The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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ya.”
The tension of the last few days seemed to evaporate for a few minutes. Even Harley, who had been ever-watchful, relaxed in a ball on the kitchen rag rug and closed his eyes. “I think he’s accepting me,” she said of the dog, and bent down to pet his scruffy head. The dog opened tired eyes and yawned, but didn’t growl or pull away.
“He’s really just a lover,” MacGregor said, then, as if noticing her balancing on her crutch, added, “let’s go into the other room. I’ll carry this for you.” He took the cup from her hand and followed her into the main living area of the cabin.
“Did you check outside again when you took out the dog?”
He nodded. “Nothing to indicate anyone was out there.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, and stared for a second through the icy panes. The storm had abated, the snow in thick drifts, even having blown onto the porch.
“I’m not sure of anything. If someone was there last night, the snow would have covered their tracks. But yeah, I think we’re alone.”
Which didn’t mean she should be comforted, she reminded herself. She had to trust him. Damn but she wanted to trust him, but she still had to be wary. Harley, toenails clicking on the hardwood and stone, returned to the living room and his spot near the hearth.
MacGregor handed her back the mug of coffee and she cradled it in both hands, its warmth seeping through her skin and into her bones. She propped her foot on the coffee table.
He nodded toward her bound ankle. “It’s not broken.”
“So you said.”
Their eyes locked as she remembered the one-sided conversation when she’d feigned sleep.
“So you were awake,” he prodded.
“Yeah.” She saw no reason to lie now; he knew the truth.
“I thought so.” He took a long sip, but his gaze, over the rim of his cup, never left her. “But you did a pretty good job of faking sleep.”
“Years of practice as a teenager.” She cringed inwardly as she remembered how many times she’d sneaked out while pretending to be asleep. She’d pushed the car out of the driveway and cruised around with her friends. It had been foolish and stupid, and her older, uptight, do-everything-by-the-book sister, Dusti, had never stopped reminding her of what an idiot she’d been.
“A rebel?”
“Or just a moron. Take your pick.”
He grinned and she found herself warming to him all the more. Maybe they did have something in common, a rebellious streak that couldn’t quite be tamed. “You left me the crutch,” she said, bringing the conversation back to the here and now, where the fire crackled, the dog snored and the warm scent of coffee permeated the room.
“So you could get up if you woke. I knew the ankle wouldn’t support you and I keep a set of crutches in case anyone gets hurt on one of my expeditions. Just until I can get them to a clinic or hospital or call for help.”
“Speaking of which, have you tried to call out lately?”
He sent her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What do you think?”
That’s the problem, I don’t know what to think.
As if reading her thoughts, he walked to his jacket and unsnapped a pocket.
“Here.” Retrieving a small phone, he pushed a button to turn it on and tossed it to her. She caught it with her good hand.
“Give it a try. As I said, cell service is spotty here at best, and the battery’s low, but if you can get through, more power to you.”
She held the phone as if it were a ticket to heaven, but as the tiny cell turned on, a picture of Harley on the screen, she saw the lack of service, and try as she might, no pushing of any buttons worked. “Dead as a doornail,” she admitted, and tossed the useless piece of technology back to him.
“Your family is probably going out of their minds with worry.”
She nodded slowly, thinking of her mother. Linnette, when she finally figured out Jillian was missing, would be on the phone to the city, county and state cops. Only after having already called the FBI. But, of course, her mother probably didn’t know she was missing. Yet. A fact she decided to keep to herself. There was just no reason to tip off MacGregor that no one was looking for her. Better to let him think there was a national search going on.
“As soon as we can establish some kind of communication or are able to get out of here, we’ll call them.”
“I’ll call them.”
“However you want to do it.” Again the smile, though this time there was the tiniest bit of hardness to it.
She thought of the photographs she’d found in the boot vase, the snapshots of a blond boy. “So, while you were out earlier, I did a little looking around.”
One dark eyebrow cocked, encouraging her.
“You don’t have any pictures displayed around here.”
“The way I like it.”
“What about your family?”
“I thought I told you. I’m not close to them.”
“But there is a boy you care about,” she said, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of some of her questions. “I found a couple of pictures of a little boy, over there, in the bookcase.” She pointed to the spot where the vase sat.
MacGregor’s lips thinned and, beneath the shadow of his beard, white lines bracketed his mouth.
“You know the boy I’m talking about.”
He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. Raw emotion crossed his features and a muscle jumped at the edge of his jaw. “His name was David,” he said, his voice low. “He was my son.”
She waited, wishing she hadn’t brought it up, hearing the “was” for what it meant.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You didn’t know him.”
“I mean, I’m sorry for your pain. You said you weren’t married…that you didn’t have…”
“I’m not and I don’t. My wife and son are dead. Killed in a head-on collision, one of those freak things. No one was drinking, no one really knows what happened, but for some reason, maybe she was distracted, Callie’s car crossed the center line and went right into the path of a semi.”
“Oh God.”
“I was supposed to drive them to the school open house that night, but I was too busy, caught up in work, so I called and told her I’d meet them there. I’m supposed to take solace in the fact that they died instantly. Like that’s some consolation. Anyway, it happened a long time ago and I don’t like talking about it or thinking about it.”
“That’s why you don’t display any pictures.”
“Yeah.” He was reaching for his jacket.
“And you became a hermit.”
“Not quite.” Checking his pockets, he walked to the door.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you said.”
“I know, but—”
“Let’s get back to what’s happening here and now. In your snooping, did you find your things?”
“My things?”
He walked past her to the large bookcase, opened a lower cupboard drawer and pulled out a familiar-looking overnight bag.
How