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“Chair.”
“Hey, hold on.” He left the room, returning after a minute with a heavy-duty parka. “This should give you a little padding.”
He doubled it over, and watched as she sat down gingerly. Looking surprised, she said, “That helps. Thank you. And speaking of... I don’t think I’ve thanked you for rushing to our rescue.”
Admit to his initial reluctance? Or that, on second thought, he’d been glad to have the chance to do something really meaningful? Probably not. Gabe settled for an acknowledging nod.
“I should at least call my insurance agent tomorrow.”
“It’ll have to wait. What phone number would you give him if he has questions?”
“But...”
“A few days is nothing, given the time it’ll take to rebuild.”
She finally nodded.
“I need you to tell me what’s happened so far.”
Looking startled, she began, “Didn’t Joseph—”
Gabe cut her off. “I want as much detail as you can give me.” The cops had one goal; he had another.
She glanced toward the doorway, as if to be sure the little girl hadn’t wandered into earshot. “Did you read about the murders?”
Having a whole family killed, and wealthy people at that, didn’t happen in these parts. The news had likely riveted just about everyone. “Yes,” he agreed, “but I had the impression the cops were holding back.”
“They did tell me something two days ago they hadn’t admitted up until then, but my impression is that they’re stymied.”
Gabe waited.
Trina began to talk, starting with the request from a Lieutenant Matson, who oversaw detectives, that she work with a three-year-old girl who was the only survivor after her family had been killed. “Either she’d climbed into one of the lower kitchen cupboards herself, or one of her parents put her there. When the police arrived, the cupboard door was open a crack, and her father’s body was right in front of her.”
“Once she heard the intruder leave, she might have pushed it open herself to peek out,” he suggested.
“Yes, but they didn’t think so. She was...frozen, almost catatonic. Stiff, staring, squeezed into the smallest ball she could manage.”
He played the devil’s advocate. “Seeing her father...”
“The detective said he’d been shot in his back and lay facing her. She couldn’t have seen the blood or...damage.”
“Unless she crept out, then went back to her hidey-hole.”
“I guess that’s conceivable, but I think it’s likelier that she never moved.” Her expression shifted. “You sound like another detective. Were you an MP, or...?”
“No, we do some of the same kind of thing when we’ve been inserted into a foreign country and discover our intel isn’t accurate. It’s time you and I start thinking like investigators.” He’d realized as much immediately. “If you trust the police, you’d be letting them protect you and Chloe. They offered protection, didn’t they?”
“Round the clock.”
“But you called your brother instead. Why?”
She made a face. “Two reasons. One is that they’re desperate for Chloe to tell them what she saw and heard. They called constantly, dropped by at the office. They were impatient, skeptical. Why wasn’t she talking yet? I overheard one of the detectives saying I was being too soft, that they could ‘crack her open.’ His words. All I could picture was a nutcracker smashing a walnut open.”
Gabe winced, sympathizing with her obvious anger. He could empathize with the cops’ frustration, too, but nothing justified traumatizing that cute kid any more than she’d already been.
“They didn’t like it that I wouldn’t tell them where I ‘stashed’ her during the day, while I worked,” Trina continued, with unabated indignation.
“Where did you?” he asked, curious.
“Some of the professionals and staff in the building went in together, rented a small vacant office and started their own preschool, right down the hall from my office. This way, they can have lunch with their kids, pop in when there’s a slow moment, be there if something happens.” She smiled. “Needless to say, it’s not advertised. They were happy to include Chloe.”
“Smart.” He mulled that over. “Okay, you wanted to keep her away from the cops. What’s the other reason you don’t trust them?”
“Chloe had been talking for about a week—but timidly, and she’d clam up and stay quiet for hours if I said anything that scared her. Since she was progressing well, though, on Tuesday I called Detective Risvold to let him know we were getting somewhere.”
“And Wednesday night, your house was set on fire with you and Chloe inside it, asleep on the second floor,” he said slowly. Rage kindled in his chest.
“I thought the timing was suggestive.” Anxiety filled her hazel eyes, and her hand resting on the table tightened into a fist. Her fingernails must be biting into her palm. “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”
“No.” He started to reach for her hand but checked himself. He wasn’t much for casual touching, and didn’t even know where the impulse had come from. “You have an enemy. Under the circumstances, it’s just common sense to be paranoid.”
Her relief was obvious, her hand loosening. “Thank you for saying that. There’s a fine line. Until the fire, I figured the detectives were insensitive. Maybe neither of them has children. But thinking they’re part of this...”
Gabe pondered that, considering it safer than focusing on his desire to scoop her up in his arms and hold her close. That wasn’t like him, either. Yeah, and she wouldn’t enjoy close contact right now anyway.
“Odds are against the investigators being culpable,” he said after a moment. “Trouble is, unless our guy got lucky and overheard two cops gossiping in a coffee shop, that suggests a killer who has connections in the department.”
“Detective Risvold wasn’t happy with me when I told him his department must have a leak.”
“He was defensive?”
“Maybe?” Her uncertainty came through. “Or worried because the thought had already occurred to him? I couldn’t tell.”
“I’d like to have a talk with him, except I don’t see how I can without giving him an idea where you are.”
“Where you stashed me, you mean?”
He gave a grunt of amusement. “Okay, tomorrow, I need to grocery-shop. I’ll drive to Bend so nobody I’ve met is surprised by what I’m buying. I can stop at Target or Walmart and pick up some toys or movies for Chloe and anything else you need.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I came? I could definitely use clothes and toiletries.”
“No. We can’t risk you being recognized.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to argue. “You can’t tell me you don’t have clients who live in Deschutes County. You could be recognized.”
