Absolutely, Positively

  11

  I watched my footing as I came down the front steps, careful of icy patches. “Do you want to swing by the library on the way home?”

  Home.

  Such a simple little word that held so much meaning.

  It wasn’t as though Sean didn’t spend all his free time there. He had space in the closet, a toothbrush next to mine, two bureau drawers. He knew to run the hot water for a few minutes before getting into the shower in the morning to kick-start the water heater. He knew how to operate the stackable washer and dryer and that the oven temperature ran hotter than what the knob indicated.

  My home was his home.

  Why not make it official?

  Right. The curse.

  The damn curse.

  I hated that thing.

  Still angry, he said, “It’s on the way.”

  I faced him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. The anger.”

  “The guy was a jerk, Lucy.”

  “It’s not just him. You’ve been off ever since we took this case.”

  “It’s getting late. We should go.”

  In the muted glow of the streetlights, I could see the pain etched in his eyes. I wanted to know where it came from and how to get rid of it. But now wasn’t the time or place to push him. My heart aching, I spun and lost my footing. Sean grabbed my elbow. Warmth flowed from his fingers through my coat, down my forearms, and tingled in the tips of my fingers.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “Whoa” was right. “Look!” I gasped, pointing at the car. Both doors were wide open. Thoreau was nowhere in sight.

  We stood frozen for the briefest of seconds as we took it all in. The scene, the repercussions.

  Sean let go of me and rushed forward. He stuck his head in the car and pulled it out a second later. “He’s gone.” Pained, he said, “I locked it, didn’t I? I remember locking it.”

  I nodded. I recalled hearing the beeps. “What else did they take?”

  “Nothing. Nothing else is missing that I can tell.” He went to the trunk, opened it. Pulling out two flashlights, he handed one to me.

  Thankfully, I’d brought my tote bag in with me.

  I heard him mumble, “Son of a bitch,” under his breath before he said, “Let’s split up. Look for prints in the snow, in case he’s running loose and not stolen.”

  My heart sank to my toes. Stolen. Thoreau was a purebred Yorkshire terrier. He’d get good money on the black market.

  73 minus 5 is 69. Shit. 68.

  So much for math calming me down.

  I started off down the block, calling Thoreau’s name. Street lamps offered little extra light as the beams from the flashlight swept back and forth across front lawns, searching for any sign Thoreau had been here. There was no sign of him—or of paw prints, either.

  Twenty minutes later, I was still looking. I walked up and down four streets before heading back to Sean’s Mustang. I fought a wave of nausea as I looked inside the car. Thoreau’s leash was gone. He hadn’t been hooked to it when we left him in the car—someone had come along, broken in, and stolen Thoreau.

  Deflated, I leaned against the door. Tears welled in my eyes. The little dog had become a part of my family. I couldn’t believe he was just gone. And that I couldn’t use my abilities to find him.

  The tears overflowed.

  I quickly swiped them away when I spotted Sean jogging down the street, slipping and sliding on the black ice.

  “Any luck?” he asked as he neared.

  I shook my head, unable to stop more tears.

  He pulled me into his arms, held me close. Kissing my temple, he said, “We’ll find him.”

  “His leash is gone, too. Someone had to have taken him.”

  Sean pulled a hand through his hair, raising dark tufts. A smile spread across his face, stretching until both dimples popped. Using the pad of his thumb, he whisked away my tears.

  I couldn’t think of one thing that was amusing. “Why are you smiling?”

  “You can find him.”

  Sean knew how my abilities worked—I could only get readings from inanimate objects. Nothing living, breathing. Confused, I said, “No, I can’t.”

  His hands curved around my shoulders. “The leash, Ms. Valentine.”

  The leash! I could get a reading from Sean since he technically owned the leash.

  My heart was suddenly pounding. I’d never held Sean’s hand for more than a few seconds. And then I only saw visions of us. Could I even do a normal reading with him?

