Vanished in the Night (19 page)

Zach shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look at her, instead focusing on the tree branches tossing in the wind in front of the moon. “No, ma’am. That was a dump. We’ve known that from the start.”

Her eyes were trained on him, unwavering. “So where was he buried?” You had to love a woman who didn’t back down from the truth, no matter how unpleasant it was.

“It looks like he was buried on the grounds of the Sierra School.”

She shook her head. “Then how the hell did he end up in that construction site?”

It was an excellent question, one that Frank and Zach were asking each other continually. “It appears that someone dug him up from the original grave and put him in the construction site.”

“Why?” She stood still, as if the news had literally stopped her in her tracks.

“We’re trying to figure that out,” he said. “First and foremost, somebody clearly wanted him to be found and was tired of waiting.”

She chewed for a second on her bottom lip and then started walking again, her stride brisk. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Zach fell into step beside her. “I imagine it will eventually. It’s going to take some time, though.”

“Something had to have happened.” They were at her car now. She stopped by the driver’s-side door, digging in her purse for her keys.

Zach leaned against the side of the Honda. “Trust me, we’re looking into that, too. We’ll figure out how your brother died.”

She looked up at him, almost surprised. “Yes, of course. But something has to have happened now, too—or recently. Something that would make someone want to dig up Max and make sure he was found now.”

“We’re looking into that angle, too. Did your father mention anything recently?”

She shook her head. “How did whoever moved his bones know they were there, anyway? Did animals dig him up? Was there some kind of disturbance, an earthquake or something that uncovered his bones?”

Zach thought about that deep pit in the woods. It would have taken a hell of a natural disaster to uncover Max’s bones, and it wouldn’t have left a neat, precise hole in the ground.

She turned slowly to stare at him. “You mean whoever dug him up knew where he’d been buried all along?”

Zach still didn’t answer. He couldn’t; it was an ongoing investigation. As much as he wanted Veronica to know everything he knew, he couldn’t divulge specific details of the case to her.

“Somebody up at that school killed him?” she pressed, taking a step closer to him.

“We don’t know that. He could have run into someone in the woods after he ran away. We have a lot more questions than answers at this point.” That was for damn sure.

She thought about that for a second. “But he never came back here to Sacramento?”

“It seems unlikely.” Even that was up for grabs. He could have come down here, not found any help, and returned. It didn’t seem likely, though.

“So my dad wasn’t involved.” She sagged, as if the
only thing keeping starch in her spine had been her fight to clear her father’s name.

Zach supported her. “We don’t think so. At least, not directly.”

She didn’t seem to hear that. She pulled the keys out of her purse and stared at them, as if she no longer knew what to do.

Zach had seen it before. It was a combination of exhaustion, shock, and being emotionally overwhelmed. It was always hard to watch, but this time it damn near broke his heart.

“Veronica?” he said. She didn’t respond immediately. “Ms. Osborne?”

She looked up at him blankly, as if she was surprised he was still there. “Yes?” She looked back down again at her keys.

“How about you let me drive you home?”

“My car’s right here.” She looked up at him, glassy eyed.

“I can see that.” He held out his hand, and miracle of miracles, she dropped the keys into his palm. He shepherded her around to the passenger side of the Honda, his hand at the small of her back, way too aware of the soft swell of her hips. He unlocked the door and she got in, automatically buckling her seat belt. He hurried back to the driver’s side, pulling his cell phone out as he went.

He hit the speed dial. “Frank, it’s Zach. I’m going to give Ms. Osborne a ride home.”

There was a pause. “Dude,” was all he said.

“Don’t,” was all Zach replied.

“Whatever. Watch yourself.”

“I always do.” Zach folded himself into the car, barely squeezing his knees behind the steering wheel. He adjusted the seat back and the mirrors.

“I live over in Curtis Heights,” she said.

“I remember. I’ve been there before.”

“Oh, yeah.” She settled back into her seat and into silence.

A couple of times on the ride over, she turned to him and opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then fell silent again.

He parked her car and shepherded her up the walk to her condo, opened the door, and walked in behind her.

She dropped her purse on a table by the door and kept going. “I need to take a shower.”

“Sure,” he said, and watched her go.

He headed into the kitchen to see if there was anything he could make for her to eat.

Gary watched the news coverage of George Osborne’s death, including a clip from the Pop-Tart’s press conference. She did a nice job of looking innocent, didn’t
she? But she didn’t fool him. She had been set before him, just as the others had.

He packed the photo into a little box, careful to wear his gloves, and addressed the box to the Pop-Tart. This would be a little reminder of what she’d done.

Veronica stood under the spray of the shower. She had to focus hard to remember it all. Leaving the hospital. Zach telling her that someone had deliberately moved Max. Realizing that her father had had nothing to do with it. Not that he would care about having his name cleared.

It was as if the craziness of the last few days hit her all at once. Finding Max, just to learn that she’d lost him two decades earlier. Defending her father against accusations she feared might have merit. Finding her father’s body. It all crashed in.

That was the problem with denial. Once it was gone you were stuck with reality, and that totally sucked. She’d like her cloak of deniability back. Instead, all she had was a shower that was starting to run cold and the smell of something cooking in her kitchen.

She brushed her wet hair back, pulled on her pajamas and slippers, and headed downstairs. She found Zach cursing under his breath as the omelet he was trying to flip broke.

“I can never do it, either,” she said. “I always end up making scrambled eggs with stuff in them.”

He turned and smiled. “My sister makes it look easy. I can’t tell you how many times she’s tried to teach me, but I just can’t get the hang of it.”

“Your sister Rhonda? The nurse?” Veronica sat down at the table.

He shook his head and turned back to the pan. “Nah. My oldest sister, Nancy.”

