nail. Grasping the stud wall prevented a fall, but a sliver drove in beneath her nail bed. A breath of pain hissed through her lips. “Just got that manicure, too.”
She glanced at the rose-colored nails and the rings glinting in the late-afternoon sun. He was dead now. As a widow, she could continue to wear his rings, to perpetrate that lie of her marriage.
Tears burned behind her eyes, and her heart contracted with pain. She missed him, her dear friend. But he’d never been truly her husband. She hadn’t felt a man’s passionate touch in many years.
She closed her teeth over the jagged end of the sliver and tugged it free. Blood dripped from her hand to the new floorboards.
Although the townspeople believed it, there was no proverbial blood on her hands. In fact, they’d be surprised if they knew who had really married whom for the money. Money had been little compensation for what she’d lost—loving, supportive parents, their hearts so big they’d first adopted one child and then a few years later, another. Her. They’d given her and her older, adopted “brother” a home. Family. But for Jeremy, that was all gone now. After taking one life, her brother had taken another, his own. And just a few years later, a plane crash had taken her parents, leaving her a single mother with no emotional support…only the life insurance money. So when as a young nurse she’d seen a patient struggling financially as well as physically, she had offered her help and been labeled a gold digger for her efforts. But that was the past. And where was the sense in looking back? Sarah had never found it.
Whatever mistakes she’d made, she couldn’t change them now. Whatever tragedies she’d endured, she couldn’t alter fate as much as she wished she could. She had to concentrate on the future. And her son.
If she dwelled on the past, she would open that folder her friend and business partner Evan Quade kept locked in a safe-deposit box, protected from her son’s curiosity and her own interest. If they wanted her to know who they were, they’d come looking for her. But after twenty-eight years, she didn’t expect them any time soon.
Being careful of her impractical heels, she stepped down a couple of concrete steps and walked across the cement slab that would be the garage.
Heat shimmered off the silver hood of her Mercedes as the late-spring sun shone bright in a clear sky. From behind a stand of trees with new leaves, Lake Michigan rushed to the sandy shore.
Jeremy would have so much fun here as he made his awkward passage from early adolescence to adulthood. A passage she prayed he traversed with more grace and caution than she had. But if she hadn’t…
No, no looking back, except to count her blessings, of which Jeremy was the biggest.
A wave of stale air crashed against her as she pulled open the car’s driver’s door. She should have left the window down. Someday she’d learn to plan ahead.
She slid onto the warm leather seat and reached for the keys she’d dropped in the console. Her nails scratched paper. She lifted a creased note, unfolded it, and read the printed message aloud, “We have your son!”
ROYCE HOPED he had the right woman this time. Finding Sarah Mars, the real Sarah Mars, hadn’t been easy even for an experienced “tracker” like him. He’d had pathetic little to go on.
Bart McCarthy had slipped into a coma. His family, gathered in the corridor with Royce’s father, had had no information on Sarah Mars. Bart’s son, grandson and ex-granddaughter-in-law had never heard the name before. And neither had Royce’s father, Bart’s business partner. So who was she?
Not any of the other women he’d found in the last few days. His gut had told him no. Not the one. Not yet. But when he’d pulled up information and a grainy newspaper photo of Sarah Mars-Hutchins, something had clicked for him. Her. Despite the poor quality of the photo, she’d even looked familiar. And standing on this ball field in Winter Falls, Michigan, had his instincts screaming. She was near.
Listening to his instincts while working for the Milwaukee Police Department had brought him to the attention of the FBI after he’d solved a high-profile case before they had. To save face, he’d always suspected, they had hired him away from Milwaukee PD. But he’d never really fit in at the Bureau. He hadn’t liked handling the media, and he’d hated the internal politics.
He’d had other, more painful reasons for calling it quits. But what he told the public was that he’d finally realized he could only work for himself. Maybe he was more like his old man than he’d thought.
He winced. No way.
The sun glinted on a man’s blond hair then reflected off the badge on his chest. Despite the shade of his dark glasses, Royce brought his hand to his brow to peer closer, not believing his eyes.
“Dylan!”
Dylan Matthews thrust a cell phone into his shirt pocket. Tension creased his forehead. He stared at Royce for a couple of seconds until a smile broke free. “Royce Graham!” He waved an arm in a gesture for Royce to come closer.
With trepidation Royce eyed the kids running around the field behind Dylan. They chased a soccer ball, kicking at it and tripping over each other. Cautious steps brought him to the edge of the excitement and next to his friend.
“Never thought I’d see you here.” They spoke in unison, then laughed and clasped hands.
Royce shook his head, not able to mesh the bitter narcotics officer he’d known in Detroit with this uniformed sheriff. “You’re a sheriff? I can’t believe I recognized you. Must have been when you were looking harassed. You can’t tell me a problem cropped up in this happy little town.”
Dylan snorted. “You’d be surprised. But what brings the Tracker here?”
Royce groaned. “Very little sleep and a genuine deadline.” His heart flipped, and he squeezed his eyes shut to the image of Bart lying helpless in ICU. Would Sarah bring him out of the coma?
“Of course you’re looking for someone. You’re always looking for someone or something, but usually in some godforsaken foreign country. You couldn’t be here on vacation. I doubt you’ve ever taken one.”
Although Dylan’s words were spoken mildly, Royce reeled. Had he become the aggressive, ambitious man his friend described? Had he become his father?
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “This is different. It’s personal.”
Dylan’s gaze swung from his intense surveillance of the soccer players to Royce. “Yeah, you look like hell.”
Royce’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Thanks a lot.” Then he stumbled back as the group of kids surged toward them.
“What next, Coach? Sheriff?”
Because he had to muffle a laugh, he missed Dylan’s orders. The kids scrambled off to do his bidding. One tall blond kid stood nearly a head above the others. “He yours?”
A wistful sigh escaped Dylan’s lips. “In a manner of speaking.” And the lines creased his forehead again. Worry.
Despite his press for time, Royce wanted to help. He hadn’t seen Dylan in a long time. But a dying man hung to life by a thread. Royce was that thread, he and the hope that he could find Sarah.
“I am
