The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives. Ann Major
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floor. “Jennifer?” Her voice echoed in the dimly lit garage.
“Alexis is gone!” the teenager shrieked without preamble. “I’ve looked everywhere!”
Seeing her Beamer, Rosie raced to it. “She can’t be…gone. She’s hiding or something.”
“No…I’ve looked everywhere.”
With shaking hands, Rosie unlocked the car and got in. “Did you check the pool?”
“I turned on the pool lights and the floodlights and everything…She went to bed with Blue Binkie not long after Yolie left. My boyfriend called, and I was on the phone for a while. Then I went up to check on her. I swear, she was fine, but now her bed’s empty. I checked every door and window. They’re all locked. Your bedroom’s empty, except for Lula.”
Lula was Yolie’s huge, white poodle.
Rosie couldn’t believe anything else could go wrong—even if it was her birthday. Alexis gone?
Rosie squeezed her eyes shut and fought panic, not for the first time tonight. As she started the ignition, she thought about their mysterious break-in two days ago. That had been so strange…just as Pierce calling her tonight had been strange. Looking back, the break-in felt almost like an omen.
Yolie’s security company had phoned her and said the alarm was going off. When they’d checked it out, the kitchen door had been unlocked, but shut. Oddly, Lula had been locked in an upstairs bathroom without food or water, barking her head off. When Rosie had gone up to let her out, Yolie’s favorite pink bath mat had been nothing but bits of rubber and pink fuzz.
Other than that, there had been no signs of an intruder. Nor had any valuables been missing.
So, who had unlocked the door and set off the alarm? Who had locked Lula upstairs? Lula had a bad habit of biting postmen and pool men, but she’d let herself be locked in the bathroom without shedding so much as a drop of blood on the white wall-to-wall carpet.
“Shit happens,” the security guy had said, as if that explained it. “Or you have a mystery intruder. Somebody who’s got a key. Somebody your doggie knows. Or you’ve got a glitch in your system somewhere.”
“Check the system,” Yolie had said.
“I’m so scared, Ms. Castle,” Jennifer whispered now, cutting into Rosie’s thoughts.
Me, too, Rosie thought.
She wound her way down the parking garage ramp and soon was speeding west on Martin Luther King, Jr.
“The house is so big and dark…And there’s all these spooky sounds. I’ve been hearing them ever since Yolie put the garage door down and drove away.”
“Then call 911! I’ll be there as fast as I can, but I’m at least ten minutes away!”
Oh, why hadn’t Yolie installed cameras?
The break-in had seemed so insignificant. It was odd how the small moments and the casual decisions could turn out to be the most important ones of all.
What if…Rosie simply hadn’t gone to Pierce’s tonight?
She forced herself to concentrate on her driving and getting home safely so she could find Alexis. Darling precious Alexis.
Alexis had to be all right.
A distant light switched from green to yellow to red.
Rosie slowed, looked both ways; then she stomped down hard on the gas pedal. She prayed that Michael wasn’t nearby in his radio car, ready to pounce again, like he had that night a year ago when she’d seen Pierce jogging and had decided it was time to confront him about the rent.
No sign of a radio car.
Rosie shot through the light.
Michael was worrying over his report in his unmarked four-door Crown Vic in front of Carver’s mansion.
The scene, the punks, the victim, all felt wrong. Why? What was he missing?
Keith was leaning back in the passenger seat smoking while Michael went over the facts one last time. Suddenly they caught a call about a missing little girl on their radio.
The name Alexis Castle meant nothing to Michael. The name Rose Marie Castle charged through him in a soul-searing bolt.
Castle. His old girlfriend, Rosie. Carver’s girlfriend, too.
Her grandkid missing tonight? That was a helluva coincidence. What was going on? He had to make sure Rosie and the kid were okay.
“We’re not taking another damn call.” Keith’s eyes flashed in the dark as he sent a smoke ring toward the ceiling.
“The grandmother’s the victim’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Shit.” Keith blew another smoke ring and settled back in his seat.
Michael was glad Keith decided to give him the silent treatment instead of pumping him with questions. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss Rosie, whom he had no desire to see ever again.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her.
A year ago, Michael had caught her on the rebound from a bad relationship with the dead man. And damn it, as always, they’d ended up in bed.
So what else was new? He’d been her first back in high school, but then she’d dumped him, married, had a kid. Not that his own life had been any less complicated. Last year when he’d run into Rosie, he’d been separated from his wife, Marie.
Funny that her name was Rosie’s middle name.
Not so funny.
Michael’s mouth thinned at the memory of Rosie’s long, honey-gold legs wrapped around his on that hellishly hot Sunday, the morning after. They’d cuddled all night long, but come morning, she’d turned on him.
Why was it that, with a little alcohol on board, two former lovers feeling the need for a little TLC could take up right where they’d left off?
It had been a pretty amazing night. He might have been well on his way to falling in love with her again, but the next morning she’d taken one look at his black head on her pillow and had started throwing things at him—first his shirt, then his jeans and then his boots. When she’d gone for the lamp and handcuffs, he’d locked himself in the bathroom.
Good thing, too. She’d smashed the lamp against the door. Next, he’d heard the handcuffs bounce off the wall. Then she’d run just like before, screaming, “You ruined my life—all over again!”
What the hell had that meant? She’d run out on him after high school. He’d called her a few times, but she’d always hung up on him.
When his wife had finally called him back, he’d stupidly confessed about Rosie, and that had been the final straw for Marie. Since their divorce, he’d been lonely as hell.
So, now Rosie’s granddaughter was missing.
He hoped to hell Rosie wasn’t connected to this murder. Or that the kid wasn’t in the hands of whoever had cut Carver up.
Just the thought and his palms began to sweat. Gut instinct told him to get over there fast.
Without so much as a glance toward his silent partner, Michael started the ignition.
As he drove, he thought about the missing kid. When his marriage hadn’t worked out, he’d been glad Marie and he hadn’t had children. Still, deep down, not having them was one of life’s big disappointments.
What if Rosie’s granddaughter’s life depended on somebody who gave a damn making the right decision?
Hell.
When he stepped on the gas, Keith swore viciously and flicked his cigarette lighter.
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