Grave Secrets (5 page)

When she focused on her friend again, Cat wore a studious expression. “What?”

“You aren’t immune to him, are you?” She grinned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sara picked up the tea cup to hide her embarrassment, only to find it empty. She was tired, that’s all. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have given the grim faced man a passing glance. Today was different. His arms had been bands of steel, keeping her from tumbling into the open grave. Yet he hadn’t hurt her; had supported her and held her close, sharing his warmth with her when the blood in her veins had turned to ice. No, she was far from immune to him.

Cat snorted. “I knew it! Look at your face. It’s okay, darling. You’re still living and breathing. Having a reaction to a man just shows you’re still alive. Don’t sweat it.” She checked her watch. “Hey, look at the time. I’ve got a hair appointment.”

Sara doubted it. After all, hadn’t she shown up wanting to take Sara to the spa? “You’re just saying that to give me some space.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Thanks, Cat. For everything,” she said as she stood and hugged her friend.

“No problem. Call me when you’re ready to break out the good wine. Okay?”

“You got it.” A few moments later, the front door closed as Cat saw herself out.

Sara blew out a sigh of relief. Alone. At last.

She sat there for a while, fully expecting the meltdown to hit her, only to realize her visit with Cat had negated the event to a large degree. She almost felt cheated.
Almost.
It was a relief to realize she could still function. A few months ago, she would have had a totally different reaction to the days’ events.

When Jason died, she’d thought she’d lost her world. When Kaycee disappeared, she oscillated between paralyzing fear, unable to function at any level, to galvanized action with very few able to keep up in her pursuit of finding her baby. Except when she hit a wall of total depression or her body so exhausted she couldn’t go any more, she often slept only two or three hours a night. Over the last month she’d been able to stretch those two or three to five or six hours. She wouldn’t be any good to Kaycee if she were mentally or physically incapacitated.

A smile briefly touched her lips.
I’m making progress.
She knew whatever life threw at her, she’d be able to handle. Somehow.

Finally, she got up and wandered the house, taking the lop-eared rabbit with her as comfort. Drawn to the nursery, she stood next to the crib and lifted the pink blanket that had been tucked around Kaycee the day she’d disappeared. Even though all fragrance from her daughter had long vanished, she inhaled deeply. The ritual gave her a small measure of peace while never letting her forget what she had lost. She sucked in a ragged breath and surveyed the room.

Nothing had changed. Not in five months, two weeks and four days. The afternoon sun radiating through the windows didn’t lighten the empty feel of the room. In the corner stood the bassinet. On top of the dresser sat a picture of Jason and her, delirious with joy as they cuddled their newborn. A changing table was nearby. An antique cherry rocker, found at a local flea market, waited for the nighttime feedings. The only thing missing from the pristine room was a baby.

No, not just a baby—Kaycee.

The loss of not being able to hold her child, to simply listen to her breathing as she slept, not knowing if she were alive or dead, hit her. As always, it didn’t matter how many times these emotions assaulted her. Each time was as hard as the last. She clutched the blanket to her chest as debilitating pain racked her body, bringing her to her knees. She crumpled to the floor and cried until there were no more tears. At some point, she’d thought the amount of tears would lessen. But they hadn’t and she didn’t think they ever would. Not until she knew what had happened to her daughter.

She knew why she’d left this room, as well as everything in the outlandishly large house Jason had insisted on buying, as it had always been. She wanted time to stand still, for life to return as it had been before. Before
that
day. However, all the wishing in the world wouldn’t change anything. Jason was dead and Kaycee was gone. New tears stung her eyes, but she forced them away. She’d cried enough for one day.

Replacing the blanket in the crib, she left the room and headed to Jason’s study. As usual, she ignored the sofa and went directly to his desk. She sank into the large leather chair, the one they’d picked out together when they’d first moved into the house, and curled into a ball. With the toy bunny snuggled in her arms as if it were her child, she relaxed for the first time in two days and drifted to sleep.

