Before she could turn away, Randall caught her arm. "Don't do this to yourself."
His voice cut through the sea of raging emotions. She tried to shake off his grip, but he held her securely. She raised a trembling hand to her face, rubbing the spot on her forehead where a headache had broken through.
"Don't do what? Say out loud what we're all thinking?" she snapped.
"You don't know anything for certain at this point."
“There's a very strong possibility that I was conceived through an act of rape, and we both know it."
He stared back at her, saying nothing. Addison knew him well enough to know he wouldn't lie to her. Not now. Not after everything they'd shared. She would have lost respect for him had he tried.
Randall shook the paper. "You may not like it, but this is exactly the kind of information we were looking for. We're going to use it to find the son of a bitch who tried to kill you. Don't lose sight of that, Addison, because you can't change the past. You can't change what's done."
She blinked at him, wondering for the first time if she really wanted to take this any further, if she really wanted to know her roots. "That paper doesn't tell us who the bastard was."
"If the police were notified, somebody made a report."
Jack pulled his chair closer to the computer and his fingers danced across the keyboard. "There's more information out there. I've got another search ready to go. I’ll need a couple of hours or so to finish writing code. There are places I haven't even tried to access."
Shaking loose of Randall's grip, Addison turned to Jack. She felt as if she'd been forcefully knocked off balance by the news. "Was Jim Bernstein the attorney who handled the adoption?"
"His name came up a few times," Jack said.
She felt as if a giant piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. "This ties everything together."
Jack nodded.
"And we're one step closer to finding the son of a bitch responsible," Randall reminded her.
Glancing up from the keyboard, Jack caught her gaze and winked. "And I'm just getting warmed up."
* * *
Randall watched the rearview mirror as he sped along the side streets of a residential neighborhood on the way to her apartment. Beside him, Addison gazed pensively through the window, her hands lying motionless in her lap.
She hadn't spoken to him since leaving the office. He supposed she was trying to find a way to deal with the information Jack had thrown at her like a bucket of cold water.
He didn't like the way things were working out. Not with the case. Certainly not with Addison. While the case was progressing much too slowly, their relationship was barreling along at the speed of light. Christ, he hadn't intended for things to go this far. But he'd been too caught up in the moment to stop the magic that had happened between them the night before. He'd taken her virginity without so much as a thought to what the repercussions might be. Without considering her feelings. Never imagining that his own could get in the way, too. He hadn't stopped to think of how a single night might affect the way he felt about her. Or how it would affect the way he handled a case that was becoming increasingly dangerous.
The last thing he needed in his life was a relationship, especially with a complex woman who wielded the power to turn him inside out with nothing more than a look. The last thing she needed in her life was a man on the edge. He'd come to Denver to be alone, to recoup, to pull the broken pieces of his life back together. He hadn't bargained for Addison Fox getting inside his head. He sure as hell hadn't planned on her getting anywhere near his heart.
So much for best-laid plans.
What they'd shared in the cabin was an experience that would forever have its place in his heart. It had been his responsibility to draw boundaries, and make those boundaries clear to her. As usual, he'd ignored his responsibilities and taken the easy way out.
"You can park there."
Randall checked the rearview mirror, pulled the Jeep curbside, and cut the engine. Without speaking, he reached across her and pulled his Beretta from the glove box and shoved it into his shoulder holster.
"You've got five minutes to pack," he said.
Addison frowned at him as she slid out of the passenger door. "You're crazy if you think I'm going anywhere without a shower."
Randall blew out an oath as he stepped out of the truck. "One of these days I'll show you just how crazy I am."
Ignoring him, she strode to the front door of her building and shoved open the door. He trailed her, watching the street, checking the alcove near the mailboxes, not liking the uneasiness he felt in his gut. They rode the elevator in silence.
At her apartment door, Addison removed her key and stepped inside. "Wipe your feet."
He checked his boots and entered behind her. Even after two days, the apartment smelled faintly of coffee, reminding him that he had yet to have a cup today. "I'd kill for a cup of coffee."
When she didn't answer, he turned, puzzled to find her stopped in the center of the living room, her face ashen. A rush of adrenaline sent his hand to his pistol. "What is it?" he whispered, scanning the room.
''The file." She darted to the dining room table, placed her hands on the surface, and looked up at him. "The file was right here when we left."
He remembered clearly sitting at the table, poring over the file as they'd consumed fried rice and egg rolls. "Are you sure you didn't move it?"
"I left it right here. I'm certain of it."
He slid the pistol from his shoulder holster. "Stay put."
