Книга - A Sinclair Homecoming

A Sinclair Homecoming
Kimberly Van Meter


Free from the past Wade Sinclair knows you can't run from the past–he's tried. After his beloved sister was murdered, he ran from Alaska to California only to discover there was no escape. So when a family crisis calls him back, he discovers therapist Morgan O'Hare knee-deep in their affairs. As soon as he meets Morgan, he feels as if there is brightness in the world again.It would be inappropriate for them to get involved, yet the spark is irresistible. Wade never expected this kind of joy again. But is he really ready for this? Together, maybe they could find the strength to move on…if they're brave enough to try.







Free from the past

Wade Sinclair knows you can’t run from the past—he’s tried. After his beloved sister was murdered, he ran from Alaska to California only to discover there was no escape. So when a family crisis calls him back, he discovers therapist Morgan O’Hare knee-deep in their affairs. As soon as he meets Morgan, he feels as if there is brightness in the world again.

It would be inappropriate for them to get involved, yet the spark is irresistible. Wade never expected this kind of joy again. But is he really ready for this? Together, maybe they could find the strength to move on...if they’re brave enough to try.


“Can you help my mom?”

“I will certainly try,” Morgan answered. “A key to successful therapy is the patient’s willingness to accept help.”

“Well, she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the idea,” Wade admitted wryly. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” At Morgan’s quizzical expression, he said, “Simone’s death…”

“Ah, that. Yes, well, grief can cause all kinds of emotional as well as physical manifestations.”

“Well, some people aren’t as strong as others, I suppose.”

“It’s not a question of strength,” she corrected him with a gentle smile. “Some people find a way to cope but that doesn’t mean they’ve processed their feelings in a healthy manner.”

Why did it feel as though she was talking about him? “Well, at any rate…she’s ready for you. I just wanted to warn you before sending you into the lion’s den.”

“Thank you for trusting me with that information. Oh, and FYI, the coffee here will put hair on your chest. Very strong.” And then she left, coffee cup in hand, inadvertently causing a flush of awareness to remind him that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman.

He rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed by his inappropriate thought about his mother’s therapist.


Dear Reader (#u329c6c2e-de58-576c-a27c-cc7c9856fb52),

I confess, when I first started writing Morgan O’Hare and Wade Sinclair’s story, I wasn’t quite sure who they were aside from the superficial. It wasn’t until I dug deeper into their story that their hearts were revealed to me. That’s what makes my job as a writer so rewarding. I love discovering deeper meaning in the words and honoring the characters’ journey as they find love.

Wade and Morgan are two people who are strong, professional and capable, yet under the surface, they are seething with dark hurts which are preventing them from claiming their joy. The road to true happiness is never easy but it’s the only road worth traveling, in my opinion, and I hope you agree as you turn the pages on Wade and Morgan’s love affair.

I enjoy hearing from readers. I can be found on Facebook, Twitter and through my website at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com (http://www.kimberlyvanmeter.com), or you can send me something in the mail at P.O. BOX 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.

Kimberly Van Meter


A Sinclair Homecoming

Kimberly Van Meter






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for the Mills & Boon Superromance and Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense lines. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.


Contents

Dear Reader (#u85eafd35-8b38-53f5-bdac-26d4754cb537)

CHAPTER ONE (#u64063979-8ab8-5299-b137-430d97668da0)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc0bb79de-55ab-5f9a-affc-2c019520506d)

CHAPTER THREE (#u56eb0464-0057-5589-b643-808181faf084)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u3e7d314b-d317-5d99-aa8c-cd59460fdf27)

CHAPTER FIVE (#uacf4c821-1331-5ce4-9918-d445eb5c77b0)

CHAPTER SIX (#ube1f6482-9c06-56ff-b5f5-0d21f3cecef2)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u628891fa-6aac-55bc-b4c8-b83544d9ea8d)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

IF INSOMNIA WAS the devil’s handmaiden then Wade Sinclair was her bitch most nights.

Like tonight.

He rolled to his side, refusing to look at the red numbers glowing from his digital alarm clock because he didn’t want to know how much sleep he wasn’t getting. Five a.m. came early when operating on very little sleep.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried meditating but his mind was too unruly to cooperate.

Each time he came close to drifting to sleep, his baby sister’s face popped into his mental theater, and sleep fled like a deer with a cougar on its tail.

Simone—pretty, charming, too smart for her britches—dead.

It’s been eight years, he wanted to groan as if trying to negotiate with whatever demon prevented his eyes from closing and his mind from resting. How much longer was he supposed to carry this burden of unending grief and guilt?

He rolled to his feet and walked to the window to stare out across the forested land of the Yosemite National Park. But instead of California pines, he saw Alaskan hemlock and spruce, native to the Kenai mountains of his homeland. He saw the deep snow that had blanketed the ground and made the terrain hard to traverse. He saw his sister’s body trundled into the body bag as they carried her away.

This was Trace’s fault. If his brother hadn’t kept bugging him about coming home, he wouldn’t have been reminded daily of that awful day. No witnesses saw Simone climb into the car with her killer that night. No witnesses ever came forward to lend any clues.

And her killer continued to walk free.

Maybe that was what kept him awake at night.

No justice.

No closure.

And not even moving away to California had changed that.

His last conversation with Trace was too fresh in his mind to ignore, and he felt like a royal shit for being so curt with his younger brother, but he couldn’t drop everything in his life just to play mediator between his siblings and his parents. Just because he was the oldest didn’t mean he had the answers to every problem.

“It’s bad, man,” Trace had said emphatically. “I didn’t want to believe it but Mom is going to die in that house if we don’t do something. And Dad...he’s in total denial and too stoned half the time to be of any help.”

“I can appreciate that but I have responsibilities here that preclude me from hopping a plane anytime my family demands it,” he replied, giving more attention to an environmental impact survey than to what his brother was saying. “I’m sure it’ll blow over if you give it time.”

“Stop giving me your practiced administrator rhetoric and start acting as if you actually give a damn,” Trace said. “The house has been condemned. They wouldn’t do that if it weren’t necessary.”

“What do you mean condemned? Surely, that’s an overreaction to the situation,” he said, frowning. How bad could it be? His mother had never been a terribly neat and tidy person but she’d never been an abject slob. Their home had been lived in, but never dirty. “On whose authority?”

“Adult Protective Services. And they’re not going to let her back in until it’s been resolved to their satisfaction.”

He exhaled a breath of irritation. “So where is she staying now?”

“With a friend. But she keeps sneaking back to the house when no one is looking. Miranda has caught her there twice already. She’s acting like a kid who won’t take no for an answer. I’m worried about her mental health and that’s not an exaggeration. I can’t believe it, but Mom’s a hoarder.”

Maybe he could pencil in a day or two to fly over there...but even as the thought crossed his mind, he had to immediately cross it out. “We’ll just have to trust the authorities to handle the situation. They’re far more equipped to deal with someone in her situation than us.”

“I can’t believe it.” His brother’s incredulous tone made Wade shift in discomfort. There was no misunderstanding Trace’s disgust in his lack of action. “You’re willing to completely let our family twist in the wind because it’s too inconvenient to come home? Screw you, Wade. They’re your parents, too. Miranda’s been trying to handle this situation because neither of us held up our end but that’s done. We need you home. Now. And I don’t give a shit about your fancy admin job. Find a way. You’ve got to have personal leave available to you. Use it.”

Wade blinked against the harsh truth, surprised Trace had called him on the carpet. But even though Trace was right—he did have plenty of personal leave banked up—Wade didn’t want to go. He’d rather have his fingernails peeled off than board a plane for Alaska. And not even his brother’s contempt could compel him to return to the one place where ghosts from the past roamed free.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” he said, wiping at the sudden beads of sweat popping along his hairline and causing his skin to itch. He rubbed his hands on his slacks, realizing with a flush of shame he was being a coward but he wasn’t ready to go back to Alaska. He might never be. “You’ll just have to figure out something without me.” And then he’d hung up on his brother.

No one liked to admit when they’d acted less than heroically. And Wade knew leaving Alaska had been an act of cowardice but in the time since he’d been gone he’d worked hard to make a life for himself where he did good things and tried to make a difference.

So it chafed pretty hard when he found himself forced to be the bad guy.

He was the superintendent of a national park, not some paper-pushing, middle-management drone who could split at a moment’s notice just because someone in the city housing authority deemed his mother a bad housekeeper.

Things would blow over and everything would revert to the way it was before— perhaps no better—but at least no worse.

Yeah, so why did he feel as if something really bad were just around the corner?

Wade finally glanced at the alarm clock and noted with weary relief that 4:00 a.m. wasn’t the earliest he’d showered and started his day so he might as well get moving.

As he walked to the shower and turned the water on, he purposefully shoved all thought of his family to the bottom of his mental cache. He had his own life to live and he refused to feel guilty about it.

End of story.

* * *

MORGAN O’HARE WAS an excellent example of the fact that fidgeting was not reserved for children.

“Nervous?” a soft voice inquired gently and caused Morgan to jump. A plump, older woman with graying hair smiled and introduced herself, saying, “I’m Cora. Is this your first time to our grief support circle? I haven’t seen you before and I come every week.”

“Yes, actually,” Morgan answered, hesitating to strike up a conversation with the kind stranger. She knew support groups were useful—she often referred her own clients to such groups if the need arose—but she’d been unable to get herself to commit to one for herself. Even now, she’d traveled far from her own city of Homer to Anchorage to attend a meeting because she didn’t want anyone to know that she still hadn’t gotten over her husband’s death from three years ago. Intellectually, she knew that there was no statute of limitations on grief, but people had a tendency to judge just the same. And she couldn’t afford anyone in her own sphere to realize she was struggling when she counseled people every day on how to move on from their mental obstacles. Morgan focused a bright, engaging smile on Cora and said, “My name is Melinda.”

“Melinda, such a pleasure to meet you. Grab a cookie and a seat. The circle will start in five minutes.”

“Sounds good,” Morgan said, but knew she wouldn’t stay in spite of her best intentions the moment the fake name had slipped from her lips. She’d hoped that by making the commitment to drive all the way to Anchorage, she’d find the courage to cry in front of strangers, but when push came to shove, she couldn’t. And as more time went on, how could she explain that she couldn’t talk about the death of her husband without talking about that other thing that had happened, too?

“Melinda, are you coming?” Cora waved her over from the gathering circle of people as they took their seats, and Morgan nodded and waved but began backing toward the exit.

“I’ll be right there after I visit the ladies’ room,” she answered with a bright, entirely false smile. As soon as Cora turned away, Morgan booked it out of there with her heart pounding and her palms sweating. She didn’t feel halfway normal again until she’d put Anchorage miles behind her.

