said, “Well, that went well.”
Meg’s laugh broke. “But oh, so familiar.”
“She does that when you talk to her, too, huh?”
“We’ve always been so close. Then, this last year, she jumps on anything I say.” She backtracked. “No, that isn’t true. I get glimpses of the Emily I know, but the next second she’ll be yelling at me because I treat her like a little kid. I never wanted to be the kind of parent who—” She made a face. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear this. You’re here about Sabra, not—”
“I don’t mind.” His expression was kind...no, more. It was...she couldn’t quite decide, but it sent her pulse thrumming for a different reason. “I’m pretty good at listening.”
Because it was his job, she reminded herself, trying to resist the tug of this unfamiliar attraction. She bet he was really good at getting people to spill their worries and, yes, secrets.
Even so, she started talking, because he was here and offering. “She’s always accusing me of lying to her. Just lately, she’s become convinced I wished she’d never been born.” Oh, boy. She shouldn’t have told him that. But he looked sympathetic, so her stupid mouth kept flapping. “The irony is she’s gotten pretty good at lying to me.” And she shouldn’t have said that, either, not after she’d assured him the other day that she could tell when Emily was lying.
His eyebrows rose. “About?”
“Oh, you know about the party last week. Right to my face, she told me they were making a video for Spanish class with another girl. Maria Espinosa. Did you talk to her?”
“I did.”
“I gave permission for them to spend the night at Maria’s. I could call her mom if I wanted, Emily said, as casual as could be. No, I trust you, I said. Of course, she and Sabra had intended all along to go to that party instead. Maria may have known about it—I don’t know—but she stayed home. I talked to Mrs. Espinosa. There’d never been any plan for them to spend the night.”
“You think it might have been Sabra’s idea.”
“Sabra claimed Emily had wanted to go because some boy she likes was there.” Feeling helpless, she shook her head. “I actually think I believe her. I just never expected—”
Jack Moore smiled at her. “Your kid to turn into a teenager? Come on—didn’t you go wild when you were her age?”
Meg shook her head. “In a way, but I never defied my parents right to their faces. I wouldn’t have dared. I suppose that’s why—”
“You wanted a different kind of relationship with your own daughter.”
She stared at him. He understood, at least on the surface.
His phone must be on vibrate, because he took it from a pocket and looked to see who was calling. An intense expression came and went on his face so fast, she couldn’t pin it down. Then he put the phone away and looked at her again, eyes flat.
“If your daughter lied successfully to your face, why are you so sure she isn’t lying about Sabra?”
Didn’t it figure he’d pounced right on the contradiction she’d admitted to him. Something cool in the way he was looking at her suggested all that friendly understanding had been thrown in to soften her up. So much for letting down her guard. They were not friends.
But this was important, and he had to ask. She took a minute to examine her feelings.
“When I thought back,” she said slowly, “after the lie about where they were going that evening, I realize how elaborately casual she was. Plus, saying I could call Maria’s mother if I wanted should have been a flashing red light. Usually she’s really touchy about me checking up on her. Now that I think back, there have been a few other times, too. It was so obvious.” She was embarrassed to have been so gullible. “As far as the stuff with Sabra goes, Emily isn’t an actor. She likes behind-the-scenes with the drama club, but has never tried out for a part. I don’t believe she could fake all the anxiety and fear she seems to be feeling.”
He watched her, evaluating every word that came out of her mouth and undoubtedly coming to his own conclusions. He finally gave an abrupt nod. “I see what you mean.” Lines formed between his eyebrows. “Occurs to me, though, that it doesn’t take any acting to not tell you something.”
No. Some things she refused to believe. Emily might be emotionally volatile, but she was responsible.
“I trust her.” Meg couldn’t allow any other possibility. “She is scared for Sabra. Why wouldn’t she tell us if she knew anything?”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. He made her self-conscious in a way she didn’t remember ever feeling. Because he represented authority? No authority had ever done her any good. She’d had to save herself. What’s more, self-employment meant she rarely had to answer to anyone. But...she didn’t think who or what he represented had much to do with her feeling off balance. He shook her up on a much more personal level, because of the way he watched her, the gleam she sometimes saw in his eyes.
Men had looked at her that way before, but she’d never felt any reciprocal interest. Zip. This...tingle of excitement was unsettling in and of itself. Never mind the way he blew hot and cold.
“Do you mind my asking what you do for a living?” he said abruptly, yanking her from her uneasy reverie.
“I consider myself an artisan,” she said a little stiffly. “I hook rugs.”
Was she imagining that his lip curled? She couldn’t tell, because his gaze flicked to the pillows scattered on the sofa before resting on the sheepdog near his feet. “Like that one.”
“Yes.”
“Hook?”
She gave a very short explanation of the technique.
“You can make enough to live on doing that?” He sounded incredulous.
“If you work hard enough and market your product effectively.” With her crispness, she hoped she conveyed that, yes, it was work.
“Like arts and crafts fairs?” Disbelief and the faintest hint of scorn sounded in his voice.
Stung, she wouldn’t have explained at all if she wasn’t painfully aware he was investigating her right along with the girl who’d gone missing under her care.
So she said calmly, “I still do a few of those, but being on the road like that isn’t very practical when you’re raising a child.” Once upon a time, Emily had loved helping her at summer festivals. “I sell through a number of galleries and gift shops. Increasingly, most of my sales come from my shop on Etsy and my own website. Additionally, I design my own patterns—everything I do is original—and sell kits made from them. I’ve also licensed a couple of patterns, which means women in China or Bangladesh hook hundreds or thousands of the exact same rug that is then sold through a catalog or in stores. Those are very profitable.” She wasn’t about to tell him about the offers she’d declined, when she doubted the quality of the company’s products. He could think what he wanted about her. “I’m putting together a proposal for a book right now.”
His
