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Skye couldn’t breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—
Her mother always took their clothes. Always. Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother’s underwear, her favorite blouse, the housecoat she had worn so much the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Nothing was missing.
Nothing except her mother.
Skye wandered back to the open couch. She sank onto its edge. As she did, paper crackled. Frowning, she stood and dug under the rumpled bedding and pulled out a section of newspaper.
She flipped on the light to get a better look. It was the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, two days old. She stared at the newspaper, something tugging at her memory. That’s right. Her mother had picked up the paper at the Laundromat the other day. Skye remembered her taking a section of the paper with her when they’d left.
Skye screwed up her face in thought. After that, her mother had begun acting weird. Jumpy and distracted. Short-tempered.
She quickly scanned the page’s headlines: Reagan Sets Foreign Policy; Train Derails Outside City, Four Killed, Dozens Hurt; Jewelry Designer To Host Benefit; Mob Boss Set…To…Testify.
Mob boss. Skye’s legs began to shake, and she sank to the edge of the bed, rereading that last headline again, then the article accompanying it. The article detailed the start of the grand-jury investigation into allegations made against the head of the East Coast’s most notorious crime family.
She had been right. Her mother was on the run from the mob.
Maybe what she had heard hadn’t been the sound of her mother leaving, but the sound of her being taken away.
Taken away.
With a cry of terror, Skye jumped to her feet and ran to the bedroom to dress. She would get Chance. He would know what to do; he would be able to help her. She pulled on her denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, folded the piece of newspaper and stuffed it into her pocket, then raced out into the night.
Skye made it to the trailer he shared with the other guys, and not wanting to wake anyone but Chance, went around to the back side, to the window nearest his bunk.
She grasped the razor-thin ledge and stood on tiptoe. “Chance,” she whispered. “Wake up. It’s me. Skye.”
From inside she heard a rustle of bedclothes and a moan. She waited a couple moments, then tried again. “Chance, wake up. It’s Skye. Wake up, please.”
A minute later his face appeared at the open window. He looked as if he was still asleep. “Kid?” He passed a hand across his face and yawned. “What are you doing out this time of night?”
“I need your help.” She hugged herself hard. “I don’t know what to do!”
“What are you talking about?” He eased up the screen, stuck his head farther out and looked around. “It’s awfully late. Does your mom know you’re ou—”
“She’s gone!” Skye cried. “I woke up…I don’t know why, except I thought I heard a sound. But it was really quiet…and all of a sudden I had this feeling and…and I was really scared.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “So I went to curl up with her, and she was…her bed was…” Skye burst into tears.
“Oh, geez. Don’t cry…” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Hold on. I’ll be right out.”
A couple minutes later, Chance emerged from the trailer. Skye stumbled toward him. “What am I going to do, Chance? How are we going to find her?”
Chance put an arm around her. “Come on.” He led her away from the trailer, to a grassy spot by a scrubby-looking tree. They sat down, facing each other.
Chance caught her hands and rubbed them. “You’re getting all upset about nothing. She probably went for a walk.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Here you are, and it’s the middle of the night. I bet she couldn’t sleep and decided the night air would help.”
Skye shook her head, wiping roughly at her tears. “But she’s never done that before! I know she hasn’t.”
“How can you be so sure? Maybe every other time you just didn’t wake up.”
Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “At first I thought maybe she’d left me for good. But her clothes are all there. But now I…I think she might have been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” he repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Skye, don’t you think that’s just a little far-fetched?”
“No. Look at this.” She leaned forward and dug the folded newspaper page from her pocket. She held it out. “Here.”
Chance took the paper, unfolded it, then met her eyes. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”
She reached around him and pointed. “This, about the mob guy.”
Chance read it, then shook his head. “You think this has something to do with your mother?”
Skye nodded, tears welling again. “I found it on the sofa bed. She must have been reading it and now…and now she’s…gone.”
She started to cry again, but softly this time. “What am I going to do, Chance? I don’t have anybody but her.”
He scooted forward, put his arms around her and patted her back. “Look, kid, your mom didn’t run away and the mob hasn’t kidnapped her. She went for a walk. Or to meet a friend.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Skye pressed her face to his chest, the beginnings of one of her headaches pushing at her. “Besides, you don’t understand. I think she’s…that we’re…I think we’re in some sort of trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
Skye rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me. But we’re…always moving around. We pick up in the middle of the night sometimes and just…go. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
For a moment he was silent, and Skye tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Chance? You think it’s strange, too, don’t you?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. Ask your mom.”
“I did. She says we’re nomadic adventurers.”
He made a sound of amusement. “Sounds about right, kid. More right than the mob being after you.”
“It’s not funny!” She stiffened. “She won’t tell me where I was born or what my father’s name was. She says he’s dead, but that’s weird, too. If he’s dead, why won’t she tell me about him?”
“I don’t know, Skye. She must have her reasons.”
Skye moaned, the pain in her head intensifying. She pressed her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, battling it.
“What’s wrong?”
“I get headaches. Bad ones.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, I’m walking you back. You need some aspirin or something.”
“Wait!” She grimaced as pain knifed through her skull, and her vision blurred. “Did your mom keep that kind of stuff from you? Stuff about your dad?”
Chance laughed, the sound rough. “Hell, no. I wish she had, though. My father was a real prick.” He stood and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come on. I’m getting you home. I’ll bet your mom’s there, waiting for you. She’s probably worried sick.”