“Epic fail,” she muttered, borrowing a phrase from her younger clients. And embarrassing. An instant replay bloomed in her mind and she cringed. Why couldn’t she do this? Why couldn’t she sit in that damn chair and tell her story? Share her grief? Because staying silent was easier, less painful and less messy than letting it all out. She didn’t have time to grieve any longer. Her client list was long and her practice well-established. Morgan O’Hare was a respectable authority on mental health. She’d even written a book on the subject! And she was a damn hypocrite.

Morgan managed to make it home in time for her favorite show, and after wiping off her makeup and twisting her hair in a ponytail she settled into her late husband’s recliner and clicked on the television. Let the good times roll, she thought with a sigh, wondering if there would ever come a time when she didn’t feel like a fraud living someone else’s life.

Not likely if she couldn’t get past this. David died three years ago.

She wasn’t sure which stage of grief she was stuck in because she jumped between all the stages like a child playing hopscotch. Sometimes she was hurt; other times she was angry.

No, angry wasn’t a strong enough word.

She was enraged.

But she couldn’t show that side of her grief. People understood her tears; they wouldn’t understand her rage.

Morgan rose abruptly and padded into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and reached for the wine but then stopped. David’s favorite brand of pinot grigio awaited her as it always did but she wanted a beer. In the early days of their marriage, David had lightly chastised her penchant for beer as low-class and had endeavored to educate her palate. She supposed he’d succeeded for she dutifully drank the finest wines and could appropriately pair wines with their courses. But she really still preferred a cold beer.

Her daddy had always said he couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t share a beer with him.

Suffice to say, Daddy and David hadn’t been the best of friends.

Maybe her daddy had seen something she’d completely missed because she’d had hearts in her eyes.

“I wish I’d listened, Daddy,” Morgan murmured as she grabbed a beer by the neck and pulled it from the fridge. With two twists, she’d cracked the top and took a deep swig. “What do you think of that, David?” she asked to the empty kitchen. Nothing but silence answered. Great. She ought to get a cat if she was going to start having conversations with people who weren’t there.

People thought she didn’t date because she was afraid no one would be like David. Morgan always smiled and nodded, letting them go on thinking that.

The real truth? Morgan was afraid she’d find someone just like him.


CHAPTER TWO

WADE WAS DEEP in a meeting with the local county’s Native American leaders about passes for the indigenous people when his cell phone went off.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, chagrined at having forgotten to turn it to silent for the meeting. As he went to send the call to voice mail, he saw it was his sister, Miranda. Ordinarily, he would’ve ignored the call with the intent to call her back later but given everything that’d been going on lately with his family, he excused himself, saying, “I’m very sorry but I think I should take this call. I should only be about five minutes. Help yourself to a doughnut and some coffee.” He ducked out of the conference room at the tribal center and into the hallway to answer. “Hello?”

“Wade, it’s Miranda...something terrible has happened and you need to come home right away.” Before he could launch a response, she said, “Mom’s in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“She had a heart attack. The doctors were able to stabilize her but she’s already had surgery to have two stents put in. But it gets worse...because the first responders couldn’t get to her quickly, the heart muscle was damaged.”

“Why couldn’t the paramedics get to her?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. “Are the roads bad?”

“No, she was in that damn wreck of a house again and it was sheer dumb luck that she was able to call 911. But the paramedics could barely get inside the house and get to her.”

Wade remained silent for a moment as Trace’s conversation came back to him. He hadn’t actually believed his brother when he’d said their mom was a hoarder. Could it really be that bad? Surely not as bad as those people on that TLC show. But if the paramedics couldn’t get to her...the evidence seemed pretty damning. His gut ached as the realization hit that he couldn’t put off a trip home. “I’ll check the flights,” he said, the words slow to fall from his mouth. “Can you meet me at the airport?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pausing to add, “we really needed you sooner. This is a worst-case scenario that I was hoping to avoid. I mean, there was no way of knowing that Mom was going to have a heart attack, but I had a feeling something bad was going to happen in that house with the way that it is.”

“Okay, I’m coming home,” Wade muttered, guilt causing irritation to leach into his tone. Did his sister have to pound it into his head that he should’ve taken her concerns more seriously? He got it. Move on. “I’ll text you my flight information as I get it.”

“Okay,” she said, bristling a little. “Don’t get pissy with me just because you’re inconvenienced. You were raised better than that. You’re the big brother. Time to act like it.”

Now his little sister was schooling him? The day just kept getting better and better. “That’s unnecessary. Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Text me if Mom’s condition worsens. I will text you with my flight information. Bye.” He clicked off without waiting for Miranda’s response. He wasn’t about to trade words about his so-called lack of familial responsibility with either of his siblings. He had better things to do. He returned to the meeting with another brisk smile of apology and discussions continued around him but he had a hard time concentrating. He made appropriate responses but was glad when the meeting was over. After a few handshakes and exchanged pleasantries, Wade made a hasty exit straight to his office to book a flight.

* * *

MIRANDA TOSSED HER phone into her purse and tried to rein in her temper. Wade had balls the size of an elephant to be acting pissy with her after they’d tried and tried to get him to come home and help with their parents’ situation. Well, Mr. Big Shot, time to cancel that tee time because you’re needed at home. Tough titty. She didn’t feel bad for him one iota.

Jeremiah entered the room just as she’d emitted a short growl of frustration and he frowned. “Everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay. They are far from okay,” she muttered, then skewed her gaze to her fiancé with apology. “I’m sorry. My brothers tend to bring out the worst in me. That was Wade. He’s booking a flight...finally. It took a major catastrophe for him to board a damn plane, though, and that pisses me off. I’ve been dealing with Mom and Dad mostly on my own until Trace got involved, and now Wade is throwing a hissy fit—in his own controlled way—because we need him here. It drives me nuts that he manages to make me feel like the whiny nag because I need his help.”

“So your brother hasn’t been home since Simone died?” Jeremiah asked, making sure he had the facts straight about the family history. At Miranda’s nod, he sighed. “Well, I know a thing or two about running away from pain. Chances are if someone had forced my hand into returning to Wyoming before I was ready, I’d be less than social, too.”

Miranda cast Jeremiah a look of warning. “You’re not allowed to be on his side, just so you know. He’s wrong, and I’m right—drill that into your head and you won’t find yourself sleeping alone.”

“You’re such a bossy broad,” Jeremiah said, pulling her into his arms with a chuckle. “If I didn’t know how much you enjoy my company at night, I’d take that threat with more seriousness. But before you get your panties twisted in a knot, know that I’m on your side—that goes without saying. However, your family has been through the ringer...and everyone deals with their pain differently. Cut him some slack. He might not be happy about it, but at least he’s boarding that plane. Right?”

She grudgingly agreed, hearing the wisdom in Jeremiah’s perspective. “Simone’s been gone eight years. It’s time everyone puts her to rest.”

“Wise words from the woman who up until a few months ago was still drowning her pain in booze and men.”

“Ouch. If being on my side means you don’t pull your punches, don’t be on my side,” Miranda grumbled against his chest. She took a moment to enjoy the simple pleasure of being snuggled against the man she loved and then said, “Well, I guess you’re right. Maybe we’ll get lucky and whatever Wade needs to heal will come to him. Mamu says that the ancestors bring us what we need, when we need it.”

“And do you believe that?” Jeremiah asked as Miranda pulled away.

“Maybe. It seems to have worked out that way for me and Trace. Maybe it’ll be that way with Wade, too. Although, he’s the most rigid out of all of us, so even if what he needed was standing right in front of him with a big neon sign, he’d probably refuse to see it.”

“He has that Sinclair stubbornness in spades, huh?”

“Oh, yeah...my older brother could write a book on how to be a stubborn jackass.”

“That’s saying something because you and Trace... Well, I’d say you’re both pretty stubborn.”

“Only when people don’t agree that our way is the best way,” she quipped half joking. When Jeremiah’s mouth lifted in a wry grin she conceded, “All right, I see your point but don’t push your luck. No one likes to be reminded of their shortcomings. Shall I list a few of your less than desirable personality traits?”

“Point taken.” He grinned. “Now, are we going to eat lunch or go straight to afternoon delight? Your tirade against your brother has eaten into our lunch breaks. I’m not sure we have time for both.”

Miranda grabbed Jeremiah by the tie and began leading him to the bedroom. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway. C’mon, you big, sexy man o’mine. Let’s see how well you perform under pressure.”

“Baby, I eat pressure for lunch. I’m an administrator, remember?”

She laughed and they disappeared behind their bedroom door.

And for the next thirty minutes, Miranda’s thoughts were blissfully free of any member of her damn family.

* * *

MORGAN WAS BUSY studying her case notes for her next client when her secretary, Remy, came into her office with a scandalized expression on his face. With Remy, she never knew if he was simply being theatrical or if there was something truly scandalous to share. At any rate, Remy was entertaining at the very least. And he was family so she’d long since given up trying to change him. Not that she would if she could. Remy kept her sane around a bunch of crazies, as he put it.

“Girlfriend, you are not going to believe what file just crossed my desk for processing.” Without waiting for Morgan to guess, Remy said, “You remember those poor Sinclairs? You know the family whose girl was killed all those years ago by some psycho? Well, seems the mama has gone and had a heart attack and now Adult Protective Services is involved. They want a full evaluation of her mental status, if you know what I mean.”

Morgan frowned and accepted the file from Remy. “Why would APS need an eval after a heart attack? What am I missing here?”

“Check out the pics in the file,” Remy said.

Morgan opened the file and pulled aside the intake paperwork to see the enclosed pictures. She stared in shock. “Oh, my...word...” Her gaze returned to Remy. “She’s a hoarder?”

“Either that or she’s auditioning for world’s worst housekeeper,” Remy quipped.

“Oh, dear...that poor family,” Morgan said under her breath as she went through the pictures. Clutter of all sorts, from brand-new items to trash, littered every available space in the modest home and choked the halls. She returned to the intake paperwork. “It says here the paramedics couldn’t get to her because of the mess. It’s a wonder she was able to call 911. This is just awful. That family has been through so much already.”

“Oh, and it gets worse,” Remy said, delighted to have some relevant gossip. “On the day that APS booted her from the house and condemned it, police arrested the father for marijuana cultivation. He’s been in jail for weeks. Wouldn’t let anyone post bail. That’s a weird thing. Why would anyone want to sit it out in jail?”

“Maybe he felt more in control there,” Morgan answered, though her attention was on the Sinclair mom.

“How does being locked up make you feel more in control?” Remy asked. “I would say that’s the opposite of being in control when someone else is telling you when to eat, when to sleep and when to go outside.”