  “Is it possible?” he asked, obviously thinking along the same lines.

  I’d broken out in a cold sweat. I unbuttoned my coat, unwound my scarf. “I don’t know, but we have nothing left to lose at this point.”

  “Are you okay? You’ve gone pale. We don’t have to do this,” he said. “I’ll contact the police, we can put up flyers—”

  I put my finger on his lips, quieting him. “Stop. We have to do this. It’s Thoreau. Grendel would never forgive me.” My cat was in love with Sean’s dog. There would be hell to pay if we didn’t bring Thoreau home.

  Home. There was that damn word again.

  “Never mind me. It’s all about the cat.”

  “Sorry. Priorities.”

  Smiling, he held out his hand, palm up. I took a deep breath and said, “Think about that leash, okay? And try just to think about the leash. Don’t let any other thoughts creep in.”

  “Like what? You and me, later tonight in front of the fire?”

  I hit him in the arm. “Yeah. Like that.”

  Somberly he said, “I’ll try my best, but now the image is kind of stuck there.”

  I closed my eyes. I tried to clear my thoughts. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” My arm quivered as my hand hovered over his. Slowly, I lowered it, skin against skin.

  The air was sucked from my lungs. Images came slowly, lazily, as they always did when our hands touched.

  Pictures of Thoreau came first, mixing with images of Sean and me at my cottage. The two scenes slammed into each other, breaking apart into pieces left for me to sort through. A black car. Me in my robe. A street sign. Sean lying in the snow. Thoreau bouncing. Me bent over Sean’s lifeless body. Blue eyes watching intently. Heartbreak.

  I pulled my hand away, gasped for breath.

  “Lucy?” Sean cupped my face. “What is it? What did you see?”

  I bent forward, drawing my hands to my chest protectively, then to his to feel his heartbeat. It pulsed under my palm. Tears filled my eyes, slowly leaked out. The pain I’d felt was so overwhelming, consuming.

  Sean pulled me forward, toward him. When I gathered myself together, I looked up at Sean. “He’s watching us,” I whispered.

  Sean’s shoulders stiffened. “Who? Spero?”

  “Tristan Rourke. And he has Thoreau.”

  “Where?”

  “Across the street, two houses down. Parked in a black Mazda. He’s probably been watching us the whole time.”

  We both turned, stared at the car. It had slightly tinted windows. Sean started forward. I was right behind him.

  Much to my surprise, the driver’s door opened. Tristan Rourke held Thoreau under one arm as he clapped.

  “Bravo,” he said, setting Thoreau down.

  Sean called to him, and the dog bounced over. Sean scooped him up and Thoreau commenced licking his chin.

  Rourke casually walked over to us. “That was impressive. Sorry about taking the pooch, but I’ve been reading about your capabilities, Ms. Valentine, and decided to do a little test. No harm, no foul.”

  He had a charming way about him, an easy confidence. Longish dark blond hair gave a boyish air, and his blue eyes were open and friendly. I wouldn’t be the least surprised to hear a “gosh, gee” from him any time now. He hardly seemed the criminal-mastermind sort. In fact, he didn’t even look capable of so much as nipping
a grape in the produce aisle.

  I reached over, let Thoreau lick my hand. I was so relieved to have him back, it was hard to summon any anger.

  “I heard you wanted to speak with me,” Rourke said, sitting on the hood of his car. It didn’t have front plates. “Call me curious, but I wanted to know why someone who locates lost loves for a living was looking for me.”

  I was starting to shiver. “Maybe we could go somewhere a little warmer?”

  Rourke said, “Sorry. My time is limited.” He smiled. White teeth gleamed under the soft yellow glow of the street lamp. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say. Meaghan hadn’t yet returned my call, so I didn’t know if she wanted to pursue any kind of meeting with Tristan. I trod carefully. “We were hired by Meaghan to find you. Meaghan Ar—Chaney.” He wouldn’t recognize her adoptive name.

