Yesterday's Gone (Two Daughters Book 1) (11 page)

And then he was gone, leaving her not understanding at all why that casual kiss had sent shock waves through her, and why the idea of having the key to his house—living here—didn’t make her want to bolt.

CHAPTER NINE

W
HEN
SHE
WALKED
into Lawson’s Auto Body & Towing, Kirk stood behind the cash register, smiling as he listened to whatever the man on this side of the counter was saying. A customer, presumably. Kirk tore something from a printer, folded it neatly, put it in an envelope and handed it over. As she approached, she heard him say, “Now, you let me know if you have any problem, Jim.”

His smile slid from his face when he saw her. The beefy, middle-aged man departing looked at her with curiosity and a kind of
knowing
in his eyes she was growing to hate before he nodded, said, “Ms. Lawson,” and left.

Her momentary fear that her father was dismayed to see her vanished when she saw his eyes crinkling with a smile far warmer than the one that had just left his face. “Bailey.”

“Hi,” she said, feeling shy for no good reason. “I wondered if I could take you to lunch.”

“I’d like that,” he said, “but I’ve had reporters coming by all morning asking questions. Unless you hanker for something fancy—”

She shook her head.

“Then what say we sneak down the alley, grab something from the taco truck on the next block and just sit out back to eat?”

“That sounds perfect. I was cornered yesterday at Walgreens and again—” She wasn’t so sure she wanted to tell him where she was staying now. “Well, it wasn’t fun.”

He frowned. “Hope the manager sent them on their way.”

“Yes, with help from Seth. I shouldn’t have called him, but I did on impulse. I was—” Scared.
Daddy
, she wanted to say,
I was scared
.

He heard what she didn’t say. “I’m here, too, honey.”

Bailey was momentarily unable to speak. Seth wasn’t the only one who made her feel like she had a gumball stuck in her throat. She could only nod.

Appearing satisfied, her father went off to tell his employees he’d be out and to wash his hands.

When he returned, her gaze dropped to those big hands, scarred and nicked—he wore a bandage on one finger—and she saw that, yes, grease was embedded in his skin. Her heartbeat sped up. A memory teased, but to her relief didn’t quite take shape.

He nodded toward the back. “Like I said, I recommend the scenic route.”

She made a face, hiding her underlying turmoil. “That sounds like a good idea.”

He didn’t say anything as they walked, but the silence didn’t feel uncomfortable. It...eased something in her.

They had to emerge into a parking lot where the truck was set up, but they were early enough no one else was waiting. They ordered a bunch of tacos and carried them in a couple of greasy sacks back to the cinder block rear of his business, where some molded plastic lawn chairs served the function of employee break room. A pile of more loose cinder blocks made a table of sorts, and Kirk quickly carried an overfull ashtray away, although the smell lingered.

He went in and returned with cold cans of soda from a machine, shaking his head at the idea of two of the young guys who worked for him being smokers. “Fools,” he muttered.

She smiled and enthusiastically started in on a taco.

“Wouldn’t want your mother to know how often I eat there,” he said after a minute. “I’m supposed to be watching my cholesterol.”

New disquiet struck at the idea of losing this kind man before she even got to know him. “Have you had heart trouble?”

“Just family history.” He pondered that for a minute. “Guess we need to let you know that kind of thing.”

“I’m a little young to worry about my cholesterol.”

“I had a sister who died young with breast cancer.”

Well, okay. That could be familial.

Such an astonishing concept.

“Karen—Mom,” she corrected herself, “said I was a daddy’s girl when I was little.”

As seemed to be his way, he gave that some thought. “I guess you were.” He was quiet for a minute, not eating. “Losing you...” He shook his head. “I didn’t think we’d survive that.”

By an instinct she didn’t know she had, Bailey covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry.”

The lines on his face seemed to have been carved by grief, but in his eyes—the same shade of blue as hers—she saw astonishment and happiness that squeezed her heart.

“Mom said she felt as if she should pinch herself.”
Mom. There. I’ve said it twice
. Her voice was husky. “That she was having trouble believing.”

“When you’re right here, I believe it’s you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Last night, lying in bed, I kept wondering if any of this had happened.”