Morgan paused in her reading to answer her inquisitive cousin. “Well, if he has a substance-abuse problem and he doesn’t think he has the willpower to stay clean, being in jail takes care of that problem, doesn’t it?” Remy recognized the rhetorical nature of her question and shrugged.

“I suppose.”

“Well, at any rate, the father’s problems aren’t my concern. Adult Protective Services wants me to evaluate the mom so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make time to do it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to keep your lip zipped about confidential cases, right?”

“Honey, now you’re just being rude. Of course I don’t talk about your crazies to anyone else.”

“Please don’t call them that. It’s insulting.”

“Oh, fine. You’re in a mood today. Is it time for Aunt Flo to visit?” But Remy didn’t stick around for an answer and sashayed from the room. That man drove her nuts at times but out of anyone in her family, Remy was the one who knew her secrets and never whispered them to a soul. For that, she was forever grateful.

Shaking off the odd vibe of her wandering thoughts, she shoved the file into her satchel to read at home tonight. In the meantime, her next client was scheduled in ten minutes and she still hadn’t finished going over her notes. Time to get to work.


CHAPTER THREE

THE TENSION BETWEEN Wade and his brother, Trace, was like a living, breathing thing, wedging itself in the open space as they traversed the sanitized halls of South Peninsula Hospital to their mother’s recovery room.

“Whatever you do, don’t go making promises that she can move back home,” Trace said. “Until Adult Protective Services says the house is fit for human habitation, she can’t move back, and trust me, it’s going to take a whole lot of cleaning to put that house back together again.”

“Fine. What’s this about Dad refusing bail?”

“He doesn’t want to come home, I guess,” Trace answered with a shrug. “But he’s not my concern. He can sit in that jail all he wants. Better for him, anyway. We have bigger problems and Dad’s booming drug business isn’t one of them.”

Wade exhaled in irritation. Trace wasn’t one to exaggerate but surely it couldn’t be as bad as everyone was making it out to be. Seemed everyone was running around being Chicken Little. So the house was a mess. They’d clean it and set things to right. Shouldn’t be a case for so much hand-wringing. He checked his watch. “After we see Mom, drop me off at the house and I’ll pick up Mom’s car to use while I’m here. No sense renting a car when there’s one sitting in the driveway.”

“Fine. But don’t try to go into the house at night.”

“And why is that?” he asked, irritated. “Is the boogeyman going to jump out from underneath the sofa?”

“No, smart-ass, you might trip and cause an avalanche and then we’ll have two family members in the hospital. I know you don’t believe me but you will when you see the house.”

Trace was right; Wade didn’t believe him. The house couldn’t be that bad. He grew up in that house. There was no way his mother had turned into the kind of person who hoarded to a dangerous level. The idea—well, the idea was too much for him to imagine or accept.

“Just so I know...am I going to get the cold shoulder the entire time I’m here?” he asked Trace.

“Depends. Are you going to start being part of the solution or part of the problem?”

“What are you talking about? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Because our mother had a heart attack. Tell me if she hadn’t, that you would be here like we asked you to be.”

He couldn’t rightly say that and Trace knew it. “Some of us have lives that we can’t just drop because something is going on at home.”

“Don’t start acting like your job is superior to everyone else’s. We all have personal lives that are being disrupted by the current situation. You haven’t cornered the market on being inconvenienced.”

“That’s a pretty big glass house you’re standing in, don’t you think?” Wade said. “Seems to me you’re being a bit of a hypocrite.”

“I’ve already made amends and apologies for my actions. How about you? Besides, me and Miranda are square. I can’t say the same for you. I was a dick for leaving her holding the bag with our parents and I own that. It’s time for you to pony up, too.”

“Don’t lecture me, little brother. I’m in no mood.”

“Well, step up and I won’t have to. Did it occur to you that I need my big brother? Yeah...well, I was counting on your support. Imagine my surprise when I was flatly denied. Didn’t feel good.”

“Are you finished crying? Jeez, Trace, when did you turn into such a girl?”

“Screw you, Wade. When did you turn into such a prick?”

A nurse shushed them with a warning look when their voices threatened to get louder. Trace buttoned up but looked filled with the need to say a whole lot more. Thank God for small favors. Wade’s head was splitting from a long flight seated next to a crying kid and he was ready for a beer and bed. “Can we just get this over with? It’s been a long day.”

Trace nodded and they walked into their mother’s room. Wade stared. Wires and tubes flowed in and out of his mother, while electronics monitored her every function. A bubble of fear rose in his throat at the realization that his mother could’ve truly died. Intellectually, he knew that as he grew older, so did his parents but in his mind, his parents were the same as they ever were. He was wrong.

“Mama.” The word slipped from his mouth in a worried whisper, echoing the shock of seeing her so diminished and frail.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she focused on her sons. It took a moment for her to realize it was her oldest son before a wan but happy smile followed. “W-Wade?” She lifted her hand and motioned for him to come closer.

Wade forced a smile past his frozen lips and approached her bedside to hold her hand gingerly. “Hey there, Mama...what kind of trouble are you up to that I had to come all the way home?” he teased as he bent to kiss her cheek.

“My beautiful boy is home,” Jennelle murmured, tears leaking from her eyes. “It’s been too long, son.”

The mild admonishment landed like a pair of cement boots and he had to force himself not to get defensive. “Not from choice, Mama,” he lied. “But I’m here now so let’s focus on that, okay?”

She smiled and weakly squeezed his hand. “Absolutely. My boy is home. That’s all that matters.”

In spite of being irritated as hell at Trace, he winced at their mother’s exclusion of her other son. She must be pissed because she wouldn’t even glance Trace’s way. And if there was any confusion as to just how she felt, Jennelle clarified by saying to Trace, “You can go, now. I’d like to speak with the one child who hasn’t betrayed me.”

“Ahhh, c’mon, Mom,” Trace groaned, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Don’t start that crap again.”

She closed her eyes. “Make him go away, Wade.”

Wade sighed, caught in a bad spot. He looked to Trace, beseeching him to give them a few minutes, and Trace muttered something unflattering under his breath but ducked out.

Once they were alone, Wade said, “Mama, aren’t you being a bit harsh? You know Trace and Miranda are worried about you.”

“Judases, the both of them,” Jennelle said. “Kicked me out of my own home. Never thought I’d see the day when my own flesh and blood turned on me like that.” A tear appeared at the corner of her eye, and Wade wiped it away gently. She smiled gratefully. “I know you’d never do something like that. You and Simone were always the ones who were on my side. No matter what.”

He bit his tongue. He loved his mother dearly but she had a habit of being manipulative when it served her. Apparently, that hadn’t changed. “Mama, tell me about what Adult Protective Services said. I don’t understand how they could kick you from your home if there wasn’t cause.”

She withdrew her hand and shook her head, bewildered. “I don’t know. It had to be Miranda’s influence. She’s so tight with those government types. She’s been on a crusade to oust me from my home for months and she finally accomplished it!” Jennelle gasped, wincing with pain, and Wade knew he’d have to see for himself what was going on.

“It’s okay, Mama...we’ll get this figured out. I promise.”

“Bless you, son,” she said, her eyes watering. “I feel so much better knowing you’re home. I’ve been so alone. Being attacked by your own children will do that to you.”

Wade didn’t believe that Trace and Miranda had deliberately ousted their mother, which meant there had to be more to the story than Jennelle was sharing. However, as weak as she was, now was not the time to drag it out of her.

He smiled and patted Jennelle’s hand gently. “I want you to rest. Trace is going to take me to the house and I’m going to pick up your car to drive while I’m in town. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course, honey. No sense in spending good money if you don’t have to. That’s my frugal boy.” Her voice hardened. “But don’t you let either of those turncoats into my house. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama. I hear you. Now you rest. You hear me?”

Her eyelids closed on a relieved sigh, and Wade left the room to find Trace. He found Trace and Miranda talking with another woman in the lobby.

Miranda saw him first and motioned for him to join them. “Wade, perfect timing. This is Morgan O’Hare. She’s been assigned Mom’s case through Adult Protective Services.”

He frowned, his gaze snagging on the attractive woman. She stopped talking to Miranda to smile at Wade, and he was struck by how blue her eyes were from behind elegant, dark-framed glasses. She came forward with her hand outstretched. “Hello. I’m Dr. O’Hare but you can call me Morgan if you like. I can appreciate the sensitive nature of the situation and I can assure you I will do my best to see that your mother gets the care she needs.”

Wade accepted the perfunctory handshake but wasn’t quite clear what was happening. “I don’t understand...why is my mother being evaluated?” He looked to his siblings for answers but it was Dr. O’Hare who answered.

“Wade, because of the unique situation surrounding your mother’s heart attack and the state of your mother’s house, APS feels it’s prudent to assess your mother’s mental state to find if she’s competent to assume responsibility for her care.”

“Whoa, whoa...wait a minute...are you saying that my mother’s mental health is being questioned simply because she’s fallen down on her housekeeping?” he asked, horrified at this turn of events. It was one thing to deal with their family’s problems internally and quite another to have complete strangers poking around. His family had suffered plenty of that when Simone had died. Seemed everyone had had a reason to poke, stare or flap their gums about business that was none of theirs. “I think we all just need to take a step back and stop overreacting.”

Miranda glared. “You know it’s not that. As if we’d be so petty as to go through all of this over a little clutter? Honestly, Wade, pull your head out of your butt for just a minute and hear what Dr. O’Hare is saying.”

The pretty doctor smiled in spite of the tension and said, “A situation like this is rife with tension within the family. I can suggest a good family therapist if you’d like.”

“I don’t need a therapist. My mother doesn’t need a therapist,” he growled at the doctor and jerked his thumb at his siblings. “You two...may I have a moment, please?”

Miranda sent a quick look of apology to the doctor as they followed Wade a few feet away. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said to Wade. “You haven’t seen the house so you don’t know what we’ve been dealing with. What I’ve been dealing with! I knew something like this was going to happen and I hate to say that it sucks to be right. That house is not the house you remember—because it’s buried under a half ton of mess!”

“Settle down. I think we’re jumping the gun a bit,” Wade said, trying to rein his own temper. “Let’s just stop a minute and assess before we run off half-cocked, making decisions that have long-reaching consequences.”

“How much more of a consequence needs to happen before you realize what’s going on? Our mother is a hoarder. She nearly died in her own house because the paramedics couldn’t get to her,” Trace added in a harsh whisper. “Remember how I asked if you were going to be part of the problem or the solution? Well, now’s the time to decide.”

“And I told you I’m here,” Wade reminded him, trying hard not to clench his teeth. The Sinclairs had never been accused of suffering a shortage of stubbornness and that stubbornness was in full swing among all three. “But I’m not about to be reprimanded by the two of you for my supposed shortcomings. We have a situation that needs to be taken care of, so I suggest we do it without causing further embarrassment to our family.”

