Thicker than Blood

  Aunt Edna’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. “I’m not making excuses for her, but we don’t know what she was going through. It was a very difficult time in both of your lives, and she was older than you, experiencing it all differently.”

  “We both lost the same parents. We were both alone.” Missing Mom and Dad had been bad enough, but to be ditched afterward by her only sister had made the whole thing unbearable. “I did forgive her. But lately I’ve been thinking about her so much.”

  Aunt Edna gave her a knowing look. “Sometimes it’s the Lord who brings someone to our minds like that.”

  “You think God wants me to find her?”

  “Maybe.”

  May reached for her cup and took a gulp of tea. “What am I supposed to do? Rent a billboard? Post an ad saying: ‘Lost: one sister, brown hair, green eyes, comes to the name of Chris’? And what if I do find her? I’m not even sure she wants to know me again.”

  “One thing I’ve learned.” Aunt Edna smiled over her teacup. “The Lord doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “So you do think it’s God.”

  “I think she’s your sister, dear. And you’re not the only one who’s had a burden for her.” Aunt Edna sighed. “Every night I pray.”

  “But I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “The Lord knows exactly where she is, honey. He’ll help you if you ask.”

  If God knew where Chris was, then why hadn’t He brought her back a long time ago?

  “What if she’s dead?” The thought sunk like a stone in May’s stomach.

  Aunt Edna’s eyes met hers. “She’s not.”

  “How can we know that?”

  “I don’t think the Lord would have me pray if she was gone.”

  May took another sip of her tea, then pushed the cup away. Even after all this time she still asked herself why. Why did her sister leave? What had she done to push her away? One minute Chris was with her at Mom and Dad’s funeral, then poof. She was gone. Taking part of May’s heart with her.

  Chapter 3

  The late afternoon sunlight woke Christy. Brightness poured over her face, and she groggily sat up in the king-size bed as objects came into focus. Socrates sleeping on the pillow beside her. Vince’s carved oak dresser that stretched almost to the ceiling. The matching armoire. The carved pineapple bedposts. She kept her eyes closed for a moment and rubbed her skull with her fingertips. This should never have happened.

  When she finally tossed off the down comforter, her head still throbbed. Shuffling to the bedroom door, she cracked it, listening. Soft strains of a Mozart symphony met her ears as Socrates’ furry body rubbed against her ankles.

  “Vince?” She stepped out into the hall and hung over the balcony railing.

  All was quiet.

  “Vince?”

  No answer. Good.

  Checking the whole house, she finally relaxed when she knew he was gone. It was four in the afternoon. He would be at the Barn for at least another hour and had promised to tell Hunter she was sick. Christy hated lying to him, but there was no way she could’ve come in today feeling like this.

  After a steaming shower, she scrounged in the dresser drawers and found a pair of sweatpants she’d left behind. It was wonderful to slip into the clean soft fabric. In the kitchen she swung open Vince’s well-stocked double-door fridge and discovered half a turkey sandwich behind the soy milk and lettuce.

  She brought it into the study. The largest room in the house, it took up half the first floor. And though the remodeling was finished before she’d ever lived here, she knew exactly how many walls had been knocked out and every dollar spent in creating it. She could almost see Vince and the dramatic arm flourishes he’d used to show it to her the first time. The cherry floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the massive stone fireplace, the hidden fireproof safe.

  But it was the massive painting of the bear hunt that overwhelmed the room. Hanging over the mantel, the original Victorian era oil pictured the last grotesque moments of a lone bear, bleeding and fighting for survival while twenty snarling dogs lunged at it from every side.

  It had always given her the creeps. Vince prized it.

  This is where he spent most of his time. Christy lounged in one of the two matching white leather chairs and slowly ate her sandwich. Socrates poised on the other chair, tracking her every move with his startling blue eyes. Many an evening she’d spent in here reading while Vince worked at his computer in the corner. Besides his work at the Barn, he maintained a small private inventory he sold online. It was less than a thousand books, but most were rare and expensive. Half of the shelves in here housed them; the other half held Vince’s personal collection of philosophy titles. All the tomes were carefully placed so their spines lined up exactly with the shelf.

  Once in a while when she’d first moved in, she’d helped him package a few of the volumes he sold. He’d at least made an effort to include her in the beginning, but over the last few months he’d grown more secretive about his books. She even suspected he kept some locked in the attic. And if she ever dared to question him about where he got them, even out of simple curiosity, he’d put her off with hostile, verbal attacks.

  The books were why he’d hit her last time. She’d been glancing over his shelves one night, wondering as usual where Vince was getting all of his rarities. She erred in asking about them. When he tried to shrug off the question, she pressed him for a real answer.

  “It’s none of your business,” Vince said.

  Christy thought it was. “What are you hiding from me?”

  In an instant, he’d sprung from his chair and slapped her. “I said it’s none of your business.”

  She pressed her hand to her stinging cheek and let the subject drop. But the next day when he left for the post office, she’d rushed about gathering her stuff and was gone before he returned. It wasn’t just that he’d hit her. He’d done that before. It was the look on his face—a look she’d never seen before. Like he’d checked out. Like if she pushed him too far he’d be unable to stop.

