one eye and tracked back into her hair. Oh, God, she was such a freaking wuss. But the pain, God, it was killing her.
Noah got up and she heard the telltale sound of the blinds being closed. And then she sensed she was alone.
She let the tears she’d been suppressing all day go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
N oah stood in Charlie Trudeau’s living room and did a slow turn, taking it in. It hadn’t been her house first, he decided. The furniture was too old, the décor too old-fashioned.
At the shelving unit that held the TV, he glanced over the photographs in mismatched frames. Some looked a hundred years old, but the more recent ones showed a family in varying degrees of age. One of an older woman and Charlie outside caught his eye, and he picked it up. Charlie looked happy, and young, maybe sixteen. She had her arms thrown around the neck and shoulders of a woman who looked about sixty. Noah wondered if that sparkle in Charlie’s eyes had dimmed because she’d gotten older or because of something else. Life tended to do that to some people. Beat out the light in their eyes.
Setting aside the photo, he glanced back down the hall toward Charlie’s closed bedroom door. He debated checking on her but held back. He knew from experience that any little sound during a migraine could make the top of your head feel like it was going to blow off. Instead, he explored, telling himself he wasn’t breaking any laws without a search warrant. He’d been invited in, more or less. Besides, he wasn’t looking for evidence. Well, not criminal evidence.
He started in the second bedroom, which he was surprised to see was the master bedroom. The old woman’s bedroom. She must have died recently, he realized, because it smelled like lilacs and not the least bit stale. The wrought-iron bed was big and neatly made, a homemade quilt in pastels folded at the foot. Feeling slightly guilty, he drew open the bottom drawer of the huge, oak bureau. That’s where many people kept their secrets, he’d learned over the years. Bottom drawers.
The drawer held personal papers. Tax forms with the name Lillian Trudeau at the top. A copy of her will. Mortgage papers. Medical bills. He shuffled through the pile, not interested in snooping into the details of Lillian Trudeau’s life. He wanted something, anything, that would tell him why Charlie would be so hesitant to tell him the truth about her mother. What the hell difference did it make if she admitted the woman had a sister?
His fingers found something thicker in the pile of papers, and he sifted through the old bills and receipts to locate it. Finally, it slid into his hand. An envelope of photos, the kind that developed on the spot.
He sat back on his heels and pushed up the flap to slide out about five stacked Polaroids. His heart thudded to a stop when he saw the first one.
Oh, fuck.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
H e sat in the big truck and watched the front of her house. The blond guy was still in there. And it didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon, considering he’d left his car at the dealership.
Damn it, how was he supposed to clean up this mess when that muscle-bound oaf hung around?
His cell phone started to trill, and he rolled his eyes. Here we go again.
“Yeah?”
“Did you do it?”
“I’m trying, all right? Maybe you should just lighten up.”
Silence.
Shit. Time to backpedal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just as frustrated as you are.”
“She knows. That bitch told her.”
“And I took care of her. We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
“When will it be done?”
“I don’t know. Tonight’s not looking good. That guy is hanging around.”
“What guy?”
“That blond guy with all the muscles. He’s not from around here. He might be a problem.”
“You need to get it done. Do you realize what she can do to us?”
“Yes.” He played it over and over in his head every damn second of every damn minute of every damn hour. “But I
Noah got up and she heard the telltale sound of the blinds being closed. And then she sensed she was alone.
She let the tears she’d been suppressing all day go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
N oah stood in Charlie Trudeau’s living room and did a slow turn, taking it in. It hadn’t been her house first, he decided. The furniture was too old, the décor too old-fashioned.
At the shelving unit that held the TV, he glanced over the photographs in mismatched frames. Some looked a hundred years old, but the more recent ones showed a family in varying degrees of age. One of an older woman and Charlie outside caught his eye, and he picked it up. Charlie looked happy, and young, maybe sixteen. She had her arms thrown around the neck and shoulders of a woman who looked about sixty. Noah wondered if that sparkle in Charlie’s eyes had dimmed because she’d gotten older or because of something else. Life tended to do that to some people. Beat out the light in their eyes.
Setting aside the photo, he glanced back down the hall toward Charlie’s closed bedroom door. He debated checking on her but held back. He knew from experience that any little sound during a migraine could make the top of your head feel like it was going to blow off. Instead, he explored, telling himself he wasn’t breaking any laws without a search warrant. He’d been invited in, more or less. Besides, he wasn’t looking for evidence. Well, not criminal evidence.
He started in the second bedroom, which he was surprised to see was the master bedroom. The old woman’s bedroom. She must have died recently, he realized, because it smelled like lilacs and not the least bit stale. The wrought-iron bed was big and neatly made, a homemade quilt in pastels folded at the foot. Feeling slightly guilty, he drew open the bottom drawer of the huge, oak bureau. That’s where many people kept their secrets, he’d learned over the years. Bottom drawers.
The drawer held personal papers. Tax forms with the name Lillian Trudeau at the top. A copy of her will. Mortgage papers. Medical bills. He shuffled through the pile, not interested in snooping into the details of Lillian Trudeau’s life. He wanted something, anything, that would tell him why Charlie would be so hesitant to tell him the truth about her mother. What the hell difference did it make if she admitted the woman had a sister?
His fingers found something thicker in the pile of papers, and he sifted through the old bills and receipts to locate it. Finally, it slid into his hand. An envelope of photos, the kind that developed on the spot.
He sat back on his heels and pushed up the flap to slide out about five stacked Polaroids. His heart thudded to a stop when he saw the first one.
Oh, fuck.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
H e sat in the big truck and watched the front of her house. The blond guy was still in there. And it didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon, considering he’d left his car at the dealership.
Damn it, how was he supposed to clean up this mess when that muscle-bound oaf hung around?
His cell phone started to trill, and he rolled his eyes. Here we go again.
“Yeah?”
“Did you do it?”
“I’m trying, all right? Maybe you should just lighten up.”
Silence.
Shit. Time to backpedal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just as frustrated as you are.”
“She knows. That bitch told her.”
“And I took care of her. We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
“When will it be done?”
“I don’t know. Tonight’s not looking good. That guy is hanging around.”
“What guy?”
“That blond guy with all the muscles. He’s not from around here. He might be a problem.”
“You need to get it done. Do you realize what she can do to us?”
“Yes.” He played it over and over in his head every damn second of every damn minute of every damn hour. “But I
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