Miranda flushed and nodded but she looked as if razors were stuck in her throat. “Fine. But you have to accept that Mom needs help and has needed that help for some time now.”

“Perhaps. I am reserving judgment until I have seen for myself this supposed condemned situation at our parents’ home.”

Trace chuckled with a shake of his head. “Fine. You stubborn jackass. See for yourself. I’m done with this conversation and done with your holier-than-thou attitude. Miranda, he’s all yours.” And then Trace stalked off, leaving Wade and Miranda to deal with the doctor.

“That was real mature,” he muttered, bracing his hands on his hips as Miranda shook her head as if ticked off with both her brothers. “Let’s get this settled,” he said and returned to the awaiting doctor.

“I apologize for the flared tempers. We don’t always see eye to eye,” Wade said. “Thank you for coming down but I don’t think we’ll be needing your services. My family prefers to handle the situation privately.”

Dr. O’Hare blinked as if she didn’t quite understand and then shook her head, puzzled. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear but due to the circumstances, I am required to give your mother a full mental-health evaluation.”

“She doesn’t need a mental-health evaluation,” he said, looking to Miranda for help, but she remained silent, and he knew he was on his own. “Listen, my mother has been under some strain but I think with the help of her family, we can mitigate whatever concerns Adult Protective Services has.”

Morgan pushed her glasses farther on her nose with a small, precise movement and said, “I can appreciate the terrible strain your mother has been under as well as your entire family, given your circumstances, but the evaluation is mandatory.”

Wade was losing ground quickly. He crossed his arms. “This is borderline ridiculous.”

“I agree.” She smiled but he got the distinct impression she was referring to him and not Adult Protective Services. Opening her file, she selected one of the glossy eight-by-ten photos taken by APS when the house was condemned. “Mr. Sinclair, I find a picture to be worth a thousand words in these types of situations.” She handed him the photo with a brisk but apologetic smile. “It can be a shock to see a family member living like this, and denial is common. But as you can see...your mother was living in very dangerous conditions.”

What the... Wade stared at the photo, unable to comprehend what he was staring at. Nothing looked remotely familiar from his childhood. He wasn’t even sure what room he was staring at because everything was obliterated by floor-to-ceiling junk. “What the hell...?” he breathed, shooting a shocked look at his sister. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Miranda was neither shocked nor surprised and proceeded to explain. “That’s the living room. Or at least, it used to be. See that tiny, clogged walkway? That’s the hallway toward what used to be our bedrooms. Simone’s bedroom is off to the left. And the kitchen...well, you ought to be lucky that picture isn’t a scratch-and-sniff. She’s been sleeping in the bathtub for months.”

Wade stared at his sister. His mother had been sleeping in a bathtub? “How do you know this?”

“Talen told me. She tried to deny it but it’s true.”

Wade returned the photo, sick to his stomach. The pounding behind his eyeball had turned into a battering ram against his skull. He’d wanted to believe that his siblings had exaggerated, that somehow this was all some big misunderstanding but there was no misinterpreting that picture. Mounds of unrecognizable garbage and clutter filled every nook and cranny that he could see. And if the entire house was like that? “How’d this happen?” he asked, talking out loud mostly to himself. He didn’t expect an answer.

“It’s too early to tell until I’ve done a full evaluation but I do know a little bit about your family’s personal history, and I’d say this may stem from grief that never found an appropriate outlet.”

Simone. Everything always spiraled back to Simone. Of course it did. “My sister.”

“Yes.”

Miranda piped in, saying, “Mom won’t let anyone into Simone’s room anymore. It’s weird, almost as if she’s trying to forget that Simone is gone. She spends a lot of time in that room.”

“Have you been in there?”

Miranda shook her head. “She guards it like a watchdog. I don’t know what’s going through that head of hers.”

So much for a quick three-day trip to sort out details. “What do you need from us?” he asked, resigned.

“Just your cooperation. She’ll need your support but she also needs to know that you’re not going to enable her to hurt herself again. It’s a delicate balance of support and tough love. I won’t sugarcoat things...these types of situations are hard on everyone involved but I have seen positive outcomes with proper therapy.”

“My mom will never agree to therapy,” he said grimly. “I can tell you that right now.”

“Well, you’d be surprised what motivates people. That’s where the support comes in. I’ll wait to introduce myself until tomorrow, seeing as I’ve already made contact with you. Likely, what I have to say is going to be upsetting.”

Upsetting? That was too mild of a word. He nodded. “What time?”

“How’s 10:00 a.m.?”

He looked to Miranda. “That works for me. How about you?”

She nodded. “I’ll check with Trace.”

“Thanks.” He had no wish to talk to his brother at the moment. He returned to the doctor. “We’ll be here.”

Dr. O’Hare smiled. “Excellent. It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances.”

It was probably a standard comment meant to relax people but Wade caught a flash of genuine emotion in her eyes. Or at least, he thought he did. Hell, maybe he was seeing things. Everything in his world had just been tipped on its ass. He ducked his head to the doctor in goodbye and he and Miranda left the hospital to go pick up his mom’s car.

His last thought as Dr. O’Hare walked away—inappropriate and flustering—was how pretty she was and how he wished she’d been a wizened old man with a bald head and knobby knuckles.

If that were the case he surely wouldn’t be spending undue time thinking of those deep blue eyes behind those designer frames.

And what the hell was he doing thinking of any woman in that capacity? He’d told himself he was going to take a breather in the romance department after suffering through a particularly uncomfortable breakup with Elizabeth, his mostly casual bed partner. Well, he’d thought what they were doing was casual. When he realized Elizabeth had different ideas, he’d decided to cut ties. Better that way than dragging out something that was never going to go where she’d hoped it would.

So that left the question: Why was he noticing how deep and blue Dr. O’Hare’s eyes were? Had to be the strain of the moment because if he were thinking straight... Hell, no. It just wouldn’t happen.

Besides, he had a feeling things were going to get worse before they got better—and that pretty doc was going to be in the center of it all.

And not in a good way.


CHAPTER FOUR

MORGAN LEFT THE HOSPITAL, thinking of the Sinclair family and everything they’d been through over the years. She remembered when the youngest Sinclair went missing and then was found the following day by Trace Sinclair, frozen to death on the mountain. The poor girl had been brutalized and left to die. So pretty, so young. It’d been a senseless tragedy that’d scared the entire town. For weeks everyone had been on hyperalert, terrified that the killer was among them. Her father had been paranoid, insisting on a strict curfew for his kids, particularly his daughters. Her younger sister, Mona, had actually known Simone. They hadn’t been friends, per se, but Simone had been a tidal wave of charisma and it’d been difficult to prevent getting swept up in her energy. Mona had told her how pretty and sweet Simone had been.

Cheerleader, dance team, pep club, French club—the girl had been into everything.

And then, just like that, she was gone. Her life snuffed out at the whim of a psychopath. Add in the fact that her killer had never been caught and well, it created a perfect cocktail for paranoia in a small town.

Morgan vaguely recalled Wade from school—he’d been older than she was in school—and of course everyone had had a crush on Trace, even though he’d been over the moon gaga for Delainey Clarke. But she remembered that Wade had been the quiet one. She also remembered that he drove a burgundy Chevy Blazer. Why she remembered that, she didn’t know. Well, time had been kind to the Sinclairs in ways that fate had not. They were a good-looking bunch. No quirks of DNA in that chain.

She also remembered that David hadn’t liked the Sinclairs, particularly Trace. More than likely because the Sinclair brothers were athletic, ruggedly handsome and smart and the girls were beautiful, both in different ways. Ahh, David and his opinions. He’d had so many of them. And of course, if she didn’t share his opinions, he’d had ways of impressing upon her his wisdom. Morgan suppressed a shudder and couldn’t help the glance over her shoulder, even though she knew her dead husband wasn’t going to be behind her, watching.

He’d always been watching. Waiting for her to screw up so that he could correct her. Lovingly, of course.

Stop thinking of him! He’s gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Morgan climbed into her Lexus and closed the door a bit more forcefully than she intended, and the sharp sound caused her to jump. Her heart pounded, and she emitted a shaky laugh at her foolishness. All she needed was time. Time to heal. Time to forget.

But even as she rattled off to herself the same advice she gave others, she knew, in her case, it was a lie because there were some things that not even time could erase.

The punishments. The rigid adherence to certain rules. David’s rules. That even now, three years later, she couldn’t free herself from. A part of her lived in fear that David might pop from the shadows and discover that the towels in the downstairs bathroom were not lined up properly nor were they color coordinated. It was a small thing. But not in David’s world. And subsequently not in hers. Usually, she could keep the memories from biting but tonight was proving more difficult as a particularly brutal one began nipping at her thoughts.

“Morgan...would you come here, please.”

Morgan stilled the chopping of celery and swallowed, a familiar trickle of fear following the knowledge that he was in the bathroom. Hadn’t she replaced the linens with fresh stock this morning? David preferred everything clean, particularly for the guest bathroom as that was the room others would see. Of course, it made sense to ensure the guest bathroom was spotless. Impressions were important.

“Coming,” she answered, placing the knife on the cutting board and carefully wiping her hands on her apron and not on the dish towel as David had taught her.

She rounded the corner and saw David scowling in obvious displeasure at the spotless marble counter. “Can you tell me what is amiss here?”

Morgan tried not to tremble as her gaze quickly searched for what was out of place. Her stare settled on the tiny soap ooze from the dispenser. Hadn’t she wiped it down after using it? A bead of sweat popped along her brow in spite of the subtle chill of the house. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix it right away,” she said, moving to clean the soap dispenser but he caught her hand in a tight grip, squeezing the bones until she winced. “I-I’m sorry...I didn’t mean—”

“What would people think about our home if they saw this? Can we not keep a tidy home? Are we slobs?”

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

“No, we are not,” he agreed, tossing her hand away and grabbing a handful of hair in a move so fast she almost didn’t see it coming. Almost. Pain exploded as he wrenched her to her knees, practically dragging her from the bathroom. “I do this because I love you,” he yelled, his face livid with rage. “You must enjoy these punishments because you make me do these things.” He shook her hard. “Do you hear me? I love you! Someday you will learn and I won’t have to do these terrible things to you anymore. Don’t you want that?”

“Y-yes! Please, David! Please!” She cried, her knees bruising from the hardwood floor. “I’ll do better next time. I promise!”

“Lies...all you do is lie to me when I give you the best of everything. How did I get saddled with such an ungrateful bitch for a wife?” He tossed her away like garbage and she nearly shuddered with relief, believing his rage was spent but she was wrong. Suddenly, he buried his booted foot in her stomach and she blacked out from the pain.