Hours later, the doorbell woke her.
What now?
Gingerly she stood, straightening the kinks out of her back. Maybe if she stalled long enough, they would go away. The sun had set, casting shadows throughout the room. Normally she didn’t mind the darkness—prowling the house at all hours of the night without the lights. She could pretend her husband was in their bed, lightly snoring, their child blissfully sleeping in the next room.

Tonight was different. Maybe she’d slept too hard—maybe it was her cramped muscles—or maybe it was the imperfect ending to an imperfect day. When the doorbell chimed again, she reached across the desk and flipped on the lamp. Movement near the window drew her attention. A ghostly, ashen faced stared back at her.

Time slowed to a standstill as her heart jolted inside her chest, sucking all oxygen from her lungs. She jerked her hand back, catching the edge of the Tiffany lamp, pulling it toward her. When the delicate glass struck the desk, it shattered into a thousand pieces. Shards scattered across the desk and on to the floor. Her scream echoed through the empty house as she dropped to her knees among the broken glass.

Jason.

Morgan automatically pulled his Glock from its holster. The blood-curdling scream could only be coming from Sara Adams, somewhere deep within the dark house. He started to hit the door with his shoulder. Remembering how thick it was, he tried the knob instead.

Open.

He slipped inside. Dead silence greeted him. Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he slowed his racing heart. A faint sound came from deeper within the house. He checked the drawing room, then cautiously made his way down the hall. A keening noise drifted from a room on the right. He listened a moment longer, then slid his hand around the corner to flip the light switch.

He took a moment to adjust to the bright glare. Having kept partially hidden behind the wall, he searched the room. Broken glass littered the desk where Sara sat, elbows propped on the wooden surface. She held a letter opener as if it were a weapon.

“Stay where you are! The police are on their way.” Her voice trembled as she rapidly blinked her eyes, trying to focus.

Blood dripped from her hand.

Satisfied no other threat was present, he lowered his gun, then shoved it into the holster. “Mrs. Adams—Sara—lay the opener down and let me help you.” He nodded toward her arm.

When she didn’t immediately respond, he tried again. “Mrs. Adams, it’s Morgan Daniels. Let me help you.” His tone was soft, yet firm as he held out a hand.

The tip of the letter opener dipped as she cocked her head, her brows furrowed “Daniels? Wh—what are you doing here?” She cast a furtive glance toward the window.

“You’re bleeding.” Her eyes flew wide when she saw the pool of scarlet gathering on the desk. A second later, the letter opener clattered to the hardwood floor.

Morgan came around the desk, glass crunching underfoot. Cuts on her hand oozed red. Taking her arm, he gently but thoroughly searched for deeper wounds. Finding none, he decided to take her to the kitchen to wash and bandage the injuries. But when he tried helping her to her feet, she moaned and slid back into the chair.

He did a quick assessment of the blood stained knees of her pants. Cuts in the fabric indicated she had additional wounds. Without thinking, he scooped her into his arms for the second time that day and carried her to the sofa, stretching her legs along the length. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

“Um, the drawer closest to the back door in the kitchen.”

She had finally focused on her legs, her face turning ashen. “Don’t move,” he said as he pointed a finger at her. “And don’t pass out.”

She jerked her head up and glared at him but remained silent. Her scowl said a lot. There was the spunk he’d witnessed earlier. Good. After he closed and locked the front door, he headed toward the kitchen, flipping on lights as he went.

He had no trouble locating the needed supplies. Grabbing a large bowl from the counter, he filled it with cool water as he found the drawer with the kitchen towels and took several. When he got back to the study, Sara wasn’t looking at her injuries as he’d expected, but at the window. Again. Morgan turned toward the dark window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He frowned, then took the supplies and knelt by her side.

“Sure hope these aren’t your favorite pair of pants,” he said as he wielded the scissors.

“Just do it,” she said without looking at the jagged tears.