  His eyes grew wide as the color drained from his face. His voice rasped as he said, “What kind of sick joke are you playing?”

  “No joke,” Sean said, watching him carefully.

  He gazed at us, his eyes filled with unspeakable anguish. “Meaghan’s dead.”

  I gasped in surprise. “What?”

  “She killed herself eight years ago.”

  “No,” I said, “she lived.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why would we lie?” Sean asked.

  My heart twisted painfully. “She was taken to a local hospital, treated, and eventually adopted by a doctor who cared for her. She’s alive and well, Tristan.”

  Rourke dropped into a crouch, his head down. He was taking deep gulping breaths, dragging in cold air, letting it out in big whooshes. “He told me she died, that it was all my fault.”

  Sean glanced at me, his eyes troubled, as he said, “Who told you?”

  “Spero.”

  “When?”

  “When I came back that day.” He glanced up at us. “I was only seventeen. I believed him.” He stood and let out a roar of pain and anguish. “Why did I believe him? Everything would have been different.”

  The pieces fell into place. Tristan had arrived back at the Spero house after being bailed out of jail for stealing the prom dress. He’d heard about what had happened with Meaghan, and Spero, the sick bastard, had told Tristan she’d died. Grieving, Tristan had lashed out at his foster father, nearly killing him.

  “Why would he do that?” Tristan paced.

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t know.”

  “And she hired you to find me?” he asked, still sounding skeptical.

  I noticed his hands were shaking as I briefly explained the purpose of Lost Loves.

  “She’s really alive?” Tristan asked.

  I hooked my hand around Sean’s arm. “She really is.”

  Tristan took another deep breath. “How do I get in touch with her? My God, I’ll call her right now. Just give me her phone number.”

  I shivered. “We can’t do that.”

  Rourke’s eyes narrowed. In that instant, I saw beneath the boy next door to exactly how dangerous he could be. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was of the belief that a reunion was in order.”

  “If you want to give us your information we can pass it on to Meaghan. It will be up to her to make contact.”

  “But she’s the one trying to find me?”

  “She doesn’t know about your,” I searched for the right phrase, “career choice yet. We just found out about it this afternoon, but like I said, you could give us your number.”

  White puffs of air burst from his lips, dissipated in the cold night. “I’m sorry, but as you now probably realize, my personal information is highly classified.” Rourke walked to his car door. “I’ll get Meaghan’s information one way or another.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Sean said, “Do you know anything about Mac Gladstone, Rourke?”

  His eyes flashed in surprise. “I know his work.”

  I bet he did.

  “He’s been missing for a month. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Sean asked.

  Tristan smiled again, wide and warm. He held up his hands in surrender. “Not my line of work, buddy.”

  The genuine surprise in his eyes had me believing him. But it was easy to get caught up in his aw-shucks personality and not see the criminal mastermind under the surface.

  Rourke suddenly shifted, his gaze intent on the little split-level ranch.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Anthony Spero was watching us through the front window.

  There was murder in Rourke’s eyes as he ducked into his car. He backed up, made a quick U-turn, and drove off.

  Sean pulled a hand over his face as he looked at me. “Think we should warn Spero?”

  Though Tristan claimed that wasn’t his “line of work,” he’d also just found out he’d been lied to all those years ago, that the girl he loved wasn’t dead after all. His whole life might have turned out differently, if only Anthony Spero had a decent bone in his body. “Nah. But I think we should warn his wife.”

  Truthfully, I really just wanted to go home, forget about everyone else for a while.

  Home.

  The word didn’t come with warm and fuzzies this time. As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help the knot of worry in my stomach. I hadn’t told Sean everything I’d seen in my vision.

  Some things were just too upsetting to talk about.

  12

  The Thomas Crane library wasn’t far from Quincy Center. We pulled up to the historic library, stunning with its stone and stained glass. Sean fed a meter while I bundled Thoreau in a blanket. “Now, no letting people steal you, okay?”

