28

An hour dragged by. I knew every nuance of that concert poster. Hartford Civic Center. 1986. My mother had taken me—my first concert. I’d been in kindergarten. She thought I should be initiated into the Aerosmith fan club at an early age.

Thoreau snored. Even Odysseus had gone to bed.

I stared at the glowing clock. Three thirty-six. I lay on my side, watching Sean. He had become restless—his medication must have worn off. I almost wanted to wake him up to take another pill, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that too much.

I was slowly driving myself crazy just lying here, so I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I needed something to occupy my thoughts other than Sean’s breathing patterns. Grabbing my laptop, I headed into my walk-in closet and closed the door behind me. I turned on the light and settled in on the floor.

Sitting cross-legged, I started with Facebook and the South Shore fan page. I’d posted on there about Rufus. So far no one had seen him. I checked the notice I put on craigslist, too. Nothing. If Tristan hadn’t taken Rufus, where was he?

I thought about Rufus’s leash and suddenly had the sickening thought that maybe it had been snagged on a tree. He could be in the woods somewhere, just waiting for someone to find him. Pain ripped through my stomach, and I pressed my hand against where it hurt most. It didn’t help, and I had to wonder if I really was getting an ulcer.

Trying my best to ignore the image of a stranded Rufus, I clicked through my e-mail. I sent a note to Cutter about needing to change our dinner plans—and why—and added that I needed to talk to him about Preston and her snooping before the dinner.

I checked Facebook again, in case anyone had spotted Rufus in the last couple of minutes. No one had.

I clicked over to Google and plugged Rick Hayes’s name into the search box. No one around here seemed to know much about him, but over a million matches popped up. The first entry was Rick’s personal Web site, which was under construction.

The second was a Wiki entry. It contained the usual bio information—born in 1962 in New Jersey. Started singing in high school. Had little success until a song of his was chosen to use as a popular sitcom’s theme song but never again had another hit.

He’d been married four times—and divorced four times—before Jemima. Once as a teenager to a woman named Francine. That had lasted two years. No children. Then Patricia came along. That relationship lasted two years, no kids. Then Linda—two years, no kids. Then Esmeralda—four years, no kids.

At thirty-one, he’d met eighteen-year-old Jemima Gladstone. It was no wonder Mac and Betty hadn’t liked him—not with his track record with women. Considering he only had one relationship that lasted longer than two years, it was amazing that he’d been married to Jemima for almost twenty. I wondered if Christa had anything to do with that.

I noticed several citations referencing old teen magazines. I looked up at the top shelf of my closet. There were stacks and stacks of those magazines collecting dust. My mother had never thrown anything of mine away. Was there anything in those pages that would tell me more about Rick than the Internet could? I stood and grabbed as many magazines as I could hold. I set them down and peeked out the door to make sure I hadn’t disturbed Sean.

He had kicked his feet out from under the covers, and a pillow covered his head, his arm flung over the top of it to hold it down. He looked so incredibly pale in the moonlight.

I closed the door and dropped to the floor. I paged through old magazines, looking for any sign of Rick Hayes. I found several articles, but there was nothing in them I hadn’t learned online. There were, however, a ton of old pictures. I checked the dates on the magazines—most were early to mid-nineties.

I tried to focus, but every time I heard the bed squeak I had to stop what I was doing and peer out at Sean. Make sure he was breathing. It was a surefire way to lose my mind.

After the fourth time, I broke down and did something I told myself I’d never do—I Googled implanted defibrillators and the aftereffects of a shock. I read through story after story of people who felt as though they had been kicked in the chest. There was a whole site dedicated to people who had experienced inappropriate shocks (when the implant fires for no reason) just because they stood too close to a microwave that wasn’t grounded correctly or swam next to a pool light that had electrical issues. Threats were everywhere (cell phones, iPods) and reading about them only served to increase my anxiety.

Life is about living, not about constant worrying.

I vowed never to do a search on Sean’s condition again.

Suddenly I jumped as the closet door opened. I let out a strangled squeak.

Sean stuck his head in. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to remember how to breathe. You scared me.”

He sat on the floor next to me. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth?” he asked, flashing a sleepy grin.

Just like that I was all hot and bothered. “Maybe.”

I’d once promised never to treat him any differently because he had a heart condition. I was slowly realizing just how hard it was to keep that promise. Because even though I longed to have my way with him, a nagging voice in the back of my head kept wondering if it would be safe. Especially so soon after he had a shock.

But I’d promised him. So I tried to pretend everything was okay.

“It’s kind of cozy in here.” He glanced around at the shelves, the built-in dressers. “I think this place is bigger than any bedroom I had growing up.”

He rarely talked about his growing-up years. “Did you always share a room with Sam?”

“No. Why aren’t you sleeping?” Sean asked, stretching out beside me.

I noted the change of subject. I let it go. “Too much on my mind.”

“Me?” he asked softly.

I didn’t want to out and out lie. “Some.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Just some?”

I teased back. “I have a lot going on.” He’d be upset to know just how much I’d been worried about him. “What are you doing up?”

