Sighs Matter Read online

“I already gave my statement to Detective Aranca.”

  “I’m not asking for a statement.”

  “You’re not involved in the case. Listen, I’m not trying to be difficult—”

  “Honey, you’re both trying and difficult. Now tell me what happened tonight.”

  She looked like she wanted to smack him, but instead said, “This isn’t your concern. Thank you for coming to get me. I’ll reimburse you for the gas and—”

  “I don’t want to be reimbursed. That’s not why I did it.” He studied her a moment. “But we can do a trade, like in the old days. You know, barter for goods and services.”

  Her eyes took on a suspicious glint. “What kind of . . . services?”

  He shrugged. “You’re a doctor. How about a checkup? I can’t tell you how I’ve longed to get naked and hear you whisper those magic words.”

  “And they would be?”

  “Turn your head to the left and cough.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “Oh, baby. Gets me right here, every time.”

  “Your aim is a little off, but that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You’re such a fun date,” he said lightly. “We really should do this more often.”

  She raised her chin and sucked in her bottom lip. It riveted his attention almost as much as if she’d taken off her blouse.

  Checking his side mirror, he took the next left. “Tell me what happened.”

  “No.”

  “Claire,” he growled. “Goddammit, tell me what happened.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . . hell no.”

  He pulled over to the side of the road and let the engine idle. “We aren’t going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

  She clamped her jaw tight.

  “I’ve cracked tougher nuts than you,” he warned. “I’m not hungry, don’t gotta pee, am not the least bit sleepy, and I’m as patient as a turtle. You, on the other hand, haven’t eaten for hours, and as a woman, have a bladder the size of a lima bean, are obviously exhausted, and have the patience of a stick of dynamite.” He sent her a sly grin. “I can outlast you, sweet cheeks, so you might want to reconsider the silent treatment.”

  “God,” she choked, doubling her fists and glaring over at him. “You are really something. Fine.”

  He smiled. “I love it when I get my way.”

  “And you’re such a gracious winner, too.”

  Taylor pulled back into traffic, listening as Claire related the incident, flicking glances in her direction to check her movements, body position, facial expressions.

  “Can you describe the car?”

  “No. It was big, though, and had squarish taillights high off the ground. It was either an SUV or a huge truck with a camper shell on it.”

  He drove slowly, tuning in to the remaining notes of terror in her voice. She was trying to maintain, but her voice was a little thin, a little shaky. What had happened tonight had scared the hell out of her. He curled his fingers around the steering wheel, suddenly wishing it were the gonads of the guy who’d hurt her.

  Cutting a quick glance in her direction, he said, “Could you make out anything about the driver?

  “No.”

  He stopped for a red light, still gripping the gonads-cum-steering wheel, letting the facts tumble around inside his brain.

  When the light turned green, Claire said, “Take a left on Roosevelt.”

  “It’s actually faster if you go . . .”

  Uh-oh. His own words hit him, and he let his voice trail off. Maybe she was too tired to pick up on—

  “You know where my house is?” Her voice was cold enough to usher in a new ice age.

  Silence, as thick as mud, oozed between them.

  Taylor blew out a long, dramatic sigh. “I know I should be ashamed of myself,” he said solemnly. “It’s a compulsion, a disease. Surely you can understand. I deserve your pity, Doctor, not your scorn.”

  Claire burst out laughing, a sound that somehow managed to ride the fine line between joy and dementia.

  “Of course,” she nodded, wiping her eyes. “Sure. Absolutely. I should have known.” She looked at him with a flat what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you? look in her eyes.

  He took the next corner, pulled into her driveway, and turned off the ignition. “Oh, and by the way . . .” He tried his best to look humble and pathetic. “The apple tree in your backyard needs pruning.”

  “You used your position as a public servant to stalk me.”

  “Stalk is such an ugly word. I prefer . . .” He squinted, pretending to search for the right term. “. . . covert personal surveillance.” If she only knew how covert and personal his surveillance had been at her aunt’s farm.

