firm. Lowering her gently to the floor, he grabbed a pillow off the couch and placed it under her head, making the decision to leave her on the floor rather than try to move her to the couch or a bed.
By the time he’d gotten the pillow under her head, she’d woken up. He recalled a paramedic telling him once that if someone passed out and woke up immediately, they were probably in no immediate danger.
Her face still had that greenish hue, although surprisingly, it didn’t detract from its loveliness. He retrieved the photo she’d dropped when she’d passed out. He looked at the two young women—girls, really. They were both pretty and pleasant-faced. They were laughing at whoever was taking the picture, and behind them, Mack recognized the furniture. Most of it was still here. He knew one of the girls. It was his mother. He smiled sadly, seeing how young and happy and innocent she looked.
He’d never seen the other girl before, but the young woman lying just outside his door bore a strong resemblance to her. He turned the photo over. On the back was written “Kath and me at her house” in an unfamiliar hand. The other handwriting he knew. It was his mother’s flowery script. She’d written “sisters forever” and his address.
Hannah stirred and tried to sit up. “What happened?” she asked, looking around in confusion.
“You fainted,” he said.
She stared at him. “No, I didn’t,” she said, frowning at him suspiciously. “I never faint. Did you do something—?” But then her hand went to her head. “I feel dizzy.”
“Just sit there a minute. I’ll get you some water,” he said grudgingly. He rose and drew her a glass of tap water. When he handed her the glass, she drank about half of it.
Then she shook her head as if trying to shake off a haze. “I guess I must have fainted.”
“I guess,” he said, a faint wryness in his voice.
She rose onto her haunches and stood, then grabbed on to his forearm for a second, to steady herself. “I never faint,” she said again.
Mack smiled. “So I’ve heard,” he said, thinking she was stubborn. He assessed her. Her color was still not good. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, then felt irritated at himself for asking. Hell, she’d stood up on her own. So it was the perfect time for her to leave. And again, he’d missed his chance. And right there was one of the primary reasons why he didn’t get involved with her type. She was obviously on some personal mission that would consume her life until she accomplished it. A certain clue—she’d driven all night without stopping except to get coffee and gasoline.
“Thanks,” she said, and turned and headed, a little unsteadily, for the small dining table. He followed her.
She started to sit, then looked around.
“Here,” Mack said, handing her the photo. “This what you’re looking for?”
She took it. “Was this what we were talking about when I—” she gestured toward the front door.
“When you didn’t faint?” He nodded, deciding for the moment not to remind her that she’d received a phone call that had scared her.
She held the photo in one hand and touched the faces of the two girls with a fingertip. “According to my mother, she and Kathleen Griffin swore they’d always be there for one another. Sisters forever.”
“And?” Mack said, working to sound disinterested, even though he was becoming more and more fascinated by this pretty, determined young woman who had driven all night to find her mother’s best friend.
“And—” She stopped, looking confused. Then she shrugged. “And, I don’t know. I’m not really sure why I’m here. I just remember my mother talking about how much she and Kathleen loved Chef Voleur and how they had made that promise to each other.”
She picked up her purse from the dining room table and stood, gripping the back of the chair to steady herself. “I’m truly sorry about your mother.” She paused.
He nodded. “She died a long time ago,” he said dismissively.
That was another reason he didn’t like to be around women like her. Although Hannah was obviously in need of help and had pushed herself beyond her limits, right this minute her concern was for him and he didn’t like that one bit.
She looked down at the photo, then up at him. “You look just like her,” she said. “You have to be her son.”
“MacEllis Griffin,” he said, offering neither his hand nor any further explanation. “Call me Mack.”
“Mack,” she said, “I apologize for bothering you.” She started to stand.
“Wait,” he said. “What’s this life-and-death emergency?” He bit his tongue, literally. But it was too late.
To his dismay, hope flared in her eyes. “I’m—not sure I should—”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.” What the hell was happening to him? When had his mouth cut itself off from his brain? He was just digging himself in deeper and deeper. And why? Because a pretty woman had fainted in his doorway? No. It was because he had the very definite feeling that when she’d said life and death, she wasn’t overstating the issue at all.
She sank back into the chair and casually picked up a business card from a small stack on the table. “MacEllis Griffin,” she said. “D&D Security?”
“It’s a private firm that takes on certain security issues,” he said, watching her.
“Security—like night guards at office buildings?”
Mack sent her an ironic look. “No.”
She frowned for a second, then eyebrows rose. “You’re a private investigator?”
“You could use that term, although we don’t take the usual divorce or spouse-tailing cases.”
“What do you take?”
The faint hope he’d seen in her eyes grew, although she was still stiff as a board and tension radiated from her like heat.
“We’ve handled our share of life-and-death cases,” he said.
Her eyes went as opaque as turquoise.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can be a sarcastic SOB at times. Here’s a quick rundown of me. I’m thirty-one years old. I’ve been with D&D Security for three years. I’m licensed as an investigator with the state of Louisiana. Now, will you tell me why you drove all night to find my mother?”
“How do you know I drove all night?” she asked.
“Your eyes are twitching and the lids are drooping. Headache and exhaustion, I’d guess. You’re trembling, probably from too much coffee. You haven’t combed your hair and your clothes smell faintly of gasoline. You must have spilled a little while you were filling up. How far have you driven?”
She shifted in her chair. “What are you, some kind of Sherlock Holmes?” she asked drily. “Maybe you can tell me what I had for dinner last
