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Carrie could never get her eyebrows to look that good.
“I thought you were busy rescuing the drenched boy.”
“Before that. The storm scared me. Don’t roll your eyes. I can’t help it. I came downstairs to watch the weather on TV.”
“And your hottie writer pal was already there?”
“He was trying to find the coffeepot. I showed him. We made coffee.”
“You must have nearly fainted when you learned who he is. I mean, you being a bookworm and all. Valery’s right. He’s not hard to look at, even if he’s older by a few years.”
Late thirties. Maybe even forty. When a guy looked that good, age didn’t matter.
“It was storming, Nikki,” Carrie said in exasperation. “You know how I feel about storms. I would have hung out with anyone wearing skin. I didn’t care if the guy was a writer or a skid-row bum.”
She might be stretching the truth a little, but she had been deeply relieved at finding a living, breathing, unterrified human in the kitchen. The fact that he was Hayden Winters was icing on the cake.
“Are you ever going to stop being a ninny about a little thunder and lightning?”
“One can only hope.” But how could she, when she lived with memories of that one particular stormy day, of the helpless dread and shattering humiliation that came with every thunderclap? All her life, she’d known something terrible would eventually happen during a storm. She’d been right.
Her sister glanced at her cell phone. “Aren’t you going up there? See what he wants?”
“Tawny’s got the front desk. She can assist him.”
Nikki made a hissing noise and shook her head in dismay. “You are the most hopeless female in Honey Ridge.”
Carrie laughed. “Bye, Nikki. See you.”
Her sister rolled her eyes for the tenth time, tossed her sleek hair and departed, eggplant stilettos tip-tapping on the indoor-outdoor carpet.
As Nikki disappeared from sight, Tawny whipped around the end of the stacks. “Someone wants to see you at the desk.”
Carrie suffered a little swell of energy, quickly tamped down.
He might be Hayden Winters, the most celebrated name in killer thrillers, but to Carrie, he was the guy who liked bold coffee and books and kept the tornadoes away. A pleasant and passing acquaintance.
Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it.
“Be right there.”
7 (#ulink_a03765f1-1021-5aae-a41b-480b1b46de3c)
Libraries raised me.
—Ray Bradbury
Hayden scanned the library, taking in the small computer bay, the cozy sections of brown vinyl couches and chairs, the study tables, and the rows and rows of books tidily divided into sections. Along the east wall, a rack of current magazines overlooked round tables littered with various newspapers.
With each breath, he drew in the redemptive smell of books. Places like this had saved his life.
At the circulation desk Hayden asked for Carrie. A tiny blonde librarian, after giving him a puzzled stare as if she couldn’t quite place him but knew she should, took off toward the rows of books. Apparently, Carrie hadn’t mentioned his presence at Peach Orchard Inn, and he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or wounded.
He liked his midnight barista. Had been intrigued by her. Had found an excuse to see her again.
While he waited, Hayden perused the new releases shelf, flipping through Mary Higgins Clark’s latest as he kept half an eye out for Carrie.
When she came into view, a quick kick deep in his gut caught him off guard. His glance drifted to her ankle, noting the bracelet she’d worn a few nights ago was there again above simple black flats. Even in his sleeplessness, he hadn’t imagined Carrie Riley’s fresh appeal. Dressed in black skinny slacks and a white button-down, she’d tucked her short dark hair behind pearl-studded ears.
She was like the library, neat and orderly.
“You looking for a cup of coffee?” Her mouth curved.
“Might be. You have a few minutes?”
“Not for coffee. Sorry.”
So was he.
“Another time, then.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his chinos. “I wondered about Brody. Did you get him home all right?”
A crease appeared between Carrie’s eyes. She motioned toward a round table nearby, and they sat down across from each other.
Hayden had an uncomfortable feeling about the kid, and he was seldom wrong in his character analyses. Whether fictional or real, he discerned people. Right now, he discerned trouble for Brody Thomson and concern in Carrie Riley.
Posture erect, the tidy librarian clasped her hands together on top of the table. Her fingernails were unpolished, unlike the pearl-pink toes from Friday night. She wore no jewelry on her slim fingers, either. Another point of interest he filed away.
“Brody acted very uncomfortable about me driving him home,” she said in her soft-as-rainwater voice. “He wanted me to drop him off in town. He said he’d rather walk.”
“You let him?”
“No. I insisted on driving him all the way to his house.” She shrugged, dark eyes widening. “I had a funny feeling.”
“As did I. Any sign of his father?”
“He came to the door. Brody was anxious for me to leave.”
An oily feeling curled in his belly. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“This may seem silly—” she glanced up at him and then back down, absently picking at the curled corner of the Knoxville News Sentinel “—but as I drove away, I tried to keep watch in my mirrors without being too obvious.”
“Not silly at all. See anything?”
“When I turned the corner, I thought I saw his father slap the side of his head.” She exhaled a little breath of frustration. “I’m not sure, though, and it might have been a friendly thing like dads do sometimes.”
“You mean like a welcome home, a love pat?”
“Exactly. My dad used to put my brother, Trey, in a headlock and they’d wrestle around. Guy stuff. That’s probably what I saw.” She nibbled her bottom lip.
“But you don’t think so?”
