Peter stared at the women gathered around the table and shook his head. “She has nothing to be ashamed of, but I guess I can understand how she’d feel like she would.”
Max pursed his lips, watching Caroline point to a page in one of the magazines. “She finally let Caroline come see her last week.” Max swallowed. “Caroline went straight to bed when she came back home. She cried for two hours.”
“It was worse than she thought, then?”
Max nodded, his throat tight. “Evie will never have children. Her face is disfigured. He broke all the little bones in her right hand, and she probably will never regain full use of it. But worst of all, she blames herself.”
Peter was silent for a moment. “Why?”
Max sighed again. “Right before Winters attacked her he asked if her parents hadn’t taught her better than to get into cars with strange men.”
Peter’s face twisted. “Bastard.”
“Who?” David walked up the driveway from the street where he’d parked his car, a bag of charcoal over his shoulder.
Max just lifted his brows and David added his sigh to the mix. “My favorite homicidal maniac,” David said and lowered the bag of charcoal to the blacktop. He looked around. “Evie didn’t come, huh?”
Max shook his head. “No.”
David continued looking around, searching for something. Or someone. “Dana didn’t think she would.”
Peter looked surprised. “You’ve been talking to Dana? Caroline’s friend Dana?” His brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me. Don’t even tell me,” he added darkly. “I don’t want to know.”
David’s lips quirked up. “It’s not what you think. We’re friends and that’s the God’s truth.”
Max nodded. “He’s giving it to you straight for once. He helped us move Dana’s shelter a few weeks ago. He is now persona most definitely grata.”
“I fixed her car, too.” David’s tone was smug.
Peter groaned, his bass rumble filling the air. “Friends, but you’re getting prepared, just in case.”
David grinned. “I’m a careful man. My big brother taught me to plan.”
Max chuckled. “Shut up and help me get the fire started. Ma’s been wondering where you’ve been with that charcoal.”
As if on cue, Ma appeared at the back door, the cordless phone in her hand.
“Here’s your charcoal, Ma,” David called.
Phoebe looked over at them, her normally happy face sober. “Just put it over by the grill, Davy. The phone’s for Caroline, Max. She’ll want to take it in here. You’ll want to be with her.”
The light atmosphere of a few moments before dissipated and Max felt his heart begin to pound heavily. “Who is it, Ma?”
“It’s Special Agent Thatcher.”
Caroline leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, stunned. Numb. Sick to her stomach. Feelings she never dreamed she’d feel upon hearing the news that Rob Winters was dead. Agent Thatcher had insisted on telling her himself, not allowing the prison administration to call her after Winters was found dead in the lavatory that morning. Apparently Tom’s wish had come true. The other prisoners hadn’t welcomed Rob with open arms after finding out he’d beaten that young black man in Asheville to death. Her stomach roiled, wondering how many other lives Rob had stolen, lives no one would ever know about. Murders no one would ever suspect.
He’d paid the ultimate price for his sins. Caroline numbly wondered if it was enough. No, she thought, thinking about the unspeakable damage done to Evie. The loss of Rob’s miserable life wasn’t nearly enough.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I just can’t believe it.”
Max took her hand in his, gently squeezing once, then holding on tight. “It’s over, Caroline. He can never hurt you again.”
“He’s dead?” Tom asked from the archway separating the living room from the kitchen. He stood tall, feet spread wide, his arms crossed over his chest. He filled the space, seeming broader, bigger somehow.
Caroline twisted around to meet his eyes. His cold, hard eyes. His mouth was pressed into a firm line. “Tom.”
“I asked a question, Mom. Is he dead?” Each word was spaced deliberately.
Caroline felt her insides tense, fearing his response. Fearing it would be one of celebration, elation, a triumphant fist in the air. She didn’t want him to cry, not even to grieve. But she didn’t want him to celebrate the taking of yet another life. “Yes,” she answered quietly.
His shoulders sagged, even as his feet remained firmly planted in place. His hands clenched his upper arms and the previously defiant stance became more of a protective cocoon. His head dropped forward until his chin touched his chest.
Max struggled to his feet, his expression rife with concern. “Tom?”
Caroline glanced up and felt the sting of tears. Max was as burdened for the emotional health of her son as she was. She reached up for his hand and he grasped it blindly, not taking his eyes off of Tom’s dejected form.
“Tom, say something,” Caroline said, trying to keep her voice even. Failing.
Without lifting his head, Tom spoke. “I want to be happy, Mom.” He hunched his shoulders forward, keeping his head down. “Dammit.” His voice broke. “I knew he’d die. I knew it. I dreamed of saluting the lucky guy that carved him down to bone. But now I can’t. I want to be happy he’s dead. But I can’t.”
Caroline blinked and her vision cleared. Tom’s shoulders shook now, but he remained where he stood. Isolated and so very alone. Squeezing Max’s hand, she crossed the distance and put her arms around her son, pulling his head down to her shoulder.
“Then how do you feel?” she whispered. “Tell me how you feel.”
Tom’s body shuddered as he exhaled on a sob. “I’m so … mad.”
Caroline ran her hand over his hair, soothing. “Mad?”
