Secrets Of The Rose. Lois Richer
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“No, of course you didn’t. You were asleep like the rest of the world.” Bitter disappointment nipped at her. No chance of a lead here. “Anyway, I’d imagine the police have already asked you that question, haven’t they?”
“Several times.” Tim reached out, touched her arm. “But I’d answer it a hundred times if I thought it would help. I’d do anything to spare you this pain.” He gulped, swallowed. “I love that little girl, too. You know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Shelby covered his hand with her own, moved by the tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry I sound so cross with you. I’m just…afraid.”
His fingers squeezed hers but didn’t let go. The warmth transmitting from his hand to hers eased the sense of loneliness she’d felt earlier. The hushed night sounds slowly died away. To the east, the horizon began to lighten with its first predawn glimmers. Shelby had always loved the early morning. It was as if God was saying, “Here, I’m giving you another chance. A new day, fresh and clean. Do something wonderful with it.”
What was He saying this morning? Would today bring Aimee home?
“It’s hard to keep hoping, Tim,” she whispered. “All the terrible things you hear that happen to kids—they come back when the night is quiet and there’s nothing to hold back the fear. They replay over and over.” She caught her breath, fought to steady her voice. “In my mind I keep hearing those news reports about that little girl that was abducted last winter. What if Aimee—”
“No!” He jumped to his feet, his color high, eyes blazing. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it! Until we know differently, Aimee is fine. Do you hear me? She’s fine!”
Startled by his vehemence, Shelby stared as Tim paced across the patio. Then he seemed to regroup.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his face drawn in a tight mask. “But I can’t bear to think like that. Please, have some faith, Shelby. Just a little bit of faith.”
She wondered if his reaction had something to do with his past. He’d never told her more than that an accident had caused the scars covering his face and hands. His words penetrated.
“Faith? What exactly does that mean, Tim? I’ve always wondered. Do you keep hoping when everything seems to be telling you there is no hope?”
He shook his head. “It’s not what you hope. It’s Who you hope in. Isn’t that what Aimee’s always singing about?”
The reminder resonated within her. If ever there was a child of hope, that child was Aimee. They’d waited so long for her—five long years when Shelby had secretly feared she and Grant would never have a child. And then Aimee arrived. From her very first day, she’d been a happy, contented baby. She’s spoken earlier than usual, her voice a soft musical tone to her parents’ ears.
By two she was repeating everything she heard, accompanying the words with a tune she composed inside her brain. Oh those songs! Songs of joy, of happiness, of wonder. Songs of hope. Shelby had to believe that precious voice would not be silenced.
She heard a sound behind her, twisted to see who was there. Natalie stood tall, silent, hands hanging at her side. She had an odd look on her face, as if something had surprised her.
“Is anything wrong?” Shelby asked the detective.
“I’m not sure. There’s a man here, Daniel McCullough. I believe you told me he runs your company.” Natalie’s elegant demeanor appeared barely disturbed by her night on the sofa after she’d refused to accept one of the many spare bedrooms Esmeralda kept prepared. “He says he must see you.”
“Daniel’s here? At this hour?” Shelby rose. “Where is he?”
“I’m here, Shel.” He’d trailed behind Natalie and now eased past her. “I know the police don’t want me here, that you’re expecting to hear something. Or maybe you already have?” One bushy eyebrow rose expectantly.
Shelby shook her head, swallowed the lump lodged halfway down her throat.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” One hand reached out to brush her shoulder. His thin body sagged at the news, as if he, too, felt the loss of the small, bustling girl who’d called him “Unca Dan” from the first time she’d spoken.
Shelby cleared her throat. “You said you needed me. What is it, Daniel?”
“This.” He thrust out a small, brown padded envelope toward her. “I don’t know when it came in. I’ll check as soon as the regular staff gets in, but I found it on your desk this morning when I arrived. I figured it might be important, maybe something about Aimee.”
Daniel always arrived at work in the early hours—that was nothing new. But going into her office without calling to ask—that was unusual. Still, she’d called him last night, told him about Aimee. Maybe he’d had an idea to help. She glanced down.
“Who would send me something via Finders?” she murmured, turning the envelope over and over. There was no return address, no markings of any kind, other than the scribbled letters of her name. “I haven’t been in my office in months.”
“Which is why I don’t think it came through the mail. There’s no postage, for one thing. And Joanie knows to route all your stuff here.”
Daniel often neglected to eat, so that his body had learned to run on adrenaline. Shelby recognized the telltale signs from his glittering eyes and knew adrenaline was pouring through his veins now. He shifted from one foot to the other, shoved his hands into his pockets, then reversed his action and dangled them at his sides. Finally he clasped them behind his back. His amber eyes, framed by the narrow black glasses he’d begun wearing lately, honed in on the envelope like a missile locked on target.
“Could it be important?”
Shelby shrugged, glanced at Natalie for direction. But the stylishly competent officer seemed confused by her scrutiny of Tim.
“Natalie? Am I supposed to open it, or wait for fingerprints, or what?” Shelby prodded.
Natalie metamorphosed as she straightened her shoulders, the in-charge persona firmly back in place.
“I suspect Daniel’s prints, and yours, have already obscured whatever was on it, and that whoever sent this was very careful not to leave a trace, but we’ll try all the same.” She drew two surgical gloves from her pocket. “Let me open it.”
Shelby had to force herself to hand it over. She wanted to rip the envelope open and examine its contents. One part of her warned that they were probably nothing. The other part of her wanted desperately to believe that something inside that thick brown paper would lead them straight to her daughter.
Natalie examined the envelope in minute detail.
“Too thin to be a bomb,” Tim told her, his voice quiet.
Natalie quirked an eyebrow at him. Shelby saw the flash of sparks, knew that neither completely trusted the other. It was odd, really. Tim was usually so easygoing.
“And you know this because…?”
“I’ve read up on it. I had to do some research.” His chin thrust out in a belligerent jut meant to resist her attitude. “I do a lot of research. It’s crucial to my work.”
Shelby ignored the scowl. “You read about bombs to write children’s books?” Now she was curious about her unusual neighbor.
“Can we just open it?” Daniel had obviously lost patience. He reached out as if to wrest the envelope from Natalie.
“Sure. But I’ll do it out here.” With one lithe twist, Natalie moved out of his reach, strode to a patch of grass, fifty feet from the house. “Ready?” She slit the package, turned it upside down.
Something small and gold slipped onto the grass. Something very familiar.
Shelby flopped onto the