  Besides, his house had never been her home. Everything was his. When she’d surprised him with a new recliner, he returned it. Vince had never allowed her to add her own touch or change a single thing. She’d always felt like a guest.

  Christy gave Socrates the last bite of her sandwich and set down her plate, wishing she could have a smoke. But that was another thing prohibited in Vince’s home, though of course he was allowed his cigars. She almost lit one anyway. Take that, Vince. But she didn’t. The sting of his palm was still too fresh in her memory, and a feeling of suffocation welled up inside her.

  Why hadn’t she remembered any of this last night? Because of him, she’d even lost all her savings, small as it was. When she moved in, Vince persuaded her to move her money into a joint checking account so he could manage it for her. The day she left Christy drove straight to the bank to withdraw her money, but Vince had already closed the account. The price of her freedom.

  That was two weeks ago. Coming back was a mistake. Seeing the comfort he lived in only angered her. Her downtown apartment offered none of this security. A guy was shot just last week in the street right beneath her window. Mice roamed the halls. But it was all she’d been able to afford. Her salary at the Barn was never enough. Vince lived like a king compared to her.

  Christy gazed at the shelves just inside the study door where her own book collection used to sit. Made up mostly of first edition mysteries, it included her prized copy of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. A rare UK edition, it didn’t even have a dust jacket, but it had been the first collectable book she’d ever bought. Later the mystery was released in the United States under the title Murder in the Calais Coach, and she hoped someday to have a first edition copy of that as well.

  As a girl she’d first been drawn to the author because Agatha’s surname was the same as her first, but after reading that one book she was quickly won ov
er by Agatha’s engaging writing style, and the book became a favorite. Any day now she’d have to sell it to survive.

  Her collection was the first thing she’d packed when she left. Now the three shelves were full again. She left the chair and knelt in front of them. Vince hadn’t wasted any time. She browsed over the spines, shaking her head. More rare books, mostly collectable hypermoderns, books published within the last ten years or so. One book in particular caught her eye. Shadowmancer by G. P. Taylor. She slipped the softcover from the shelf.

  Amazing. The print run for this originally self-published title was small, only twenty-five hundred, making first edition copies of the now famous author’s first book all the more collectable. Recently Christy heard of one selling for nearly twelve hundred dollars. It wasn’t an easy find. Yet Vince had it.

  If he ever found her snooping like this . . . She listened for him, then chuckled at her stupid nervousness. Relax. I’m alone. No need to get jumpy. I’ll be gone before he gets back.

  Vince didn’t go to many public book sales. He despised waiting in line, boastful small talk, and networking with other book dealers and collectors. They were amateurs as far as he was concerned.

  She sat down at his desk and jiggled the computer mouse to wake up the monitor. So where was Vince getting the books? He didn’t do garage sales, which took time and patience, and how many auctions did he attend?

  A car door shutting outside made her jump, and she walked into the living room to make sure Vince wasn’t back. He wasn’t, but she noticed her Honda parked in the driveway, apparently retrieved from the police station like Vince promised.

  Christy returned to the study and the computer. Most of the programs required passwords, but perhaps she’d still be able to access the book database. What if she looked around a little? Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Would he know she’d been on the computer? Shrugging off her worries, she double-clicked the database icon.

  She’d just started scrolling through the titles when she noticed a book beside the monitor. The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. Vince wouldn’t be reading science fiction. She pulled it closer. He went for the dull Descartes and Spinoza stuff, always turning his nose up at her chick lit and mysteries. Hadn’t she seen this book somewhere recently?

  Christy scooted the office chair closer to the table and hit something under the desk with her foot. A cardboard box. She slid it out. Inside were more books: Animal Farm, East of Eden, and Tales of the South Pacific. Nothing noteworthy about the titles alone. They were all classics in their own right and easily purchased used and new. But these copies were all firsts.

  In fact, the whole box contained first editions from the forties and fifties, many highly collectable, and once again vaguely familiar. She pulled out a Faulkner title, The Town, holding it like it was made of glass. The dust jacket was pristine. Not a tear, chip, or stain.

  The Thornton estate.

  Setting the book down, she ran her fingers through her hair, her heart thumping faster. It clicked. Four weeks ago she and Hunter had gone to the late Irwin Thornton’s home to evaluate his library. She remembered the guy’s son haggling with Hunter about a final price, but eventually they reached an agreement and Hunter and Christy packed the books together. A former book reviewer, Thornton’s collection consisted of the finest first editions she’d ever seen, all immaculate with dust jackets, most having been read only once to review. She’d had so much fun drooling over them with Hunter. That’s why she recognized them. She’d packed them herself.

  It was all coming back. She’d carefully stowed the books flat on their sides to eliminate stress during the van ride, packing unused newsprint in the cracks. Just like the paper here.

  Christy yanked the box closer. Vince knew how valuable these books were. And he was one of the few who would have access to them before they were put on the shelves. Most would have been brought upstairs to be entered into the Barn’s Internet database first, one of Vince’s responsibilities.

