about to speak. Nodding quickly, John engineered their escape, taking Elizabeth’s elbow and leading her away before the old woman could ask what was wrong.
They crossed to a nearby iron bench, which was shaded by a huge pin oak. Elizabeth Benoit sat down heavily, and John, shielding her from Mrs. Beetleman’s puzzled stare, took the seat beside her, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed her eyes.
When she finished, she stared at the square of white cotton for a second, then finally looked up. “I haven’t seen a man with a real handkerchief in his pocket since my father died.”
Her voice was a throaty contralto and it washed over John with a heavy warmth. “I’m a cop,” he said without thinking. “Always gotta be prepared.”
She nodded as if his ridiculous answer made perfect sense. For a moment they sat side by side in the hot twilight. The traffic noise on the side street and the cries of children playing in the neighborhood park kept the moment from the awkwardness of total silence.
Finally he spoke. “Is there something I can do for you? You look upset.”
To his horror, her eyes filled up again. She shook her head, then answered unexpectedly, her voice huskier than before, the words tight and angry. “It’s my sister,” she said. “I can’t find her. I thought she might have at least sent me a postcard.”
“Are you saying she’s missing?”
She nodded. “Yes. She came over to my place for a birthday celebration. Then we…we had an argument and I haven’t seen her since. And I’m really worried.” She looked down at her hands and shook her head, speaking again, this time softly. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She made a motion as if to get up. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be bothering you…”
He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She seemed startled by the touch and he instantly pulled back, but not before his brain had registered the sensation. Skin so warm and soft it was sinful. “Please…don’t leave. Tell me.”
She hesitated, then after a moment she sank back down to the bench. “I know you’re a policeman. Mrs. Shaftel told me.”
She blinked suddenly, as if she’d given away a secret. And maybe she had, he thought. She’d obviously had a conversation about him with her neighbor. Did that mean she’d been as aware of him as he was of her?
She spoke again, quickly this time. “What kind of cop are you?”
“I’m a detective,” he answered. “Homicide.”
She nodded, almost to herself.
“How old is your sister?” he asked. “Is she a juvenile?”
“No…no.” She shook her head. “She’s my age. We’re twins, identical twins. We turned twenty-eight on Sunday.”
Warning bells sounded in his head. Twenty-eight. What was he thinking? His thirty-seven suddenly seemed ancient. He was surprised she hadn’t called him sir. It always killed him when they did that.
“Twenty-eight,” he repeated. “So she’s an adult. No runaway situation. Maybe she took a trip. Went somewhere for a while and just didn’t say anything to you.”
“She’d tell me first, probably even borrow money from me.” She licked her lips, then pulled her bottom one in between her teeth. “She took my car, too.”
He kept his expression neutral. “You could file a stolen vehicle report.”
“I don’t want to do that.” Her voice was stronger now, more in control. He could see the shell of her usual demeanor coming back into place. “I’ve reported her missing. That’s all I’m going to do. I don’t want her hauled in or anything.”
He shrugged. “Might be the easiest way to find her.”
“No.”
No further explanation, no other words to back it up. Just “no.”
“Does she live with you? I don’t think I’ve seen her around.”
“She has her own apartment at The Pines. On lower Montrose.” She sent him a quick glance, then looked back down at her hands. Lower Montrose was a long way from where they sat—not in miles but in financial terms. It wasn’t the best part of Houston. “She works…over by the Galleria.”
John waited a moment, then spoke again. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”
Her eyes jerked to his, the gaze narrowing. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re awfully worried.”
“Wouldn’t you be if your sister had disappeared?”
For one short moment his muscles in his chest tightened painfully, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t have a sister. Not now. When Beverly had been alive, though, he hadn’t really appreciated her. What he wouldn’t give to have that time back so he could redo it, make it right, so he could love her as Elizabeth obviously loved her sister. He pushed the thought away.
“If I had one, and she was twenty-eight, I’d figure she’s old enough to know what she’s doing.”
Her expression softened. “I should, too, I guess, but April’s not…a responsible twenty-eight.”
“Who is in their twenties? Thirty-something maybe…forty-something probably, but twenty?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She bristled. “I’m twenty-eight and I’m certainly responsible.”
He sent her a measuring stare and silently agreed. There were shadows in those beautiful dark eyes and a tenseness in her face he hadn’t noticed before. Hell, she’d probably been responsible when she was eight, much less twenty-eight. Why? What demons did she have no one else knew about?
“I can see that,” he said finally. “It’s obvious or you wouldn’t be worried about…” He waited for her to supply the name.
“April,” she said reluctantly. “April Benoit. And I’m Elizabeth.”
“I’m John Mallory.”
With the exchange of names, her attitude shifted and became even more remote. A thick silence grew between them, then she broke it by speaking stiffly. “I’m sorry, Detective Mallory, to dump all this on you. The strain’s getting to me, I guess. Believe me, I usually don’t tell strangers intimate details of my life like this.”
“It’s John,” he said, “and don’t worry about it. I’d be happy to look into it for you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no. Please. That’s not why I was telling you.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I don’t mind. It’d be easy for me. I can check some things Missing Persons might not get around to so fast.” If ever.
“I appreciate it, but…” Rising from the bench, she ran a hand over her jacket, a reassuring move as if checking her defensive shell. “I
