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  “Have you had any problems with an individual lately?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing with the business? Creditors? Unhappy customers?”

  “No.” She was starting to feel like a character on Law & Order.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t fiction. Whoever had broken into her house was as real as it got.

  There was a soft knock at the door before it swung open and Officer Bigelow reappeared.

  Both Abby and Officer Jones looked at him expectantly.

  “Ms. Whitman, there are several broken headstones and a monument that has been tipped over in that old cemetery out near the road. A lot of the grass is mashed and there are relatively fresh tire marks in the pull-off from the road. Do you know if that damage is new?”

  She thought of the six-foot-tall stone monument to her great-great-grandfather. It had stood undisturbed for a hundred and fifty years. “It has to have happened since last Sunday. I was in there cleaning up, getting ready for mowing season.”

  “Did that cemetery have any ironwork; urns and such?”

  “Yes. I think there are four or five urns. And the fence and gates.”

  He nodded. “Fence is there. No gates. The high price of scrap metal has been spawning lots of this kind of theft. We’ll check the cemetery more thoroughly when it gets light. Take some photos of the damage. If you’d make a list of what you think is missing and send it to the department, that’d be helpful.”

  “All right.”

  After the officers left, Abby locked the door and armed the alarm before she took a shower.

  As she stood under the hot spray, one question kept resounding in her head: Who would want to do this to me?

  She didn’t have anything worth stealing.

  Personal. The police thought it was personal.

  No matter how she looked at her life, she just couldn’t see who would want to harm her.

  She froze in mid-shampoo as a thought slammed into her mind: You did kill a senator’s son.

  Right. And he hired a hit man to get even. Seriously, she had to get some real sleep; she was losing her grasp on reality.

  She shut off the water. If she didn’t stop thinking like this, she was going to lose her mind completely.

  On Jason’s way to pick up Brenna for their customary Saturday breakfast, he called Father Kevin. It rang long enough that he’d just about given up when the priest answered.

  “Hello, Father, I’m going to take Bryce and Brenna out to the driving range this afternoon. Do you want me to touch base with the catering staff at the club, make certain everything is in order for the fundraiser while I’m there?”

  A couple of months ago, Father Kevin had seemed overwhelmed with the task of organizing the golf fundraiser for Children of Conflict that had been held every May for the past ten years. It was easy to understand; his burden had more than doubled since the death of his sister and her husband two years ago. So Jason had stepped in this year, making phone calls and doing errands.

  The exhausted sigh that came over the phone took Jason by surprise. Father Kevin loved this event and the ability it gave him to contribute to his sister’s organization. He’d managed to recruit golfers from all over the United States to participate, even a few celebrities.

  “Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea,” Father Kevin said without his usual enthusiasm.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing. Thank you for helping.” The line went dead.

  Worried over this uncharacteristic behavior, Jason nearly called him back, but decided to wait until this afternoon, after he’d spoken to the caterers. Then he’d have a reason that wasn’t pushing beyond the boundaries of the priest’s privacy.

  Jason was more than a little surprised to see Brenna and Bryce standing on the front porch when he pulled up. Bryce had already declined the breakfast invitation, but that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that he was up this early.

  Before Jason even got the engine shut off, Bryce was walking Brenna down to the curb. Jason studied his stepson carefully, wondering what had prompted this change of mind.

  But Bryce didn’t climb in the front seat. He opened the rear passenger door for his sister.

  “Hello, Peanut,” Jason said.

  “Hi, Daddy. Bryce said he’s not going to hit golf balls with us this afternoon. Can’t you make him?”

  Jason ducked to look at Bryce across the car. “You dumping us?”

  He threw Brenna an annoyed look and gave an offhand shrug.

  Brenna said, “Yes he is. He’s not doing his part for the good of this family.”

  Jason cringed at her choice of words; it was a phrase Lucy used to get her way.

  It seemed to hit a nerve in Bryce, too. He said, “All right! I’ll go.”

  “Good,” Jason said. “Sure you don’t want to grab breakfast with us?”

  “I’m sure.” He straightened and Jason lost sight of Bryce’s face.

  Jason called, “We’ll be back at one to pick you up.”

  Bryce closed Brenna’s door.

  Jason watched him as he walked back to the house. There was something different about him, something heavy and just a little dark. It was evident in the way he moved.

  Jason was anxious to spend the afternoon with him, to see if he could get his son to open up.

  At eight a.m. Abby parked the Explorer at the side door of St. Andrew’s. Maggie came out, her face lit with excitement. Her chunky little legs moved more quickly than Abby had ever seen them. She met Abby at the rear hatch of the SUV and threw her arms around her.

  “This is the best day ever!” she said, as she nearly squeezed the breath from Abby.

  Abby hugged her back. The feel of Maggie’s sturdy body lent a calm warmth that was very much needed.

  “All right, Maggie, let’s get ready for this wedding.”

  Maggie took a box with the pew arrangements and headed for the door. “We did a good job. Mrs. Ostrom can’t be grouchy today.”