Tom nodded, his face buried against her bare neck. “I’m so … mad … that he was … who he was.”
Caroline understood this emotion. “That he never was who you wanted him to be?”
Another nod. “And I’m mad at myself.”
Caroline heard Max come up behind her. He put his arms around them both.
“Mad because you can’t find it in you to be happy he’s dead?” Max asked gently. “Because right now you’re feeling less than a man because of how you feel?”
Tom lifted his head from Caroline’s shoulder and stared at Max, surprise and gratitude blended in his expression. “How …?”
“Because you’re your mother’s son,” Max answered simply. “Feeling happy right now would be the easy thing, but not necessarily the right thing. You’ve insisted he was not your father. He wasn’t. It takes more to be a father than the donation of DNA. And it takes more to be a man than brute strength and Hollywood courage. But I’m not sure you know what it does take. It takes love and compassion and sacrifice and patience and integrity. My father had all those things.” He paused and Caroline felt him draw a shaky breath. “Do you want to know what I’m feeling right now?”
Tom tilted his head, giving Max the wariest of nods.
Max’s arms tightened around Caroline. “I’m feeling relieved, to be honest. Relieved he can’t escape and find us again. I’ve lost hours of sleep in the last six weeks worrying that he’d find a way to escape and come back to hurt your mother and you. Worrying that we’d spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, waiting for him to jump out from behind a tree. I’m also feeling sad … heart-broken, really, when I realize you’ve never known a father like mine was. Men like my father are incredibly rare, I think. I wish I could be half the man he was. But somehow, despite never having the privilege of a father like mine, despite everything you’ve been through, you’re more a man than most men I know. But most of all, I feel proud of you, Tom. I could be no prouder if you were my own son.”
Her tears now flowing freely, Caroline craned her neck backwards to see Max’s face. Compassion filled his eyes, softenin
g the normally hard line of his jaw and she knew she would never love him more than in that moment. Max looked down and caught her staring and smiled, that tender, sweet smile that turned her heart to mush.
Someone cleared a throat and as a group the three of them turned toward the kitchen door. David led the pack, but the others were there right behind him.
“I’m not eavesdropping in the foyer. This is the kitchen,” David protested before Caroline could say a word and it had the effect he’d been trying for. She laughed, even though it came out sounding more like a hiccup.
Phoebe pushed her way to the front of the group. Her eyes were damp, but she wore an expression of challenge. “Max, I haven’t wanted to be a royal pain all these weeks, but I have some questions for Caroline.”
Tom stepped away, smiling a little when Phoebe put her arm around his waist and pulled him against her. Caroline wiped the tears from her cheeks, even as her fingers continued to tremble. Max’s arms slid around her waist from behind, holding her tight against the strength of his body. “Yes, Phoebe? What is your question?”
“Questions. Number one, what was your name before?”
Caroline blinked. No one in Max’s family had asked her any questions since her return and she wasn’t sure why Phoebe had picked this moment to … pry. “Mary Grace.”
“Mary Grace.” Phoebe repeated the name as if testing it on her lips. “Appropriate, I think. Will you name your daughter Grace should you be so blessed?”
Caroline blinked again. “I’d considered it.” She had. She twisted around to look up to Max. “If it’s okay.”
Max looked totally perplexed. “It’s okay with me. Ma, what’s this about?”
“I’m not finished, son. Will you adopt this boy, Max?”
Max started and Caroline twisted to look back at him again. He was frowning, his brows bunched across his forehead. And he was blushing! Caroline had never seen Max blush before and the sight was riveting. “We haven’t talked about that yet, Ma. This isn’t the—”
“Life is too short to think as much as you do, Max. I honestly thought you would have learned that by now. Tom, do you want to be adopted by my son, here?”
Tom’s lips twitched. He liked Phoebe, Caroline knew. He liked her blend of sarcasm and grandmotherly cuddling. Right now he was enjoying the way Phoebe dressed down her six-and-a-half-foot son as if he were no older than little Petey. “Yes’m.”
“The boy says ma’am,” Phoebe said to no one in particular. “Peter, can you draw up the papers?”
“Yes, Ma,” came Peter’s easy reply, as if an argument never entered his mind. “I’ll get on it tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Then, Caroline, if you’re already planning to have a baby with my son—”
Max choked on a cough.
“—and if your son will soon be adopted by my son—” David snickered from the corner of the kitchen.
“—and since you appear to be unmarried at the moment—”
The laugh bubbled right out of Caroline’s chest. “Next Saturday, Phoebe. I’ll marry your son next Saturday.”
Phoebe grinned cagily. “I’ll call Father Divven. He’ll marry you in short order, just to keep you from living in sin any longer. Tom, come with me. I have half a cow to cook and David here still hasn’t started a fire in the grill.”
“Yes’m.” Tom looked back over his shoulder, the sadness gone from his eyes if only for now. He smiled, a subdued curving of his lips, but it was sufficient. For now.
One by one each sibling left the small kitchen, each bestowing congratulatory hugs and kisses on Caroline and Max as they made their less than tactful exits. Finally only David remained.
