And my seventy-year-old heart.”
Meghan frowned. She fully intended to help Alex understand the consequences of his actions. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll feed the boys, and when I get back with Alex I’ll bring you some dinner.”
Dorie shook her head. “Nonsense. I can feed the little ones. You just bring that teenager home so I know he’s safe.”
“I will.”
Reluctant to leave Dorie alone, but understanding that this was the best way she could help, Meghan pressed a kiss to her grandmotherly temple and hurried toward the front door. She slowed her pace as she neared the entryway, thinking something looked odd. She stopped when she realized what was out of place. A large bouquet of yellow roses sat on the hall table. Long-stemmed and studded with statis and greenery. Meghan released a long, low whistle. Someone had spent a fortune.
On one very sick idea of a joke.
Meghan felt a corresponding tension quiver through her muscles, setting her entire body on edge. She looked over her shoulder to Dorie. “Where did these come from?”
“Oh, those came for you while you were out back. After that phone call, I forgot to tell you.” Dorie pressed her hand over her heart. “Imagine. A dozen roses. You must have an ardent admirer.”
Meghan frowned. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. “There are only eleven roses.”
“I didn’t notice.” The older woman shuffled into the foyer beside her. “Did the florist make a mistake?”
“I don’t think so.”
One anonymous rose she could write off as a little weird and donate it to the hospital with the rest of her flowers.
Eleven golden mates showing up on the same day to complete the gift was downright creepy.
“Did you see who delivered them?”
“The doorbell rang during the news.” She could hear the agitation in Dorie’s voice as she picked up on Meghan’s tension. “By the time I got to it, the bouquet was on the doorstep and a white van was backing out of the driveway. The sun was reflecting off the windshield and I didn’t have my glasses on.”
“Was there a name on the side of the van?”
Dorie shrugged an apology. “If I remember, there were some red letters or markings on the driver’s door.”
Meghan pulled a thorny stem aside to get a closer look at the blank envelope. “And you’re sure they’re for me? There’s no name.”
“Honey, my Jim’s been dead goin’ on ten years now. Who’d be sending an old girl like me flowers?”
Meghan traded worried looks with Dorie. “How did they know where to deliver them? Why didn’t they go to my apartment?”
Only John Murdock and the chief knew that this was her second home. And she doubted anyone at Family Services who knew she volunteered here would be sending flowers. She supposed someone could have tried to deliver them at the station house and been redirected here. But John was off duty, too. Who else knew to find her here? Had she been followed?
Dorie tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t stand there gawkin’ at ’em. Open the card and see who they’re from. Maybe that’ll solve the mystery.”
An uneasy feeling settled around Meghan’s shoulders as she plucked the envelope from its plastic mount. That uneasy feeling knotted into a combination of fear and anger—a sense of violation deep in her gut—as she pulled out the card and read it.
“That’s odd.” Dorie’s confusion echoed her own. “It doesn’t say.”
Meghan crammed the note into the pocket of her shorts. The discomfiting words were already emblazoned in her memory.
You are truly Kansas City’s Bravest.
You know I love you.
Only one man had ever claimed to love her.
And she’d thrown his proposal back in his face and walked out of his life forever.
Chapter Four
The drive into downtown Kansas City gave Meghan plenty of time to plan what to say to Alex, and then dismiss each version of her speech three times over. She wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t even his legal guardian. She was just a friend. He was a young man who needed someone he could count on. He needed a role model to learn from—someone who could teach him to make smarter choices without compromising his self-respect.
Meghan didn’t think she was up to the task. But she had to try. She had to put her own self-doubts on hold, ignore her nagging curiosity about that odd bouquet of roses, and be there for him. Whether he’d admit he wanted someone around who cared or not.
The drive also gave her plenty of time to fuel her paranoia. Every flash of white on the road seemed to catch her eye. Trucks. Cars. Even a white van.
But no red letters on the side. No florist’s logo.
Hundreds of nameless, faceless travelers shared the highway with her. Did one of them know her? Had someone followed her from the warehouse fire to the station house? To Dorie’s? Was that someone following her right now?
Or was someone from the station playing a tasteless practical joke on her?
If it was a joke, she wasn’t laughing. And if she had picked up a resourceful secret admirer, flattered wouldn’t be the word she’d use to describe her feeling about the anonymous flowers. She had no interest in gifts from admirers, secret or otherwise. If that admirer thought his boldness or cleverness would be appreciated in return, he was sadly mistaken. She just wanted to know the truth, and then she wanted to put an end to it.
But first things first. Though it was nearly 8:00 p.m., the summer sun was still bright in the sky, giving her the flagging energy of a never-ending day as she pulled up to the white stone building that served as the Fourth Precinct headquarters. By the time she’d secured her visitor’s badge at the front desk and pushed the button for the elevator, Meghan had made only two clear decisions. Her first priority would be to make sure Alex hadn’t been hurt.
And the eleven roses were going into the trash.
Beyond that? She took a deep, fortifying breath to prepare herself for whatever Alex’s story might be. She’d never had much luck with long-term plans, anyway.
The elevator opened up to a maze of desks and partitions, set apart from the hallway by a tall, circular work station. A bank of offices with blinds at each window lined the opposite wall. A handful of men and women, dressed in professional street clothes, sat at their computers or talked on phones. The bulk of the night shift seemed to be made up of uniformed officers, though, wearing their familiar light blue shirts and black slacks.
Meghan clutched at the ID card hanging around her neck and crossed to the sergeant’s desk. A tall, female officer with a strawberry-blond braid down her back was arguing with someone on the phone.
“You can’t do that.” The woman swallowed hard, probably schooling her