  “If she’s grouchy, it certainly won’t be our fault,” Abby said, knowing the odds of Mrs. Ostrom, mother of the bride, acting like a woman with bees in her bloomers was pretty darn high.

  When they entered the sanctuary, Father Kevin was placing fresh candles in the candelabras onto which Abby would add bows and flowers. His back was to her.

  “Good morning, Father,” she said.

  When he turned to face her, he looked at her with haunted eyes sunk deep into their sockets. Abby sucked in a breath. It had only been three days since she’d seen him, but he looked so much worse.

  She set down the flower arrangement she was carrying and stepped over to him.

  “Abby,” he said. There was a peculiar edge to his voice, as if he was expecting something, some reaction from her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He blinked; slowly, the way a person does when he’s been pushed past the point of exhaustion. For a long moment, he just stood there.

  Finally he cleared his throat and said, “That’s what I should be asking you—after your accident.” His sluggish gaze moved to the butterfly bandage on her forehead.

  “I’m fine.” Although she realized she hadn’t looked much better than Father Kevin when she’d put on her makeup this morning. “But you’re not looking well at all.” She laid a gentle hand on his coat sleeve.

  He studied her face, as if looking for something deep in her eyes. “Life gives us all trials.” He paused. “We must accept them.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

  For a moment his gaze sharpened, as if she’d surprised him. Then he reached out and took her hand. “You’re already giving me a priceless gift. I thank you.”

  He turned away and walked into the hall that led to his office.

  A priceless gift? Her involvement with Maggie?

  Abby watched him disappear into his office, more worried than she’d ever been for him.

  * * *

>   Once the frantic preparations to the sanctuary and the hall where the reception would be held were complete, reality began to knock on the door of Abby’s consciousness. Not only was she troubled by the break-in, but that dream she’d been having when it occurred kept buzzing around in her mind. The details of it had grown hazier as the daylight hours progressed, yet it chafed like a prickly clothing tag, nagging and prodding for attention.

  Could it have been more than a dream? Could it have been scraps of memory from the accident? Had she swerved to miss a deer?

  There was only one person she knew who might help her figure it out. But first she had to go and check on her dad. Courtney would no doubt have a fit because she hadn’t made it there before the wedding. With the break-in and the police, there just hadn’t been time. Abby had called him on her way to the church and he’d sounded his old chipper self.

  She found him in the back yard, fertilizing the azaleas.

  When he saw her he smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Abby, my girl, glad you’re here. I’m starving.”

  She’d been bracing herself for the litany of accusations that Courtney had passed along yesterday. But it was as if nothing had changed since Abby left him yesterday afternoon.

  Relieved and just a little confused, she went inside and made them a late lunch. Had Courtney made it all up? Was it her sister’s anger and not her dad’s that was the whole issue? Or had her father made those accusations and forgotten them?

  While they were eating, she broached the subject of further testing.

  “Jitterbug, I told you I’d do it.”

  Should she ask him about calling Court?

  No. It would upset him either way. It’d either dredge up emotions he’d forgotten, or it’d make him angry with her sister.

  He went on, “Whatever it takes to smooth away those worry wrinkles of yours.” He ran a forefinger between her brows and then tapped the tip of her nose. “You’ll never catch a husband if you look like a prune.” He winked.

  “I’m not looking for a husband and you know it. I live alone for a very good reason.”

  He sighed. “Abby, you can’t let what happened ruin the rest of your life.”

  “It ruined Courtney’s.” Her sister lived like a hermit in a cement block house filled with smoke detectors. Abby would not take the chance of sleeping under the same roof as another person. One burn victim on her conscience was enough for a lifetime. God, when she thought of the horrors her sister had been through, those months in the hospital…

  “Your sister is making her own choices.”

  “Choices she wouldn’t have had to make if I hadn’t set that fire.” Those were words she never uttered. Never. Hearing them come from her lips was like the sting of whip strikes on her soul.

  “You aren’t responsible. It was the same as a lightning strike, no one could have predicted or prevented it. It just happened.” Her dad reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. His capacity for forgiveness constantly amazed her. She’d nearly killed her sister, had put their entire family at risk, and had destroyed the family home.

  He added in a soft voice, “That’s in the past, Jitterbug. Let it go. You haven’t been sleepwalking for years—”

  She stood abruptly; her chair scooted noisily across the tile. “I have to get going. Do you mind if I keep the Explorer a few more days?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you need anything from the store?”

  “Can’t think of anything.”

  She put her plate in the dishwasher, and then leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Just give me a call if you do.”

  He grabbed her hand before she walked away. “You be careful out there, Betsy.”

  She stopped cold. “I’m Abby, Dad.”

  He blinked. “Of course you are. Why are you telling me?”

  She gave him a fierce hug and left.

  As she got in the car, she assured herself that her father had been perfectly normal all through her visit—until he’d called her Betsy. It probably wasn’t a big deal. Mom used to call Courtney and Abby by the other’s name all of the time. Occasionally she had even called Abby Scooter, the dog’s name.

  It was a natural slip of the tongue. That was what she kept repeating all the way to her car.

  On the way to Jason Coble’s house, the radio gave a news update that struck her like a fist in the gut.