  He wouldn’t confess to her how many times he’d driven by her house, hoping she was in the city, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Or how he’d changed the route to his own house on the days he knew she was there, just so he could make sure the neighborhood was secure, that her car was in the driveway, that she was safe. He would never tell her how fast his heart beat, how wildly, when he did happen to see her walking to the mailbox or clipping the roses in the front yard.

  “Covert personal surveillance,” she repeated slowly, shaking her head.

  “Let’s get your stuff,” he ordered, changing the subject. “I’m suddenly very tired and I’ve got a willing babe waiting for me in dreamland, and if you don’t—”

  “Oh, save your breath,” she groused. “You’ll need it to blow up your date.” Grabbing for her seat belt, she froze in mid-unbuckle. “What do you mean, get my stuff?”

  “Get. Your. Stuff.” He enunciated the phrase as though he were speaking to a disobedient preschooler. “You’re not staying here.”

  “I am so staying here.”

  “Are not.”

  “Am so.”

  Unable to keep the scowl off his face, he said, “You were released into my custody. I’m responsible for you, therefore I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know exactly what’s going on here. It obviously hasn’t occurred to you that a man you don’t know has your ID, your credit cards, pager, and your cell phone, too, yes? And all the other stupid, lame, useless crap women keep in their purses. I didn’t spot a tail, but he might have somehow followed us here. You’d be alone without even a phone in the house. Am I right?”

  She blinked and cocked her head. “Somebody needs anger management ther—”

  “I assume you have a spare key hidden around here so we can get in and pack a bag for you? After that, we are leaving. Got that, sweetheart?”

  Claire shrugged and mumbled something under her breath, averting her eyes from his.

  Ah, hell. He should probably cut her some slack. After all, she’d had a shock, she was exhausted, and all she probably wanted was to go inside the house, lock the door, and curl up underneath the covers until tomorrow brought sunshine to make the nightmare go away.

  In a gentler tone, he said, “Listen, Claire, I—”

  “There’s a key under the flowerpot on the back porch.”

  “A flowerpot!” So much for good intentions. “As security systems go, that pretty much sucks, babe.”

  She crossed her arms; defiance shone in her eyes. “The flower has gigantic thorns.”

  Maybe it was the way her eyes widened and her voice squeaked when she said gigantic, but he felt his mouth curve into a smile, and his heart soften.

  “Yeah, those would sure scare me off. Now, I figure, little thorns, they’re simply for show. Medium-sized thorns, they make a guy think twice. They’re saying, maybe I’ll hurt you, maybe I won’t. Big thorns, well, they’re so in-your-face, I’d consider them a challenge. But gigantic thorns? They say don’t even think about it, pal, not without a SWAT team, special weapons, and a negotiator.”

  Her mouth twitched and her cheeks flushed.

  “This is a very safe neighborhood,” she muttered.

  Opening his door, he went around to open hers. When she stepped out, she yawned, the
n said, “All right. You win. It’s after two in the morning. I guess I can find a motel that’s open—”

  “You’re staying with me.” Slamming the door, he scowled down into her defiant eyes. “And don’t give me any more trouble. I’ve got thorns of my own, sister, and I’m not afraid to use ’em.”

  Thirty minutes later, Taylor slid into bed and pulled the sheet over his naked body. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tired. But as much as he wanted it to be, the day was not quite done.

  Grabbing his cell phone from the nightstand, he momentarily considered how cruel it would be to awaken his brother in the middle of the night, but the thought quickly dissipated when he considered the situation Claire was in.

  After three rings, he heard a sleepy, “Soldier McKennitt.”

  “Sorry, Jackson. Haul your ass downstairs so you don’t wake up your wife. We need to talk.”

  In the background, Taylor heard Betsy murmur a question, and his brother’s deep voice gently answer. He rolled his eyes, but grinned when he heard a soft smack, and knew Soldier had kissed her before climbing out of bed.