With some difficulty, she smiled. “Even Detective Chandler feels that way. His goal was to make it possible for you to bury me. He looked like he’d seen a ghost when he set eyes on me.”

Her father gave a rough chuckle. “I guess that’s it. Takes some getting used to.”

“You...you don’t have any doubt I’m really Hope, do you?”

His smile was gentle, filling her with warmth that penetrated deep. “No, Bailey. I know my own little girl when I see her.”

Suddenly, tears burned in her eyes and overflowed. “I think,” she whispered, “I think I remember you. I didn’t have any idea I did.”

He took the taco from her hand and set it down, then wrapped an arm around her and offered her a paper napkin with his free hand. Bailey let herself lean against him and absorb his scent into her pores.

* * *

W
ITH
HER
PERMISSION
, Seth chose to sit in when the FBI agent interviewed Bailey. He told himself he wanted to hear anything new she came up with. Different questions produced different answers. Mostly, he felt protective. He hadn’t forgotten how reluctant she’d been to talk about those years, how wrenching it had been to relive her worst nightmare. If this got too intrusive, too hard for her, Seth intended to stop it.

Special Agent Andrew Stuart—he told them both to call him Drew—turned out to be a decent guy, at least to all appearances. He was maybe forty, lean and dark-haired, gray appearing at his temples. He told Seth and Bailey both that he worked on the Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team the FBI mobilized when a child was missing or abducted. It was clear he’d heard stories like hers before. Yeah, she had to tell him all the same things she’d already told Seth and a few more besides, but to Stuart’s credit, he made it as easy as possible. He skimmed over the salacious or brutal details, focusing on usable information. He intended to contact any agencies in Bakersfield that would have been part of the response when Bailey had been abandoned there. He wanted to see the police reports, results of a physical exam, X-rays if there were any. She dredged up a good idea of the car make Hamby had then driven, names of a few more towns she was able to recall from their travels. Stuart wanted to know if Hamby had a regular route—did he revisit the same places? Maybe knew people who saved up jobs for him as a handyman, for example.

Bailey kept shaking her head. She didn’t know, but also didn’t think so. If her recollections were right, Hamby had wandered but deliberately chosen
not
to return to the same towns, the same seedy motels.

“He didn’t want anyone to get too curious about his ‘daughter,’” Agent Stuart murmured.

“And he wouldn’t have dared go back to the same places later, if he had a different ‘daughter,’” Seth growled.

Bailey stayed remarkably composed, although her very stillness gave away her tension. Seth was proud of her. At the end, she even summoned a reasonably convincing smile for the agent, thanking him for any efforts he could make toward finding Les Hamby.

Seth walked her out to her car to make sure no vultures loitered in wait for her, then returned to talk to Stuart, mostly to make sure the guy planned to stay in touch and actually share anything he learned. He swore he would, and Seth did the same. They scrutinized each other as they shook hands. Seth felt cautiously optimistic that he wouldn’t be stonewalled.

He didn’t get one hell of a lot else accomplished in what remained of the afternoon. When he walked in his front door at five forty-five, the house was eerily quiet. He called hello, got no answer. There was no reason for apprehension—what, paparrazzi had kidnapped Bailey and were torturing the answers out of her? But tension crackled through him anyway. He checked the garage first. The sight of her car right where it should be didn’t bring relief. If it was here—where in hell was
she
?

Moving quietly, listening for the slightest noise, he rapped on the guest room door, and then opened it without waiting for a response. The room was dim, but he made out a lump in the bed. Relief at last, powerful and knee-weakening.

Bailey rolled over and peered at him. “Seth?” she said, sounding groggy.

“Hey, sorry to wake you up,” he said. “I’m putting dinner on. It’ll take maybe an hour.”

“I should have...”

“I had something planned.”

He backed out before the temptation to go sit on the edge of the bed and smooth her hair out of her face could grow.

As he whipped up a curry sauce for the chicken he’d defrosted, he heard the shower start up. That gave him a nice visual—water shimmering as it sluiced over her generous breasts, long slim torso, womanly hips. All that skin, as white as if she’d never lain out in the sun in a bikini. The small, dark heart nature had tattooed on her hip. And, damn, he bet the triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs was as pale as the hair on her head.

