Dangerous Relations. Carol J. Post
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apartment, but Mia had given her the number—312.
When Shelby burst into the third-floor hallway, a vise clamped down on her chest. Two apartments away, the door was ajar. A woman stood in front of the opening, soothing a crying child in her arms. Tears had left streaks in the woman’s makeup. She wasn’t familiar. The child was.
Where was Mia? Why was Chloe being held by a crying stranger?
Shelby rushed forward, then skidded to a stop. The gold numbers affixed to the metal door put to death the irrational hope that the apartment belonged to someone else. The woman shifted Chloe to her other hip, and Shelby peered around her.
Beyond the entry, a crime-scene tech was kneeling with her back to the door. Next to her, a red smear marked the beige tiles.
Shelby’s stomach did a free fall, and her knees threatened to buckle. Maybe that wasn’t Mia’s blood on the floor. A friend lived with her and helped care for Chloe. Addy, if she remembered correctly.
She shifted her gaze to the woman and spoke over the little girl’s cries. “I’m Shelby, Mia’s sister. What’s going on?”
The woman’s gaze met hers. “It’s Mia.”
“What’s Mia? What happened?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
The woman squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Gone.”
Shelby’s mind spun, searching all the possible interpretations of “gone.” Mia could be gone on an errand. But that wouldn’t explain the woman’s tears. Maybe Mia had decided she couldn’t cope with the pressures of motherhood and disappeared, deserting her little girl.
That was the explanation Shelby clung to, because the most obvious one was unthinkable. Her twenty-one-year-old sister couldn’t be dead.
“I went to the store.” The woman’s tone was flat. “I took Chloe with me, so Mia could take a nap. When I got back, Mia was...” A shudder shook her shoulders. “She was on the floor in front of the couch. Someone had slit her throat.”
“Is she...?” The final word wouldn’t come out.
At the woman’s nod, Shelby collapsed against the doorjamb and sank to the floor. Mia was dead. Shelby had finally decided to mend their relationship, but it was too late.
And Chloe was orphaned. Her playboy daddy wouldn’t step up. Based on what Mia had said after the funeral, the guy was worthless.
So it all fell on Shelby. The realization knocked the last of the wind from her.
She was no stranger to responsibility. Through her adolescent and teen years, she’d pretty much raised Mia. They hadn’t been orphans, at least not in the traditional sense. But with a father who worked long hours, an older sister who took off the moment she became an adult and a mother who had years earlier retreated to her room and withdrawn from life, managing the Adair household became Shelby’s responsibility.
At eighteen, she’d traded one mantle for another, taking care of Aunt Bea through grueling rounds of chemo and radiation while keeping the diner afloat. At twenty-five, she’d done it again when the cancer returned. That stint had lasted two years, ending with her aunt’s death two weeks ago.
But this was different. She had no clue how to raise a child. The way Mia had turned out was proof.
She pushed herself to her feet and straightened her shoulders. She hadn’t known how to run a diner, either, but she’d figured it out.
She held out her hands, palms up. “Come to Aunt Shelby, sweetie.”
Chloe wrapped her arms more tightly around the woman’s neck. When Shelby tried to take her, the child released an ear-piercing wail.
“She’s not used to you.” The woman’s tone seemed to hold a note of accusation. Or maybe that was Shelby’s own guilt.
“I’ve been...” What, busy? Too busy to be a part of her niece’s life when she lived forty-five minutes away?
The woman rubbed Chloe’s back in slow circles, whispering soothing words. The screams quieted to gut-wrenching sobs.
Shelby crossed her arms. “Are you Chloe’s babysitter?”
“Nanny.” She extended her right hand. “Addy Sorenson.”
Shelby shook the woman’s hand. Addy wasn’t what she’d pictured. Nannies didn’t normally wear skin-hugging jeans and sweaters with plunging necklines. Add the brilliant blue eyes and the thick mane of hair flowing down her back like black silk, and she couldn’t be further from the stereotypical image of a nanny.
Of course, Mia hadn’t gotten her from a nanny-for-hire ad. Right after Chloe was born, Shelby had visited Mia in the hospital. Mia had planned to go back to her bartender job at the club and had arranged child care—a former coworker named Addy. She’d had a hysterectomy and never returned to work. Apparently, the woman loved children so much she agreed to provide full-time care for little more than room and board. So Mia had gotten a live-in nanny on a day-care budget.
Shelby didn’t know what Addy’s job at the club had been. It didn’t matter. If she’d been caring for Chloe the past fifteen months, she had to know what she was doing. Having her around would also provide some stability in the little girl’s life.
A short distance away, the elevator dinged and two men stepped off. One was a couple of decades older than her and was carrying a black case—he was likely from the medical examiner’s office. The occupant of the white van was apparently inside already. The man nodded at her and Addy, then disappeared into the apartment.
When the other one approached, Chloe twisted and reached for him. “Wyan.”
Wyan?
Addy altered her grip to better hold the now squirming child. “Ryan.” Her tone was tight. Maybe there was some history between them.
As soon as he took Chloe from her, the child’s arms went around his neck and she pressed her face against his throat. “Wyan.” The cries faded to shuddering breaths.
Ryan. Shelby frowned. Chloe’s father’s name was Randall. So who was Ryan? And why was the little girl clinging to him when she wouldn’t let Shelby touch her?
Shelby studied the man holding her niece. He was younger than the one who’d just stepped into the apartment, probably in his mid-to-late thirties. He obviously didn’t spend all his time behind a desk. His black T-shirt stretched taut across a well-defined chest, and as he held Chloe in his arms, his pose showed off impressive biceps. Clean-shaven with a buzz cut, he had the air of a military guy. Or maybe a cop.
He leveled serious brown eyes on Addy. “What’s going on?”
“Mia’s dead.”
His jaw dropped. “What? How?”
“Murdered. Throat slashed.”
The blood drained from his face and he sagged against the wall. His arms tightened around the child he held. “Has a decision been made about Chloe?”
“Not yet. The cops just took my statement. They told me not to go anywhere.”
He swallowed hard, his throat working with the action. “If they’ll allow it, she can come home with me until I can get legal custody.”
“Whoa, wait a minute.” Shelby held up both hands, trying to stop the runaway train she was trapped on. She’d just lost her sister. She wasn’t about to let a stranger walk away with her niece. “Who are you?”
His gaze swept her face. “I’m her uncle.”
The pieces were falling into place, but she didn’t like where they were landing. “Randall’s brother.”
A tightness flitted across his features, but was gone