job for him in California. He had a simple plan: renovate the house, sell it, move to California and forget what had happened to his team in Afghanistan and the career he’d once thought to have in the military.
With four of them working, the job didn’t take long. Soon all the old paneling lay in dusty stacks on the floor.
“Nothing.” Adam summed it up, brushing off his hands. “Maybe that’s what the whole thing amounts to. I guess there could be some innocent explanation for the woman’s suitcase being inside the wall of your uncle’s house.”
“Can you think of one?” Trey challenged. Link could hear the worry in his voice. He’d be thinking about how Mom would take this.
“Not off the top of my head,” Adam admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Still, crime or no crime, I guess I’d better look into it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
That was aimed at both him and Trey, Link supposed. After all, it had been their uncle’s house. There would be talk, speculation about the possible relationship between Allen Morgan and the Angelo woman. Adam might want to keep it quiet, but they all knew how impossible that was in a place like Spring Township.
Link picked up the photograph, looking into the big brown eyes of the little girl, feeling again that sense of something wrong he’d had the first time he looked at her face, reminding him of those other children who saw death and destruction everyday. Stronger than that—it was a sense of empathy, as if the child meant something to him.
“One thing I do know,” he said. “This kid, or rather, the woman she is now—she deserves to know what happened to her mother.”
MARISA ANGELO FELT as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she left Baltimore. Cutting the car engine, she stared at the house in front of her. It stood on the fringe of the village of Springville, but still gave the illusion of privacy, hidden as it was behind a hedge of lilac bushes so high that nothing could be seen from the road.
Marisa got out slowly, pushing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the house. It was probably like a hundred other farmhouses in this rural area of Pennsylvania; a two-story white frame with black wooden shutters on the windows. But instead of being surrounded by neat flowerbeds, it hid behind overgrown trees, its windows shielded by blinds so that it seemed to sleep.
A shiver slid through her. She was being morbid. She shouldn’t let this experience get to her. From the moment the police chief called her, after being unable to reach her father, she’d been focused on one thing only: get here. Find out what this place had to do with the disappearance of her mother that had left a hole in her heart nothing seemed to fill. She’d packed a bag, collected the materials she needed for her current set of illustrations, and set off.
She’d been five when her mother left, six when she and her father and grandmother moved to Baltimore. This area ought to be familiar to her, but she seemed to have only fragments of memories that didn’t amount to anything—an image of herself jumping rope on a sidewalk, the scary feeling of standing onstage in what must have been an elementary-school program.
They’d left, they’d never come back, she’d forgotten this place, even though her dreams were haunted by the need to know. To understand what happened.
Gradually, over the past few years, when every line of inquiry came up empty, she’d thought she was accepting the fact that she’d never know. But when the call came, it was as if she’d been waiting for it all her life.
She closed the car door and walked toward the house. Blank and shuttered, it looked deserted, but someone must be here. The police chief had said the owner was renovating the place. Seeming to understand her need to see for herself, Chief Byler had agreed to meet her here.
She had one foot on the porch step when she heard the noise—a steady series of thuds coming from the rear of the building. Maybe the renovator was still at work.
The yard behind the house proved just as secluded as the front. A stand of pines pressed close, reaching over a fieldstone wall to threaten a garage and a couple of outbuildings that tilted into each other in a dispirited manner. The source of the noise was instantly obvious.
The man, in jeans and a T-shirt, worked steadily, oblivious to her presence. Pick up a short log, set it on a stump, split it with an axe, toss it aside. His movements were smooth, efficient and almost angry in their intensity.
From the top of the stone wall, a large black cat watched with the casual indifference of its kind. He put up a lazy paw to swipe his face, his eyes never leaving the figure.
The contrast between the lean ferocity of the man and the lazy feline grace of the cat had her fingers itching. She pulled the ever-present pad and pencil from her bag, intent on capturing the scene in quick strokes. With a few changes, this might fit into the children’s book she was illustrating. Even if it didn’t, she couldn’t resist.
The image was nearly complete when the man clutched his side with a grunt, dropping the axe. The cat vanished over the wall. She must have made some move, because the man spun and strode toward her, transferring that angry intensity from the logs to her.
“What are you doing?” He reached her, grabbing the pad from her hand and giving the drawing an angry glance. “What right do you have invading my privacy? Well?”
Panic clutched her throat at the angry voice. She forced it back, a millimeter at a time. She would not give in to it.
“I’m sorry.” She found her voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the contrast between your work and your cat’s laziness.” She tried for a smile that felt stiff on her lips.
“Not my cat.” He handed the pad back to her and made a visible effort to contain himself, strong mouth firming, lashes shielding piercing green eyes for an instant. He yanked a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped away the perspiration that beaded his forehead in spite of the coolness of the October day. He ran the cloth back over short dark brown hair and along his neck. “Are you looking for directions, Ms…?”
“Angelo. Marisa Angelo,” she said, and saw his face change when he heard the name. This must be the man who’d found the suitcase, then, the man who’d inherited the house from an uncle, according to the police chief.
“Sorry.” His voice went softer, rougher. “I didn’t realize you were coming here. The person you want is Adam Byler, the township police chief. If you head back down the road—”
“I’ve already talked to him. He’s meeting me here. Didn’t he let you know?” She couldn’t let him send her away, not when the only clue she’d ever had to her mother’s disappearance had been found here.
“No.” The word was so blunt that for a moment she thought he’d still send her packing. Then he managed a smile that gentled the harsh lines of his face. “I’ve been outside most of the day. Not paying any attention to the phone. I’m Link Morgan, by the way. Sorry to meet you under such circumstances.”
The words were conventional. Could Link Morgan begin to understand what this meant to her? Or was her arrival just an unwelcome interruption to his work?
“Chief Byler said that you found my mother’s suitcase while you were renovating the house?” She made it a question, since he didn’t seem very forthcoming.
“Right.” His jaw tightened. “I guess