“I heard noises. So I investigated. It’s what I do.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. I might be a little off my game today, a bit slower than normal, but sometimes,” he said softly, his gaze lowering to my lips before looking at me straight on, “slow is better. Don’t you think?”

Oh. My.

He leaned in. I met him halfway. His lips brushed mine, tempting, teasing. I gently nipped his lip with my teeth.

I was quickly lost in the warmth of something that felt so incredibly good that I was trying desperately to silence the warning bells in my head.

As he pulled me atop him, we fell backward with a loud thump.

“Shh! Shh!” I whispered, giggling. “My parents!”

He kissed his way along the skin behind my ear, down my neck. Tipping my head back, I moaned softly.

Sean suddenly froze.

“What?” I asked.

Then I heard it. Knocking.

My mother’s voice floated through the door. “LucyD?”

Sean lowered his head to the floor with a strangled sigh. I scrambled for the door, tugging on the hem of my shirt, straightening my lounge pants. I felt the color on my cheeks as I pulled open the bedroom door. “Mum?”

She eyed me as she tied her robe. “I heard something.”

I noticed Thoreau and Grendel didn’t so much as lift their heads at the intrusion. Tristan Rourke wouldn’t meet much resistance with the two of them on guard.

“Oh. Well. Right.” I coughed. “That was Sean. Investigating.”

“LucyD,” my mother said, fighting a smile, “normally I wouldn’t be checking on bumps in the night coming from the room of a young couple in love, but there’s a criminal on the loose, and the noise came from your closet. I worry!”

Craning her neck, she peeked in the closet, as if she didn’t trust me that Tristan Rourke wasn’t in there, lying in wait. Sean waved.

She waved back. “Why is your laptop on in your closet?”

No mention of Sean at all. “We’re, ah, working.”

Her eyebrow arched. In a sugary voice, she said, “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

I smiled. “You just couldn’t resist.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Trauma cuts both ways, LucyD. That’s all I’m saying.”

As she walked down the hallway, I swear I could hear her mutter, “Therapy.”

I closed the door, sank back onto the floor in the closet. Sean still lay where I left him, a huge smile on his face. “Your mom’s room on the other side of the wall?”

I nodded.

“Figures,” he said. “The curse?”

“I thought you were having doubts about its existence.”

“Temporary insanity.” He ran a hand over his face. “Guess that puts my investigating on hold. Rain check?”

“Sure.” I was actually grateful for the reprieve. “How are you feeling?”

“I was better a couple of minutes ago.”

I seconded that. For a while there I had forgotten I was worried sick.

“What are you working on? Tristan Rourke? Did I tell you I’m meeting with Mary Ellen and Catherine tomorrow morning?” His brow furrowed. “This morning. Meaghan begged them to meet with me. She’s convinced Mary Ellen is mistaken in IDing Tristan.”

I supposed it was possible. Catherine, especially, had been terrified Tristan Rourke would seek revenge. Maybe fear had influenced what Mary Ellen had seen, too. I bit the inside of my cheek. Aiden probably hadn’t had time to check on other witnesses in the case.…

Sean turned the laptop screen to face him. With a swipe of his finger, he cleared the screen saver.

Oh. No.

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned into a grim line.

“I, ah—” I suddenly knew how my father felt with that cheesecake. There was no explaining the Web site away.

Sean closed the screen and looked at me with such tenderness I could have melted into a puddle. “Come here.”

I crawled over to him, fell into his open arms. He held me so tight I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care. My cheek was pressed to his chest, and I could hear the reassuring beat of his heart. Wump, wump. Wump, wump.

“You know if you have questions you can ask me, right?”

His voice echoed around his chest, mixing with the wump, wump.

“Luce?” He nudged my chin. “Right?”

I shook my head. “You don’t always answer my questions. You pick and choose.”

Wump, wump.

“Not about my heart,” he answered. “I’ve always been completely open with you about that.”

I love you, Lucy Valentine.

I lifted my head. “I know. But about other things. Your childhood, for one. Your years as a firefighter. Why you couldn’t walk away from Tristan Rourke’s case.”

Wump, wump. “I know,” he said. Here in the closet, with its dim light, his eyes glowed, almost unnaturally. “And I’m sorry.”

I waited him out, hoping for more of an explanation.

He twisted one of my curls around his finger. “Sometimes it’s easier to just lock it away.”

“Lock what?” I was pressing. He didn’t want to talk about it; I could tell by the way his voice grew tight. I put my head back on his chest. Wump, wump.

“The pain. I took Rourke’s case because I wanted to believe he was innocent. I wanted to believe because we have a lot in common.”

“You do?”

“To an extent. I was a foster kid once, too. I had my fair share of trouble. My juvie record is at least ten pages long. I was kicked out of more homes that I can remember before finally deciding I could do better on my own.”

My jaw dropped. I lifted my head again and stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. His eyes were troubled. No wonder he’d been acting strangely all week. It was a wonder Sean hadn’t run Spero down himself after the hellhole comment he’d made the night he was killed.

