and probably fled the country.”
Once again her fingers curled around her mug. “And what do you think?”
This time it was he who leaned forward and held her gaze intently. “I know my mother had nothing to do with my father’s death. I know it with all my heart, with all my soul, and nothing and nobody will ever make me believe otherwise. If there’s anything in this world I’m dead certain of, it’s that.”
He frowned and leaned back in his chair, realizing he’d become loud and had drawn the attention of the other patrons. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” she replied. “I feel exactly the same way about my mother.”
There was more life in her eyes now, a flash of determination Riley could easily identify with. “Are they already saying your mother is a suspect?”
“Yeah. At the moment that’s what the evidence points to, and the police will follow the evidence.” She stared down into her coffee cup for a long moment.
He remained silent, giving her time to deal with whatever emotions might be reeling through her. She looked utterly vulnerable with her eyes downcast, displaying the long length of her dark lashes.
She had delicate features, a slender neck and small bones. He’d noticed her scent when she’d first sat down, a fragrance that reminded him of spring days and full-blooming flowers.
How long had it been since he’d noticed the smell of a woman? How long since he’d noticed the curve of a slender neck, the delicacy of feminine hands, the thrust of shapely breasts?
It had been since Patsy. Too long. Something long dormant inside him stirred as he sat watching her, smelling her fresh, feminine scent.
Finally she looked up, her eyes the rich brown of deep chocolate. “What do you think happened to your mother, Riley?”
A sharp shaft of pain drove through him, banishing the momentary warmth that had filled him. “I really don’t know. Over the past twenty-two months I’ve come up with hundreds of possibilities, each one more outrageous than the last. She got hit over the head and is wandering around somewhere with no memory of who she is. She became part of the witness-protection program and had to build a new life for herself.”
He flashed her a wry grin. “Hell, one night I got desperate enough, drunk enough that I checked to make sure there hadn’t been any UFO sightings on the night she disappeared. I thought maybe she’d been sucked up into a spaceship as an example of a human being with a perfect heart and soul.”
To his surprise, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Her skin was warm. “I’m so sorry for you. It must be horrible—the not knowing.” She drew her hand back as if suddenly self-conscious. A fierce determination swept over her features. “But I’m sure my mother is going to turn up anytime now. It’s all just been a mistake, a terrible misunderstanding of some sort.”
He didn’t try to contradict her. He knew how desperately she was clinging to that certainty at the moment. And he hoped she was right. He hoped it all was a terrible misunderstanding and Rita Birdsong James would be found safe and sound and innocent of the charge of attempting to kill her husband.
Savannah took another sip of her coffee, her thoughts racing. Cop thoughts and woman thoughts battled inside her. The crime that had occurred to his family was remarkably similar to what appeared to have happened to hers. Did he have any idea the power of his hypnotic blue eyes?
Was the connection she felt to him that of two people whose lives had been touched by violence, or was she drawn to him because he stirred something inside her that reminded her that she was not just a cop, not just a victim, but a woman as well?
This thought irritated her, and she averted her gaze from him. Brown eyes, that’s what she had loved. Eyes the color of her own, filled with laughter, filled with love, that’s what she had lost.
“Did the police attempt to find your mother?” she asked, grasping at the cop inside her rather than the lonely woman. “Usually when somebody disappears there’s a paper trail of some kind.”
He nodded and she couldn’t help but notice the rich shine of his dark-brown hair beneath the artificial lights overhead. “The authorities checked for activity on their bank account and credit cards, but there has been none in the nearly two years since it happened.”
She shoved her half-empty cup aside. “There’s no way to ignore the similarities in the two incidents,” she said.
“That’s why I thought it was important I make contact with you last night. Scott called me as soon as he heard the first report over his scanner, and that report indicated a man attacked in his living room and his wife missing. Scott thought I’d be interested since it seemed so much like what had happened to my family.”
“But, despite the similarities, it’s possible one has nothing to do with the other,” she added hurriedly. She couldn’t imagine her mother missing for two years. Savannah couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing where her mother was for another two minutes.
“I’d guess that it’s far too early in your investigation to draw any kind of conclusions,” he agreed. “But if you’re interested, I have copies of all the records pertaining to the crime against my parents. I’ve got witness lists, detective notes, everything.”
She raised an eyebrow in surprise. Family members rarely saw those kinds of things.
“I had a friend on the Sycamore Ridge police force,” he said in answer to her unspoken question. “Anyway, you’re welcome to see anything I have. Of course, nothing I have will help if it’s not the same kind of thing.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “But I really don’t think it would help much.” She didn’t want to believe there was any connection between what had happened to his family and what had happened to hers. After all, his father had died and his mother had never been found.
Suddenly she wanted to be away from him, needed to be away from him. It was almost as if she felt that if she spent too much time here with him, his tragedy would become her own.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me,” she said, and rose from her chair.
“No problem.” He got up, as well. He was taller than she remembered from the night before—tall with broad shoulders and slender hips. It was the physique of a man who worked a job of physical labor. He began to pull his wallet from his back pocket, but she waved her hand.
“Please, the coffee is on me.”
She was grateful he didn’t try to fight her for it. She was far too tired, far too emotionally fragile to fight over something as inconsequential as a dollar cup of coffee.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he said as he walked to the door of the shop.
“Thanks for the information,” she replied. Together they stepped outside, where night had fallen and the surrounding stores had closed up for the night. The night brought with it a terrifying sense of loss as she realized that her mother had been missing for nearly twenty-four hours.
“Your father…is he doing all right?”
“He’s
