She Can Tell Read online

  Then there was that other little issue. Every time their eyes met, like now, a heavy sensation filled his chest. Massaging his sternum, Mike broke eye contact. Probably just his twenty-four-seven work schedule catching up with him. His concern was justified. Troy would be out on bail tomorrow, and Mike’s instincts were sure that her case was more complicated than Troy’s revenge. There was someone else involved. Mike wouldn’t be able to sleep unless they were as safe as possible. There didn’t have to be anything more to it than that.

  But call me Mike? What had he been thinking? And he could excuse the shower and shave, but the aftershave? Pathetic.

  He could not afford to get personally involved. He needed to get back to the station—away from Rachel. Before he was tempted to do more than help her secure her house. Before he acted on the scorching heat that had filled her eyes when he touched her chin.

  But it was Rachel who moved away from him. She poked her head into the den and called out, “Girls, it’s time to go.”

  The kids and dog trooped in. Rachel lifted Emma onto her lap and wiggled the muddy sneakers onto the little girl’s foot. Alex dropped to the floor and chewed on her bottom lip as she concentrated on tying the laces.

  Mike backed away from the wholesome family scene that was threatening to bore a hole right through his heart. He’d wanted kids. His ex-wife hadn’t wanted to be tied down or risk her figure. Considering how things had turned out between them, he should be glad. “I’ll get my friend out here as soon as possible. His name is Sean Wilson in case he calls.”

  Rachel leaned a cheek on the top of Emma’s head and stared at Mike. “You don’t have to do all this.”

  But he did. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.” He pulled out a business card and a pen, printed his cell number on it, and set it on the table. “Call me if you need me.”

  His interest was purely professional.

  Mike left by the back door. The aroma of manure and wet grass hit his nose as he walked to his truck, which was parked alongside the barn. He climbed behind the wheel. His eyes settled on the side of the building. The graffiti practically had Troy’s tag on it, but the rest? Even bolstered by anger and alcohol, Troy was hardly the industrious type.

  But as she’d said, who else would go to this much trouble to get rid of her? Though she hadn’t really answered his question, had she?

  As Mike fished a roll of antacids from his center console, he glanced back at the old farmhouse. Two stories of solid Pennsylvania fieldstone towered over the rural landscape. He knew the white trim and black shutters needed replacement, as did the roof. But from a distance, the peeling paint and missing shingles weren’t visible. The house was impressive, its weaknesses not discernible until closer inspection.

  Like its owner.

  He pulled out onto the country road. There was a whole lot of nothing in every direction. Heavy woods provided cover on three sides of her cleared acreage. No. Sturdy doors and locks weren’t enough. Even an alarm was only a warning. The itch on the back of Mike’s neck was telling him this farm was too isolated—and, behind her tough façade, Rachel was far too vulnerable.

  He wouldn’t let another woman get hurt on his watch if he had to work twenty-four hours a day.

  His phone buzzed on his hip. He glanced at the display. His gut clenched as he turned his truck around and stomped on the gas pedal.

  Chapter Four

  The Watcher leaned out from behind a fat oak at the edge of the trees. The ankle-deep stream at the edge of the property swirled around his waterproof boots. He raised the binoculars to the opening of his camouflage hood and adjusted the focus. Rachel carried the small child to her pickup and secured her in the rear of the extended cab. Another child followed, climbing into the truck on her own. Rachel stopped and scanned the woods. Her posture stiffened.

  He lowered his field glasses and backed against the tree. She couldn’t see him. It wasn’t possible. Not at that distance. Not dressed head to toe in his best autumn forest camo.

  She returned to her task, and he relaxed. But he’d never forget the fact that she, and she alone, could tie him to a murder.

  He’d only killed one person in his life. Though he could still feel the burn of betrayal down to his soul, he regretted his reaction to this day. Getting rid of the body and destroying the evidence had been a hassle. Frankly, he’d panicked and botched the whole thing. He’d been lucky. The cops had assumed Harry had taken off. There’d been no evidence of a crime. But now that she was back, there could be.

