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“I know, but I wanted to remind you. Where’s Everly?” she asked. “Nana said she was at the hospital, but I didn’t believe her. Sister never gets sick.”
“You’re right. She doesn’t, but Nana never tells tales, either. Your sister really is here.” He set Aria on her feet and kissed her forehead.
“Why?” she asked, holding onto his hand and looking up into his face.
The girls were identical, their eyes the same shade of blue, their hair the same raven-black, but Aria was shorter and seemingly frailer, her scrawny frame currently hidden beneath layers of fabric and a heavy winter coat.
“She was sleeping a little too hard, and I got worried, so I brought her here,” he replied, trying to give her a response that would make sense to a not-quite six-year-old.
“That’s silly, Daddy,” she replied. “You always sleep too hard, and we don’t take you to the hospital.”
“Yes, but I’m not your sister. You know she barely ever sleeps, and when she does, she’s always easy to wake.”
“That’s true. Maybe, I should check on her. She’s probably scared,” she said with a frown.
“She’s still asleep, but you can see her.” He met his mother-in-law’s eyes. “I’m sure Nana and Pop-pop won’t mind bringing you in the room. I have a few things I need to take care of.”
“Of course we wouldn’t,” Rachelle said, her voice trembling. She stepped into the hospital room, urging Aria to follow. She was as shaken as Henry and trying not to show it. A long-time ER nurse, she usually had a calm approach to emergencies. Right now, she seemed on the edge of falling apart.
He started to follow, worried about her as much as he was about the girls.
Brett touched his shoulder. “She’s okay,” he said.
“She looks shaken.”
“She is, but she’d rather not know that we know it.” Brett ran a hand through his thick gray hair. “I feel terrible about this, Henry.”
“Nothing that happened is your fault. You and Rachelle have nothing to feel bad about.”
“I should have put new windows in. Better locks. A security system.”
“Provincetown is a safe community. You had no way of knowing something like this would happen.”
“Maybe not, but I still feel terrible. How is Everly?”
“The doctor said she would be fine.”
“And the other victim? I heard she had a head injury.”
It took a moment for the words to make sense.
Henry had been thinking of Tessa as a witness.
Brett was right, though. She was also a victim.
“I haven’t heard much except that she’s been admitted.”
“I wonder if there is anything I can to do help. We owe her a lot. If she hadn’t intervened, our Everly might not be with us.” A semiretired neurosurgeon, Brett had earned a reputation as being one of the best in his field. He still taught classes and gave lectures, and if it was warranted, assisted in cutting-edge neurosurgeries in Boston.
“I spoke to her before the ambulance transported Everly. She seemed lucid, but I’m going to check on her. I’ll let you know if things are worse than I suspect.”
“Rachelle and I will stay close to the girls until you’re back,” Brett said, his dark eyes so much like Diane’s that Henry had to look away.
“Thanks. I’ll hurry.”
“Take your time. We’ll work out a plan of action when you return.” Brett stepped into the room and closed the door.
Henry hesitated for just long enough to convince himself that a police officer, a nurse and his in-laws were plenty of protection for the girls. Then he walked to the nurses’ station and asked for Tessa’s room number.
The nurse gave it after she checked a master list of people who were allowed information about and access to Tessa and Everly. It was a short list. One Henry had helped create.
Hospital staff were on high alert, watching for unusual activity and turning away the press, who was already gathering outside the hospital.
A little girl had nearly been kidnapped.
A stranger had saved her.
There would be no hiding that from the local press, and Henry was confident national syndicates would pick up the story. For now, the hospital and police were keeping the victim’s identity and the identity of the hero who’d intervened secret.
That was normal protocol, but this wasn’t a normal case.
Not to Henry.
The perpetrator preyed on innocent children.
The victim was his daughter.
And he owed Tessa Carlson more than he could ever repay.
He would keep that debt in the forefront of his mind when he questioned her. He would also remember Brett’s comment—Tessa was a victim, too. But he wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly. He wanted to know why she’d walked away when the police arrived. He wanted to know what she’d seen, and what she was hiding.
He wanted to take whatever information she had and use it to track down the monster who had gone after Everly and who wouldn’t stop preying on the innocent until he was caught.
That was Henry’s goal and his mission, and he wouldn’t allow Tessa’s obvious reluctance keep him from achieving it.
THREE (#u830d3f44-96ff-5f28-887d-347dc0a9ece5)
Tessa’s experience with law enforcement had never been good. As a child living in the projects in Los Angeles, she’d been pulled out of bed dozens of times, taken outside by stone-faced officers who were more interested in checking her room for drugs than in making certain she wasn’t traumatized. She’d learned to wear street clothes to bed, so that she didn’t have to face the embarrassment of being outside in her threadbare nightclothes or too-small shorts and tank top. There had been many times when she’d watched as her mother was handcuffed and carted away. She had sat in the back of police cruisers waiting for her grandmother to walk the half mile that separated their rentals, inhaling the scent of vomit and urine while she tried not to cry.
Life in the projects had not been easy.
Being her mother’s daughter had not been easy.
Both had taught her the importance of staying on the right side of the law, steering clear of trouble and avoiding the police at all costs.
She tried not to show any of that as she perched on the edge of the hospital bed and answered Chief Carmichael Simpson’s questions. Dressed in street clothes, his short-cropped hair sprinkled with gray, he paced her room, a pad of paper in one hand, a pen in the other. Two uniformed officers stood near the door. Darrell Mitchel and Kayla Delphina were regulars at the diner, and Kayla attended Faith Community Church. Other than that, Tessa knew nothing about her and nothing about Darrell. Right now, she wouldn’t have minded a connection, a smiling face, someone aside from the taciturn police chief to focus on.