In a few minutes, he'd searched the entire apartment, finishing in her bedroom. She met him there a moment later with a knife the size of a machete clutched in her right hand.
"Did you find anything?" she whispered.
Had the situation not been so serious, he would have laughed at the sight of her. She looked like a waif poised for battle. "What the hell kind of a knife is that?" he asked.
"Chicago Cutlery."
"Looks like a damn machete." Crossing to her, he eased the knife from her hand and set it on the bed. "Whoever was here is gone."
She looked up at him with eyes that were large and frightened. "They took the file, Randall."
"I know." Something primal and dark stirred inside him at the thought of someone ransacking her apartment, touching her things. He tried not to think about what might have happened had she been here alone. "They came in through the window." He parted the drapes, exposing the broken glass and duct tape. "Whoever it was wasn't concerned with stealth. He knew you weren't here. He was watching the place."
She pressed her hand to her stomach. "That's a comfort."
Letting the drapes fall, Randall stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed to reassure, his mind fumbling as a fist of lust struck in the gut. Glancing down at the hollow of her throat, he wondered how she would taste if he pressed a kiss there, ran his tongue along the flesh ....
"What are we going to do without the file?" she asked. "I threw away my only other copy."
He chided himself for getting sidetracked. He'd agreed to keep their relationship professional. He owed it to her to keep his word. Dammit, he owed it to himself.
"Bernstein probably had copies." Randall hadn't made a copy for his own file and cursed himself for the blunder.
"We'll see about getting them released."
Looking small and lost, she knelt and began picking up shards of glass, dropping the larger pieces into a wicker wastebasket. Randall studied her, taking in her pale face and shaking hands. Christ, she looked shell-shocked. She'd been through a lot in the last few weeks. First Agnes Beckett and Bernstein, then finding out about her parents, and now this.
The last thing she needs is a man like you, a little voice reminded him.
Gently, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I'll get the manager to take care of that. We've got to go."
"I'm not leaving—"
"It's not safe here, Addison. We've got to go.
Now."
She stopped picking up glass and glared at him. "I want my life back."
"I know. We're working on that."
Tossing the last piece of glass into the trash container, she rose. "What do we do now?"
"I'll fill you in on the way to the airport."
"Airport?"
Randall headed for the telephone to call Jack and Detective Van-Dyne to fill them in on the latest. "Pack something warm," he said. "Siloam Springs is cold as hell in December."
Chapter 15
Sheriff Delbert McEvoy’s chair creaked as he leaned back and arranged his gut more comfortably over his belt buckle. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes darted from Randall to Addison.
"It's good to see you again, Miss Fox. Mr. Talbot." He motioned for them to take the chairs opposite his desk. "How can I be of service?"
Randall sat and looked around the small office. It was a different town, a different place, a different era of his life, but small-town law enforcement never changed, he mused. "We want to ask you some questions about Agnes Beckett."
McEvoy reached beneath his hat and scratched the top of his head. "I'm sorry to say that the status of the case hasn't changed in the last three days."
There was a hint of sarcasm behind the slow drawl that had Randall's teeth clamping together in irritation. He had no patience for smug public servants. "We may have some new information," he said.
McEvoy's eyes sharpened. "What new information?"
Randall almost smiled. "How long have you been sheriff here in Preble County?" he asked.
McEvoy pushed the wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. "What new information you got on the Beckett case?"
"Who was sheriff in 1974?" Randall asked, intrigued by the sheriff's sudden interest in a case he'd shoved to the bottom of his priority list.
"I don't remember."
"I'll bet someone down at the town hall would remember."
Rising, Randall looked at Addison. “Let's go.”
The sheriff's chair came forward along with the two hundred and fifty pounds of lawman. McEvoy swung his gaze to Addison and then back to Randall. "Why in the hell don't you people just tell me what you want instead of beating around the bush all goddamn day?"
Putting his hands on the desk, Randall leaned forward. "We want to see a police report from November 17, 1974."
An emotion he couldn't put a name to flickered in the other man's eyes. "What police report?"
"We're looking for a police report from November 16 or 17, 1974, involving Agnes Beckett," Addison said.
"Doesn't ring a bell.”
Randall's temper stirred. "Let me refresh your memory. She was sixteen years old. A minor, Sheriff, admitted to Good Samaritan Hospital in Dayton after being beaten and raped."
In his peripheral vision, he saw Addison stiffen.
The sheriff's face reddened. "I'm not sure where you're getting your information, Talbot, but I don't remember any such thing ever happening in my town."
"It happened right here in your tidy little town, Sheriff, and we'd like to see the report," Randall said icily.
