped past his throat.

  “Enough said.” She covered his fingers with her free hand for one too-fleeting second before gesturing to the hall. “Let me show you Darcy’s room.”

  He followed, coffee mug in hand, grateful for her understanding—and wondering yet again about this woman who’d so quickly touched him in a way no one else ever had. He’d always known that someday, before he could move on with his life, before he could banish the nightmares that still plagued him, he’d have to talk through all that had happened. Only then would he be able to release the demons locked inside, to exorcise the guilt and pain. But it wasn’t a journey he’d wanted to make alone, and no one had yet come along who’d given him a reason to tap into that dark place and deal with the pain and sorrow once and for all.

  Might Laura be the one, sometime down the road?

  It was possible.

  But for now, his focus had to be on the present, not the past or the future. He needed to bring Darcy home—ASAP.

  Because the longer she stayed on the street, the greater the chance she’d hook up with the wrong kind of person and veer off her planned path.

  And if that happened, tracking her down would be a lot more difficult than visiting a homeless shelter or spending a day or two hanging around a bus station.

  8

  Would you like to watch a movie?”

  As Mark joined her in the living room, Darcy looked up from her laptop. If her computer hadn’t been loaded with a bunch of games, the day would have been a total zero. As it was, she was even getting tired of playing The Sims, and that had never happened before.

  She cast a doubtful glance toward his DVD collection. “Do you have anything newer than those?”

  He walked over to the cabinet and perused the titles. “The old movies and TV shows are the best. Most of what’s produced these days is trash.” He pulled out a vinyl case and held it up. “Have you ever seen Stella Dallas? It’s a great movie.”

  “When was it made?”

  “1937.”

  She stared at him. “That’s like . . . ancient.”

  “But the theme is timeless—a mother’s supreme self-sacrifice to give the daughter she loves a better tomorrow.” He held the case reverently, like it was made of gold or something.

  Darcy tried not to roll her eyes.

  B-O-R-I-N-G!

  She had to be diplomatic, though. He was feeding and housing her, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But she didn’t want to watch a movie that was probably in black-and-white, either. Maybe it didn’t even have sound.

  “Um . . . do you have anything like . . . a little more recent?”

  He gave her that disapproving scowl she was beginning to recognize and turned back to his collection. “How about an episode of Little House on the Prairie? That ran from the early seventies to the early eighties. Or would you rather watch The Waltons? That was on for ten years, starting in the seventies.”

  Both were older than she was. And she doubted whether Mark had been born yet, either, when those programs aired. He couldn’t be more than thirty, if he was that old. Why would a guy that age want to watch such old stuff?

  “Darcy?” He angled back toward her, a touch of impatience in his inflection.

  “Little House on the Prairie.” What did it matter? They were both prehistoric.

  He withdrew the case, flipped it open, and settled the disc in the player. Then he took a seat on the other side of the couch and sped through the menu as if he’d viewed it many times.

  “You’ll like this one.” He pressed play and the program started.

  For the next two hours, as he ran two episodes back-to-back, she divided her attention between her computer game and the programs. The low-action shows moved slow, but the stories were okay. And they had a feel-good quality that was kind of nice. But it was weird to watch a TV program that didn’t have any four-letter words or violence or high-tech special effects.

  “So what did you think?” As the credits wound down for the second episode, Mark leaned over, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and pressed the off button.

  Those were the first words he’d said since the programs began, which was fine with her. But the way his attention had been riveted on the screen, almost like he wished he could climb inside and be part of the story, had been a little odd. He was really into this old stuff.

  Darcy closed her laptop and tried to be both tactful and truthful. It was a stretch. “They were different than what I usually watch.”

  “Did you think they were better?”

  She shifted under the intensity of his gaze and dispensed with honesty to give him what she knew he wanted to hear. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “I’m glad.” He flashed her a smile, then rose and stretched. “I’m going to turn in early tonight, since my minivacation is about to come to an end. I have to be up at the crack of dawn to open the daycare center. Would you like to join me in a glass of wine before we call it a night?”

  She did a double take. He was offering her alcohol? Didn’t he remember she was only sixteen?

  Then again, he’d let Star drink wine, and she was underage too.

  But after those two drinking incidents back home in New York that had left her nauseous and headachy the next day—no thanks.

  “Could I have hot chocolate instead?”

  “Sure.” He beamed at her like she’d just offered him primo tickets to a sold-out concert. “I think I’ll have that too. It’s perfect for a cold night.”

  As he headed toward the kitchen, her stomach rumbled. Foraging instincts kicking in, she trailed after him. She hadn’t seen any snacks in the cabinets, but he might stash that kind of stuff somewhere else. “Do you have any cookies or chips or anything?”

  “Still hungry?” He pulled the milk out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter.

  “A little.” That was an understatement. Tasty as the soup and bread had been, they hadn’t filled her up.

  “I don’t keep a lot of snack food on hand, but there might be some cookies in the basement. My cabinet space in here is limited, so I store extra supplies down there.” He poured the milk into two mugs, replaced the jug in the refrigerator, and crossed to a do
or on the side of the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He disappeared, and a few moments later she wandered over to crack the door and peek down. The only illumination was supplied by the light traveling down the steps from the kitchen, but it was obvious despite the dimness that all the work on the house had taken place above the stairs. The unfinished basement appeared to be empty, and it looked old and antiquated enough to have a dirt floor, given the age of the houses around here. Did it? She peered into the shadowy depths. Too dark to tell—but now she was curious.

  Grasping the rail, she descended the first two wooden steps, bent down, and squinted at the floor. Nope. It wasn’t dirt. Someone had poured concrete at one time, though it was stained and dark now. So much for her theory.

  Just as she started to rise, she caught the outline of a familiar shape leaning against the wall to her right.

  Was that a guitar case?

  As she peered into the obscuring gloom, a swath of light suddenly illuminated the object.

  Yes, it was a guitar case.

  Star’s guitar case.

  She recognized the worn NYC sticker on the front.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  All at once the basement went dim again as Mark’s accusatory voice and the slam of a door jerked her attention his direction.

  He rushed toward the stairs from the opposite side of the basement, no more than a shadowy figure in the murky light, as she scrambled back up to the kitchen.

  “I-I wondered if the floor was dirt, since this is s-such an old building.” She scurried back toward the table as he took the stairs two at a time, a package of Oreos in his hand.

  As he emerged into the light of the kitchen, cheeks flushed, he slammed the door shut behind him. Although his mouth was tight and his face looked pinched, when he spoke his voice sounded normal, like they were still talking about the movie or the weather.

  “It’s not safe down there. Stay out, okay? The floor’s not dirt, but it’s uneven, and some of the beams are low. You might hit your head. I only use it for storage and my washer and dryer.” He deposited the cookies on the table and proceeded to measure out the cocoa.