“What are you doing, Mom?” He yawned.
“I heard a cat outside,” she lied.
“That must be Whiskers. He belongs to the people across the street.”
She did not bother to ask how he knew. Her kid had a talent for absorbing details. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard something outside.”
“Maybe it was Whiskers,” she said.
“What I heard didn’t sound like a cat, Mom.”
She stepped away from the window, laying a deliberately calm hand on his shoulder. “What did it sound like?”
“Footsteps.”
She did not want to stoke his worries because of her active imagination. “There’s a lot of wind out there tonight.”
“I also know what wind sounds like.” As they moved toward his bedroom door, he stopped. “I don’t want to sleep in my bed tonight.”
“Well, then you can doze on the couch in my office. I’ve a little more work to do.”
“Okay.” He rushed into his room, grabbed a blanket and pillow, and quickly brushed past her to claim the couch. He arranged his makeshift bed and opened a paperback.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
He held up the cover. “King Lear.”
“Wow.”
“That’s what Bryce said when we packed it. But I dug it out so I could read it before bed. Have you ever read it?”
“Sure, in college.” And never for fun.
He settled under the covers, and she tucked the edge close to his chin. “Did you like it?”
She dodged the question with another one. “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know. Weird.”
She waited for more.
“Children play a part in their father’s death. It’s kind of odd.”
The play struck too close to home. “Where did you get this book?”
“At computer camp. There was a big pile of books for free.”
“Oh. Let me know if you want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
She kissed him on the forehead and turned back to her desk, but found concentration impossible as she listened to him turn the pages, which grew slower and finally stopped. When she looked over her shoulder, he was asleep, the book resting on his chest.
As he slept, she searched for little hints of herself in his features. The shapes of his ears and feet were hers. His sense of humor was all Bailey, and until recently, she had attributed his intellect to herself. Clarke had been blessed with raw cunning, which had served him too well, but he was by no stretch a scholar. He never would have read a copy of King Lear.
Nate’s intelligence now reached far beyond hers and Clarke’s. Nate was reserved, he loved science fiction and fantasy, he did not enjoy crowds, and he obsessed over the arrangement of his bedroom. He had eaten the same cereal for breakfast for the last five years.
She had slept with two men in her life, Clarke Mead and Elijah Weston. She had been faithful to Clarke, but during their brief breakup in college, she’d had sex with Elijah twice. When she found out she was pregnant, she was certain the baby was Clarke’s, and she had willingly returned to him.
She tipped her head back and thought about Elijah Weston. Even without a DNA confirmation, she acknowledged Nate and Elijah were carbon copies of each other. Anyone who saw Nate and Elijah together now could not miss the truth.
Outside, the wind whipped up, cracking tree branches that scraped against the side of the house. She gently picked up Nate’s book, replaced the bookmark, and closed it.
Ann had protected her son from one monster. And now she worried there might be another circling close.
Elijah had not approached her about the boy, but it was a matter of time before he claimed his parental rights.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, August 19
9:15 a.m.
The hustle to get Nate up, dressed, and ready for his camping trip had begun early, and by the time Ann had him fed and ready to go, her brother and Joan were approaching her front doorstep. Nate ran past Gideon and Joan to his cousin, Kyle, and the two boys chatted as if they had not seen each other in years.
Gideon, a homicide detective with the Missoula Police Department, was two years older than Ann. He had a tall, lean body with broad shoulders. His dark hair had turned salt and pepper, and the lines around his eyes had deepened more in the last couple of years. Joan was short, petite, fit, and for as long as Ann could remember, had walked with a cop’s confidence.
Gideon hugged Ann. “Ready to go it alone?”
“I’m not sure about me, but Nate’s been ready for days,” Ann said.
“You can always come with us,” Joan said.
“I’ll be fine. There’s still a lot to get done here at the house and prep for the new school year. And I’m attending the autopsy of Jane Doe today.”
“I hate to miss it,” Joan said.
“I told you to stay behind,” Gideon offered.
“No, the whole point of this fresh start is not to let the job drive my life. I’m camping with you boys.”
Gideon winked at her. “It’ll be fun.”
Joan shook her head. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Gideon looked at Ann. “Come with us. All this can wait. You can read the autopsy report later.”
Since Ann had stepped onto her first crime scene, the thrill of the hunt had infected her blood. “No, camping is your thing. Never was it mine.” She handed him Nate’s pack.
Gideon hefted it. “Is this all? The way he was talking, I thought I’d have to hitch the trailer on the back of the truck.”
“Sergeant McCabe dropped off files for me yesterday. He helped Nate prioritize.”
“I hear you held your own at the crime scene yesterday,” Gideon said.
“I’m fascinated by the case,” Ann admitted.
When Gideon looked as if he would argue, Joan nudged him. “We need to get going. And your sister will be fine.”
“I won’t be within cell service range, so if you need anything, call the station,” he said. “Officer Smyth will be on call this week.”
“I’m fine, really.” She turned him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the boys, who were in the back seat, belted in and ready to go.
Gideon and Joan settled into the truck. Her brother tossed her one last worried look, and she scrounged for one last smile before he pulled away. She stood on the porch, waving as she watched the vehicle vanish around the corner. When it was gone, a breeze caught the ends of her hair, conjuring memories of last night’s noises, which had not been Whiskers or the wind.
She walked around the side of the house toward Nate’s bedroom window. There were a few sticks, likely culled in the wind, but nothing out of the ordinary. She tugged on the lower sash and discovered it was indeed locked.
As she turned, she felt a little foolish until she spotted a flicker of silver glimmering in the mulch bed. She knelt and picked up what looked like a chewing gum wrapper folded into the shape of an airplane.
Ann stepped back, held it up to the light, and studied the sharp, clean angles. As tempted as she was to crush it, she carried it into the kitchen. She carefully set it on the windowsill and poured coffee into a paper cup. As she sipped, she stared at the tiny plane that honestly should not have been threatening in the least. But it had been under her son’s window, and the precision folds and razor-sharp angles reminded her of Elijah.