  She could ruin everything.

  He turned to stare at the old farmhouse. What would it take to get rid of her? A lot, apparently. Troy Mitchell sure wasn’t going to get the job done. He was too lazy and undisciplined to be useful as anything except a pawn.

  The Watcher focused his binoculars on the barn with disgust. Graffiti was the best Troy could do? Really? What an amateur.

  Clearly, more of the Watcher’s assistance was necessary. He’d leave the juvenile tactics to Troy, while the Watcher took care of the serious business. Rachel had proven more resourceful than he’d expected. Both of his early attempts to break into the house had failed. With more time, he’d have managed it, but Rachel was never gone long enough. If he did get inside, he’d need a few hours to do what needed to be done. He couldn’t take the chance of being caught in the act.

  So, unless he figured out another way to get in, he needed Rachel to move out. But how?

  Nothing he’d done so far had convinced her that she was engaged in a losing battle. The stubborn bitch was a pain in the ass. He’d worked hard to put that night behind him. He wouldn’t let her ruin everything. It was time to take the plan to the next level, from mere inconvenience and financial hardship to real fear, which was easier than most people would think. Rachel wasn’t as tough as she appeared. Some personal terrors ran soul-deep.

  He knew all about Rachel’s phobias. He’d been watching her a long time. He thought about breaking in when she was home, of standing over her bed while she slept, unaware of his presence. His groin tightened. The sight of him in her room would terrify her. She’d scream. He’d have to silence her before anyone heard her. Before she could tell.

  Anticipation kindled at the thought of an eternal solution to his current problem, of acting instead of only watching. He could wrap his hands around her throat. The memory of that one and only kill rushed back. The blood. The power. The thrill. He hadn’t expected it to feel so…good. Addictive. As if he’d been numb until the act had flooded him with feeling. Cold until he’d felt the hot rush of blood over his skin. Nothing in his life had come close to the few, tantalizing seconds when he’d watched the light, the soul, drain out of a man’s eyes. He’d felt more in that moment than in his entire life. Killing had fueled something inside him. A yearning that watching would never quite satisfy.

  But he was still paying the price for that ancient momentary thrill. Disposing of Harry’s body had been more difficult than he’d imagined. It had taken a long time before he stopped waking in a cold sweat, waiting for the police to show up at the door. One moment of pleasure hadn’t been worth years of anxiety. If he’d learned anything from that experience, it was the importance of sticking to his plan. Discipline was the key.

  His immediate goal was to get Rachel to leave.

  The rain picked up, echoing off the inside of his hood. For now, watching was his only release. But he’d do a lot more if she showed any signs of remembering what he’d done.

  Her truck disappeared down the narrow country lane.

  He hoisted the bag of tools over his shoulder and strode across the wet lawn. A decent tracker would see his trail, but the grass and weeds were too thick for his boots to leave discernible prints. He eyed the lock on the door. No problem. He had just the tool for the job. He reached into the bag. His gloved hand closed on his kit.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re sure the girls are OK?”

  Rachel settled her sister on the so
fa in the den. Sarah’s voice barely slurred, despite her swollen lip. Her arm was in a sling, and the bruises on her face had colored to a rainbow of purples. Physically she looked beaten, but the stubborn set of her jaw and the glint in her soft brown eyes gave Rachel hope that Sarah had finally had enough of Troy.

  “Yeah. They love Mrs. Holloway. They’ll be home soon anyway. The movie ended at three.” Rachel straightened. “Hungry?”

  “Not really, but I’ll eat anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit. Soup?” Despite her sister’s new tenacity, chewing solid food would be challenging for the next few days.

  “OK.” Sarah shifted on the couch. “Rachel, I’m sorry. About everything.”

