92 Pacific Boulevard. Debbie Macomber
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going to church and you shouldn’t, either.”
“I want to live a better life,” Christie said, remembering how she’d felt when she was delivering the charity baskets. Instead of being so self-absorbed, so consumed by her own loss, she’d reached out to help others less fortunate.
“That’s what I want, too,” Teri echoed. “A better life than our mother’s, a better life for my child … er, children.” Teri grinned as she said it.
“Pastor Flemming wrote a note to thank me for volunteering,” Christie said. The letter sat on the kitchen counter and she picked it up. When it first arrived, she’d been feeling depressed and had given it a cursory glance. The only thing she remembered was something about a backpack program sponsored by the church. She decided to find out what that was.
“Will you come to church with me on Sunday?” Christie asked.
Teri didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.” “Thanks.”
“I’d get up and hug you,” Teri said, “but I’m too comfortable where I am.”
Christie laughed and stretched out a hand to clasp her sister’s.
Five
Sheriff Troy Davis closed the file concerning the break-in at Faith’s home. Unfortunately, there’d been no progress, and he felt he should deliver the disappointing news in person. As he drove his patrol car toward Rosewood Lane, he reviewed the little he knew about the situation.
He’d spoken to his lead detective regarding the break and enter. Detective Hildebrand had assured Troy that his staff had done everything that could be done—the neighbors had been interviewed, and comparisons made with similar crimes in Cedar Cove and in nearby jurisdictions.
Instead of letting Hildebrand or his assistant call or visit Faith, he’d stepped in and volunteered to do it. She was, after all, his friend. Or at least, she had been. Mostly this visit was prompted by Troy’s need to see how Faith was faring after the break-in.
When he’d parked in front of the house, he didn’t leave the car immediately, mentally preparing himself for the meeting. He knew that seeing her would be hard. Faith had made it clear that she didn’t want any further contact and he’d respected her wishes. This, however, was official business—even if it didn’t have to be his business.
He marched up the steps leading to her front door, rang the bell and waited, hat in his hand.
She answered the door cautiously, and her eyes brightened when she saw him. That spark was quickly gone, however, replaced by a faraway look, flat and emotionless. In that moment, it demanded all his discipline not to pull her into his arms and beg for another chance. He needed Faith, loved her, wanted to marry her—and had destroyed any possibility of that happening.
“I have the report from the investigating officer,” Troy said briskly, conveying that this was police business and not a social call.
“Oh, good.” She unlocked the screen door and held it open for him to come inside.
Troy paused to examine the lock and was relieved to see that Faith had taken his advice and installed a dead bolt. Or rather, Grace and Cliff Harding, the owners, had arranged for it. Not surprisingly, Grace had been horrified by what she’d seen. This had been her home for decades—and Faith was her friend. Megan had told him that both Grace and Cliff had helped with the cleanup.
The house was tidy once again and back to normal. That couldn’t have been an easy task. The aroma of baking reminded him that he’d worked through his lunch hour.
“I just took some bran muffins out of the oven. Would you like one?” Faith asked.
It’d been a long time since Troy had tasted anything home-baked. He wondered if she offered because she’d heard his stomach growl or if she’d noticed that he’d nearly swooned when he entered the house. Or maybe she was simply being polite. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t about to turn her down. “That’d be great,” he said, hoping he sounded casual.
“I have coffee on, too. Can I get you a cup?”
“Please.” He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poured the coffee and took a muffin out of the pan, setting it on a small plate. He waited until she was seated before he pulled out the chair across from her. It seemed to take her an inordinate amount of time to look at him. One quick glance in his direction, and then she lowered her eyes again.
“What did you find out?” she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
Troy wished he had something positive to share with her. “Unfortunately, the news is … inconclusive.”
“What do you mean? Your people were here for hours, dusting for fingerprints. They wouldn’t let me straighten a thing until they’d finished. The deputy said they managed to lift a number of solid prints.” Her eyes pleaded with him to explain this nightmare. Troy wished he could; he wanted to prove to Faith that he was her hero … and that she could trust him.
“You’re right. The crime-scene technician was able to lift a number of fingerprints.”
“But they were all mine?”
“No,” he said. “Not all of them. But the clear ones weren’t out of the ordinary. That’s why we took the elimination prints.” He shrugged. “We suspect the intruder wore rubber gloves.”
She looked confused. “A professional, then.”
“At this point, we can’t say. My guess is this isn’t the first home this person has broken into.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I’d hoped—I was sure with so many prints … there’d be at least one that would identify whoever did this.”
“We checked each and every fingerprint and they were all ones we could identify.”
“Oh.” She didn’t disguise her disappointment.
“Have you made a list of what’s missing for Detective Hildebrand?”
Faith nodded. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“In what way?”
“The items taken. They’re mostly things of sentimental value. Like you said earlier, this break-in seemed … personal.”
“Give me an example.”
She unfolded her hands and gestured helplessly. “They took a picture album I made when the grandchildren were born. You saw what they did to Carl’s photograph. I had—oh, it’s too silly to mention.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Her lower lip trembled before she regained her composure. “A toy train … It was from Carl’s boyhood. I had it sitting on the bedroom dresser. Scottie’s son likes to play with it when they visit and—”
“That was stolen?”
Faith nodded again. “I never thought of it as a valuable antique, but perhaps it is.”
“What about jewelry, cash?”
“I don’t keep anything of real value lying around.”
“That’s smart.” Thinking over what she’d told him, Troy peeled away the paper from his muffin. It was still warm enough to burn his fingers, and he left it to cool a moment while he doctored his coffee.
“I can’t believe this happened to me!” Faith cried, then inhaled a deep, calming breath. When she spoke again, her voice shook slightly. “I just don’t understand it.”
He sympathized with her and knew how she felt—angry, violated, afraid. “I want to assure you the department’s doing everything within our power to find whoever is responsible,” he told her.
“Why me?” she asked, her eyes wide and imploring.
Troy