“So, what you’re saying is that you were walking to work before dawn in thirty-five-degree weather when the forecasters were calling for freezing rain?” Chief Simpson said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
At least, that was what she thought she was hearing.
It was possible her perception was tainted by past bad experiences. Patrick had questioned and criticized everything, and she’d learned to always be on guard.
She swallowed a terse reply and plastered on the smile she wore when she had to deal with frustrating customers at the diner. “My car is on its last legs, Chief Simpson. I try to put as little mileage on it as possible.”
“It’s about two miles from your place to the diner.” He glanced at his notepad as if it contained the information. She knew it didn’t. Like everyone else in town, he knew where she lived. Like everyone else, he knew she walked most days in most kinds of weather.
“That’s right, and as I’m sure you know, I almost always choose to walk,” she responded, the smile still plastered to her face.
“Even in the winter?” he asked.
“It’s winter now, and I was walking outside,” she pointed out.
“That’s not an answer,” he murmured.
“Walking to work is not a crime, Chief,” Kayla commented, crossing her arms over her chest. “I walk around after dark all the time. Provincetown has a low crime rate.”
“Point noted, officer,” the chief said, his focus still on the notebook. “But I believe I directed the question at Ms. Carlson.”
“As Officer Delphina pointed out, it’s a safe town. I walk to work all the time. You can ask my boss, Ernie Baylor. He owns the diner,” Tessa said.
“We all know who Ernie is, Ms. Carlson. We all know the diner,” the chief replied, finally meeting her eyes. “If I’m giving you the impression that you’ve done something wrong, I apologize. You saved a little girl’s life, and you deserve all the praise that’s coming to you. But I don’t like when these sorts of things happen in my town. The kidnapping of a child is something I take very seriously, and I want to get to the bottom of it as quickly as—”
Someone knocked on the door and it opened, a tall, sandy-haired man stepping into the room. He looked familiar, his hard face and lean muscular form reminding her of someone.
“Tessa,” he said, striding toward her and offering a hand. “I’m Henry Miller. Everly’s father.”
Of course!
“Special Agent Miller,” the chief said, before she could respond. “How is your daughter?”
“Call me Henry, and she’s still unconscious, but the doctor says she will make a full recovery.”
“I’m relieved to hear that, and I want to assure you that we plan to work in full cooperation with your team once it arrives.”
“My supervisor will appreciate that,” Henry replied, his gaze never leaving Tessa. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, and his lashes were dark brown and tipped with gold.
“How are you feeling, Tessa?” he asked, and she knew it was only the first of many questions he planned to ask.
“Aside from a headache, fine,” she replied, wishing she had the courage to tell all of them to leave the room. She needed some time to think things through, to make decisions about how much of her past she wanted to reveal.
Any of it felt like too much, but she was afraid they would dig for answers if she avoided questions.
Then again, maybe they wouldn’t ask about anything except that night and the kidnapping.
“I’m glad. You risked a lot to help my daughter, and I want you to know how much I appreciate that.” He was studying her face, his gaze stopping for a moment too long on the narrow white line that cut from her ear to her temple.
She tensed, waiting for him to ask how she’d gotten it.
Instead, he met her eyes again. “I owe you a lot.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, and she meant it.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” He grabbed a chair that was sitting against the wall and placed it in front of her.
She knew he planned to sit there. Too close for her to avoid his eyes.
“I really do have a headache,” she murmured, hoping he would get the hint and leave.
“I won’t take much of your time.” He eyed the throbbing area on her temple. She’d seen herself in the mirror. What had felt like a glancing blow had left a huge knot and an ugly bruise. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to dissuade him from questioning her.
He dropped into the chair, leaning toward her, his elbows on his knees, his gaze direct. “Tell me what happened this morning.”
She repeated everything she’d told the police. She gave as many details as she could remember. The sunglasses. The pale skin. The dark hair. The gun.
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t cut in to ask for clarification. He didn’t take notes. He just stared into her eyes, judging—she thought—her honesty.
Fortunately, she’d learned a lot during her years living with her mother. She had watched uniformed officers ask questions and watched her mother shift and squirm, trying to hide that she was strung out on drugs or hiding a few ounces of cocaine in her sleeve, or blouse or pants pocket.
Tessa kept still, kept focused, refused to look away.
Because, everything she was saying was the truth.
Only her identity was a lie.
Four months before she’d left Napa Valley, she’d purchased a new identity from an old acquaintance. She had attended middle school with him, and she had known that her grandmother had offered him a place to stay when his stepfather had kicked him out. He had been happy to help Tessa. For a price. Eight months of saving every penny of the allowance Patrick gave her had made the purchase possible.
The day she’d left California, she had destroyed her driver’s license and become Tessa Carlson. From that day forward, she had tried to convince herself she had never been anyone else.
By the time she finished speaking, she felt exhausted, the pain in her head a throbbing ache that made her want to close her eyes and sleep for a while.
“How about the Jeep, Tessa?” he prodded. “Did you notice anything about the interior that might help us?”
“I was a little too busy trying to figure out how to save myself and Everly to worry about the color of the seats or the vehicle identification number, Agent Miller.”
“Call me Henry. Most people who save my daughter’s life do.”
“Do your daughters often need saving?” she asked, and he smiled.
“This is the first and, hopefully, last time.”
“I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time,” she murmured, still refusing to look away from his unwavering gaze.
He had blue-gray eyes that reminded her of the fog that had often rolled across the vineyards in Napa Valley. She had liked to sit and watch it as the sun rose, wishing and hoping for changes that never came. Sometimes praying the way Hester had taught her, but never believing that God would hear the cries of a woman who had wandered so far from His truth.
It had taken many years and thousands of miles for her to understand the truth of God’s love and forgiveness.
“We’re all glad you were,” the chief interjected, and she allowed herself to finally look away from Henry.