“I met Sam on the streets.”

“You mean he’s not … your brother?”

Sean twisted another of my curls around his finger, let the hair slide free. “Not biologically, no. But that hardly matters in here.” He tapped his chest.

Of course I’d noticed he and Sam didn’t look alike, but I never dreamed they weren’t really related … I just thought they took after opposite sides of the family. “How did you end up together? With the same last name?”

Sean yawned loudly. “It’s a long story.”

I suspected he faked the yawn to get out of telling me. But I didn’t push. I couldn’t. There was such pain in the depths of his eyes it made me ache to the center of my soul. What kind of hell had he been through? No wonder he kept it all locked up. “Some other day?”

He cupped my face and kissed me. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for understanding.”

I fussed with the magazines so I wouldn’t start crying again. Sean picked one up, grinned. “These yours?”

My stomach hurt and my chest felt tight, but I managed to return his smile. “Will it lessen your high opinion of me?”

“Possibly.”

I batted my eyelashes. “Then they’re all Marisol’s.”

“I thought so.” Smiling, he thumbed through one of them. He now seemed wide awake. “What were you looking for?”

“Rick Hayes.”

“Find him?”

I pointed to a stack I’d set aside—the issues that had articles on Rick. “But I feel like there should be more.” I realized I wanted him to be guilty simply because I didn’t like him and I wanted someone to blame for Mac’s disappearance. But there were no skeletons in Rick’s past. It didn’t mean he was innocent, but it made proving him guilty that much harder.

I hated admitting that might be because he wasn’t guilty.

Fred Ross’s words floated through my head. I think whatever happened, it was Mac’s choice.

Now that Sean was wide awake, it would have made perfect sense to move the magazines and laptop into my room, where there was abundant space to spread out. But I liked this closeness, his knee touching mine. I could pick up the faint scent of his toothpaste, could still taste his kiss on my lips.

I glanced at him.

Home.

All my life my home, my heart, had been with my mum. Now … I felt it shifting, making room to include Sean. Here, tucked away in this closet, the air moist, warm, I felt safe. Loved.

He looked up, caught me staring. Seemed to know what I was thinking. Smiled.

I smiled back, wondering how long I could keep us in here, instead of facing the world outside.

Not long, I knew. So I was determined to enjoy it.

Sean flipped a page. He held up the magazine. “Who drew the heart around Mark Wahlberg?”

“Marisol.”

“Ri-i-ght,” he said, drawing the one syllable into three.

“I’m not kidding! He’s not my type.”

I smiled at memories of Em, Marisol, and me crowded together on this floor. We’d spent hours flipping through the pages of these magazines, declaring who was going to marry whom. Marisol still had dibs on Mark Wahlberg—a proclamation renewed when he posed for those Calvin Klein underwear ads a few years ago. For a fleeting second, just for that memory alone, I was glad my mother never threw anything away.

“Who did you have a teenage crush on?” Sean asked.

“You first.”

He skimmed the magazine as he said, “No one.”

“Liar.”

“All right.” He smiled. “Wonder Woman.”

“No pressure there for me.”

He laughed. “Now you.”

“Dewey Evans.”

“I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

Though it was said lightly, my heart melted. I was so lost in mush and gush that I jumped when Sean said, “Whoa!”

“What?”

“Look.” He spread the magazine in front of me and tapped a picture.

It was a photo of Rick and his fourth wife, Esmeralda, taken on the red carpet at the 1989 Grammy Awards. Rick hadn’t changed much over the past twenty years. I suspected he may have had some work done on his face. A lift here, a tuck there. “What?”

“Do you recognize her?”

Her? Esmeralda? I scanned her flawless face, her long dark hair, her emerald eyes. She was gorgeous, but I’d never seen her before.

Sean said, “Shorten her hair.”

I still didn’t know who it was.

“Put her in a housekeeper’s uniform and give her a British accent.”

My eyes widened. “Esme!”

“Interesting, don’t you think, that Rick’s fourth wife is now working as his family’s housekeeper?”

Very interesting—but did it have anything to do with Mac?

Sean suddenly tipped his head, listening. “Is that your phone?”

Sure enough, I heard the Hawaii Five-O ringtone. I jumped up, ran for the night table where my phone was charging next to the little box of trinkets where Mum had found her ring. “Aiden?”

“Sorry, Lucy, I know it’s late. I mean early. But I have news I thought you’d want to hear.”

Sean sat on the edge of the bed. Dark smudges colored the skin under his eyes. I pressed my hand into my aching stomach again.

“What kind of news?” I asked, my heart racing. It was four in the morning. Nothing ever good happened at four in the morning. It was the worst time for a phone call.

“The Boston Police Harbor Patrol responded to a distress call from a small boat taking on water near Thompson Island. It was Rourke’s boat.”

Suddenly four in the morning was my favorite time of day to get a call. Unless … “He didn’t get away, did he?”

I could practically hear Aiden’s smile. “Not this time. Boston police have him in custody.”