His tone was irritated and impatient.
Private investigator MacEllis Griffin kept his expression neutral as he eyed the young woman from the top of her streaked blond hair to the toes of her clunky sandals.
“What is it?” he growled. She stood there looking at him with all the apprehension of a kid called to the principal’s office. Only she was no kid and he was no schoolteacher.
She could have been a kid. Her hair was pulled back into a single messy braid that looked like she’d slept in it. The skinny jeans were slightly loose on her slender frame and the shirt looked more slept in than her hair.
“Hmm? Oh, nope. It’s pretty slow here,” Mack said into the phone as he tried to guess her age. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Under twenty-five? Hard to tell. She had that heart-shaped face that always looked young. But faint blue circles under her eyes that matched the color of her jeans told him she was much older than her hair or clothes might indicate. She opened her mouth but he held up a finger. “Buono’s working a missing person case,” he said. “A seventeen-year-old. Probably ran away with her boyfriend.”
“Well, get to the office and do something useful,” Dawson Delancey, his boss, replied. “You could file your past three months’ expenses if you’re bored.”
Mack didn’t take his eyes off the young woman as he laughed. “I’ll never be that bored,” he said. “In fact, I might be real interested in something real soon.” He smiled when the woman’s gaze dropped from his and her cheeks turned pink.
“In what?” Dawson asked. “Was that the mailman delivering your latest issue of Playboy?”
“Right. He just got here from 2002,” Mack responded. “Nope. Looks like I’m about to be hit up for Girl Scout cookies or a donation to a religious cause. I’d better go.”
“I hope it’s the donation. You don’t need the cookies,” Dawson said.
“Bite me,” Mack said conversationally. “You’re the one getting fat on your wife’s Italian cooking.”
“You’re just jealous. Juliana and I will be back in Biloxi in a few days. I’ll give you a call when we know for sure.”
“Okay. Later. ’Bye.”
As Mack hung up the phone, the young woman met his gaze and gave him a sad, self-conscious smile. The smile didn’t reach her eyes and the only thing it accomplished was to make her look older and sadder.
A familiar sinking feeling gnawed at his stomach. He knew that smile. He’d never met this woman before, but he knew her type way too well. Standing there with that sadness in her eyes, that furrow between her brows. She was the embodiment of a lot of things he’d worked very hard to forget. She was exactly the type of person—the type of woman—he’d spent his adult life avoiding.
He upped his scowl by about a hundred watts and aimed it directly at her. With any luck, she’d turn and run. Her type was easily intimidated.
But her gaze didn’t waver. She lifted her chin and to his surprise, he recognized a staunch determination in her green eyes, along with a spark of stubbornness. Interesting. But the small furrow between her brows didn’t smooth out and the corners of her mouth were still pinched and tight.
He put his hand on the doorknob, preparing to close the door and get back to his coffee. “Can I help you?” he asked grudgingly.
“I’m looking for Kathleen Griffin,” she said quietly.
The name hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. “Who?” he said, an automatic response designed to give him a second to think. But his brain seemed suddenly to be caught in a loop. Kathleen Griffin, Kathleen. Kathleen.
“K-Kathleen Griffin. The mailbox said Griffin.” She gestured vaguely toward the front door.
It had been twenty years since his mother had died. This young woman wouldn’t have been more than five or six at the time. Why would she be looking for his mother? “What’s this about?”
“It’s...personal,” she said, glancing behind him into his foyer.
“I doubt that,” he said flatly. “Go peddle whatever you’re selling somewhere else. Kathleen Griffin doesn’t live here.” He started to close the door, but she held out a small, dog-eared photo. The paper was old and faded, but one of the two women in the picture looked familiar.
“Please,” she said. Her hand was trembling, making the paper flutter.
“What’s that?” he asked, knowing he was going to regret having asked that question. He held the door in its half-shut position.
The young woman’s throat quivered as she swallowed. “It’s a picture of my mother and Kathleen Griffin,” she said, lifting her chin. “I really need to see her. It’s a—” she bit her lower lip briefly and her gaze faltered “—it’s a matter of life and death.”
He gave a short laugh, but cut it off when she winced. “Life and death,” he said dubiously. “Who are you?”
“Hannah Martin,” she responded. “My mother is Stephanie Clemens.”
She waited, watching him. But he didn’t recognize the name. He gave a quick shake of his head, took a small step backward and started to close the door.
“You’re her son, aren’t you?”
Her words sent his stomach diving straight down to his toes. He shook his head, not in denial—in resignation. She had him and he knew it. He also knew that if he didn’t do whatever he had to do in order to get rid of her this minute, he was going to regret it for a long time. “I’m sorry, but Kathleen Griffin is dead. So...” He put his hand on the door, preparing to close it.
“Oh. Oh, no,” Hannah Martin said, her eyes filling with tears and her face losing its color. “I’m so sorry—” she started, but at that instant, her phone rang. She jerked at the sound, then reached into her purse and pulled it out.
As Mack watched, she looked at the screen as if she was afraid it might reach out and bite her. When she checked the display, her face lost what little color it had. She made a quiet sound, like a small animal cornered by a hungry predator. Her fingers tightened on the phone until the knuckles turned white, and all the time, the phone kept ringing, a loud, strident peal.
Whoever was on the other end of that call frightened her. In fact, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. When the ringing finally stopped, Hannah dropped the phone back into her purse as if it were made of molten lava.
Mack had missed his best opportunity. He should have closed the door as soon as her phone rang. It was the perfect opportunity to escape. But he hadn’t taken it. He wasn’t sure why.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I apologize for bothering you.” She closed her eyes briefly.
She’d let him off the hook. He took a step backward, preparing to close the door, because of course, she was about to turn and walk away.
But she didn’t move. Her ghostly white face took on a faint greenish hue. She swayed like a slender tree in a punishing wind. Then she