David hesitated, then spoke soberly. “You’re wrong about one thing, Max.”
Max raised a brow. “And that would be what?”
David looked away, but not before Caroline caught a glint of light reflecting off the tears in his eyes. “Dad was rare, that is true, but not unique. You are his son and I know he’d be as proud of you today as I am.” He left the room quickly, not saying another word.
Caroline let her sigh escape and looked up at Max, who was visibly moved.
“That was nice, Max.”
He swallowed. “Yes, it was.” He looked down at her then and smiled, his composure restored. “Next Saturday? I thought we agreed to wait until you could do the wedding the way you wanted it, with a fancy dress and a cake with two people on top that don’t look like us.”
Caroline stood on her toes and placed a kiss on his chin. “Life’s too short to think so much, Max. Cathy can make a cake from a mix and I don’t need a dress that takes weeks to order. Your mother was right. It’s time we got on with our lives, don’t you think?”
He stared into her eyes—her beautiful blue, expressive eyes that had captured his heart from the first moment they’d met—and was overcome by a wave of love so intense it weakened his knees. The cute quip on the tip of his tongue was wiped from his mind, replaced by the three words he wanted to be able to say every day for the rest of their lives.
“I love you, Caroline,” he whispered fiercely, his voice shaky and watched her expression soften, her eyes fill. “I promise I’ll only make you happy. I promise you’ll never be afraid again.”
She swallowed and raised a trembling hand to his jaw. “I love you, Max. I promise to be your wife. I promise to make a family with you.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, kissed every one of her fingers. Then he drew her into his arms and kissed her lips, long and deep, leaving her sighing and melting against him. “Can we start right now?” he murmured against her hair.
She looked up, her lips curving. “Start what?” she asked, even though her eyes said she knew.
He grinned at her. “Start making that family,” he said and counted to himself, one, two, three. Her cheeks went pink and she looked over her shoulder.
“Your mother is here, Max.”
“My mother made nine children altogether. My mother knows how it’s done.”
Caroline’s laughter filled the room. Filled his heart with ease. “Your mother’s son can wait ’til after lunch,” she teased.
“Promise?” he asked, looking into her eyes and seeing the rest of his life with content anticipation.
Her eyes softened again, caressing him. “I promise, Max.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KAREN ROSE fell in love with books from the moment she learned to read, with Jo from Little Women and Nancy Drew becoming close childhood friends. She started writing stories of her own when the characters started talking in her head and just wouldn’t be silenced. When she’s not writing stories for readers, Karen writes stories for computers— programming keeps the other side of her brain out of trouble. She lives in sunny Florida with her fantastic husband, an avid fisherman, and two wonderful daughters who also love to read—and write! Karen would love to receive your E-mail at
[email protected], and be sure to check out her web site at www.karenrosebooks.com.
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HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
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Chapter One
Monday, September 26
Raleigh, North Carolina
10:00 A.M.
The fact that he’d seen more horrific scenes over the course of his career should have made this one easier to mentally process.
Should have.
Didn’t.
Special Agent Steven Thatcher loosened his tie, but it didn’t do a thing to help the flow of air to his lungs. It didn’t do a thing to change what he’d found in the clearing after the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation received an anonymous tip leading them to this place.
It certainly didn’t do a thing to bring the poor dead woman back to life.
So Steven tightened his tie, centering the knot right over
the lump in his throat. He cleared his throat and stepped forward carefully, earning him a glare of reproach from the new guy Forensics had sent because the new guy’s boss had picked the week they discovered a gruesome, brutal murder to take a cruise to the Caribbean.
Now, looking at the mangled corpse, heavily scavenged by whatever creatures lived in these woods, Steven couldn’t help wishing he was on a boat far from civilization, too.
“Watch your feet,” the new guy cautioned from his hands-and-knees position on the grass next to the body, irritation in his voice. Kent Thompson was his name. He was reputed to be quite the over-achiever although Steven would hold judgment until the facts were in.
But the fact that Kent hadn’t thrown up yet was a stroke in his favor.
“Thank you for the lesson in crime-scene investigation,” Steven replied dryly and Kent’s cheeks went redder than chili peppers.
Kent sat back on his heels and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m frustrated.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Nothing I can see so far and I’ve checked this entire area three times. Whoever left her here didn’t leave anything else behind except the blood-soaked ground. Maybe the ME will find something on the body.”
“What’s left of it.”
Kent looked back at the corpse, clinical detachment on his face. But Steven also noted the flicker of controlled compassion in the young man’s eyes and was satisfied. Kent would do his job, but still remember the victim. Another stroke in the newbie’s favor.
“Sorry, Steven,” said a ragged voice behind him and Steven turned to find Agent Harry Grimes taking labored breaths as he slipped a handkerchief in his pocket. Harry’s face was pale, although the green tinge had passed along with the Big Mac Harry had downed on his way to the scene.
New to the SBI, Harry had been assigned to Steven for training. Harry showed a lot of promise, except for his very weak stomach. But Steven couldn’t blame him too much. He might have lost his own lunch had he taken the time to eat any. “It’s okay, Harry. It happens.”