  Moments passed, doors opened, closed. “It’s nearly three in the morning,” Soldier growled. “Who died, and it better be somebody I care about. Deeply.”

  The screech of chair legs echoed against Taylor’s eardrum as his brother obviously made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.

  “Betsy doing okay?”

  Soldier groaned. “Hell, I don’t know. By the end of the day, her feet look like puff pastries. She thinks she waddles like a carb-loaded duck, and she cries when she reads Victoria’s Secret catalogs.”

  “So do I.”

  “Yeah, but for a whole other reason.”

  Taylor chuckled. “Sorry, big brother. Is there any upside to a woman being eight months pregnant?”

  Pause. “Uh, yeah.”

  Taylor assessed his brother’s evasive tone. “But you’re not going to tell me what it is?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Okay, well, tell her I’m sorry I woke her.”

  “No problem,” Soldier said. “She has to pee every two minutes anyway, so she was about due. Besides, she’s having trouble sleeping. The only time she can get comfortable is when I . . . uh, never mind. You were about to explain to me in intricate detail why you woke me up.”

  Taylor slipped one arm behind his head. “It’s about Claire.”

  “Oh?” Soldier said, his voice suddenly wary. “What happened?”

  “I brought her home with me. She’s in bed.”

  A pause, muttering, blustering, cussing. “You’re thirty-two years old and you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you scored with a girl? Just what am I supposed to say, way to go, dude?”

  “Feign insult some other time, Jackson. Somebody tried to kill her tonight.”

  His brother’s tone went dead serious. “Our guy?”

  “I don’t know yet.” For the next five minutes, Taylor recounted what he knew of Claire’s story. “She asked for you, but Bobby Aranca got a hold of me instead. They’re going to do a drive-by of her house here in Seattle, and Sam Winslow said they’d do the same at the farm in Port Henry. Bobby’s supposed to call me with anything they get off the aunt’s truck.”

  “Anybody check out the scene?”

  “She was too tired and shaken up for me to take her back up there tonight. I figured I’d do it tomorrow when I drive her back to Port Henry.”

  “I can meet you. What time?”

  Taylor batted the question around in his brain for a moment. “Nah. You need your beauty rest. Until I find out more, I can do this solo.”

  “You think this is related to Mortimer?” Soldier didn’t bother to stifle a yawn.

  “What do you think I think?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. The question is, what’s the connection?”

  “I don’t know,” Taylor said. “She was driving her aunt’s truck. Maybe whoever it was didn’t realize it was Claire until after he’d run her off the road. Maybe Sadie was the real target. Or, hell, I don’t know. Maybe it was completely random. Some guy getting his rocks off scaring women.”

  “I don’t like that scenario any better.”

  “Me, either.” He scratched his stubbled jaw. “I’ll let you know what I find tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m keeping Claire with me.”

  “Copy. I’ll see you—”

  “Hey, wait,” Taylor interrupted. “Before you hang up, one last question. Has Betsy ever said anything to you about why Claire has a thing against cops?”

  “No, not really,” Soldier said as though he was considering the question. “Far as I know, she just thinks it’s risky business.”

  In the background, a soft voice called Soldier’s name.

  Taylor heard his brother swallow. “Uh, gotta go.”

  Betsy’s voice, closer now, laughing, purring something unintelligible yet unmistakable in its tone.

  Soldier swallowed again. “I have to go, Tayo. Now.”

  “Is everything okay?” Taylor teased.

  “Great. Uh, everything’s great. Call me tomorrow.”

  The line went dead, and Taylor decided to try really hard not to imagine what was happening on his brother’s kitchen table right now.

  Chapter 4

  Artery

  Place where paintings are displayed.

  Claire fought to free herself from the tangle of bed linens twisted around her like a shroud. With a final kick, she curled up into a sitting position. Hunched over her raised knees, she sucked in air, forcing herself to calm while she pressed two fingers against her damp throat and checked her heart rate.

  Too fast, way too fast. Take a deep breath, slow it down, steady now.