Chapter Twelve
But Claire wasn’t there. Chance stood in the center of Skye and her mother’s obviously empty trailer, working to hide his dismay, trying to decide what he should do next. Skye was beside herself, hysterical with worry, her headache nearly unbearable.
Even so, she refused to take her headache medicine, because she said it sometimes made her sleepy. She told him she was afraid to go to sleep. Finally, by promising he wouldn’t leave until her mother returned, Chance convinced her to take two of the tablets and lie down.
He sat on the floor beside the bed, the space so small he barely fit. He forced a breezy smile, all too aware of the time that had slipped past. “It’s going to be all right, kid. Any moment your mom’s going to walk through that door. And boy, are you going to feel silly then.”
She searched his gaze. “What if she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“Where’s your mom?”
He hesitated a moment, feeling her question like a punch to his gut. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” Skye drew her eyebrows together. “What happened? I mean, was it an accident or—”
“She got sick,” he said roughly. “And then she died.”
“Oh.” An awkward silence stretched between them. After a moment’s hesitation, she cleared her throat. “Chance?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s it like? Being without a mother?”
“I don’t think about it much. Not anymore, anyway.”
Tears flooded her eyes, and he knew she was thinking about her mother, thinking that she would never see her again. He leaned toward her. “It’s bullshit, Skye. She’s going to be home any minute.”
“But wha’if she’s not?” Her words slurred slightly, and he knew the medicine was kicking in.
“She will be.”
Her eyelids fluttered. “Don’t…leave me. You promised.”
“Yeah, I know. I promised, and I won’t.”
Within moments her eyes closed and her breathing became deep and even. He stayed beside the bed, anyway, watching her while she slept. Silly, sweet Skye. She liked to play the tough kid, the invincible one. But that wasn’t the way she looked now. She looked young. And soft. And lost. He lightly touched his index finger to her cheek, then drew his hand away, surprised by the rush of tenderness he felt for her.
He’d never had a brother or sister, though once upon a time he had wanted one. Someone to share things with, someone to belong to when his mother didn’t have the time—or inclination—to belong to him.
That had been a long time ago. So long he had almost no memory of it anymore. He’d been lonely, he supposed. Ages ago, back when he had needed people to make him happy. To make him feel safe.
He unwedged himself and crossed to the door. There, he stopped and looked back at her. What she had told him earlier, about her and her mom picking up and moving in the middle of the night did sound weird. But the mob? No way. That was just too Hollywood.
No, Claire was probably trying to stay a step or two ahead of the bill collector. She had probably refused to tell Skye anything about her father because she didn’t even know who he was.
Ugly but true. Too ugly, he supposed. Too true to tell a little girl who loved her mother.
After one last glance at Skye, he went to the front of the camper to wait. He sat. He paced. He checked—and re-checked—his watch. The minutes ticked past. Still Claire didn’t show.
He shook his head. She probably had a boyfriend and had sneaked off to fuck her brains out.
Even as the thought filtered through his head, he acknowledged to himself that it didn’t ring true. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know Claire well, hardly at all, in fact. She could be a raving nympho, for all he knew.
But he had seen the way she looked at her daughter. He had seen how much she loved Skye. Nothing meant more to Claire than her daughter, and certainly not some small-town, back-lot fuck. Maybe he was being naive, but he didn’t believe Claire would leave her daughter alone to go do that.
Then, what had she left her alone to go do?
Even as the question registered, he heard her at the door. A second later, she stepped into the kitchen, saw him and stopped dead.
“Hello, Claire.”
She looked past him, toward the back of the trailer where Skye slept, then back, her expression alarmed. “What are you doing here?”
“I think the question is, why weren’t you here?”
“I went out for a walk. I couldn’t sleep and—”
“It’s the middle of the night!” He jumped to his feet. “Jesus, Claire, Skye was scared to death. She came to get me, she was so scared.”
Claire paled. Her hand went to her throat. He saw that it trembled. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I couldn’t sleep, and I…” She turned her head toward Skye’s bedroom. “Is she asleep?”
“I think so. She took a couple of those headache tablets, but only after I promised her I’d stay. She was afraid to be alone.”
Tears flooded Claire’s eyes. “Thank you, I’ll…I need to see her. Excuse me.”
Chance thought about leaving, then decided against it. Something didn’t sit right with Claire’s explanation. Skye was right, her mother acted as nervous and jumpy as a cat. She was afraid of something. Or someone.
Chance took a seat at the dinette and waited. From the bedroom, he heard the sound of muffled voices. And of tears, though whether Skye’s or her mother’s he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
Several minutes later Claire reappeared. She looked shaken. “I can’t believe I…I didn’t think she would wake up. She’s always been a sound sleeper and…”
Her voice trailed off. She met his eyes. “I need a drink. You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
She went to the mini-fridge and took out a couple of beers. As she opened the door, a shaft of light speared through the dark kitchen, illuminating her expression. Something was wrong. Definitely.
She handed him a bottle of beer. “Glass?”
He shook his head. “This is fine. Thanks.”
Without another word, she slipped into the booth across the table from him. She took a swallow of the beverage, her gaze on a place somewhere over his right shoulder. He was reminded so vividly of his mother he winced.
He shook the thoughts off and narrowed his gaze on Claire. “What the fuck’s going on?”