The next day she’d bled out the remains of the child she hadn’t known she was carrying.

Six weeks was barely pregnant, she’d told herself as she’d tried to get over her grief. If David hadn’t been worried that he’d ruptured something internal when she wouldn’t stop bleeding, she might never have known about the child.

And David had been so remorseful.

Almost sweet—for a time.

“Baby, you’re my life. I am nothing without you,” David had cried, clinging to her, demanding her comfort even though she was numb with shock. “I don’t know what came over me. I am completely distraught over what happened. You know it was an accident, right?”

“Of course,” she murmured, stroking his hair with mechanical motions. David liked his hair gently stroked in a certain way. Although the hospital had recommended that she stay overnight, David had been insistent that he would care for her. Lying in their bed as David wept, Morgan had wished for the solitude of a hospital room. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you push me to do those things?” he asked plaintively. “And why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

“I didn’t know.”

He pressed a tender kiss to her belly and hugged her tightly. “To think...my child had been growing right here... I am beside myself over what happened.” His words had seemed so sincere, so racked with grief that she’d actually begun to wonder if things were going to get better. Perhaps a child would heal what was broken between them. “Can you ever forgive me, my love?”

“Of course,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. Six weeks pregnant was hardly pregnant at all. They could try again. They would try again. And everything would be wonderful again.

Morgan closed her eyes, hating that she was stuck remembering old history when she tried so hard to forget. Maybe it was the Sinclair case dredging up the past. Or maybe it was her failed attempt to go to grief counseling. But either way, she wanted to be done with it.

Startled, she realized tears were tracking down her face. Damn it. She wiped at her face with a tissue and forced a bright smile. That’s it. Smile. David is dead. No one knows your secret and everything is fine.

Just fine.

Morgan squared her shoulders and put the car into Drive, making a mental note to order new tires before the snow season started.

* * *

WADE WAS SILENT most of the drive to their parents’ house but his mind was anything but still. “I don’t understand,” he said finally, shifting in the passenger seat as he tried to make sense of everything. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t happen overnight. You know me and Mom have always had a rocky relationship so I wasn’t spending a lot of time at the house, plus with Dad doing his marijuana growing, I didn’t want to know too much. And frankly, I had my own stuff I was going through. I didn’t have time to try and figure out what was going wrong with Mom and Dad. I thought they’d work it out somehow. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized that things had gotten way out of control. By that time, it was more than I could handle on my own.”

“But this sort of hoarding takes years to accumulate, right?”

“Yes and no. I mean, Mom’s always been a collector so I was used to seeing gobs of stuff piling up here and there but it didn’t get to this point until the last year. I think it has a lot to do with Dad moving out to the shed to be closer to his marijuana. Maybe it was the final straw.”

“And Dad is sitting things out in jail right now?”

“Yeah. Both Rhett Fowler and Trace tried to bail him out but Dad refused. So he’s there to stay at least until we can get things figured out with Mom. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him, too.”

Wade agreed, rubbing at his eyes. “Do you have any aspirin? My head is splitting.”

“Glove compartment.”

Wade reached in and grabbed the bottle, shaking out two tablets and tossing them back without water. He’d crunch them like candy if he had to to make this pain stop. They rolled up to the house, and he hated how desolate and empty the place looked. Helluva homecoming. They exited the car, and he surveyed the land. Still beautiful. His parents’ place was backed up to the national forest, which gave it an enviable backdrop but an unenviable position of fending off the wildlife at times. “Nothing changes about those mountains,” he murmured mostly to himself. “Brings back memories.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Miranda smiled and then gestured grimly for him to follow. “Let’s get this over with. The tour is a short one.”

Wade followed his sister to the house and after unlocking the door, ducked under the caution tape stretched across it and walked into what used to be his childhood home.

Used to be was the appropriate phrase. “What the...” Ah, hell—the picture didn’t do the actual situation justice. “She lived in this?” He covered his nose as the smell hit him. “Oh, God. What is that stench?”

“Your guess is as good as mine but as far as I can tell, it’s coming from the kitchen.” Miranda pushed past a pile of magazines and books and danced out of the way as they tumbled to the floor. “Careful. You never know what might come tumbling down.” They pushed toward what had once been Simone’s room and bracing himself, Wade opened the door.

“Are you kidding me?” he breathed against the reveal. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, Simone’s room looked as it did the day she died. He looked to Miranda and she appeared just as stricken. “What the hell is going on? It feels like a shrine.”

“That’s because it is.” Miranda was just as horrified. “I can’t believe that dotty woman would do this. Simone didn’t even live here anymore when she died! She lived with me that summer.”

As Wade surveyed the room, creeped out by the feeling that Simone might pop from a shadow, he realized any hope he might have harbored of a quick resolution died as the knowledge that their mother might very well need professional help, after all, sank in.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said curtly, motioning for Miranda to leave. He closed the door behind them, and they made their way free from the claustrophobic clutter of their parents’ home. Once clear, Miranda locked the front door and handed Wade the keys, which also had the car keys. He accepted the keys and drew a deep breath, even though his chest felt as if an elephant had stomped on it. He opened his mouth but didn’t have the words. Miranda seemed to understand. She hugged him tightly and simply nodded. He appreciated her silence. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to stay. In the end, he knew he’d have to do both.

“Where are you staying?” she asked as they broke apart. “You can stay with me if you want. I live in town. Trace and Delainey live outside of town. Both of us have a spare bedroom. Take your pick.”

“Thanks but I booked a hotel. I managed to find something in town that was reasonable.”

“Talen is going to be bummed. He was looking forward to meeting Uncle Wade in person.”

Wade always made sure to send his only nephew a birthday card with money but he’d actually never met the kid. He forced a smile. “I’d love to but I think I need a little time to process. But let Talen know that I will definitely see him before I leave, okay?”

“He’ll be so excited. He said you always send the best presents. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

Well, his secretary, Nancy, deserved most of the credit for his gift choices as she had a son around the same age and always pitched in with suggestions when Wade was unsure. He ought to come clean but he was tired and ready to put an end to this day. “Dinner sounds good,” he agreed, and they hugged again before climbing into separate cars and driving off in separate directions.

He needed to put some distance between himself and everything he’d just discovered.

Hell, he needed a beer and sleep.

Tomorrow would come all too soon—and with it, one helluva fight.


CHAPTER FIVE

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Jennelle started, her lip trembling as her gaze darted from Wade to Morgan O’Hare. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need an evaluation. I’m not crazy!”

“No one is saying you’re crazy,” Morgan assured Jennelle with a pleasant smile that was completely lost on Jennelle because she was getting mad. “Due to the state of your home and your refusal to stay out of the home until it’s been cleared, APS felt it prudent to do a mental-health evaluation. I assure you, nobody thinks you’re crazy. You’ve been through an ordeal and everyone, including your children, has your best interests at heart. Isn’t that right, Wade?”

Pulled into the conversation, Wade had no choice but to pick a side. And if he wasn’t telling that woman to go stick her mental eval up her backside, he wasn’t on his mother’s side. But he’d prefer to do this without the audience of a stranger. He looked to Morgan and asked, “Can I have a moment with my mother, please?”

“Of course,” she said. “How about I grab a coffee in the lounge? Would that give you enough time?”

He nodded, and Morgan exited the room, the sharp click of her heels receding down the hall. Wade sighed as he came around to his mother’s side, saying, “Here’s the deal, Mama...I’ve seen the house. No more games. No more lies.”

“What are you saying? Are you calling me a liar? Wade Neal Sinclair, shame on you. I’ve never lied to you in my life.”

“Mama, that house ought to be burned to the ground,” he said, shocking her. “I don’t even have words to describe the mess you’ve got going on in that place. And the smell? I nearly threw up. I couldn’t handle being in there for longer than five minutes. And then Miranda tells me that you’ve been sleeping in the bathtub? What the hell is that about? C’mon, Mama...you’ve gotta know that’s not okay.”

Her chin lifted. “That Miranda is the problem. She’s got you all riled up.”

“No. Miranda isn’t the problem. I hate to say this but it seems, right now, you’re the problem.” At her pale and wounded expression, Wade tried to soften the blow. “Mama...I know you’ve had a rough time of things with Simone dying but she wasn’t your only child. We all loved her but we have to let her go.”

“Don’t tell me about letting go. I’m sick and tired of everyone talking about things they know nothing about. You don’t have children and I pray that when you do, you never know the pain of losing one.” Tears welled in Jennelle’s eyes and her heart monitor began to beep in warning.

Ah, hell, that can’t be good. He’d gone and upset her. He started to apologize but Jennelle’s watery cry strangled the life out of him. “Simone was my special g-girl and you can’t tell me to s-stop missing her.”

Helplessness overwhelmed him at the evidence of his mother’s unhealthy grief, and he didn’t know what to do or say that wouldn’t make it worse—was that possible?—but he knew things had to change. “Of course not, Mama,” he said in a conciliatory manner meant to be soothing. “We all miss her. But...there was something creepy about that room.” He knew instinctively that he probably shouldn’t mention he’d seen the room but damn it, something had to be said and done about it. “You can’t keep a shrine to her. It’s not right. Simone wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“You obviously think I’m crazy just like your brother and sister. Go ahead and join the Judas team. I’m used to the feeling of this knife in my back.”

He bit back a hot retort. “Listen, Dr. O’Hare seems like a really nice lady. Why not just give her what she needs so we can start fixing this mess you’re caught up in.”

“What if she says I’m crazy? What then? Will you believe her?”

Ahhh, that was a good question. He didn’t want to believe any of this but after seeing what he saw last night, he couldn’t ignore that his mother may very well need some professional help. “Just because you need a little help doesn’t mean people are going to cart you off to a mental institution,” he said, dodging her question a bit. “I don’t pretend to know anything about what creates a hoarder—”

“Don’t call me that word.”

“Mama, face facts. You are a hoarder.”

“I am not. I’m a collector and have been since you were a boy. Was I a hoarder then, too?”

“Of course not, but you can’t try and tell me that your house was this bad when we were growing up. I couldn’t walk through the living room without tripping on something, and there is definitely something dead in that kitchen,” he said, trying for patience but Lord, his mother could push a saint. He’d forgotten how difficult she could be when she dug her heels in. Now he knew why Miranda wanted to push her into oncoming traffic at times.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a sniff as if he’d just uttered complete nonsense. “Something dead. There’s no need to exaggerate to the extreme. Yes, the house is a bit disorganized but I am not a hoarder and I will not sit here and allow people to put a label on me that doesn’t belong.”