The oven dinged to let him know it had preheated. He drained broccoli and put it with the chicken in a casserole dish, then poured the sauce over it. He was just closing the oven when he heard a soft sound behind him. Lucky she’d taken that extra five minutes to appear. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to turn around without embarrassing himself and scaring her off.

For some reason, she looked shy. Barefoot, all she’d put on was a knit peach-colored dress that clung to her body and bared her shoulders and collarbone. He couldn’t even see a panty line. God. Was there any chance—?

“I really should have made dinner,” she said. “I will tomorrow if I’m still here.”

“Okay.” He opened the refrigerator to give him something to do. “Want something to drink? I have bottled water, soda, beer. No wine, I’m afraid.”

“Too sissy for a big tough cop?” she teased.

Smiling, he said, “Something like that.”

“Um...just a water. I don’t really like beer.”

“I can pick up a bottle of wine tomorrow if you’d like.”

She shook her head. “I actually don’t drink much.
He
did, you know.” The darkness was in her voice, as it was every time she said
he
with that mixed horror and hate. “And then I had a foster father who was a closet drunk, too.”

Seth felt bad that he’d made her think of Hamby, but recognized there wasn’t much he could do about it. Conversations with Bailey were bound to be a minefield. So much shit had happened to her, they’d only skated over the surface so far.

So he only nodded. “I rarely have more than one beer. I’ve scraped too many victims of drunk drivers off the road, dealt with too many belligerent drunks.”

He handed her the water and popped open the one beer he did allow himself. Then he studied her. “New dress?”

She glanced down at herself, and he couldn’t help noticing the way her toes curled, as if she’d suddenly become self-conscious. She had narrow feet, a hint of gold revealing the white lines from flip-flops. “Yes. Not exactly a disguise, is it?”

“No.” He had to clear his throat. “No, it doesn’t hide a lot.”

Cheeks pink, she said, “I thought it would be cool.”

Oh, yeah. Easy to whip off over her head, too, he couldn’t help thinking. No buttons, zipper, tight sleeves. Underclothes?

“I did buy a couple of hats,” she said defensively. “One big straw one—” she waved to suggest a broad brim “—and a baseball cap that says Seahawks instead of Mariners.” She frowned. “Why is that?”

“People around here got pretty excited when the Seahawks won the Super Bowl. First preseason game is anytime. And yes, baseball season is still going, but the Mariners are in the basement, so the level of excitement isn’t there.”

“Oh. Um... Is there anything I can do?”

He tensed, thinking of a lot of things she could do, but shook his head. “This is an all-in-one dinner. Curry chicken with broccoli. I’ll stick some biscuits in the oven as soon as the chicken comes out.”

Her face brightened. “The kind from a tube?”

She was excited? “Yeah.”

“Can I open them? I love that pop.”

Laughing, he shook his head. “Knock yourself out.” He got out the cookie sheet and the tube, then watched as she rapped it against the sharp counter edge and smiled when it popped open.

“The small pleasures of life,” he observed.

She chuckled as she arranged biscuits on the cookie sheet. “I never make these because, gee, there’s only me. But Mrs. Neale did.”

A good memory. He was glad to have stumbled on one.

“Nice lady?”

“Yes. Kind of grandmotherly. Mr. Neale still worked. He said he’d be bored if he quit. But she was always home. It was...” Tiny lines formed on her forehead as she sought words to express a concept that, if life was fair, would be everyday to her.
Homey
was the word she settled on. “I mean, coming home from school, and she’d have cookies and milk for us even though a couple of us were teenagers.” She laughed. “Didn’t mean we refused homemade cookies.”

“Who does? My mother bakes when she visits. It takes me back.”

“Just your mom? Is your dad dead?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated, not sure he wanted to open this can of worms. “Probably.”

The compassion in her eyes weakened him. “Did he just...leave you?”

“Not like you mean. He was a marine. I don’t remember him at all. He was a lot younger than I am when he died or disappeared, depending on who you believe.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was deployed to Lebanon in the early 1980s. It was after the Israeli invasion. I guess it was a mess. There was a multinational force there trying to restore order. The part you might have read about is that a truck bomb blew up the marine headquarters. Killed 241 of them.”