She covered his hand with hers. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I get it.”
He looked into her eyes. Compassionate, guileless. Honest. He should be just as honest and tell her that she was the big draw. That simply being with her lowered his stress level and let him relax. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, going with his gut that she wasn’t ready to hear that. “Back to the case. As we searched the home, we came across a box in the attic.”
“Okay.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “We have special equipment that helps us find things most people would miss. Anyway, tucked away into a little hidden corner, behind the wall, was this box, and it had some interesting stuff in it.”
“Like what?”
“Clippings from a Russian newspaper. We’re not sure of the date yet, as the headline wasn’t included, but it looks like it was from the mid-1990s. A floppy drive that can only be used on an ancient computer, and some pictures.”
She waited, her eyes steady on his, not rushing him, and he appreciated that.
“This was one of the pictures we found.” He tapped the screen of his phone and turned it to face her.
She gasped. “What? That’s my dad and me!”
“I know. I remembered what you looked like at that age. And, of course, I remember your dad.”
“I could only have been three or four in that picture.” She took the phone from him and zoomed in. “It’s the park behind our house. My dad always used to take me there whenever he was home from . . . his trips, remember?”
“Of course. The four of us had some good times in that park.” He, Sarah, and their younger brother, Dustin, had often swung by Ava’s home to grab her before racing through their backyards to the park.
“At least until Mom decided Nathan was old enough to come along and I was old enough to watch him,” she said. “I used to be so frustrated that I had to chase a toddler instead of trying to flirt with you.”
He laughed, then scoffed. “You never flirted with me.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Trust me, I did. I was just really bad at it.”
Caden clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping open. He had no idea what she was talking about. “Or maybe I was just a clueless dork.”
“Or that.” She smirked.
She’d had a crush on him back then. Maybe there was hope for him yet. Just one more thing to investigate when he had the chance. He cleared his throat and swiped again. “What about this one?”
“My father again,” she whispered, “when he was in his early thirties, I would guess.” She blinked and cleared her throat. “About thirty years ago. He was quite a bit older than my mom. And he seemed a lot older by the time Nathan was born. Obviously.”
“I remember that. You used to get so mad when people thought he was your grandfather.”
She grimaced. “Yeah. When I looked at him, I didn’t see him as old. He was just . . . my dad. But he was a health nut. Always making sure he ate healthy and stayed in shape, so thankfully he aged well—in spite of the grandfather appearance.”
Caden studied the picture over her shoulder. “Do you recognize that place?”
“No, but the sign is in Russian. It’s the White Rabbit Café.”
“You read Russian?” Yet one more thing he hadn’t known. He was starting to wonder if he knew her at all.
“Fluently.” She smiled. “My father taught me. Who’s the man he’s shaking hands with?”
“From family pictures, we’ve discerned that it’s Michael Fields’s father, Jesse.”
“Interesting. So Jesse Fields was in Russia the same time my father was, and they were photographed outside a restaurant together. And this picture was in Michael Fields’s attic. It makes absolutely no sense. Except my father obviously knew this man.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Who was he and how did he wind up here in the same city?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to answer those questions.”
“I’m sorry. I have no idea.” She paused. “Could I get these two pictures? I have so few of my father . . .”
He hesitated. “I can’t give them to you right now since they’re part of this investigation, but I can make sure you get them when we’re done.”
“Sure.” She handed the phone back to Caden. “My dad hated having his picture taken—and he pretty much instilled that in Nathan and me. Do you know who took these?”
“No, and I’m guessing your dad didn’t know the pictures were being taken. Mostly, I’m just curious about how they came to be in the Fields’s house.”
“Can you ask his father?”
“We’re planning on it. They’re cutting short their vacation in Florida. I expect they’ll be home in the next couple of hours.”
Ava rubbed a hand across her eyes and stood. She paced the distance to the front door and back. “Those poor people. I can’t imagine.”
“It looks like this is the third family to be killed.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “Third?”
He told her about the other two, along with the missing pictures, and she paled. “And,” he said, “there’s some kind of connection to the first family. They appeared to know one another, as the Fields family had a Christmas picture of the first family on their mantel.”
“Huh.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m . . . not sure.” She paced while she rubbed her chin. “I mean, I don’t know what to think, to be honest. Because this is all very weird.”
Caden watched her. “Okay. You think about it and call me if you figure it out.”
She blinked. “Okay, I will. I promise. I just need to sort through some things before I can put it into words. I think.”
Caden walked to the door and hesitated. When she looked up, her eyes two big question marks, he sighed and leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be in touch.” He stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind him. Then waited for the deadbolt to shoot home. Only then did he walk down the steps and head for his car.
Mickey Fields huddled against the trunk of the tree and pulled his hoodie strings until the fabric encased his head, chin, and eyes. Everything except his nose. He lowered his forehead to his knees and rocked as the images from the morning flashed in his mind.
He’d been almost to the door when he’d heard the first odd noise come from the living room. A weird sound that had sounded almost like a muffled balloon pop. His hand was on the knob when he heard it again. He opened the door on the third burst and watched as the fourth bullet entered his father’s head.
He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
But he must have made a noise, because the killer had whirled and turned his gun on Mickey.
And Mickey reacted.
He kicked out, connecting with the killer’s arm, sending the weapon flying.
With a scream, the man lunged and grabbed Mickey by the upper arm. “You’re dead, kid.” He jerked him around, blocking his escape out the front door.
Acting on years of training, Mickey had gone into autopilot and done exactly what he’d been programmed to do—using skills that had made him the champion fighter at the dojo four years in a row.