you said that. Isn’t the FBI involved?”
“As far as I heard they were. I think they set up operations just outside of Timberline. There are a couple of agents out here poking around, setting up taps on the families’ phones, waiting for ransom instructions.”
Kendall pressed her spine against the counter, trying to stop the shiver snaking up her back. There had been no ransom demands twenty-five years ago for the Timberline Trio—the three children who’d been kidnapped. Would there be any now?
“Anything?”
“Not yet and it’s already been almost three weeks.” Wyatt scratched his chin. “That’s one of the reasons Coop’s so interested in talking to all the players from the past. He sees some similarities in the cases, but the FBI agents aren’t all that interested in what happened twenty-five years ago.”
“Well, I’m not going to be much help.” She pushed off the counter. “But I do need to get back to work if I hope to get this place on the market.”
“Don’t worry. I’m outta here.” Wyatt exited the small kitchen and stood in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, surveying the room as if he could see the ghosts that still lingered. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”
“I appreciate that, Wyatt.” She took two steps into the room and gave the big man a hug, assuaging the pangs of guilt she had over her uncharitable thoughts about him. Had he sensed her reluctance to talk to him? She squeezed harder.
“Take care, Wyatt. Maybe we’ll catch up a little more over lunch while I’m here.”
“I’d like that.” He broke their clinch. “Now I’d better head over to the police station.”
As much practice as she’d had schooling her face into a bland facade for her clients, she must’ve revealed her uneasiness to Wyatt.
His dark eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “This is just a plumbing job, not an interrogation.”
“Honestly, Wyatt, what you plan to do is your business.” She smoothed her hands over her face. “I’d rather leave it in the past.”
“I hear ya.” He saluted. “Let’s have that lunch real soon.”
She closed the door behind him and touched her forehead to the doorjamb. Wyatt didn’t even have to be an amateur psychologist to figure out she was protesting way too much.
She’d need a supersize session with her own therapist once she left this rain-soaked place and returned to Phoenix.
Taking a deep breath, she brushed her hands together and grabbed an empty box. She stationed herself in front of the cabinet shelf that sported a stack of newspapers.
She dusted each item in her aunt’s collection before wrapping it in a scrap of newspaper and placing it in the box. She’d have an estate sale first, maybe sell some of the stuff online and then pack up the rest and take it home with her. She studied a mermaid carved from teak, running her fingertip along the smooth flip of hair. Her nose tingled and she swiped the back of her hand across it.
Kayla had loved playing mermaids, and Kendall had humored her twin by playing with her even though she’d have rather been catching frogs at the river or riding her bike along the dirt paths crisscrossing the forest.
She’d been the tomboy, the tough twin—the twin who’d survived.
She rolled the mermaid into an ad for discount prescription drugs and tucked it into the box at her feet. Thirty minutes later, she sprayed some furniture polish on a rag and swiped it across the empty shelves of the cabinet. One down, two to go.
The round metal handle on the drawer clinked and Kendall groaned. Most likely, Aunt Cass had more stuff crammed into the drawer.
She curled her fingers around the handle and tugged it open. She blew out a breath—papers, not figurines.
Grabbing a handful, she held the papers up to the light. Bills and receipts. Probably of no use to anyone now.
She ducked and grabbed the plastic garbage bag, already half-full of junk she’d pulled from her aunt’s desk. She dropped the papers in the bag, without even looking at them, and reached for another batch.
A flash of color amid all the black and white caught her eye, and her fingers scurried to the back of the drawer to retrieve the item. She tugged on a silky piece of material and held it up.
The pink ribbon danced from her fingertips, taunting her. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe.
She crumpled the ribbon in her fist and ran blindly for the door.
Sheriff Cooper Sloane wheeled his patrol SUV onto the gravel driveway of Cass Teagan’s place, the damp air tamping down any dust or debris that his tires even considered kicking up.
He owed Wyatt Carson for giving him the heads-up about Kendall Rush’s presence at her aunt’s house. The plumber hadn’t even done it on purpose, just let it slip.
He opened his car door and planted one booted foot on the ground where it crunched the gravel. He clapped his hat on his head and adjusted the equipment on his belt.
As he took one step toward the house, the front door crashed open and a woman flew down the steps, her hair streaming behind her, a pair of dark eyes standing out in her pale face.
She ran right toward him, her gaze fixed on something beyond his shoulder, something only she could see.
“Whoa, whoa.” He spread his arms as she barreled into him, staggered back and caught her around the waist so she wouldn’t take both of them down.
Her heart thundered against his chest, and her mouth dropped open as one hand clawed at the sleeve of his jacket.
“Ma’am. Ma’am. What’s the matter?”
She arched back, and her eyes finally focused on his face, tracked up to his hat and dropped to his badge. She blinked.
“Are you all right?” Her body slumped in his arms, and he placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
Then she squared those shoulders, and shoved one hand in the pocket of her jeans. A smile trembled on her lips. “I am so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He gave her a final squeeze before releasing her. “What happened in the house to send you out here like a bat outta hell?”
She wedged two trembling fingers against her temple and released a shaky laugh. “You’re not going to believe it.”
Raising one eyebrow, he cocked his head. “Try me.”
“S-spider.” She waved one arm behind her, the other hand still firmly tucked into her front pocket. “I have an irrational fear of spiders. I know it’s ridiculous, but I guess that’s why it’s irrational. A big, brown one crawled across my hand. Freaked me out. I should’ve just killed the sucker. Now I don’t