“Mama,” he said sharply when he realized they were going nowhere fast. “I’m not going to debate semantics with you. APS has determined you are a hoarder. Whether you agree with the term or not is immaterial. I’m dealing in facts, not feelings at the moment. You want to get back into your house?” She nodded petulantly. “Okay, then. The plan to accomplish that is to do whatever needs to be done and that includes talking to Dr. O’Hare, cleaning up that house and getting rid of that damn shrine to your dead daughter.”

“I don’t see what Simone’s room has to do with anything,” Jennelle muttered. “Her room was spotless.”

“Which only makes it doubly creepy because the rest of the house is a trash dump.” She gasped and looked away, hurt. He stopped, biting his tongue at his harsh words. He was no better than Trace if he couldn’t rein in his temper. His mother needed understanding, not shaming. He drew a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, Mama...I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just frustrated is all and worried, too,” he said.

Her dull answer, “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” cut him deep but he supposed he had it coming. She sighed, heavy and wounded, as she added with a small shrug, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this but there’s not much I can do about it except suffer through it, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just trying to get you back into your house.” At that she nodded, and he felt the first tiny concession on her part. “So you’ll talk to Dr. O’Hare?”

A long pause stretched between them until Jennelle offered a grudging “Yes,” but there remained that mulish expression on her face that never boded well, and Wade knew better than to hope for smooth sailing but he’d take it.

“Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll go get her.”

Although Morgan had said she’d return after coffee, he needed out of that room with his mother. The knowledge that he’d been happy to leave the situation resting on his siblings’ shoulders didn’t feel good. He didn’t know how Miranda handled this day in and day out. He was already looking to bail and he’d only been dealing with his mother for a day. He figured a trip to the jail to see his dad was also on the schedule. Truthfully, he’d rather eat raw monkey brains than see his dad in those orange jail smocks. Simone’s death had tipped everyone’s world upside down and he hadn’t realized that not everyone had found their equilibrium again.

He spotted Dr. O’Hare pouring creamer into her coffee and reluctantly drew her attention. “She’s ready for you,” he said, but stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “Dr. O’Hare, may I have a private word with you before you go in?”

She smiled. “Of course. I can imagine this ordeal is very trying for your entire family.”

“Yeah, something like that. Listen, I’m just going to come out and say it—my mom is difficult. Hell, my whole family is difficult. If you looked the word up in the dictionary, our family picture would probably be staring right back at you. But I can’t even imagine what my mom has been going through because frankly, I haven’t been here. I feel bad about that now that I see what’s been going on. All I’m saying is, please try not to take anything she may say personally. Sometimes my mom’s filter is nonexistent.”

“First, please call me Morgan. I like my patients and their families to feel comfortable with me. Unless you’re more comfortable with Dr. O’Hare, of course. Either way is fine with me.”

He ought to keep things professional and with a certain amount of distance but he liked her name. It rolled off his tongue nicely. And he did feel less stiff when he used her given name. “All right, Morgan it is,” he agreed with a small smile in return, but he really needed to ask what was truly worrying him. “Can you help my mom? Please tell me you’ve seen worse cases.”

“I will certainly try to help,” Morgan answered, but sidestepped his other question, probably because it wasn’t professional to answer and he respected that, even if he’d hoped for a reassurance. “A major key to successful therapy is the patient’s willingness to accept help.”

“Well, she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the idea,” he admitted wryly. “But she really wants to move back home so maybe that will motivate her into accepting the help she needs.”

“Perhaps. You’d be surprised how some people are tied to their past in an integral way. Letting go will feel like losing a part of herself.”

“Wow. That’s deep.” He chuckled out of discomfort. Well, seeing as it was going to come up at some point, anyway, he decided to beat her to the punch. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” At Morgan’s quizzical expression, he said, “Simone’s death...it seems my parents can’t let her go.”

Understanding dawned and she said, “Ah, that. Yes, well, grief is a powerful emotion and can cause all kinds of emotional as well as physical manifestations. Hoarding, phobias, even insomnia—their roots can often be traced to an extreme emotional upset in the patient’s past.”

Insomnia. That was something he knew about. But it wasn’t because of his grief. He’d long since put to rest his feelings about losing his baby sister. “Well, some people aren’t as strong as others, I suppose.”

“It’s not a question of strength,” she corrected him with a gentle smile. “Some people are so strong that they find a way to cope with the side effects but that doesn’t mean they processed their feelings in a productive and healthy manner.”

Why did it feel as though she was talking about him? That was ridiculous. He was being defensive. “Well, at any rate...she’s ready for you. I just wanted to warn you before sending you into the lion’s den.”

“Additional insight from family members is always appreciated. Thank you for trusting me with that information. Oh, and FYI, the coffee here will put hair on your chest. Very strong.” And then she left, coffee cup in hand, out the door and down the hall, inadvertently causing a flush of awareness to remind him that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman.

Where’d that come from? Catching an eyeful of that pert behind twitching beneath her pencil skirt? He rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed by his inappropriate thought about his mother’s therapist. Maybe he’d jumped the gun in breaking up with Elizabeth. Having Elizabeth here might’ve been a distraction he seemed to need, he thought wryly, even if he knew he couldn’t possibly have brought Elizabeth to his hometown without creating mixed signals. Elizabeth...it would’ve been so much simpler if he’d felt the same way about her that she had about him. But when he realized the deeper emotions she’d craved weren’t going to happen, he couldn’t, in good conscience, keep seeing her.

He exhaled and shook his head as his gaze wandered to the coffeepot. Well, maybe a cup of strong, bracing coffee would put his thoughts back on the straight and narrow. It was worth a shot.

* * *

MORGAN ENTERED JENNELLE Sinclair’s room with a ready smile, hoping to start off on the right foot with the matriarch but judging by the tight press of the older woman’s lips, an easy time of things wasn’t in the cards. No worries, she thought. She’d definitely weathered more difficult challenges than one stubborn, older woman.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair. How are you feeling today?” she asked, setting down her coffee cup and taking a seat beside Jennelle’s bed. “May I call you Jennelle?”

“No, you may not. I prefer Mrs. Sinclair.”

Morgan smiled. Jennelle Sinclair was going to be one tough nut to crack but then she’d known that from the start. At least Jennelle didn’t give her false hope of an easy case. “Of course. No problem. My name is Dr. Morgan O’Hare and I’ve been assigned your case by Adult Protective Services.”

“And what case would that be?”

“Well, you’ve recently had a health scare and the state of your home was a contributing factor—”

“I don’t believe that for a second. That’s a bunch of rubbish.”

“Well, no, actually, it isn’t. Your home has been condemned due to unsafe conditions and yet, you went back to the house, which then put your health at risk when the paramedics couldn’t quite get to you in time.”

Jennelle looked away, angry brackets forming around her mouth when she couldn’t refute the evidence. “I guess you have all the answers. What do you need me for?”

“Well, I am going to evaluate your mental health status to determine if you are competent to make decisions for your health and well-being.”

“I never heard of such poppycock,” Jennelle exclaimed, two high points of color flushing her pale cheeks. “Of all the rude, intrusive and ridiculous statements. My mental health is just fine. So I’m a terrible housekeeper. Is that a crime nowadays?”

“No, of course not. But it’s our job to make sure you’re not putting yourself in harm’s way.”

For a long, tense moment Jennelle seemed to struggle with all the pent-up fire in her chest but her health simply wasn’t up to the challenge and she sagged against her pillow, wincing as she lost the strength to rage. “Do whatever you need to do,” she said with weary bitterness. “I’m tired of fighting a losing battle. You people are going to do what you want, anyway. My consent is hardly necessary.”

Morgan frowned. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Sinclair. Perhaps within a few days you’ll feel better about the process. Change is always difficult but once you embrace the therapy, good things can happen.”

Jennelle sent Morgan a withering glance, and Morgan withheld a private sigh. She was definitely going to earn every penny with this case. But there was something about the older woman that struck her as terribly sad, in spite of her bark. She settled more comfortably in her chair then said, “Tell me about Simone...” At the mention of her youngest daughter’s name, Jennelle softened and her shoulders relaxed but the overwhelming sadness remained in her eyes. When Jennelle didn’t volunteer any information, Morgan tried to help her along. “My younger sister, Mona, knew Simone in school. She said Simone was the prettiest and nicest girl in their grade.”

At the kind words, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile curved Jennelle’s lips. “Yes, that was my Simone. Everyone loved her. She had a light that shone from her soul,” Jennelle said, choking a little. “Sh-she was the light of my life. I miss her so much. I don’t understand who would’ve done such a horrible thing to her.”

Ah, there it was—the pain, the sadness, lurking ever so close to the surface, a demon of grief and impotent fury, twisting everything good and sweet into a pulpy, bleeding mess. What would it take to draw out that poison? Would Jennelle be willing to let it go? Some people clung to their misery, too afraid of the unknown to set it free. Only time would tell which camp Jennelle called home. Morgan commiserated with the older woman. “And as I understand it, her killer was never brought to justice?”

“No, the trail went cold and then interest dropped. Simone’s case was shoved into a file and never touched again. I tried to resurrect the case, even posted a reward for information, but nothing came of it. Nobody cared anymore. They didn’t want to hear about Simone’s murder any longer, unless it was to gossip about it.”

Morgan knew that much was true but hearing it from a family member plucked at her heartstrings. “Cold cases are hard to solve without a major break in the case. Technology simply hasn’t caught up.”

“They took DNA samples from her body but nothing came up in their databases. How could someone who would do something so heinous not show up in the police database? Surely, this wasn’t their first time. What if there are other girls out there who’ve been victimized by the same psychopath?”

The anguish in Jennelle’s voice was real. The questions in her head and heart gave her no peace. Morgan suspected this was the root of Jennelle’s hoarding—trying to hold on to things as a surrogate for her dead daughter, who was ripped from her without warning.

“Sometimes answers don’t come to us in a timely manner but we can’t let those questions rule our lives,” Morgan said carefully. “There are many questions surrounding Simone’s death and there might be an answer someday but then again, there might not. It’s a cruel twist of fate, for sure, but tearing your own life apart and pushing away your remaining children will not bring her back. Was Simone close to her siblings?”

“Yes. All the kids were close. We all used to be so close.”

“And then she died.”

“Yes.”

“Your other children didn’t give you comfort?”

“There is no replacing one child with the other. Besides, no one was like my Simone. She was my baby.”

“How does Miranda feel about that?”

“She’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Or perhaps hurt?” Morgan suggested, and Jennelle closed her eyes, refusing to comment. Morgan jotted down some notes. “You are very angry with your daughter Miranda. Why?”

“Because she’s a wretched human being.”

“Okay. Why? I’ve spoken with Miranda and she seems very worried about you. Does that seem like the actions of a bad person? I can tell you that I’ve met and worked with bad people and she doesn’t seem to fit the criteria.”