  “… police are now looking for the driver of a third vehicle in the investigation of the early Thursday morning accident that took the life of nineteen-year-old Kyle Robard, son of Senator Ken Robard. Police stress that at this point they are only looking to question that driver.

  Services for Kyle Robard are scheduled for Wednesday at Randall and Roberts Funeral Home in Preston, the senator’s hometown.”

  Abby switched off the radio as she pulled to the curb in front of Jason’s house. For a long moment she sat there, staring at the tree-lined street but seeing the wreckage of a motorcycle illuminated by a flashlight beam.

  She dry swallowed two extra-strength Tylenol in the useless fight against a fatigue headache. Her eyeballs felt as if they were swollen to twice their normal size and covered in flannel. Twice today her heart had started beating so fast that it felt like a hummingbird in her chest.

  Would she be able to sleep when she got home? Or would images of twisted motorcycles and visions of burn scars appear every time she closed her eyes? Would memories of dreams join with her newfound fear of intruders to keep her awake?

  Abby buried her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes.

  When she lifted her face and reached for the door handle, she saw in the side mirror the tail end of a gray Impala cross the intersection behind her.

  She spun to look, the quick movement making her a little queasy.

  The car had passed from view.

  God, you are getting paranoid. There have to be dozens of gray Impalas in Preston.

  Someone broke into your house. Nothing imaginary about that.

  Enough! She smacked the steering wheel with both hands. This was getting her nowhere.

  She got out of the car and immediately the world began to swim before her eyes. She took two staggering steps and bent at the waist, laying her head on the Explorer’s warm hood.

  The last thing that registered before the world went black were hands grabbing her shoulders.

  CHAPTER 12

  Abby could hear before she could see. A man was saying her name.

  “Breathe deeply, Abby.” She obeyed. “There you go,” he said. “And again. Now open your eyes.” He was patting her hand—not gently. She was sitting, leaning back against something warm and uneven.

  The Explorer tire, she thought. She was sitting on the street.

  The face before her was a blur. But the voice had already registered. Jason.

  Her eyes began to focus. He was hovering close. His hazel eyes were concerned, but his lips curved in a slight smile. “Hey there.” He stopped slapping her hand, but continued to hold it.

  Abby heard a car roll slowly by and a man’s voice call, “Y’all need help?”

  Jason called back, “Thanks, we’re okay.”

  The man called more loudly, “Miss? You all right?”

  “Oh, boy,” she mumbled. Could this get any more humiliating? “Fine, thank you, sir.”

  It was a moment before the car moved on.

  Just over Jason’s right shoulder a smaller face appeared, haloed in blond curls.

  Oh yeah, it could get more humiliating.

  Beneath a pink visor, Brenna’s hazel eyes were replicas of her father’s. “Is she okay, Daddy? She looks really white.”

  “I’m okay,” Abby said and started to gather herself to stand.

  “Whoa, there. Just sit for a minute,” Jason said.

  “I’m in the street.”

  “Not a busy one. Bryce is right there making sure all the cars know you’re down here.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Fa
bulous.” Wouldn’t want anyone to miss me lying on the street in front of the shrink’s house.

  Jason laughed and the sound of it began to bring warmth back to her body.

  “Okay, now, Bryce, you get on Abby’s other side.” Jason moved to one side and got a good hold on her upper arm, as if she was going to need serious hoisting to get off the pavement.

  She cast him a discouraging look. “I can get up on my own.”

  “Well, you certainly got down there on your own,” Jason said. “Why not let us just make sure you don’t have a repeat performance?”

  Another car rolled slowly past with a woman looking wide-eyed and curious out the passenger window.

  She sighed. “Just get me off this street.”

  Bryce moved to her side. His grip was much more tentative than Jason’s, and he stepped quickly away once she was vertical. From the corner of her eye, Abby saw him wipe his palms on the legs of his jeans.

  Jason held tight, and hooked one arm around her waist so she had no choice but to lean against him.

  “Head rush?” he asked quietly, his breath close enough to tickle her ear. That hint of intimacy sent a shiver over her body that he must have felt—and misinterpreted—because he tightened his grip.

  “No food. No sleep. Bump on the head. I’m okay now.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jason turned and said, “Bryce, can you pull my car in the drive?”

  She now saw that Jason’s Altima was pulled crookedly to the curb behind the Explorer, as if he’d swung to the side of the street in haste.

  She thought of those hands on her shoulders as her world had started to fade. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she’d probably have split her head open on the pavement.

  “You’ve certainly got good timing,” she said, looking up at him. His face was as close as a lover’s; the late afternoon sun showed the slight stubble of his beard coming in much lighter than his brown hair.

  “Nobody’s ever accused me of that before.” He leaned to her ear and whispered, his hand squeezing her waist slightly, “I’m damn glad I had it this time.” He started moving them toward the sidewalk. “Bren, would you carry Abby’s purse?”

  Abby straightened. “I don’t want to intrude.” She hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him having his children. She hadn’t been thinking about anything except discovering if her dream would reveal the truth about the accident. “I should have called first. We can talk later.”