“The odds of someone I know happening to be in the same store at the right time isn’t—”
“Give me sizes.” He sounded inflexible for good reason; this wasn’t negotiable. He could tell she was irritated, but he couldn’t let that bother him. “You hurt besides,” he pointed out. “Do you really want to try on jeans?”
She grimaced.
“I’ll have Boyd come over while I’m gone.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Joseph didn’t sound as if he completely trusted this Boyd. He thought he might have gotten soft.”
Gabe came close to laughing. “That hasn’t happened.” Just for fun, he’d tell Boyd what her brother said.
Her eyes searched his. “He won’t tell anyone we’re here?”
“He already knows. I needed to be sure he was ready to act if I called.”
When Trina turned her head, he, too, realized the background voices and music from the TV had stopped in the living room. Before either of them could rise, the kid appeared. So much for everything else they needed to discuss. But maybe one day at a time was good enough, Gabe thought. The last twenty-four hours had upended Trina’s life, and Chloe’s for a second time.
“Movie over?” Trina asked, holding out her hand.
Nodding, the kid reached Trina and climbed into her lap. The lack of hesitation spoke of her trust.
That got him wondering how Chloe had come to be living with the psychologist who’d been working with her. That had to be unusual. He’d never had the slightest interest in building personal ties with any of the social workers and therapists who’d made him think of mosquitoes, persistent as hell, whining nonstop, determined to suck his memories as if they were blood.
And maybe that was fitting, because his memories were of blood, so much he sometimes dreamed he was drowning in it.
Dr. Marr hadn’t yet tried to crack him open, but give her time.
“Let’s go run you a bath,” she said to the little girl in her lap. “We’ll dig in that bag and see if Vicky sent any pajamas along.”
Chloe’s eyes widened.
Trina chuckled. “We’ll find something. If nothing else, you can sleep in this top and your panties.” She nudged Chloe off her lap and rose stiffly to her feet. Looking at him, she said, “I need a mug or something I can use to rinse her hair.”
“Sure.” He poked in the cupboard until he found a good-size plastic measuring cup with a handle.
“Perfect,” she said, taking it from him. She’d reverted to looking a little shy. “Let’s march, Chloe-o.”
The little girl giggled. His own mouth curved at the sound. Glancing back, Trina caught him smiling, and was obviously startled. He got rid of the smile.
“This bedtime?” he asked, nodding at Chloe.
“Uh-uh!”
It took him a second to realize the protest had been verbal. “She talks,” he teased.
Trina shook her head. “Now you’ve done it, kiddo. You won’t be able to fool him again.”
And damn, he wanted to smile.
* * *
SOMEHOW TRINA ALWAYS ended up wet even though it wasn’t her taking the bath. Chloe liked waves, and she liked to splash. She did not like having her hair washed or getting water or soap in her eyes.
At home, Trina had had a plastic stool she’d bought for the express purpose of supervising baths and washing Chloe’s hair. Today, she’d knelt on the bath mat. Chuckling as she bundled the three-year-old in a towel, Trina said, “As much as you love your bath, I think you’re ready for swim lessons.”
Chloe went rigid, panic in her eyes.
Going on alert, Trina used a finger to tip up her chin. “Or have you taken them before?”
Lips pinched together, Chloe shook her head.
On instinct, Trina kept talking, if only to fill the silence. “Maybe swim lessons are offered only during the summer.” She should know, but she tended to tune out when colleagues and friends who had children started talking about things like that. Had Chloe been disturbed only because she was afraid to put her face in the water? But Trina didn’t buy that. Taking a wild guess, she said, “Were you supposed to go to the pool that day? When the bad things happened?”
Suddenly, tears were rolling down the little girl’s cheeks. Seeming unaware of them, she nodded.
“Were you going to learn to swim?”
She shook her head.
“Brian?” Chloe’s brother had been six, a first grader.
She nodded again, her eyes shimmering with the tears that kept falling.
“Had you just not left yet?”
Another shake of the head. Trina had a helpless moment that gave her new sympathy for Detective Risvold’s frustration.
But then Chloe whispered, “Brian pooked.”
Pooked. “Puked? He was sick?”
She gave a forlorn sniff. “Uh-huh.”
“Did you see who came to your house, pumpkin?”
Chloe buried her face in Trina’s scrub top. Her whole body trembled.
Trina wrapped her in her arms and laid her cheek against the little girl’s wet head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready. I promise.”
Worried when there was no response, she used a hand towel to dry Chloe’s cheeks, had her blow her nose with a wad of toilet paper, then briskly dried her and pulled the My Little Pony nightgown she’d found in the duffel over her head. “Okay, let’s brush your hair.”
She found no hair dryer in the drawers and thought about asking Gabe if he had one in his bathroom, but then realized how pointless that would be. All he’d have to do was rub a towel over his head. He probably didn’t even bother to comb his hair.
Well, it didn’t hurt anyone to go to bed with wet hair.
She’d give a lot to have a pile of picture books to read to Chloe to give her something else to think about before she snuggled down to sleep, but she had to find another way.
So she tucked Chloe in, refrained from commenting on the thumb in her mouth, and began singing softly, starting with a lullaby. She knew the words to a couple of country-western songs, a song from Phantom of the Opera, and ended up with Christmas carols. After the first verse of “Silent Night,” she saw that Chloe’s mouth had softened and her thumb had fallen out.
Trina clicked off the lamp and had turned to slip out when she saw the big man lounging in the doorway. When she got closer to him, she couldn’t miss the smile in his eyes.
So she couldn’t carry a tune. Chloe didn’t mind.
He murmured, “Grab your duffel if it has what we’ll need in it.”