The door that had opened briefly once again slammed shut and Morgan knew sharing time was finished when Jennelle said, “I’m tired. I did just have surgery. Surely, APS will take that into consideration.”

Morgan snapped shut her notebook and deposited it into her satchel. “Of course. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. I’ll come back tomorrow to finish my evaluation.”

Jennelle’s mouth tightened, but she shrugged as if she was helpless to stop Morgan.

Morgan gathered her things and let herself out of the room quietly.

The poor woman was eaten by bitterness and grief. She needed lots of intensive therapy to breach the walls she’d erected around herself to guard against the pain.

A walk in the park, it wouldn’t be.

But she wanted to help this family. For some reason this case mattered to her on a personal level.

Perhaps that wasn’t wise, but she needed to help this family heal. One thing was for sure; when she was busy with tough cases, it quieted the ghosts of her own past.

At least for a little while.


CHAPTER SIX

MORGAN SIPPED HER WINE, enjoying the warmth from the crackling fire as her younger sister, Mona, returned from the kitchen, carrying a variety of cheeses on a small plate. “I noticed you still keep that nasty Limburger around. I thought you hated that cheese?”

“I do,” Morgan agreed, reaching for a slice of regular cheddar with a cracker.

“Then why do you keep buying it? All it does is stink up your fridge.”

Morgan shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“Well, that’s a dumb habit. It stinks and you don’t even eat it.”

Morgan smiled but remained silent. She couldn’t help herself. She tried not to buy that stupid cheese but David’s voice was in her head and before she knew it, the cheese was in her basket.

“Only a sophisticated palate can appreciate the robust flavor of a European cheese. If you want to elevate yourself, you have to stop gravitating toward the white-trash fare.” The subtle sneer in David’s voice rang in Morgan’s memory and she forced a smile. Mona didn’t know about David’s peculiar opinions nor did she know about who he really was. What made it worse was that Mona had adored David.

“So what’s new?”

“Not much. Just the same old stuff.”

Mona wrinkled her nose. “Sounds riveting.”

Morgan laughed. “Not everyone lives the exciting life of an artist, sweet sister. Speaking of art, how did your latest gallery showing go? I’m sorry I missed it. I had a client run overly long and I couldn’t seem to get out of the office on time after that.”

Another lie. That was the night she’d driven to Anchorage in the hopes of attending a grief support group but she’d chickened out—as she always did—and lost out on supporting her sister for nothing. Morgan busied herself with sipping her wine as she listened to her sister chatter on about this and that, as well as a bit of gossip.

“I made a few sales, which will keep me in ramen noodles for the next couple of months if I don’t live too extravagantly,” Mona ended with a twist of her mouth. “I definitely have that starving-artist thing down. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be, for sure.”

“You could supplement your income with a second job,” Morgan suggested cautiously, and hoped her sister didn’t fly off the handle as she sometimes did whenever anyone in the family gave her grief about her career choice. “I mean, just a temporary thing to bolster your budget, of course.”

“An artist can’t split her creativity between the mundane and the sublime. C’mon, Morgan, you know there’s really nothing out there that I would enjoy. Can you see me working for a fishing outfit or behind a cash register? I would die inside.”

“Yeah, but paying your rent on time and being able to buy groceries is a nice thing,” she reminded her sister then raised her hand to stop Mona before she got on a roll. “You know I support your artistic endeavors so don’t lose your cool...all I’m saying is, you’re not a kid anymore and I know you’d catch less flack from Dad if you finally picked a career that paid in actual money and not just exposure and goodwill.”

“What would Dad know about being an artist? He’s a third-generation fisherman like every other guy in this town. I think you managed to snag the one and only man who had any sophistication and class. It’s probably because he wasn’t from here originally.”

Morgan refrained from comment and chose to sip her wine instead, not that Mona noticed.

“I mean, David was the kind of guy who knew what wine to pair with food and recognized that there was a difference between red and burgundy on the color wheel. The guys around here have one color palette—and it’s the eight basic colors of a crayon box.” Mona sighed and took a sip of her wine, ending with a grumpy, “I miss David.”

Morgan nodded and downed her wine, forcing a brief smile, and Mona’s eyes widened with sympathy. “Oh, my God, I’ve been such a selfish jerk going on about David when I know you’re still not over his death. That’s why you keep that stinky cheese, isn’t it? It was David’s favorite. How could I forget that? I’m sorry, sis.”

“You’re fine. I’m fine. I’m getting over David’s death. I really am.” Something caught in her throat and Mona became alarmed when Morgan choked a little. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day is all. I have a new case that’s a little sad and I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“New case? What’s it about?”

Morgan hesitated, then relented, saying, “Do you remember Simone Sinclair?”

“Of course. Why?”

Morgan shared only what had likely already made the rounds within town gossip. “Her family is having some real troubles and I’ve been called in by Adult Protective Services to evaluate the mom.”

“Why?”

“She’s a hoarder.”

“Eww. As in living-in-a-garbage-dump type of hoarder?”

Morgan made a face. “Well, not exactly but she put herself in harm’s way and I need to determine if she’s competent to make decisions for herself. It’s all very sad. The mom is still grieving for her lost daughter, so much so that she’s pushing away her remaining children.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes, it does. What do you remember about the Sinclairs? I only knew them peripherally.”

Mona leaned back and tucked her feet under her as she settled into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “Well, Simone was drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t know of any guy who didn’t have a major crush on her. She was super involved in school and really nice. I mean, some girls who seem to have it all have rotten personalities but Simone was sweet. At least, she was to me. I liked her. We didn’t run in the same circles but, I don’t know, she was never rude to me.”

“Yeah, I think her sister, Miranda, was in my class and Trace was a class above me but we didn’t know each other. Wade was three years above me. I remember he drove a burgundy Blazer, which I thought was cool.”

“Hmm...have you met with the family yet?”

“Yes, I met with the siblings yesterday and the mom today. I feel bad for the family. So broken up with pain from the past. It’s a tragedy.” Sometimes when Morgan talked she felt as if someone else were moving her mouth and she was watching herself from the outside. Here she was talking about the Sinclairs being unable to move on and that was exactly her problem, too. She glanced at her empty glass. Another? Sure, why not? David wasn’t going to pop from the bedroom and stare her down for indulging. She reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass.

“Are you okay?” Mona asked. “You seem off today.”

Morgan chuckled. “You worry too much. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Should I go?”

“No, of course not. I love your visits. Helps take my mind off my troubles for the time being.”

“Well, having a screw-up sister will do that for you.” Mona raised her own glass. “Happy to help.” A companionable silence passed between them until Mona said, “You know I loved David and he was probably the most amazing husband ever but you’re still really young and I hate the idea of you being all alone. I almost wasn’t going to tell you but if you’re interested, I have somebody who might be your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Well, he’s kind of like David. He’s too old for me but he might be perfect for you.”

“Are you saying that I like to date old men?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying as much as I love a sophisticated man, I’m thinking me and this guy just wouldn’t be a good match.”

Morgan sighed. She wasn’t ready to date, not yet. Maybe not ever. David had broken something inside her and there was no putting it back together again because she didn’t even know which pieces were missing. The fact that she couldn’t tell anyone—couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone—made it all that much worse.

To outsiders, she appeared the grieving widow. But her private self was a raging inferno of guilt, shame and yes, even grief. Why did she mourn him? Did she miss him? A little. Before things got really bad, David had been a good husband. It’s just that the bad times had eventually eclipsed the good. By the time she realized she was living in an abusive marriage, she was locked into it. Only Remy knew. To everyone else, David had been a doting husband and pillar of the community. His funeral had been standing-room only, which had shocked her numb. “I appreciate the offer but I’m just not ready to date right now,” she murmured, ready to drop the subject.

Mona nodded vigorously but there was a desperation to the action that made Morgan wary. “Of course you’re not. I totally understand. David is a hard act to follow. But what would going to dinner hurt? Let me at least tell you about this guy and then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

Morgan sighed, humoring her sister. “All right, tell me about this guy,” she relented. Maybe if she let Mona get it out of her system they could put it to rest.

“Well, he actually owns the gallery that I just had my showing in. His name is George Founder and he sort of looks like Sean Connery but without the Scottish accent. He’s very distinguished. I think you guys would hit it off.”

Morgan frowned. George Founder? He had to be at least sixty years old. “I know of George and I think he’s a little old for me.” What was her sister thinking? Did Mona actually think she’d consider a man so much older than she as a romantic possibility? Morgan would’ve been mildly offended if it hadn’t been coming from Mona. “I do like a man who is a fair bit younger than sixty.”

“But he’s a spry sixty,” Mona insisted. “It’s not as if he’s wheeling around in a wheelchair. Besides, he happened to mention that he’d seen you around and wondered if you would like to go to dinner.”

She was on the radar of George Founder? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed. “He’s not my type,” she said, hoping to put an end to this conversation. “When I’m ready to date I’ll let you know, I promise. But I just can’t right now. Besides, I don’t have time to date. I have so much going on in my life with my job and my clients and putting this house up for sale that I just can’t even think about dating.”

“You’re selling the house?” Mona asked, surprised.

Morgan cursed her slip of the tongue. She hadn’t told her family yet that she was listing the house. She couldn’t live in it a single moment longer. It was like a prison, more so than it ever had been when David was alive. His ghost was everywhere and she refused to live in it anymore.

“This house is gorgeous. It’s probably the nicest house in Homer. Why would you want to sell? Are you having financial problems?” Mona’s faint note of alarm was likely self-centered but Morgan didn’t fault her for it. She ought to let the woman worry a little, though, she thought with a small hint of sisterly pique but instead, she forced a little light laughter to ease Mona’s fear that Morgan’s checkbook might slam shut.

“Why does there have to be a problem for me to want a change? No, to answer your question. I don’t have financial problems. David made sure that I was taken care of. But if you must know, it’s very hard to live here and not see David around every corner.”

That was the absolute truth. Except unlike what her sister envisioned, Morgan saw the opposite.

Sorrow followed as Mona nodded. “You poor thing. I can’t even imagine. Here I was thinking that being in the house would be a comfort but I could see how it could be the opposite. Why didn’t you put the house on the market right after he died?”

“Good question. I’m not sure. I think I was in shock for a long while and then I thought that having the house would be a comfort but it’s been three years and I realize now that it’s time to make a change. So I’ve listed the house with one of the Realtors here in town but it hasn’t gone live yet, so it’s not on any actual listings.”

“I’m sure the house will sell. It’s very well taken care of and it’s just beautiful.”

“Yes, but my Realtor has said that we’re still in a down economy and people aren’t buying high-end homes right now so there’s a possibility that it might sit.”