  She swore under her breath. He’d stolen them from the Barn. Even after he promised her this would never happen again. And she’d believed him. Believed him like a fool.

  It was one book two years ago. A Is for Alibi by Sue Grafton. A first edition worth hundreds. She found it in this same study on Vince’s desk. When she confronted him, he admitted he’d taken it from the store but assured her it was the first and last time.

  What an idiot she’d been for not catching on sooner. Christy sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the box. The signs were obvious now. Where else would he be getting books of this quality? Why else the secrecy? It explained everything, even his violent reaction to curb her questions. Only her moving out had relaxed him enough to leave this box out in the open.

  “I’m sorry, Hunter,” she said when she thought of the money the Barn had lost to Vince. “You didn’t deserve this.”

  She should’ve known Vince’s word was mud. It disgusted her that she’d come back last night, letting him hold her like nothing had ever happened between them.

  She opened the Faulkner book again, flipping through the pages and stopping on some of the passages she knew. So this was how Vince could afford to lease that Lexus. What other books here belonged to the Barn?

  For a moment the mechanical grinding sound didn’t register. She’d heard it so many times before. Realization came with a twist of her stomach.

  Garage door opening.

  Vince. And this box was out in plain view! Christy jumped to her feet and shoved the box back underneath the desk. What would she say? He would know she’d moved something. Hadn’t he fired the cleaning lady for daring to dust this room?

  The grinding ceased, and Socrates leaped off the chair for the kitchen and his master. The Lexus would be inside now. Then the grinding again, the door closing.

  Dashing into the living room, she nabbed her purse off the sofa. Now that her mind was clear, she wouldn’t be able to spend another minute with him. If he’d lied about this, what else was a lie?

  She burrowed for her keys. Where were they? Only then did she remember. The cops confiscated them last night. They would’ve released the keys to Vince this morning when he picked up the car, but no way would he have left them out for her.

  Her mind whirled. She had to escape without him hearing. If she didn’t, Vince would surely manipulate her into staying. Or worse. What would he do to her if she confronted him this time?

  Whistling. A door slammed.

  The key peg! Christy raced into the kitchen and flung open the spice cabinet to see the row of pegs where Vince kept extra sets of all his keys labeled with string and colored tags. Gold keys. Silver keys. Round. Square. Antique. Was her extra set still here?

  Something thumped to the floor. Probably Vince’s briefcase.

  Yes! She spotted the two silver keys to her Honda and went for them. But she grabbed too quickly, and the whole rack clattered to the counter.

  “Christy?” Vince’s muffled call came from the garage.

  With clumsy fingers she rooted through the tangled mound of metal and string. Where’d it go? Come on!

  Footsteps tapped on concrete. “Christy?”

  Read the blasted tags! Lexus . . . toolshed . . . postal box . . . Finally she spotted the one labeled Christy’s car. Hooking it with her finger, she ran, making it to the front door as she heard Vince enter the kitchen.

  “Where are you, darling?”

  Her car. She had to get to the car.

  “Christy!”

  “I’ve gotta go,” she called back.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  Down the steps. Across the yard. The car seemed miles away, yet right in front of her at the same time. She forced the key into the lock, scratching the paint around it.

  Vince stuck his head out the front door. When he saw her, he sprinted. “Just wait a minute!”

  She vaulted into the car, slamming and locking the door. She revved her engine
to life.

  Vince’s contorted face was against her window, the veins on his neck bulging. He pulled on the door, rocking the car. “I deserve an explanation!”

  Christy swerved into the street, forcing Vince to jump out of the way. She left him standing in the middle of the road.

  Chapter 4

  May stopped at the corral fence and leaned her arms on a post. Covered in snow, the fields were dotted with cattle chomping on hay fed this morning but cut last summer. Each snort or bellow from the animals sent plumes of condensation into the chilly air.

  It was all hers—four thousand acres stretching toward the Spanish Peaks, or what many locals called the Wahatoya Mountains. From here she could even see several of the over four hundred huge dike walls that radiated out from the West Peak like spokes on a wheel. The magnificence of this landscape had penetrated her heart as soon as she started working here. She couldn’t have dreamed of ever owning the ranch with Ruth. She was just a girl in love with horses and the outdoors. Now this ranch was as much a part of her as her skin.

  May took it all in. This morning the normal chores—throwing hay from the back of the pickup and chopping up the ice over the water hole—seemed different. She was conscious of every act, wondering if it would be the last spring she performed them.

  Her land. What would they do with it? Would a bulldozer tear it to pieces so cookie-cutter houses could take over?

  Tires crunched on snow, and she ripped herself from the fence to see Beth’s Blazer drive into the yard. It wasn’t unusual for neighbors or friends to show up without calling around here. And she’d known Beth for years, before vet school and before she joined her father’s veterinarian practice. May had watched Beth struggle to gain the respect a male vet would automatically have. They’d journeyed into womanhood together, and now they were both working hard in places few women did.

  Beth got out and pulled on Gore-Tex work gloves. “Was in the area and thought I’d check on that heifer.”