“I’m worried about Emma. She’s still such a little girl in so many ways. It’s partially my fault she’s been so sheltered. I spent so much time with her—”
“You’re good for her, Sarah. You practically gave up dating. In fact, I think she was smothered, if you ask me.”
“Didn’t ask.” Still, his words soothed her. “So, you letting me go? My tire went off the shoulder, that’s all. I’m fine.” Jolly Mill, a five hour drive from Sikeston, seemed as far away as the moon right now. “If Emma reaches Nick and he sees the family resemblance in person—”
“You can’t stop her now.” He patted her arm. “Maybe it’s time she knew—”
“Don’t even say it.”
“As her sister, you may not be able to control her, but if she knows you’re her birth mother and that you love her like a mother loves a child—”
“That’s the last thing she needs. You know how tender her heart is. The shock would break it all over again, especially with this question about murder hanging in the air.”
“If not now—”
Sarah held a hand up. “I’ve been living this fiction since I was her age. For her sake I have to keep it up at least until she’s strong enough to handle reality again.”
John gave a heavy sigh. “At least let me find Nick’s number and call him for you.”
That was tempting. Talking to Nick after all these years and with such a connection hanging between them from their past—and one he knew nothing about—would be hard. But right now Emma’s safety was Sarah’s only concern. “I’ll call him. We were once the best of friends. Can you find the number for Edward Tyler for me?”
John gave her a salute and quickstepped back to the cruiser as Sarah allowed her thoughts to dwell on Nick—something she’d stopped doing when she heard of his marriage seven years ago—and continued after Mom shared that his wife divorced him. Had it really been nearly seventeen years since she’d seen Nick? She’d cried most of the way across the state the day they left Jolly Mill. She’d had no reason to believe that she carried a child inside her—Nick’s child. It had to be. The very reason she’d sought Nick out that night was to tell him how she really felt about him, that their friendship had blossomed into something so much more powerful....
Over the years, she’d often imagined Nick’s dark, soul-filled eyes in his daughter’s face. She’d also seen his and his father’s cleft chin. Hadn’t she? Would they see their own features in Emma when she showed up on their front porch? Mom had sent Aunt Peg pictures of all of them throughout the years, but Nick had left Jolly Mill for premed as soon as he graduated. Sarah’s only chance to get through this with no one being the wiser was that Nick couldn’t possibly recall that long-ago night any better than she did—or even as well as she did.
John returned with a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Don’t talk on the phone while you’re driving. I saw what you’re capable of tonight.”
She thanked him and reached down for the automatic window control.
“Wait, did you log on to Emma’s email account, check her activity?”
“That was always Dad’s job. I’ve tried to respect her privacy.”
“My turn, then. I still have a key to the house.”
“She keeps her password info taped under the lip of her desk, but she keeps her email up on the home computer, so it’s not hard to log on.”
“If you’re gonna traipse off after Emma, the least I can do is search around and see if I can’t fill in some gaps for you. Got your cell phone charged?”
What would she do without John? “I even brought my car charger. Proud of me?”
He grinned at last, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’ve got your back, cuz. Watch for deer and call me when you get there.” He straightened and stretched. “Guess I’ll overlook your poor driving skills this time, but beware of weekenders. That can be a bear, even on the four-lane.”
He’d pulled away in his cruiser before she edged back onto the road. This was not the time to resume panic mode, and she couldn’t imagine how this night could get any worse.
* * *
Nicolas Tyler slid the hasp one more time along the riding mower’s blade, sharpening it to perfection. He was rotating to the next cutting edge when the wall phone rang loudly enough for the neighbors to go deaf. His hand jerked, and the fleshy part of his right thumb encountered the newly sharpened blade.
It was a clean cut, and while the pain of it registered he couldn’t help a buzz of pride at the quality of his work as he watched blood seep from the wound. He winced at the continued ringing of the phone. Should’ve chosen lawnmower maintenance as his primary profession twelve years ago and avoided all the frustration of education, more education, sleepless residency, divorce, frivolous lawsuits. He preferred the landscaping business to family practice for now, and solitude to marriage to a cheater.
He glared at the phone as the ringing persisted. Voice mail was turned off; everyone knew Dad’s cell number. Why did Dad keep this phone out here, anyway? Didn’t a guy deserve some time to himself? But then, Dad wasn’t a recluse. Nick had been the one to morph to introversion when he received the notification of a frivolous malpractice lawsuit. Things had gone downhill from there.
He’d disconnected the doorbell after Chloe left and discontinued the landline at his home in Rockford, Illinois, only a few weeks before the explosion.
The ringing stopped and Nick relaxed. Dad had his cell phone with him in case someone wanted to contact him, but he was on leave from the church. A pastor couldn’t lead his flock when he was driven to his knees with grief; his church should understand that. Nick could think of no one he wanted to talk to. The neighbors knew he wasn’t much of a socializer these days.
He reached for the first-aid kit in its cubicle above the work stand. A little peroxide, gauze and tape would take care of this.
He was pouring medicine into his wound when the phone jangled again. He jumped, splattering the liquid in a three foot radius and giving the garage floor an expensive cleansing. Peroxide bubbled on his hand, the gauze hovering over his thumb, tape tangling in his arm hair. With a yank and a grunt, he tore away the tape and lost a considerable amount of arm hair. And women waxed. Go figure.
He pulled out another strip of tape, secured the bandage and replaced the top on the peroxide bottle before strolling toward the phone. Maybe it was Dad. One never knew when he might run into trouble with that old pickup truck.
A quick check of the incoming number sent a shiver down Nick’s spine as it had the last time he’d answered a call from Emma Russell—the name Mark Russell flashed on the tiny screen. As if he was receiving a message from a dead man.
For that fraction of a second, as before, Nick’s mind ricocheted through the grief, blackness and shock. Then he answered the phone, fully expecting to hear young Emma’s voice again. She’d called him and emailed him after he’d sent the girls flowers and a sympathy card, and she’d called again today. The kid had an uncanny sense of compassion for one so young. It surprised him that he didn’t mind talking to
