instincts thumping like the subwoofers in a drug-dealing pimp’s newest ride, Linc braced. Whispers, images from seven years ago seeped past the wall he’d built to block those memories.
Mort looked directly at Linc. “It was at the pink antebellum house, the Dowe house, that I saw her.”
The urge to run hit Linc hard. He shook his head. “I don’t want to hear this.” He held up his hands. They shook. “I gotta go.”
Mort grabbed him by the arm before he could slide from the booth. “Sit.” He nodded to the seat. “Listen.”
When Linc hesitated, Mort pressed, “You know me.” He searched Linc’s eyes, winced at what he no doubt saw reflected there. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.”
Linc jerked free of Mort’s hold and dropped back into the booth. He leaned across the table. “My wife is dead. You’re the one who forced me to accept that fact!”
Mort heaved a heavy breath. “I can’t argue with the truth.” He nailed Linc with an unwavering stare. “But I know what I saw and heard.”
Her body was never found. But then neither were the remains of most of the others who died that day. Only two survived. A thug. And Linc. Not a day had gone by since when Linc didn’t wish he’d died, too. If he weren’t such a damned coward he would have pulled the trigger one of those mornings when he’d stuck the muzzle of a gun in his mouth instead of coffee.
“Her face is a little different.”
Linc scrubbed at his jaw, stroking the scar that slashed across his left cheek. “Then you could be wrong.” Not could be. He was wrong. She was dead. Linc’s wife was dead. It had taken two years for him to face that fact. Then he’d spent the next five running from the reality.
Mort shook his head. “It’s her. The voice was hers. The way she moved. She goes by Mia Grant. The folks I talked to said she’s lived there for about six years. The whole town loves her. But not one of them could say where she’d come from. I checked out the name. There was no Mia Grant matching her description prior to six years ago.”
Linc couldn’t do this. “I appreciate that you went to all this trouble to let me know.” He was done here. If he sat here a second longer he would explode.
“I watched her restoring plaster molding in one of the houses on the tour.”
Every single cell in Linc’s body ceased to function.
“Her hands. The way she held the tools.” Mort moved his head side to side again. “It’s her.”
Lori had been a tough cop. A narcotics detective. One who’d skipped her way to detective because she had uncanny instincts and an amazing ability to fall into character instantly. In her off time she loved driving around looking for old homes. She’d searched for months to find the perfect historic home before they’d decided to buy. A real fixer-upper. They’d hit a wall when it came to restoring the plaster. Hiring it out would have cost a small fortune. Lori had set out to master the skill of restoring plaster and she’d done it so well, her work had made a California home-builders’ magazine.
A dash of hope combined with the agony that was churning deep inside Linc. He shook his head. What Mort was suggesting was impossible. “She’s dead,” Linc said. If she had survived she would have found a way to come home. No way would she be hiding out in some small Southern town. She had loved Linc. She wouldn’t do that. His mentor was clearly growing senile or suffering from dementia.
Mort was the one to throw up his hands this time. “Believe what you will, but know that I watched and analyzed her for days before I came here.”
Linc wanted to shake him. The man was pulling out all the stops. “Mort, I—”
“It’s her.”
Linc shook his head. “Why would she do this?”
The resolution in Mort’s eyes held steady. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself. What’ve you got to lose?”
Nothing. The agonizing truth sank deeper into Linc’s bones. He had lost everything seven years ago. The day his wife died trying to bring down a major West Coast scumbag, Linc had, for all intents and purposes, died with her.
“Just go,” Mort urged. “Lori’s alive.”
Chapter Two
Blossom, Tennessee, Monday, June 27, 11:30 a.m.
“That guy is back.”
Mia Grant smoothed the plaster she’d just spread with her trowel before turning to her friend. “What guy?” She knew perfectly well what guy Tina Marie meant, but Mia had learned quickly to defuse the teenage girl’s fancies and suspicions or suffer the consequences.
Tina Marie made an impatient sound. “You know, the one who’s taken the tour twice already this morning.” Tina Marie crowded closer. “He watches your every move, Mia.” The girl’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “He’s kind of cute.” She glanced toward the guy in question. “Like a character from a Brontë novel.”
Mia smiled. Tina Marie had been hooked on Wuthering Heights since her freshman year of high school.
Mia watched the man wander around the parlor as if he hadn’t seen it twice already. He was handsome in a brooding sort of way. Tall, with dark shaggy hair, a beard-shadowed jaw. The jeans and black shirt he wore fit like they were designed just for him. Nothing like the off-the-shelf jeans guys around here wore, but then there were no fancy stores in Blossom. Even the slight limp and the scar marring his jaw were attractive in a forbidden sort of way.
He turned toward her as if he felt her staring at him. Tina Marie gasped and rushed over to actually do her job at the souvenir counter. Mia held the stranger’s stare. If he wanted something, now was as good a time as any to find out what. No need for him to pay the ten bucks for a third tour.
She stepped down from the ladder, swiped her hands on her apron and walked right up to him. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”
His eyes were blue. Deep, dark blue. She couldn’t help noticing, since he continued blatantly staring so intently at her. That old scar trailed up from the corner of his mouth to just beneath his eye on the right cheek. Mia suppressed a wince at how close he’d obviously come to losing that eye and forced her attention back to his gaze. He still watched her.
“Mia Grant?”
She blinked, surprised, not that he knew her name but at the deep, gravelly sound of his voice. It provoked a tiny shiver. Strange. “That’s right.” She extended her hand. “And you are…?”
His stare dropped to her outstretched hand. “Reece.” He lifted those fierce blues back to hers. “Lincoln Reece.”
He folded his hand over hers and squeezed firmly before letting go. His hand was wide, strong, long fingered. An unexpected shock rippled through her, and she pushed away the silly reaction. “How can I help you, Mr. Reece?”
“The house on Magnolia.”
Mia nodded. “The nineteen-ten folk Victorian. The Reid house.” She knew the one. Once upon a time
