“Let’s see. It’s been about eight years,” Meaghan finally said.
“High school sweethearts?”
“Kind of. We lived in the same house for a while. Foster children.”
I saw Preston’s eyes brighten. She loved a good twist to a story, and a hook like that was gold for a human-interest piece.
Leaning back in my chair, I pulled my notepad onto my lap. Meaghan twisted her hands, and the edges of her cuffs slid up her forearm. Unmistakable scars crossed both wrists.
She caught me looking. “I was young and wanted desperately to die. The doctors wanted desperately to save me. They won.”
I rested the tip of my pen on the notepad. The ink bled into a widening circle. “You obviously came around to their way of thinking.”
The sparkle was back in her eyes. “Thank goodness. Tristan was a big motivator, though ultimately the strength came from within.”
The line sounded like something out of a therapist’s mouth, but I couldn’t deny Meaghan seemed happy. She fairly oozed joy.
“Did Tristan help you through recovery?” Preston asked. “Stay by your bedside and all that?”
Meaghan’s lips tipped into a small smile. “Actually, no. He wasn’t allowed to see me. I was placed in a psych hospital, pumped full of meds, and overwhelmed with feel-good lectures that only turned me from suicidal to homicidal.” She laughed.
I hoped she was joking. In my other job with the state police I saw more than my share of murder.
Shimmying forward on her chair, Preston said, “Then how did Tristan motivate you?”
“Against my will some of the messages in the hospital starting seeping in. I slowly began to realize that yeah, I’d been dealt a crappy hand in life, but I still had the power to turn it around. Tristan was one thing kept me going. I wanted, I needed, to thank him for everything he’d done for me, for seeing value in me when I couldn’t see it myself.”
Preston opened her mouth to press, but I cut her off with a look. Meaghan would get there in her own time. “You two met as foster children?”
“We were both placed in the same house in Jamaica Plain. He had already lived there a year before I arrived. My drug-addicted mother had tried to trade me to a dealer in exchange for a fix. The dealer was an undercover cop. I was put into the system immediately.”
Whoa.
“Are you okay with all this going into the article?” Preston asked, showing unexpected sensitivity.
Meaghan nodded. “Absolutely. I was actually glad to hear about the articles you’re writing. If I can reach one person, change their life with my story, then sharing all the heartbreak will be worth it. The more people I can help the better. I had a happy ending, really. One of the doctors at the hospital ended up fostering me and eventually he and his wife adopted me. Archibald is their name. I used to be Meaghan Chaney. I had an instant family who loved me, was able to get my GED and go to college. It doesn’t get much better. Except…” She trailed off.
“Tristan?” Preston supplied.
Meaghan dropped her gaze bashfully.
For once I was glad to have Preston here. I hadn’t been at all happy about her writing articles about my clients, a deal concocted by her and my father, but I had to admit the pieces had been good. Really good. And Meaghan was right—if this could help one person, then all the aggravation of having Preston around constantly might be justified.
My thoughts shifted to my own upbringing. Sure, it hadn’t been idyllic, but it had been safe—and I had been loved above all else. How many times had I taken that for granted?
“When I first arrived at the foster house, I’d been scared and lonely. The foster mom, Mary Ellen Spero, was nice enough. We actually still keep in touch. But it was clear Mr. Spero wasn’t interested in us kids at all. Saw us as a nuisance. Tristan took me under his wing. He was two years older than me, so he was kind of like a big brother.” She smiled again. It made her glow. “At first.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I hear a ‘but,’ ” Preston said, eyes wide. “A big one. Like a Romeo and Juliet kind of ‘but.’ I mean, after all, you did try to kill yourself.”
So much for that sensitivity.
“Fair enough,” Meaghan said, apparently not taking offense. “Tristan asked me to go to his senior prom, but I didn’t have money for the dress. And let’s just say our foster father wasn’t in the system to care and nurture—he wasn’t about to give me any of his. So I was really surprised when Tristan came home one day with a dress I had admired.”
“Awww,” Preston said.
A thin, dark eyebrow arched. “The police showed up not long after.”
“Uh-oh,” I murmured.
“He’d shoplifted the dress. They took him away. I was devastated.” She motioned to her scarred wrists. “I haven’t seen him since. I really want to find him. I want to thank him. I want to—” A blush settled in her cheeks. “I want the happy ending. The fairy-tale ending.”
There was moisture in Preston’s eyes. She was such a romantic at heart. And though Meaghan’s story tugged at my heartstrings, I had to caution her as well. Softly I said, “There is a chance we won’t be able to find him.”
“I know, but I feel like I have to try. It’s the least I can do.”
If Tristan Rourke owned property, it would be fairly easy to find him through an appraiser’s office. PI 101—I was slowly learning the ins and outs of investigating. But if not, it would be trickier. “I don’t suppose you remember his birthday?” I asked, trying to recall everything Sean had taught me about gathering information for the case.
“October fourteenth.”
“Do you know where he was born? Or anything about his natural family? Is Rourke his family name?”