“Well, it’s not like you have to be out. You can afford to wait for the right offer, right?”

Morgan nodded. She didn’t want to wait. She’d be willing to take a loss if she had to. Some nights she was so desperate to be free of this giant monstrosity that she was half tempted to give it away. But if she did that people would start questioning why she was so eager to be free of it. No one knew about that night, not the true events. All anyone knew about were the fictitious events that she’d made up, and she was done with that secret following her around, lurking in the shadows of this cursed house.

“If I had the money I’d buy it,” Mona said wistfully. “But I can hardly afford ramen. Speaking of, I hate to ask this, especially in light of our earlier conversation but can you spot me a couple hundred bucks?”

Morgan wasn’t surprised. Mona always needed money. “How much?” she asked, reaching for her purse.

“Four hundred would be nice but I could make do with three.”

“Sure. Is this a loan or a gift?” Morgan looked at her sister with a raised brow. “Let’s just call it a gift,” Morgan decided. “I don’t want to be chasing you around town for my money. But in light of this, now I have to gently insist that you start looking for something to supplement your income.”

Mona accepted the check and tucked it into her pocket. “Given the fact that I just accepted money from you, I guess I have to listen to your advice. Yes, I realize I probably need a second job. But I’m not excited about it, and please don’t tell Mom and Dad that I got money from you. I catch enough grief from them as it is.”

“They’re just worried about you.”

“Well, they can stop worrying. It’s not like I’m a drug addict or anything. I’m an artist, that’s all. I like to create things. I like beauty and metaphor and seeking a deeper meaning in things. I want my life to mean something. Why is that so hard to grasp?”

“You can still do all of those things and hold a job that pays your bills. I hate being the bad guy here but I’m not looking forward to the prospect of supporting you for the rest of your life. I’m not having money troubles but there may come a day when I’m not flush. Clients don’t always pay on time, this house is very expensive to maintain and David’s life insurance will run out one of these days so I would like to know that my baby sister isn’t living on the street if I can’t give her a little bit of money now and then.”

“I’ll never be on the street,” she said. “Besides, if worse came to worst you and I can at least get an apartment together.”

Morgan shuddered at the thought. “Oh, hell, no. I remember sharing a bedroom with you and you’re a terrible roommate.”

Mona scowled. “Okay, fine.”

“Just think about the job, please?” Morgan smiled, wishing she had her sister’s verve for life and her thirst for meaning in her life, even though she could be a bit of an irresponsible mooch at times. “Listen, I won’t tell Mom about the money you borrowed if you won’t tell our parents about my putting the house on the market. I know I’m going to get a bunch of protests from them. Particularly from Dad because he might call it foolish to let go of the house that I own for emotional reasons.”

“Sure. Your secret is safe with me. I got your back.” Mona paused, then surprised her by going back to her original topic. “Can I please set you up with George?”

“Mona,” she groaned, irritated. “I already told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know and I’m sorry but here’s the thing, I kinda already promised him that you would probably go to dinner with him.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because George wasn’t going to let me into the gallery without the promise that I would ask you out for him.”

Morgan stared at her little sister. “Are you kidding me? I definitely wouldn’t go out with someone who would use that type of extortion to get a date. That really doesn’t say much for his character.”

“No, no, no, no, he’s a really good guy. I’m sorry it came out that way. He really is a good guy but he’s intimidated by you, I think.”

“Intimidated? I’m the last person who would intimidate anyone.”

“That’s not true. You’re highly successful, beautiful and you’re very independent. Men can be very intimidated by those qualities in a woman.”

That’s how her sister saw her? Talk about living a lie. “I don’t know, Mona—”

“Please just give him a chance. One date. That’s all. And then you can walk away and I won’t feel like I reneged on a deal and everyone is happy.”

Morgan made a sound of exasperation. “You know who’s not happy? Me. I don’t want to go on a date with this man. I feel like I’m being forced into it through emotional blackmail. Which I don’t appreciate, by the way.”

“Duly noted. And I really appreciate this. You’re the best sister ever. And who knows, you might really like him. And you know they say the first act toward making a change is taking a leap of faith.”

“Please don’t. I will go out with this man on one date. A dinner. And then I never want you to put me in this position again. Are we clear?”

Mona nodded, solemn. “I understand. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have but I am in a pickle.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re always in a pickle, Mona. That’s nothing new.” Morgan couldn’t help the frustration in her voice. “Why was it so important that you get into this gallery? I’m sure you could’ve gotten into a dozen other galleries on your own steam.”

“You have no idea how cutthroat it is out there in the art world. It’s all about who you know, not just about your art. You have to network and Facebook and Twitter and mingle and do all these things that I don’t want to bother with. I just want to get my work on the walls of somebody’s gallery without constantly kissing ass to make it happen. It’s exhausting. Who has time to actually make art if you’re so busy mingling?”

“Yes, the world has been taken over by social media,” she mused in agreement. Remy lived on Facebook, often when he should be working. His excuse was that without his involvement in social media, Morgan would never know what was going on in the world. She sighed and asked, “Why was this gallery so important?”

“Well, I was hoping this one particular art critic would take a liking to my work and possibly feature me in this magazine for artists. But as it turned out, my style wasn’t her cup of tea so she didn’t write something very flattering about my work.”

“So basically you traded me for no gain?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that at the time. Besides, you need to get out more. Life is about more than just work and sleep.”

“What am I going to do with you?” Morgan buried her head in her hands. “You make it so hard to be on your side sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Well, at least Mona didn’t dispute that fact. “I hate to cut this visit short but I’m pretty tired. I have an early client tomorrow morning and I still have notes to go over.”

Mona nodded and then gestured at the cheese plate. “You mind if I take this with me? Kind of ‘ramened out’ right now. I could use some protein.”

Morgan nodded. “Yes, take the cheese and crackers. Would you like to look in my pantry to see if there’s anything else you’d like to take home?”

Mona allowed a tiny smile. “If you wouldn’t mind...”

“I don’t mind.” She stood and hugged her sister. “Just leave me the chocolate chip cookies. Anything else is fair game.”

“You’re the best. I really mean that.” Mona kissed Morgan on the cheek. “I really hope that you meet someone as great as David again. You deserve it.”

Morgan’s smile froze but she managed to nod. “Well, we’ll see.”

Good God, would fate be that cruel? It was the one thing Morgan feared more than anything.

Please, don’t let anyone like David in my life ever again.

Perhaps it was her sister’s talk about dating or maybe she was just tired after a long day but Wade popped into her thoughts, momentarily blotting out David.

If she were looking to date—and he wasn’t her patient’s son—Wade might be the kind of man she’d like to enjoy an evening out with. Strong, smart and ruggedly handsome, Wade was a man who would make any woman take a second look. She withheld a wistful sigh when she reluctantly allowed reality to intrude. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t trust the knowledge of her past with anyone, much less a potential date. She had to protect her public persona at all costs. There was no way she was going to allow David—or the threat of his influence—to derail another moment in her life. Was it lonely? At times. But then she remembered the pain, the humiliation, and the fear of living with David, and suddenly, being lonely wasn’t that bad.

So dating? Not even a blip on her radar.

Which meant Wade—that hunky mountain of sexy potential—would remain forever out of reach for her.

But a girl could dream, right?

As long as dreams never became a reality.


CHAPTER SEVEN

“SO TELL ME about California,” he heard his sister say before she stuffed a bite of her steak into her mouth. He realized he’d only been listening with half an ear to his sister’s conversation and he grimaced when she realized the same. She graced him with a scowl that he deserved and he started to apologize but she cut him off. “Come on, you have to at least make an effort, Wade. I’m trying to do eight years of catching up within one dinner, all the while trying to steer clear of topics that are triggers for us both, and you’re making me do all the work. At least make the effort, okay?”

“I’m sorry, sis. I’m being a jerk. There’s a lot of stuff running around in my head.”

She nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. Being home is hard after a long time away, I would imagine.”

“Nothing’s changed,” he said, allowing his stare to wander the small steakhouse. “I remember our parents used to take us here on special occasions.”

“Which wasn’t very often because feeding four carnivore kids steak dinners was hard on the pocketbook,” Miranda quipped around her next bite.

He smiled. “I always loved this place, though. Made me feel important whenever we came to eat here.”

“Important? Why?”

He chuckled at his nostalgia. “Because when it first opened it seemed all the bigwigs ate here. I remember Mayor Gibbons used to eat here all the time and the Masons used to gather here for their monthly meetings.” He shrugged when he realized his own childish reasoning didn’t actually make much sense. He returned to her original question. “California is good. I’m very happy. My job is very fulfilling and I can’t wait to get back.”

“Wow, impersonal much? I’m not interviewing you for a job position. Relax. I want to know about the real California. I mean, Delainey’s told me a few things about Los Angeles but you’re on opposite ends of the state, way up in the mountains. I’m sure that’s gotta be different.”

“It’s vastly different. I personally don’t care for Los Angeles. I’ve had to go there a few times for meetings with other federal park officials but I much prefer my neck of the woods. You ought to come visit sometime, and bring Talen and Jeremiah. Speaking of Jeremiah...when do I get to meet this guy?”

“Oh, now you want to be the big brother?” she teased. “You’ll meet him. Don’t worry. You do plan to come to the wedding, right?”

He didn’t want to make promises but he’d sound like a real jerk if he didn’t agree to come to his sister’s wedding. “Of course, if I can get the time off. I’m using up a lot of my banked personal time right now for this impromptu trip.”

“Right. Well, you have some time to pencil that date in so I’m not too worried. What do you think of Morgan O’Hare?” she asked, somehow zeroing in on the topic that he’d just been thinking about when he’d zoned out. “You probably don’t remember her from school but she actually knew Simone. Well, not her, exactly, but her sister.”

“That’s not saying much. I think everyone knew Simone.”

“That’s true. She did have a way about her, huh?” Miranda paused and then said, “This whole situation with Mom has hammered home the fact that none of us has really dealt with Simone’s death. It doesn’t seem right that it’s been eight years and yet none of us has accepted the fact that it wasn’t our fault.”

He shifted in discomfort. He hated talking about Simone. “Not to be rude but I’ve moved on just fine. I miss her every day. She was a great kid but like you said, it’s been eight years. It’s time to move on.”

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you have not been home since she died,” Miranda pointed out gently. “I think we all know why you’ve stayed away.”

“I thought we were going to avoid touchy subjects?” he reminded her with a slight smile. He didn’t want to pick a fight with his sister over dinner. And he also didn’t want to talk about the things that kept him up at night. “Do you think Morgan O’Hare can be objective in Mom’s case? I know she was assigned the case by APS but I wonder if we can make an appeal to get someone else, maybe someone from another town to do the evaluation.”





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