Morgan stared into her eyes a moment, lost in the depths. Jerking himself back to reality, he bent to the task. He started at the hem, quickly slicing through the fabric on first one leg, then the other, and pulled it back for a look at her injuries. Luckily the cuts on her knees wouldn’t need stitches. Before he continued, he gave her time to steady herself. “This is going to hurt some.”

Lips thinned, Sara met his gaze and gave a slight nod before settling her concentration on the far wall. He twisted around just enough to see a painting of a forest scene, a place he wouldn’t mind visiting himself.

She flinched when he began cleaning the wounds with a damp towel. Her left hand gripped the back of the couch. He’d given her one of the towels to lie on her stomach, and she rested her right arm on it to absorb any seepage from the tiny cuts. He didn’t look at her directly, but observed her out of the corner of his eye.

Fifteen minutes later, Morgan had bandages on both her knees with a couple of Band Aids on her hand. He gathered all the supplies and stowed them in the box. He leaned back on the balls of his feet. “Mind telling me what happened here?”

While he’d cleaned the wounds, she had either kept her head turned or her eyes closed. Her lips had flattened into a straight line, but she hadn’t complained or protested. Except for an occasional sharp intake of air, she’d shown no reactions. He’d give the woman credit, she was tough. She also wasn’t answering his question.

“Sara?”

She met his gaze briefly before looking toward one of the bookcases, as if it held the answers.

“I was just clumsy.”

The back of his neck tingled and he narrowed his eyes. There was more to it than she was saying.

She lowered her feet to the floor.

“Thank you for taking care of this—of me—but I could have managed.” She gave a tight smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

All his senses were on alert. No way in hell was he buying the flimsy excuse. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what really happened and why you screamed.”

Her eyes wide, she glanced briefly toward the window before finally settling her gaze on him.

“I—I thought I saw something and it startled me is all.”

“And how did the lamp wind up on the floor?”

Another glance at the desk. “I knocked it over.”

Well, no joke. He tried waiting her out for an additional answer, but when she remained silent, he let it drop. “I’ll get the glass cleaned up,” he said as he shoved to his feet.

“Oh, no. Please. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

He studied her a moment, then sighed. Why did he care, anyway? She obviously wanted him out of the house. Besides, a broken lamp wasn’t his problem. He had to keep in mind this woman could have been involved with his friend’s death. She was a suspect. That’s all.

“Whatever. I was just trying to help.” Frustration made his tone harsher than he intended.

She frowned in apparent confusion. “Mr. Daniels—”

“Morgan,” he corrected her. The irritation of a second ago gone, he suddenly wanted her to call him by his first name. He didn’t know why, but it seemed important. Maybe to get her to trust him. Maybe for a deeper reason that he didn’t want to acknowledge. At least he was able to soften his tone.

She gave him a brief smile, the creases in her brow relaxed. “Morgan. I appreciate your being here and all you’ve done this evening, but why
are
you here? And how did you get in?”

Ah, yes. The reason he’d come. How had it so easily slipped his mind? He moved to a nearby chair and took a seat. “I’d like to talk to your grandmother about the day of your husband’s funeral.”

“Nana?” Sara’s shoulders slumped. “Why? The police questioned her at the time. I’d think it would be in their records.”

Of course it was. However, he had no intention of telling her he didn’t have access to those records, despite his close relationship to Cannon and the department. “I’d still like to talk to her.”

She gave him an odd look. “Didn’t you know? She passed away two months ago.”

Well, hell. Another dead end. Literally. He’d hoped the woman could give him some insight into her granddaughter, plus tell him if Sara might have had motives to get rid of her husband, and subsequently the baby. Morgan had also wanted to find out how well Sara had known Andy, the third person in this triangle.

A twinge of guilt hit him. His first thought had been how this would impede his investigation, and not how it affected Sara. Tamping down his disappointment, and disgust with himself, he said, “I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. “Nana practically raised me. Not a day went by where she didn’t encourage me to better myself. After Kaycee disappeared, I think she blamed herself. She said if she hadn’t left the nursery, then I—I’d still have my daughter.” Sara fell silent, studying her hands clasped tightly in her lap.