  He licked my nose.

  I took that as an agreement.

  Sean made sure the car was locked tight, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, “Not quite what I had planned for tonight.”

  “And what did you have planned, Mr. Donahue?”

  He leaned in, kissed the sensitive spot between my jawbone and my ear. “A little of this.” His lips dropped to my neck. “And a little of that.”

  “Only a little?”

  “We can negotiate.” He pulled open the door to the library. “And I’m not above bribery.”

  I let the joy chase away the long shadows cast by the vision. I smiled. “It’s good to have strong morals.”

  Inside, I asked a very stern older woman at the information desk if she could tell us where to find Mary Ellen.

  Her pursed lips flattened into a grim line. A lanyard hanging from her neck held a badge that said her name was Abigail A. “Is this personal or business?”

  It was definitely personal for Mary Ellen but business for us. I fudged the truth a little and said, “Business,” with as much confidence as I could muster. The situation seemed to call for a little deception. Abigail had a look about her; her severe brown bun, squinty eyes, and pointy chin had me thinking she had flying monkeys at her beck and call. She wouldn’t tolerate anything the least bit personal.

  She leveled me with a look that blatantly declared she didn’t believe me.

  Maybe I wasn’t so good a liar after all.

  I kept quiet, mostly to suppress my sudden need to confess my every transgression, from the time I added red food coloring to vases of Dovie’s prized white peonies to see if they’d turn color (they did) to when I’d “borrowed” my father’s Mercedes as a senior in high school so Marisol, Em, and I could drive to Providence to see a Pearl Jam concert.

  Sean turned on the charm, flashed his dimples. “It’s quite important we speak with her.”

  Abigail softened, dropping her shoulders, dipping her chin. It was the power of his dimples. Did it every time. Smiling shyly, she said, “Upstairs. Children’s.”

  As we headed for the steps, I said, “It’s not fair you have that kind of influence.”

  “You have your gifts, Ms. Valentine, and I have mine.”

  A little of this. And a little of that. I
could definitely attest to his gifts.

  “Humble, too,” I said, passing him on the steps. “I’ll race ya.” At the top, I looked back and my heart nearly dropped out of my chest.

  Sean was six steps down, bent at the waist, his hands to his chest. He was huffing and puffing.

  “Sean!” I ran down the stairs. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Oh my God. Oh my God. I knew this day would come. Hadn’t I taken CPR as a precaution for just this sort of thing? Shit. And I couldn’t remember a damn bit of it. Mouth-to-mouth, compressions. Gone. Poof.

  He looked up at me, winked, and took the stairs two at a time. “I win.”

  I stomped upward. “That wasn’t funny! You scared me half to death.”

  My heart was still pounding, quaking so hard it would cause the Richter scale to malfunction. In my mind, I saw him in my vision, deathly pale. Lifeless. But my vision had taken place at my cottage—not here—so I knew it was still in the future.…

  “Only half? I thought I’d rate a little higher than that.”

  I punched his arm. My hands were still shaking. “Right now you’re not rating at all.”

  He cupped my face, kissed me gently. “Now?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  His kiss deepened a bit. “Now?”

  My knees went rubbery. “A blip.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” he said solemnly.

  If I believed him—and I did—that meant in my vision he wasn’t faking. I fought against sudden tears and said, “Okay, you rate again. But only this much.” I held two fingers close together, a pinch.

  Almost two years ago, Sean had been working with the Boston Fire Department. He’d been on a call to a car accident and was pulling hose toward the crash when his world went dark.

  He’d died.

  Miraculously, he’d been brought back to life and an implanted defibrillator kept him that way. He’d had to quit his job, start his life over.

  But knowing his defibrillator could malfunction, that his damaged heart could give out at any moment, was never far from my thoughts. Especially now, after that vision.

  “What’s this?” Sean asked, wiping the tears. “Oh, Lucy. I’m sorry. Really.”

  “I love you,” I whispered.