  “I told you. It’s gonna be all right. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “But I don’t want you to take care of everything.” Moisture glittered in Sarah’s eyes. She looked away. “Marrying Troy was my mistake. He was always temperamental, but I thought when he got away from his father, he’d change. I could make him happy. I used to go to all his baseball games. In the beginning it was OK. It was way better than Mom and Dad’s marriage. But then he got cut from the minor leagues. I’d just had Emma. His dream was gone. He had a wife and two babies to support. He started going to the bar instead of coming home at night. The more he drank, the meaner he got.” Sarah turned back, a spark of anger in her eyes. “But he never hit me before this time. I wouldn’t have stayed with him if he had.”

  “I know.”

  A breath heaved through Sarah’s thin frame as she rested her head on the back of the couch. Whatever resolve she’d bolstered for the drive home deflated. “I promise I’ll pay you back every cent.”

  “And I’ll hold you to it.” Rachel wouldn’t, but Sarah needed the self-respect.

  In the kitchen, Rachel selected a can of chicken noodle from her meager pantry. She dumped the condensed blob into a saucepan.

  Sarah needed a high-powered attorney. Troy’s daddy’s money could buy a hell of a lawyer. And the bastard wouldn’t do it because he wanted the girls. He’d only try to take them to hurt and control Sarah. None of that mattered. Sarah had to keep her children. Whatever the cost.

  With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she picked up her cell phone. Blake’s number was still on speed dial, as if she could still call him at any time for advice or just to talk. So much for her being over what had happened between them.

  “Rachel?” Surprise colored Blake’s voice.

  She couldn’t do polite banter, not with Blake. She didn’t want to give him false hope, but she needed his help. She blurted out, “I need a favor.”

  What was wrong with her? She couldn’t even manage a simple hi, how are you?

  “What’s going on, Rachel?” Blake’s tone sharpened. “I haven’t heard from you in six months.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. For everything.” Exhaustion smoothed her voice. “Let me start again. How—”

  “I miss you.” Visceral emotion filled those three words.

  She closed her eyes and rested the phone against her forehead for a few seconds. She missed him too, but she couldn’t say that. He’d misunderstand, and she didn’t have the energy to fight with him. “I need your help. It’s for Sarah and the girls, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Yeah. God forbid you actually need anything from me.”

  “Blake, please. Don’t go there.”

  “You just don’t get it.” He sighed. “I know you can’t believe it, but I’ll always be here for you. You can trust me.”

  “My leaving had nothing to do with trust.” And everything to do with things she wasn’t capable of feeling. She’d loved him in her own way, but it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t match the intense emotions he had felt for her. Marrying Blake would have set them up to repeat the disaster that was her parents’ marriage.

  The line went silent for a few long seconds. “Just tell me what you want.”

  They made the arrangements with a few brisk and businesslike exchanges that fed the ache in Rachel’s heart. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the counter. Alex and Emma were more important than any of her dreams. She’d do whatever was necessary.

  Rachel turned to the sink with the empty soup can. She lifted the handle on the faucet. Nothing came out. What now? She checked the valve under the sink. No problem there. She ducked into the den. Sarah’s head lolled back on the sofa. Her eyes were closed.

  Rachel grabbed a flashlight. Maybe it was a blown fuse or something else with a simple fix. Yeah, right. When was it ever something simple? After locking the door securely behind her, she headed across the weedy yard to the far corner, where the well house hid behind the detached garage.

  A cold twinge curled in the pit of her belly. She wasn’t alone. Goose bumps broke out on her arms. Stopping in the middle of the lawn, she rubbed her biceps. She scanned the buildings and trees ahead. Everything looked the same. A pair of blue jays burst from the underbrush at the edge of the trees a dozen yards away. Rachel started, and then forced herself to breathe. Birds. Just birds.

  She was losing it. Big time.

  She swallowed her paranoia and resumed her stride. Clearly, her imagination had paid attention to Mike’s warnings. Memories rushed at her, video clips of various arguments she’d had over the past year all spliced together, a montage of her disagreeable nature. There were quite a few. Blake’s were the longest—and the most bitter. Someday, she’d learn to think first and open her mouth second. Hanging around with the unflappable He-Man could be good for her. She paused midstride. Where did that thought come from?