“Born here in Boston—I don’t know which hospital. He never knew his real dad. His mother died when he was twelve. He had a grandmother, but she’d been too poor to take him in. That’s when he went into the system.”
A pinch of foreboding had me hiding a frown.
14 plus 12 is 26.
I gave myself a hard mental shake. Since I was little, I had turned to solving simple math problems in my head to alleviate stress. I was trying to break myself of the habit for a couple reasons: I figured at almost twenty-nine years old I should have better coping skills, plus I didn’t like math all that much.
I tried to push the worry away—there was no cause for it. None whatsoever. Meaghan had come to me for help … for hope. I was a sucker for these kinds of cases. Sean called it the Love Conquers All syndrome, and I was seriously afflicted.
“I’ve read several articles about you and your success. I should tell you up front that your, you know,” she searched for the right word, “psychicness won’t help in this case.”
I smiled. That was a new term for me. “Not to worry,” I said. “We’ve had a lot of success tracking lost loves without using my abilities. We’ll start looking for Tristan right away.”
We went through the contracts, and she wrote a check for the retainer. I had everything I needed to get started.
“And you’ll call as soon as you find him?”
Suddenly I wondered what the color of her aura might be, if it reflected her joie de vivre or held a tinge of the desperation I sensed under the surface. But I could only wonder, as my father wasn’t around and he was the only one who could answer that question. I checked myself. My father … and my brother. Cutter also had the gift but used it in a far different way—artwork.
“Definitely,” I said, “but remember my warning.”
“I will.” At the door, she stopped, looked back at me. “I may be able to help a little.”
“How?”
“Tristan’s last known address…”
“You know it?” Preston asked.
I reached for my notepad.
Meaghan wrung her hands and finally whispered, “Walpole State Prison.”
4
“Then she just walked out?” Sean asked. He was sittin
g on the edge of the conference table and it was taking everything in me not to run my hand along his thigh.
“All willy-nilly,” Preston said.
She was the reason for my restraint. She should have been long gone but decided to ditch her English 101 class at Quincy College once Meaghan dropped her little bombshell. Preston had just started a liberal-arts program with the intent to transfer to a four-year school eventually. Her lack of a journalism degree was holding back her career.
Sean smiled wide, his dimple popping.
My heart pittered, pattered.
“Willy-nilly?” he asked.
“It’s a phrase,” Preston protested.
“If you’re fifty,” Sean said.
“I think my grandmother uses it,” I put in.
Preston crossed her arms over her chest. “You two think you’re funny.”
As much as we teased, “willy-nilly” had been as apt a description as any to describe the way Meaghan had dropped her news and hustled away.
Sean had found Preston and me a few minutes later, still staring at the empty doorway. He would have made it in sooner, but he’d been waylaid by my grandmother and encouraged (he really had no choice) to track down Mac Gladstone.
“What I can’t understand is why Tristan Rourke would have gone to Walpole,” Preston said.
Technically, Walpole State Prison had changed its name back in the eighties to Cedar Junction. However, locals still called it Walpole for the most part—a fact that continued to rankle the town’s residents. It was one of Massachusetts’s highest-security prisons—for the state’s worst offenders.
I didn’t understand, either. “He was seventeen when he was arrested. He should have gone to juvie or even been sentenced to just probation.”
“Something’s not adding up.” Sean sat in front of my computer, typed. A second later the screen was filled with hits on Tristan Rourke.
Preston leaned in close, reading over my shoulder. “Attempted murder?”
I scanned an archived article from the Boston Globe. Tristan had been arrested at seventeen for attempting to strangle his foster father with a coat hanger. Because of Tristan’s prior history (he apparently had a knack for stealing) and lack of remorse, he’d been tried as an adult. The trial had been brief, and Tristan was found guilty and sentenced to five years in prison.
“Check the Herald.” I preferred its gossipy nature.
We pored over archived articles. The pieces featured quotes from Rourke’s foster parents, Anthony and Mary Ellen Spero, and from previous foster kids of the family. The gist of the case was that after Tristan had been bailed out of juvie (by Mrs. Spero) and when Mr. Spero had told him about Meaghan’s suicide attempt—but not where she was or how she was doing—Tristan had gone ballistic.
The cops were called, Tristan was arrested on new charges, and the judge threw the book at him to teach him a lesson.
“I think I might have gone apeshit, too,” Preston said. “It doesn’t seem like anyone took into account the kids’ feelings for each other.”
I completely agreed with Preston—for a change. A first love was imprinted in a heart forever because of its power. It seemed cruel and unusual to keep Tristan in the dark regarding Meaghan’s condition or whereabouts.
As Preston started humming Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire,” Sean typed in the Web address for the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He searched the inmate locator for Tristan Rourke.
I tapped the screen. “He was let out three years ago. Time served.”
“He’s twenty-five years old now. Plenty of time to build an identity,” Sean said.
I followed his reasoning. If Tristan had been released from prison recently, then he wouldn’t own property or have credit cards or even a permanent address. Finding him would be incredibly difficult. But since he’d been out for a while, there would be a trail.