McEvoy didn't flinch. "Siloam Springs is a small town. If something like that happened, I'd know about it. Nothing like that happened here. Not in 1974. Not ever."
Addison broke in. "Do you keep archive files? Would you mind looking for us? Surely there's a file or a police report for something as serious as a rape."
"I don't think that's possible."
The initial burst of real anger cut through Randall. "Why not?" he asked.
McEvoy grinned. "For one thing, you can't rape a whore."
Raw fury speared through Randall. Without considering the repercussions, he reached across the desk. Addison gasped when he grabbed the sheriff's collar and hauled him out of his chair. "I'll have your badge for that, you son of a bitch!"
"Back off, city boy, or I'll give you a lesson in small-town law enforcement you'll never forget." McEvoy's voice was ominous and low, like the rumble of a storm in the minutes before it wreaked havoc on an unsuspecting town.
Their faces mere inches apart, the two men stared at each other in impasse, the only sound coming from their heavy breathing and the shuffle of boots against tile.
"I want to see that goddamn file," Randall said.
McEvoy shoved him. "Get your fucking hands off me!"
Randall stumbled back, catching his balance on the chair. McEvoy's hat tumbled to the floor. Tobacco juice dribbled down his chin.
"You're just aching to spend the night in my jail, aren't you, city boy?" He wiped his chin with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving a dark green smear.
"If you were going to arrest me, you would have done it by now," Randall said, praying his instincts were right.
Addison stepped between the two men. "We just want to see the report, Sheriff. Please. It's important. Agnes Beckett was my mother."
McEvoy rounded the desk, his eyes raking over her threateningly. "There is no report. That never happened. I suggest you forget about it and go home."
Randall's hackles rose. Stepping forward, he eased Addison aside, keeping himself squarely between her and the sheriff. "We have the resources to force you."
Taking his time, the sheriff adjusted his belly over his belt. "You can send a whole army of big-city lawyers, but they sure as hell ain't gonna find no police report from 1974."
"Why not?" Addison asked.
McEvoy's eyes glinted, as if he were a rodent who'd succeeded in stealing the cheese without getting crushed. "The records building burned to the ground in 1975. Everything inside, including one of the deputies, went with it."
Randall was aware of Addison sinking into the chair next to him. He struggled against the urge to comfort her. Instead, he watched McEvoy, hating the type, knowing he'd met too many men like him in his lifetime. "You can bet we'll check it out."
"Not here, you won't." The sheriff picked up his hat, swung anger-bright eyes to Randall. ''Take your big-city attitude and get the hell out of my town before I arrest you both just for the fun of it."
* * *
"That son of a bitch knows something.” Randall started the engine and swung the rental car onto the street. "He would have arrested me if he didn't."
Even in profile, Addison could see the anger etched into his features, the tight clench of his jaw, the low, ominous brows. "I'm glad I didn't have to bail you out of jail, Talbot."
He shot her a dark look. "That fire is a little too convenient."
"You think McEvoy is involved?"
"I bet the farm he's in it up to his tobacco-stained teeth. The son of a bitch."
She raked her hands through her hair and turned in her seat to face him. "So where does this leave us?"
He breathed out a frustrated sigh. "The hospital might be a good place to start."
"I've tried getting records from Good Samaritan in the past with no luck."
"You've never seen my Magnum, P.I., impersonation. Works every time."
"Dirty Harry meets Magnum, P.I., maybe," she said.
She was thinking about small towns and gossip as they drove past the street leading to the mobile home park where Agnes Beckett had lived. Addison stared at the cluster of mailboxes. Her pulse jumped when she spotted the name Harshbarger.
"Stop the car," she said abruptly.
Shooting her a sideways glance, Randall pulled onto the shoulder. He put the car in park, then looked at her expectantly. "What?"
"I've got an idea."
"Since I'm fresh out, let's hear it."
Quickly, Addison told him about her visit with the elderly Jewel Harshbarger during her previous trip to Siloam Springs. "She's lived in this town her entire life."
"She might know something about the rape." He studied her for a moment. "You ever consider going into the private detective business?"
"Careful, Talbot, or you're going to give me a compliment."
"Yeah, I wouldn't want it to go to your hea
d." Grinning, he put the car in gear and pulled onto the street. "Nothing worse than a P.I. with a big head."
She liked his smile, damn him. Even if he was going back to D.C.
"Turn the car around," she said. “The trailer park is right down the street."
* * *
By the light of the sodium-vapor street lamp, Randall knocked for the third time, cursing when no one answered the door. Dusk had settled, bringing with it a wind-driven chill that invariably found its way to the bone.