concealed moon and exhaled long and slow.
“How did you know I went to the police?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not important. But in my mind, it’s plenty to reopen an investigation. Could be you rattled someone’s cage and they’re nervous, looking for something Fiona might have left behind. Maybe they decided to destroy the cottage rather than risk you finding something else.”
“Chief Farraday didn’t see it that way.”
“I get that sense. I’m going to stay until I bust the guy who killed Fiona, providing I can find a comfortable place for my girls.”
My girls.
He continued. “We have a home in San Diego, nice enough, and Betty’s incredible, but I don’t want to be away from them for too long. Laurel is pretty self-confident, but Lucy gets anxious when I’m away. She won’t eat properly and she cries.”
Helen struggled for control at the reminder. Lucy. Fiona had given her daughter Helen’s middle name. “I have a cabin,” she said promptly. “It’s away from the main house, not as many amenities, but it has three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a little kitchen. I was keeping it vacant for the painters to come in. You can stay there, you and the girls and Betty.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“No need...”
“Yes, there is. We pay our own way,” Sergio said quickly. She didn’t miss the bitterness. “We’re not taking anything from you.”
Not taking anything from the woman who let his sister die.
I blame you for letting her down.
All right. If that’s what needed to happen to help Fiona’s little girls, she’d have to find a way to live with Sergio staying on the property. Exhaustion throbbed through her along with the pain in her forehead.
Lord, help me do what’s right here.
She wished it did not involve Sergio Ross.
Sergio prepared the cabin as best he could for the girls. It was too late in the evening to move them. Betty told him over the phone that she’d finally gotten them to sleep and unless he wanted to see an epic temper tantrum thrown by a sixty-five-year-old woman, he would not be disturbing them this evening. As always, he deferred to her. Betty was a tell-it-like-it is, gray-haired, jewelry-obsessed, Sudoku-playing gift from God. He would have collapsed under the weight of his own parenting failures without her.
The cabin was small, and it warmed nicely when he flicked on the heater. Helen had sent over a housekeeper to put clean linens on the beds, and she refreshed the kitchen supply of coffee and snacks, including the fishy crackers the girls never got tired of. How had she known to include those? It wasn’t until the housekeeper left that he saw the two coloring books with chunky crayons on the coffee table. A thoughtful gesture.
Helen had always been thoughtful, quiet, he remembered from the times she’d visited their cramped house in Driftwood during his senior year. He had to admit she’d grown into a beauty. There was something classy about Helen that made her a perfect fit to run a luxury lodge, right down to the barest hint of a lush Southern drawl in her voice. Antsy, he strolled to the window.
Their cabin was set out on a wide grassy area, shrouded with dripping oak trees and near a small fenced paddock where several horses stood silent sentry under the lean-to. They were there, no doubt, for guests to explore the riding trails that crisscrossed the wooded property. Sergio had spent many summers working as a wilderness guide and he missed those days in the saddle. He had a sudden warmth in his chest when he considered that maybe he could teach the girls to ride.
Would Fiona have wanted that? It was the question that constantly paralyzed him. She was ultracautious with their safety when they were infants, at least in the few times he’d visited after their birth. Even though they weren’t crawling, she’d stopped up the outlets with plug protectors and dug up all the plants in the yard that might be poisonous. She’d treated them like fragile eggs that could be damaged at any time. But surely she would have wanted them to have experiences as they grew. Not to be cloistered, Bubble Wrapped against life. He frowned. Or was he trying to persuade himself because of his own thrill-seeking bent? He was a wanderer. He felt a hot flash of guilt. The girls had transformed his heart and he would die for them, but sometimes he could not help but miss his old life.
Restless, he went to the kitchen for a bottle of water. It was late, after midnight, but his thoughts refused to be wrangled. He spotted a Bible on the table and his gut twisted further. One thing he knew for certain was that Fiona wanted her daughters to love God and trust Him as their ultimate security. And how was he supposed to teach them that when God had saddled them with an uncle who had to watch YouTube videos even to figure out how to braid their hair?
On the prickly heels of those musings, he flopped down on the sofa and flung an arm over his eyes. One day at a time, he told himself. He held on to one phrase his mother told him on a regular basis. Remember that God loves the girls more than you ever could. God sure had a funny way of showing it.
He awakened some hours later. His cell told him it was four thirty, still well before sunup. It took him a moment to recall where he was until he heard a soft whinny. He sat up, blinking, and pulled aside the curtain. The storm had passed, and the moonlight lent enough glow for him to see someone out in the paddock saddling a horse. Even in the dim light he recognized Helen’s slim figure, though her hair was down instead of twisted into its normal chignon, and she wore jeans and a warm jacket.
He rechecked the time to see if he’d been mistaken. Not even sunup and she was heading out on a ride? That seemed odd, especially when she’d spoken about a large group checking in. Letting himself out of the cabin he approached quietly, coming close enough that he could hear her murmuring sweetly to the horse.
“Early morning ride?”
She jumped and squealed, one hand on the reins, the other over her heart. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. Just wondered where you were going so early.”
She cocked her head, the moonlight bathing her skin in pearl. “Just out for some air.”
“Where?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. “Is that your business?”
“Nope, but I’m wondering anyway. Fiona always said I was nosy.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “I wanted to see something, is all.”
“What?”
“Your sister was right, you are nosy.” She huffed out a breath which misted in the cold. “The tunnels. Fiona asked me what I remembered about...about the night Trish died. We’d planned to ride out there, were going to talk about it at coffee but...” She broke off.
“You didn’t because she was killed.”
Helen’s mouth trembled, or perhaps it was the trick of the moonlight. He shifted. “So you’re going to ride out there to see if anything comes back to you?”
“Basically,