  The building was small, roughly measuring eight by ten feet. Though built of solid Pennsylvania fieldstone to match the main house, the outbuildings hadn’t been maintained as well over the centuries. Mortar crumbled and ivy climbed the patchwork of brown and gray rocks.

  The weather-beaten door moved in the breeze with a squeak of old hinges. The padlock she’d installed lay in the grass next to the stoop. Oh no. Not the well. Panic swept her hesitation out of the way.

  Rachel pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her gaze fell on the debris strewn across the dirt floor. She gasped. Before she could move, a shove between her shoulder blades sent her flying forward. Her hands instinctively shot out in front of her to brace her fall. Pain sang up her forearms as her palms hit the dirt floor. Something slammed behind her, and everything went dark.

  Mike bounced along the gravel lane that led to Lost Lake and approached the turnoff for the controversial vacation home development project. Thanks to last week’s rock blasting, the construction entrance was flanked by diehard picketers, even on a dreary Sunday. The protestors were too spread out to capture with his dashboard camera. He grabbed his cell phone camera from the passenger seat and switched the camera function to video. Slowing the truck to a crawl, he steered around a bearded guy toting a hand-lettered sign and navigated the muddy ruts left by heavy equipment. As he passed through the crowd, he held up the phone and recorded the crowd on both sides of his vehicle. He now had two dozen vandalism suspects.

  The rutted entrance opened to a cleared space littered with puddles and construction debris. Mike’s tires crunched on the gravel of a temporary parking area. He stopped his vehicle facing the lake. Beyond the scarred clearing and the weedy shoreline, water rippled in the late afternoon breeze. Scenic, despite the bulldozer that was parked in the lake’s shallows, the top half of its yellow form visible above the surface of the water.

  To his left, a twenty-foot section of chain-link fence surrounding construction equipment was flattened to the ground. In a wooded area next to the enclosure, two mangled port-a-johns lay on their sides, crushed like tin cans. Blue-tinted sewage spilled from gaping holes. A group of construction workers clustered around a guy Mike labeled as the foreman from his in-charge posture.

  On his right, three men in their late fifties huddled in a conspiratorial cluster: Mayor Fred Collins, Vince, and a tall, thin guy dressed in the latest ruggedly e
xpensive outdoor apparel.

  Mike’s hands twitched on the wheel. He could turn around and drive away, let them fire him, but he didn’t want to give Vince the satisfaction of winning. Though why Vince wanted to get rid of Mike was a mystery. Vince had had it out for Mike since the first day of the new council term. Plus, there was the heavy load of responsibility Mike felt toward the residents of his hometown. He’d let them down once. He didn’t want to do it again.

  With irritation pooling, Mike stepped out of his SUV. Protestors’ chants of “Save our lake!” competed with the tweeting of birds and breezy rustle of foliage.

  Mayor Fred picked his way around a puddle. His off-the-rack gray suit and wingtips were splattered with mud. Vince was dressed more practically in jeans and work boots. He hung back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Mike. Vince wholeheartedly supported the Lost Lake project. Vacationers equaled more business. The rest of the town was divided. Residents who would benefit from the development, especially the large unemployed construction workforce, were cheering it on. Environmental concerns were a luxury for those with stable employment.

  “You have to do something about this.” Vince waved a wiry arm. “These pranks are costing the developer time and money.”

  “Easy, Vince.” Fred gestured toward Moneybags. “Mike, this is Lawrence Harmon, owner of Harmon Properties.”

  Well, that explained the expensive duds. As the Coming Soon sign out front clearly stated, Harmon Properties owned Lost Lake Realty.

  Harmon held out a hand. Mike shook it.

  “As Vince pointed out, Chief O’Connell, this type of activity is costing my company a great deal. We’ve already lost several weeks, and the project is still in its early stages.”