“How many sisters do you have?” It must be so good to have siblings. What would it be like right now to have someone who could understand what she was thinking and feeling? Someone who had lived it with her, someone with the same blood coursing through their veins.

“Three sisters, all older. No brothers,” he answered. “Estrogen practically flows like a river in my mother’s house.”

“So it was just you and your dad versus all those girls?” she asked.

He slid the eggs onto a plate and turned. “Not really; he died when I was twelve. My mother remarried, but not until I was seventeen, and by then all my sisters were out of the house. At least, officially.”

“What does that mean?”

He set the plate down in front of her and went back to the stove. “Everyone lives within a five-mile
radius of Mom, and the house is still nerve central. They’re there all the time. Two of them have kids now and they’re there all the time, too. Luckily there are a few boys in that mix. It’s bedlam.”

It sounded like paradise. “And you? Are you there all the time?”

“I’m there enough.”

She started to eat and looked up, startled, when he set the salt and pepper shakers in front of her.

“I didn’t know how much you liked. It’s probably pretty bland,” he said.

In all honesty, she’d barely tasted it. She sprinkled some salt on it now. He was right; it was better that way. In fact, it was really good. She applied herself to the business of eating.

She looked like a teenager, and she smelled like shampoo and lotion. She’d stumbled down the steps in flannel pajama pants and a worn gray hoodie with frayed cuffs, a pair of knock-off Ugg boots on her feet. Having been charged with buying real Uggs for his niece for Christmas, he knew the real from the fake. He definitely knew the difference in their prices.

She still looked a little like she was sleepwalking, though. He finished making his own eggs and sat down across from her at the table. “Feeling better?”

She looked up from her plate. “Not really. It’s kind of a bumpy landing, you know?”

He nodded.

She pushed back from the table and looked down at her empty plate. “So is this part of your usual duties? Do you always drive people home and make them omelets?”

Busted. “Nope.”

“But you did tonight.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin.

“Yep.”

She was silent, waiting for him to say more. There was a stillness to her that he hadn’t sensed before. She was used to listening to people, used to waiting for people to get their stories out. Finally, he said, “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

She smiled. “How many times have I heard that in the emergency room? Sometimes I think people should dial 911 the second someone says that.”

He smiled back. “I’m hoping that this won’t require stitches.”

“I guess we’ll see about that.” She stood up, leaned across the table, and brushed her lips over his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He threaded his hand through her hair and brought her lips back to his.

This time it was more than a gentle brush, it was a
revelation. It was sweet and hot, and made his chest feel as if it had tightened and was going to explode simultaneously. It made it seem like a good idea to clear the table with one sweep of his arm and take her right there. An even better idea was to carry her upstairs in his arms.

They broke apart and she stared at him, her hands braced on the table on either side of her plate. “Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s definitely not on the list of standard protocol.”

“It’s a unique situation. They can’t cover everything in the manuals.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re winging it?” Her pupils were dilated.

He nodded as his heartbeat returned to normal from its jackhammer beat. “Do I need to apologize?” He would if he had to, but he wouldn’t mean it.

Her eyes narrowed a little while she thought. It was cute, kind of like watching a kitten decide what to claw next. She shook her head and stood up. “I sort of started it.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I finished it.”

“We can argue about who gets to take credit later.” She started clearing the plates from the table.

He picked up his own and followed her to the sink. “I like that you’re thinking credit rather than blame.”

She scraped her plate into the sink and put it in the dishwasher. “We’re both grown-ups.”

Zach wasn’t sure about that; he felt more like a teenager when he was near her. She made the blood ring in his ears and sweat break out on his palms.

“Which means we both know that we’re in an intense emotional situation here, and that things happen and don’t necessarily mean anything.” She took his plate from him, scraped it, and put it in the dishwasher next to her own.

His shoulders stiffened. Not mean anything? A kiss like that? Sure, and the Sistine Chapel was just a painted ceiling. “I’d argue that.”

He saw the corner of her mouth twitch up in a smile.

She put the omelet pan into the sink to soak and turned toward him. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew his cue to leave. “It was my pleasure. Call me if you . . .” If she what? Wanted him to carry her upstairs and make love to her until neither of them could see straight? “If you need anything.”

“I will.” She just stood there, her hands gripping the counter behind her.

“Lock the door after me, okay?” Something was going on, something he didn’t have a handle on yet. He didn’t think she was necessarily in danger, but someone
had
murdered her father and tried to make it look like an accident.

She nodded.

“You’ve got all my numbers?”

She nodded again.

“All right, then.” He headed toward the door, not looking back over his shoulder although his neck was practically seizing with wanting to. “See you.”

He went outside and waited until he heard the locks snick into place. As he started to head out to the parking lot to call Frank for a ride, he kicked something and looked down. There was a box at his feet, with Veronica’s name on it.

14

“You okay, Gary?”

Gary jumped and whirled, immediately assuming a defensive posture, fists up and ready to strike. Mr. O. had come up behind him, had startled him. That wasn’t a smart move.

“Whoa, man. Sorry,” Mr. O. said, his own hands up, palms forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to check on you.”

Gary dropped his fists. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you. I don’t . . . I don’t do surprises well.”

“I noticed.” Mr. O. snorted a little. “Are you okay?”

Gary pondered the question. He was tired, that was for sure. Being a janitor by day and an avenging angel by night didn’t leave a lot of time for sleep. Or exercise. Or regular meals. He was tired and his
stomach was starting to gnaw. Gary’s system was all out of sorts, which made him extra jumpy. “Just kind of tired.”

He realized that he must have been slumped against the wall. He’d meant to just lean for a minute, but he’d started to drift off.

“What’s going on, man? You have a lady friend who’s keeping you up nights?” Mr. O. gave him a playful punch on his arm.