Hide and Seek. Lynette Eason
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file in front of him, wondering why he couldn’t get Erica James off his mind. Her story touched him. Her fragile beauty drew him to her. But her accusations made him angry. The fact that she thought Lydia was involved with Molly’s kidnapping made him more determined than ever to find his little sister and prove her innocent.
He ignored the little niggling of concern at the back of his mind that Erica might have a reason to be throwing her accusations out there.
Which was why he’d made a point of doing his homework on her.
Erica was twenty-eight years old, and had, by all appearances, been happily married until her daughter’s kidnapping three years ago. Her husband had left and moved overseas about a year later.
Erica had pulled herself together and started her own business working as a skip tracer, learning how to use specialized equipment and unique skills to locate missing people—or in Erica’s case, missing children. He remembered the sadness in her eyes, and what she’d said about being able to find other people’s children and yet not Molly.
Thanks to his contacts at the police station, acquiring Molly’s case notes hadn’t been a problem. He flipped to the evidence section.
A witness had reported seeing a woman with red curly hair, large sunglasses and a long coat at the zoo that day. Another witness claims he saw a man following the preschool group. Too many reported seeing nothing unusual.
Curly red hair. Erica had curly red hair. But she had an airtight alibi. She’d been working another missing persons case and had even had a police officer with her.
And then there was the matter of that pain in her eyes. No, she hadn’t had anything to do with her daughter’s disappearance.
It had been a chilly day in November when Molly had gone missing. This month would be a tough one for Erica.
And now she was looking for Lydia. Max felt anger surface again. Twenty-one years old, his sister could pass for thirteen or thirty, depending on how close one looked. He supposed the drugs and sporadic eating could do that to a person. His heart ached for her. If only...
An idea hit him, and Max hauled himself out of the recliner and made his way into the kitchen to get his phone. He grabbed it only to frown as he saw an unfamiliar number listed, indicating he’d missed a call.
He dialed the number and listened to it ring.
When the phone went to Erica’s voice mail, he hung up and felt the heat climbing into his face as he realized she’d called him earlier, when he’d given her his number. And here he was, calling her at nearly midnight. He shrugged. If she asked, he’d explain.
Then again, he couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t answered. Was she all right? Or had something happened?
He clenched his jaw.
He had no reason to think that anything had happened to her.
Just like he’d had no reason to think anything had happened to Tracy. His throat tightened at the thought of his fiancée, dead because he hadn’t worried enough.
He’d ignored his instincts and she’d died.
Max grabbed his keys.
* * *
Erica’s pulse pounded as she stood frozen, unsure what to do.
When the door had clicked, she’d raced into the bathroom and twisted the lock.
Leaving her cell phone on the end table in her bedroom.
She listened to it ring and put her hand on the knob. When it stopped, she bit her lip and looked around.
The only window in the bathroom was stained glass and didn’t open. That cold hard knot in the pit of her stomach turned to granite as she realized what she’d done.
She’d trapped herself.
Desperately, she tried to control her ragged breaths so she could listen.
She pressed her ear against the door and heard nothing.
Except her phone ringing again.
Should she stay and assume whoever had entered her house would get what he was looking for and then leave?
Or should she try to slip into the bedroom and grab the phone?
Indecision warred with her fear. By the time she decided to stay put, the phone had stopped again.
How had her intruder come in the front door—the one she remembered locking? Mentally, she ran through a list of people who had a key to her house. Her brother, Brandon; her best friend Denise Tanner, who’d moved to New Mexico; her parents, although they’d only used the key one time in the past three years; another friend, Ginny Leigh, and...
Footsteps sounded outside the bathroom door. She gasped and pulled back. He was in her bedroom. What would she do if he tried to get in the bathroom? Frantic, she cast her gaze around, looking for something she could use as a weapon.
A razor, a can of hair spray, the towel bar.
Then the steps receded. Faded. Stopped.
Was he gone?
Did she dare open the door? She waited. And listened.
Still nothing. Just the pounding of her heart.
The minutes ticked by.
Silence.
Her shaky fingers twisted the lock. She gripped the doorknob and turned it slowly, then pulled the door open a crack.
The door exploded inward and she cried out as the edge of it caught her on the chin. She fell to her knees as a tall figure reached down to grab her by the arm. “I knew you were in there.”
“Let me go!” She twisted, kicking out and catching a shin.
Her captor grunted.
“Hey! Let her go!”
She froze once again. “Peter?” Disbelief made her dizzy. “What are you doing?” she cried. Peter approached her, his hands replacing her captor’s on her arms.
Erica hit him in the chest to push him away from her, but he kept his grip on her upper arms. It didn’t hurt, but she didn’t like it.
“Hey, chill, sis. We just need some cash, okay?” His foul breath made her grimace.
“Let. Me. Go.” She kept her voice low and did her best to rein in her fury and fear. Peter—her younger brother, the black sheep, the ne’er-do-well. Whatever one wanted to call him, he had also once been a suspect in Molly’s disappearance but had been cleared when there’d been no evidence to support his involvement. He released her and she backed away from him until the back of her knees touched the bed. “Where did you get the key?”
“Let’s get the cash and get out of here.” Erica swiveled toward the man who’d grabbed her when she’d exited the bathroom. Menace dripped from his gaze.
Real fear clutched her. “Who’s he?” she asked Peter.
Peter advanced. He stopped in front of her, but he didn’t attempt to grab her again. His sullen, bloodshot eyes slid from hers, and she reached for the cell phone on the end table. “It’s late, Peter, and I’m tired,” she said, trying to sound normal. “I don’t have any cash on me.”
And she wouldn’t give it to him if she did.
He was twenty-four and in spite of the drugs he pushed into his body, still looked young and innocent. He shot his buddy a black look. “I told you to wait outside.”
“I got tired of waiting. You were looking in the wrong place.” Drug-addled green eyes lingered on her and he licked his lips.
Peter stepped between her and the other intruder. “Back off, Polo. That’s not what you’re here for.”
Polo leered. “Says you.”
Peter