“This story is more Romeo and Juliet than Meaghan let on,” Preston said, taking notes.
Sean said to me, “Someone I know would wax poetic about true love knowing no bounds. Not distance, or money, or time. That reuniting these two is what love is all about.”
“But you?” I asked, amused by his tone. He wasn’t quite mocking me, but there had been a teasing lilt.
“I say we need to be careful with this case.”
The pinch of foreboding turned to a nudge. This case wasn’t what I’d imagined when Lost Loves was created. But I still wanted to help. My Love Conquers All syndrome was hard at work. “Maybe Tristan is now an upstanding citizen. We shouldn’t judge so soon.”
“Right, right,” Preston intoned. “Because zebras often change their stripes.”
I noticed that Sean’s shoulders stiffened and his superhero jaw jutted, but he didn’t say anything. After a second, he relaxed and it was as though he’d never tensed at all. Preston apparently hadn’t even noticed, since she was so busy fussing with her heel. Sean caught me watching him and looked away.
“What’s with you and the sayings?” I asked her, wondering at his reaction.
“I don’t know! Maybe I’m spending too much time with your grandmother.”
Hear, hear! I’d second that. “Maybe you should take some time off?” That way she might not pursue her line of questioning about the curse.
Her eyebrows snapped downward. “No.”
It had been worth a try.
“Tristan Rourke shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Sean said. “I’ll do a search this afternoon.”
“Well, I’m free tonight to go see him when you get an address,” Preston said, standing. She tested her weight on her broken heel.
I glanced at Sean. We had plans for the night that involved watching The Princess Bride with a big bowl of popcorn. By the look in his eye, I predicted we wouldn’t see much of the movie.
“I think tomorrow is soon enough,” I suggested.
“Besides,” Sean said, “I told Dovie I’d get started on the Gladstone case.”
Preston tipped sideways, grabbed onto a chair back for balance. “I don’t suppose you’d let me come along?”
Sean shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.” She frowned at her boot. “Do you think Suz has any glue?”
“Suz has everything,” I said.
As soon as Preston wobbled out, Sean pulled me down into his lap and kissed me. His fingers threaded into my hair, and I could feel the steady thump of his heart against my chest. He drew back, whispered, “I saw you eyeing my thigh.”
I smiled. “You think you know me so well.”
His hands slid down my shoulders, my arms, stopped just short of my hands. Even still, I felt the electricity jumping along my palms. I still hadn’t figured out why I saw images of us together in the future when we touched hands. Pictures of our future. Those were the images I loved best, but I often avoided holding hands for fear that one day I might see something I didn’t like. Or that I might see nothing at all.
“Did you find an apartment?” I asked, holding my breath as I waited for the answer.
“Nothing’s quite right.”
I felt the relief down to my toes. “You can—”
I almost did it. Almost said he could move in with me.
What had come over me? It had to be Dovie’s (bad) influence. Mum’s. Why else would I take such a risk?
You love him.
Right. But wasn’t that exactly why he shouldn’t move in?
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You sure it’s nothing, Lucy?”
My insides melted like chocolate on a hot day. It was the way he said my name. Filled with love and tenderness, heat and passion. He looked into my eyes. I was lost in his pearly gray gaze.
I realized just how much I wanted him to move in. “No. Yes. No.” Panic warred with euphoria.
He smiled. “That’s clear.”
A warning buzzed at the back of my head. “No.”
“No, it’s not clear?”
I nudged him
with my shoulder. “No. I’m sure it’s nothing. What’s that look?”
“Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“You don’t want to know.”
He tightened his hold on me. “I think I do.”
“Trust me, you don’t. It’s chaos in here.”
He laughed and kissed me. I threw myself into the heat of his lips, the lazy sweep of his tongue, as if he had all day to sample me and was looking forward to every minute.
“Well, well, well,” a voice interrupted.
We pulled apart and I was giddy when Sean whispered in my ear, “Later.”
My mother stood beaming in the doorway. “I hate to interrupt, but could I have a moment, LucyD?”
Sean said, “I’ll go.”
“No, no,” Mum said, pulling a chair up next to us. “Stay. It’s okay.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. She was acting strangely.
“I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
She cleared her throat. “There was a time I wasn’t so happy with your father.”
“Most of my childhood?”
She ignored my jibe. “As you know, I stopped wearing my wedding band and engagement ring a long time ago. Here’s the thing. I can find my wedding band but not the engagement ring. I thought they were together in my jewelry chest, but there was only the band.”
In my mind’s eye, I could picture her engagement ring with its glittering princess-cut diamond set into a band of glowing rubies. I’d loved that ring, the color, the sentiment—my father had chosen rubies because they matched my mother’s aura.
“I’ve looked everywhere, LucyD. Can you help me find it?”
“Defin— Wait. Why?”
Her hand flew to her throat, where a blush was rising. “What do you mean why?”
“Why now?”
“I don’t kn—”
I jumped up. “No, no, no.”
“Now, Lucy…”
Sean said, “What’s going on?”