  Her eyes sought something familiar in the unfamiliar room, and she nearly panicked until she remembered.

  Taylor’s house. Taylor. The accident, the police, the wrong McKennitt brother . . .

  Clutching the thin blanket to her breasts, she fought allowing her lids to drift closed. The dream—too vivid, too stark—might come back. Even now, violent images lurched obscenely inside her skull, reluctant to fade away though it was daylight, and her eyes were wide open.

  A woman’s scream still echoed through the air. Not hers, surely. She hadn’t screamed out loud . . . had she? She didn’t think she’d ever done that, yet over the last year, the night terrors had seemed so real . . .

  Suddenly, her door flew open, revealing a half-naked man holding a gun. He glanced quickly around the room, then let his gaze slowly settle on her.

  “You okay?” His voice was husky from sleep, his eyes laser sharp, his stance poised for pursuit, his jeans unbuttoned.

  She nodded and put a trembling hand to her forehead. She didn’t want him seeing her like this, emotionally ravaged, still shaking from the after-effects of the nightmare. Her brow was slick with perspiration, and she could feel cold sweat under her arms and trickling down her back.

  Grabbing the water glass from the stand next to the bed, she closed her eyes and chugged its contents, nearly drowning herself getting it down her throat. When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her.

  “You didn’t have to drink it all in one gulp,” he drawled. “I have more.” He set the gun on the table near the door.

  Her heart tripped inside her chest, jabbing her ribs. She kept her eyes at chest level, which wasn’t all that much better for her nerves.

  “I heard you scream.” His sharp gaze narrowed, assessing her. “Was it a man or a mouse?”

  “Neither. I sneezed,” she lied. “Sorry if it woke you.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. He didn’t believe her, but, thankfully, didn’t seem inclined to make an issue of it.

  She considered telling him about the dream, sharing her fears. Even though it had been more than eleven months, he would understand her lingering terror. After all, the stalker who’d gone after Betsy had nearly cost Taylor his life
as well. Then when Claire became the target, it was Taylor who had taken her home from the hospital, stayed the night with her, guarded and protected her from further harm.

  Bottom line, she’d survived the assault and the stalker had been dispatched. If the incident wasn’t completely out of her system, that was okay. It would be. She was on the mend, and in fact hadn’t had an episode for weeks.

  The accident last night, and seeing Taylor so unexpectedly again, must have stirred things up, and her psyche decided to trot out the trauma one more time.

  “It’s after noon,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed. I’ll wait breakfast until you’re ready, so take as long as you need.” He picked up his weapon and closed the door behind him. Claire let out a shaky breath.

  Touching the swell just above the hairline on her skull, she winced. Tender, but not the goose egg it had been last night.

  She showered, brushed her teeth, dressed. Then, plopping onto the bed, she picked up her comb, but before she could untangle the damp mess on her head, she noticed a large oil painting on the wall above the desk by the window. She’d been too tired last night to check out the place, but now, by the light of day, she realized the room was much larger than she’d realized, was wonderfully decorated, and what she had assumed was a dime-store print was, on closer examination, anything but.

  Rising, she moved closer to the painting, drawn to the color and composition like nothing she’d ever seen outside a museum.

  It was lovely in its understated power. An incredible interpretation of a storm at sea, exquisite in its detail, and beautifully executed. How had Taylor been able to afford such an obviously expensive painting on a detective’s salary, and why on earth did he keep it buried in the guest room where very few people probably saw it? Perhaps it had been a gift. Maybe he hated seascapes.

  Then she noticed a smaller painting on the wall near the door. This one was a portrait of an adorable little girl. She looked very serious holding a kitten and a balloon, as though she was terrified of losing one or both of them. Her brown eyes gleamed with youthful energy, and her shaky smile . . . was somehow familiar.

  Claire compared the two paintings. They had to have been done by the same artist. Even though the topics were vastly different, both canvases were strong, painterly, vibrant with life.