“Something’s not right, or Brody would have let us call his father that night. His dad was not out of town.”
“The kid lied.” He wasn’t surprised. No drowned rat of a boy refused to go home to dry clothes and a warm bed without good reason.
“I think so. I asked him directly and he sidestepped the question with a vague reply that was all but an admission.”
Hayden inhaled deeply and sat back in the chair.
Home was hell for some kids. A few were lucky enough to escape. He’d lied about a lot of things, too, usually to his mother but often to others. Lies he passed off as excuses. His mama was out of town. She was sick. He’d forgotten to ask her.
He swallowed back the intruding thoughts. They were discussing Brody, not him.
“I talked to Trey,” Carrie said. “He couldn’t recall any problems from that address, not since he’s been on the force.”
“Did he know anything about the kid’s father?”
“Basically common knowledge stuff and what Brody told me. Clint Thomson is employed at the Big Wave boat factory. He hangs out at Brannon’s bar on Second Street. No record of arrest except for a DUI a few years ago.”
“An alcoholic?”
“Or maybe a man who has a few beers after work and got caught once.”
“What about Brody’s mother?”
“She left before Trey came back to Honey Ridge, but I asked my mother. Brody’s mom, Penny, was the quiet type who didn’t socialize much. She didn’t even attend church, which is a social no-no in Honey Ridge. Mama didn’t recall anything about their divorce.”
“No close friends or job or anything?”
“I didn’t ask, but apparently not, because Mama, who basically knows everyone and his dog in Honey Ridge, was barely acquainted. Apparently, the breakup was one of those private things that happen. She was unhappy in her marriage and left.”
“But she left her son, too.”
“Sad, isn’t it? Maybe she thought Brody, being a boy, would be better off with his father. I’ve known couples who did that. Mama took custody of the girl. Daddy took the boy.”
“But wouldn’t she care if the old man is knocking him around? I wonder if he hears from her. If she knows things are rocky?”
“I think your writer’s brain is kicking into gear.”
“Meaning?”
“We don’t know if Brody is being mistreated, Hayden. Maybe he and his dad had a disagreement that night. Maybe he got in trouble at school and didn’t want to face the music at home. Kids do that.”
Hayden rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess that’s possible.”
His fertile mind did overreact at times and suspect trouble where none existed. That was how he got his story ideas. Experience had taught him that beneath every smile was a heartache. Behind every cloud was a tornado. Not that he’d mention a tornado to Carrie.
“When Trey was about that age, he got in trouble with Dad for something. I don’t remember what he’d done, but he ran away and hid in Grandpa’s barn all day.” She spread her hands. “And I can promise you, the Riley kids were not abused.”
All of what she said was true, but Hayden’s instincts, honed for survival, rarely let him down. “If he doesn’t complain and no one sees anything illegal going on, his dad could get away with hurting him.”
“He goes to school. His teachers would notice.”
Hayden didn’t smirk. He didn’t even react. Once in a great while a teacher noticed, but mostly not. Hayden knew better than anyone. Teachers were only human, and if a kid kept his mouth shut and wasn’t a class disturbance, no one noticed; no one asked the uncomfortable questions.
That was the problem with home situations. A stranger, even an interested one, couldn’t see what was happening behind closed doors. “Perhaps you’re right and it’s nothing serious.”
For all her reasoning to the contrary, the small frown between Carrie’s eyebrows said she still worried.
“Does he come into the library much?”
“Almost every day after school.”
Hayden glanced at his watch. “Which can’t be too long from now.”
“What if he does? How is that helpful?”
A muscle jerked below his eye. He reached up and rubbed as if he had an itch. A tic. A twitch. A mental hiccup in a man with crazy in his genetic code. “If something is happening to him at home, he’s safe here.”
Knowing the kid had a refuge, even for little while, brought Hayden a measure of peace.
“Tawny and I set up a cookie tray in the foyer for after school.” Carrie gestured toward the front of the library. “I think that may be his dinner.”
“Another reason to be concerned.”
“Maybe. But maybe I’m wrong. All of the kids, especially the older boys, gobble the cookies like hungry wolves.”
“Gut feelings count.” Especially his gut. She wouldn’t understand, and he certainly couldn’t explain.
“I care about kids, Hayden. If his home situation is bad—” she bowed her shoulders “—well, I want to be alert to any signs. He’s a nice little boy. Puts the books and magazines neatly back where they belong or brings them to the reshelf cart. Doesn’t turn down the page corners.”
“Librarians get testy about those page corners.” His lips quivered.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Defacing a perfectly wonderful book is a serious thing, especially when we have bookmarks at the desk. Free!”
Letting the grin slip through, he lifted both hands from the tabletop. “Won’t get an argument from me.”
Mr. Franks had taught him that people who respect themselves respect public property, too. This was after Hayden had carved his name on a bathroom stall. He’d never forgotten that lesson or how the event had begun the change that saved his life.
Carrie silently slid her chair back from the table and started to stand.
“If you need any help with your research, let me know.”
“Can you point me to archives of the town’s history?”
“Sure, but you can learn more, especially the colorful, gossipy stuff, from the good ol’ boys down at the Miniature Golf Café. You are guaranteed to get an earful any day of the week.”
“Would you be willing to come along and introduce me? I’ll buy your breakfast.”
