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Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn
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caulk, and the crevice in between the porcelain and the tile was an ugly brown.
The bathroom floor was as clean as the rest of the house; the peach and white swirled tiles sparkled. All the room needed was a little TLC—a little time.
Looking at the floor, he tried to picture Jack Colton there, down on his haunches, helping an old woman in exchange for cocoa and the probable pittance his landlord would have paid him. The image fit.
Ramsey should help her caulk her floor. She’d given him cocoa. And information.
No. He had work to do.
She was lonely.
He was a loner.
He followed Amelia back out to the living room. “Thank you very much for your time,” he told the older woman, making his leave known before she sat back down and had to get up again to lock up after him.
“Come back anytime,” she said, her smile still broad as she stood, hunched, in the middle of her living room.
He made it to the door. She wasn’t following him. Probably something to do with the limp that had become more pronounced, the gait that had slowed considerably, on the short walk from the bathroom.
“I noticed some drywall tape coming lose in the corner over there.” What in the hell was he doing, making her worry about something she obviously couldn’t fix? Or afford to hire out? She was a retired teacher. From a small girls’ school. With no apparent kin.
“Oh?” Wide-eyed, she turned, and Ramsey was fairly certain that, although she studied the wall, she couldn’t see the damage he referred to.
“I could fix it for you.” No, he couldn’t.
“You could?”
Technically. He knew how. Thanks to his father who made certain that Ramsey knew the basics of home maintenance and repair.
“Yes.” He could bring his caulk gun and redo the bathroom, too. The kitchen sink should probably be checked and…
“Then that would be fine,” Amelia said. “When will you be back?”
“Sunday, does that work?”
“As long as it’s in the afternoon, then yes, it does. I go to church in the morning.”
He opened the door, and realized that she was going to have to follow him over there to refasten the dead bolt behind him. He wondered why she didn’t have a cane. Or a walker. Or…
It was none of his business. Amelia Hardy had gotten along just fine without him for almost ninety years.
“Detective?”
He turned back. She hadn’t moved. “You never did tell me why you wanted to know so much about Jack. He isn’t in any kind of trouble is he?”
He couldn’t give information from an ongoing investigation. “No, ma’am, he isn’t,” Ramsey said.
Standing where she was, Amelia nodded. Ramsey looked at the woman, at the lock, stepped back into real time and closed the door behind him.
He was outside her door, five minutes later, when he heard the dead bolt click into place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he night was dark and there was no moon, making Lucy’s bedroom a box of shadows in black. She’d acted rashly. Her visit with Sloan Wakerby that evening would not go unnoticed by her superiors.
The possibility of being reprimanded was not what was keeping her awake.
The sister she’d never met was doing that. She had her mother’s rapist. The man was going to pay for what he’d done to Sandy. Maybe she should just let it go.
If Allie had survived the abduction almost thirty years ago, she’d be an adult now. Living her life with no knowledge of Lucy or Sandy. Who was to say the woman would even want to know about them? If she’d been sold to a decent couple, she’d probably had a great life. Was most likely still having a healthy, normal life.
So was Lucy’s hell-bent determination to find her sister more for her own sake than for Allie’s?
Sandy would have a better chance of rehabilitation, of getting off the booze, staying off, if she knew that Allie was safe and happy.
But then she’d want to see her.
And what if Allie didn’t want to see Sandy?
Or worse, what if Allie was dead? What would that knowledge do to Sandy? While there was still
The bathroom floor was as clean as the rest of the house; the peach and white swirled tiles sparkled. All the room needed was a little TLC—a little time.
Looking at the floor, he tried to picture Jack Colton there, down on his haunches, helping an old woman in exchange for cocoa and the probable pittance his landlord would have paid him. The image fit.
Ramsey should help her caulk her floor. She’d given him cocoa. And information.
No. He had work to do.
She was lonely.
He was a loner.
He followed Amelia back out to the living room. “Thank you very much for your time,” he told the older woman, making his leave known before she sat back down and had to get up again to lock up after him.
“Come back anytime,” she said, her smile still broad as she stood, hunched, in the middle of her living room.
He made it to the door. She wasn’t following him. Probably something to do with the limp that had become more pronounced, the gait that had slowed considerably, on the short walk from the bathroom.
“I noticed some drywall tape coming lose in the corner over there.” What in the hell was he doing, making her worry about something she obviously couldn’t fix? Or afford to hire out? She was a retired teacher. From a small girls’ school. With no apparent kin.
“Oh?” Wide-eyed, she turned, and Ramsey was fairly certain that, although she studied the wall, she couldn’t see the damage he referred to.
“I could fix it for you.” No, he couldn’t.
“You could?”
Technically. He knew how. Thanks to his father who made certain that Ramsey knew the basics of home maintenance and repair.
“Yes.” He could bring his caulk gun and redo the bathroom, too. The kitchen sink should probably be checked and…
“Then that would be fine,” Amelia said. “When will you be back?”
“Sunday, does that work?”
“As long as it’s in the afternoon, then yes, it does. I go to church in the morning.”
He opened the door, and realized that she was going to have to follow him over there to refasten the dead bolt behind him. He wondered why she didn’t have a cane. Or a walker. Or…
It was none of his business. Amelia Hardy had gotten along just fine without him for almost ninety years.
“Detective?”
He turned back. She hadn’t moved. “You never did tell me why you wanted to know so much about Jack. He isn’t in any kind of trouble is he?”
He couldn’t give information from an ongoing investigation. “No, ma’am, he isn’t,” Ramsey said.
Standing where she was, Amelia nodded. Ramsey looked at the woman, at the lock, stepped back into real time and closed the door behind him.
He was outside her door, five minutes later, when he heard the dead bolt click into place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he night was dark and there was no moon, making Lucy’s bedroom a box of shadows in black. She’d acted rashly. Her visit with Sloan Wakerby that evening would not go unnoticed by her superiors.
The possibility of being reprimanded was not what was keeping her awake.
The sister she’d never met was doing that. She had her mother’s rapist. The man was going to pay for what he’d done to Sandy. Maybe she should just let it go.
If Allie had survived the abduction almost thirty years ago, she’d be an adult now. Living her life with no knowledge of Lucy or Sandy. Who was to say the woman would even want to know about them? If she’d been sold to a decent couple, she’d probably had a great life. Was most likely still having a healthy, normal life.
So was Lucy’s hell-bent determination to find her sister more for her own sake than for Allie’s?
Sandy would have a better chance of rehabilitation, of getting off the booze, staying off, if she knew that Allie was safe and happy.
But then she’d want to see her.
And what if Allie didn’t want to see Sandy?
Or worse, what if Allie was dead? What would that knowledge do to Sandy? While there was still
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