Okay, that was it. “His name is Tracemore. Phillip. Dawson.” I slapped the words out succinctly. “And for some stupid reason I’d hoped he would help connect the dots, but you can rest easy. He’s been about as helpful as you have.”
“Don’t you understand what you’re dredging up? Our reputation was in shambles after the murder. And the papers were brutal. When all the sordid details came out, your uncle had to walk away from a judgeship nod. Our friends shunned us and gossip even followed Mead back to Yale.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “He was this close to a breakdown.”
That gave me pause. I’d gone through a similar experience. Like flies to manure, my dead mother’s sleazy legacy had also followed me to Sarah Lawrence. One incident in particular had left an indelible mark.
“Why am I just hearing about this, Auntie?”
“We didn’t tell anyone, dear.” She dropped her gaze. “And given Mead’s campaign, we’re all understandably nervous. His chances are excellent, but I won’t take anything for granted.”
I didn’t know whether to feel sympathy or disgust. “This just typifies the level of secrecy in this family.”
“Listen, sweetie. It was a ghastly thing—the way Lilith…the way she died. No one deserves to leave this earth like that.” Auntie’s eyes squeezed shut as her breath shuddered out of her. “We were just trying to protect you. At the time, you were our only concern. Were errors made? Yes. But—”
“Not errors. Lies,” I insisted. “Why do I remember Uncle Jackson grilling me before my deposition?”
“How many times must I say this? Nothing happened. Jackson’s questions were routine.”
“How would you know? You said you left the room!”
“Sears assured me everything was safe and aboveboard.”
That left me speechless. She’d accused Uncle of being a philandering liar for decades. Why did she believe him now?
“Time distorts things,” Auntie said without conviction. “Your adult mind is trying to make sense of a child’s fantasies.” Edict declared, she gathered her things. Her way of letting me know the debate was over. “I’ve a six o’clock DAR meeting.” She threw her coat on and grabbed the box. “You should really consider having Beatrice put up a tree or something. The place could use some Christmas cheer.”
“You’re dodging the issue again. Just like everyone else!”
Auntie stalked to the exit. Over her shoulder she said, “Sweetie, I love you, but you’ve misplaced your priorities.”
DING DONG, blared the chime.
Cold invaded the office as Auntie lugged that ridiculous box to her car. I dashed up front to run after her, but thought better of it. Everyone had closed ranks on me. God, I’d never felt so alone in my life.
I shrank away from the door as the distant roar of a motorcycle drew near. Noise pollution. Bending over Beatrice’s desk, I turned the radio to a soft rock station. Adam Lambert had just started the second chorus of “Ring Of Fire.”
After switching off all but one of the front lights, I wandered back to my office and shuffled through the bridal photos with the patience of a two-year-old. Honestly? I didn’t like any of these dresses. They were all hideous. So I just picked the gown I hated the least. Where was the pre-wedding bliss Auntie had raved about? Thus far, for me anyway, there’d been nothing but dread.
I glanced at the clock. Five p.m. Tossing the photos on the credenza, I collapsed into a chair, and shut my lids.
He’s not calling. Get over it.
DING DONG.
I blinked my eyes open at the entrance chime. “Auntie?”
The silhouette of a helmet-clad man came into focus. Dusk was minutes away, but he wore reflective shades. He flipped the door sign to “Closed.” Relief warred with anxiety once recognition clicked. I’d know that cocky swagger anywhere.
As he stepped beneath the ceiling lamp, the silver crucifix around his neck glinted. Clad in a black motorcycle jacket and a navy blue T-shirt, he looked dark and unapologetically male. Jeans that had faded to ash white at the knees hugged him in all the right places. Black shit-kickers covered his feet.
K.D. Lang’s “The Consequences of Falling” played softly as he tugged his gloves off. His helmet went next. He bulldozed a hand through his damp hair, leaving tracks.
Meanwhile, a stark image had dawned in my mind. I was in the garage again, with my back plastered to that wall while his rock-solid body pressed into me. His arm was cocked above my head, his fingers tangled in my hair. The memory wouldn’t go away. It was a living thing.
An entity.
Trace tipped his chin in greeting. “Shannon.”
Over thirty feet separated us, but the office had never seemed so small. I forced myself to speak. “Why are you—”
“Here?” His baritone melted over me like a caress. “Figured it was my turn to pay you a visit.” He glanced around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
My mind went blank. “What time is it?”
He flicked his wrist in gesture. “Quittin’ time.” Seconds passed. “We need to talk.”
“I know,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving his.
He set his helmet on a table smothered in real estate magazines, then went for the door as I stood. The scrape of the bolt hitting the chamber echoed. Weeks ago I would’ve been terrified. Now we were here, alone, in my office, and I’d never felt happier to see anyone.
He faced me. “I like it.”
“Pardon?”
The Berber carpet muffled his steps. “Your place.” He lifted his arms from his sides. “It’s girlie, but nice.”
French provincial furniture, the color of tea-rose and gray, decorated the suite. Tessellate borders, mahogany cabinets, and impressionist oil paintings adorned the mauve walls.
“So what did you need the stamps for?” he asked.
“Stamps?”
“The signature stamps,” he said. “Why’d you buy them?”
I threw my mind into gear. “They were for my assistant.”
Twelve feet and closing.
“You don’t sign your letters?”
“Yes.” I gripped the desk when my knees started shaking. “But five other agents share this office. We’re not always here to sign letters. We got them for the admin and….”
He stepped within the glass walls of my office. The scent of leather, herbal shampoo, and the chill of outdoors filled my senses. His dark, brooding presence dominated every inch of space just as it had in the limo. “Any suspects?”
“No.” I swallowed. “We get so much traffic in here. Clients, agents, vendors, loan officers.”
“What about your secretary?”
“My administrative assistant,” I gently corrected, “is Beatrice, a trusted staff member. I’ve known her since kindergarten.”
He folded his arms, settled his weight to the right, and stroked his chin. “This happen to the other agents?”
“No, but things get misplaced quite a lot—” I widened my eyes when he rounded the desk and picked up the bridal photographs from the credenza. “W-what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, just started thumbing through the pictures. I stepped back, but he was still too close. Careful not to snatch them away, I tugged the photos from his hands.
“So when’s the big event?”
I tapped the edges to align them. “February 28th.”
“Kinda cold then.”
I dropped the snapshots into a drawer and shoved it closed. “I’m sure you’re not here to talk about my wedding.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
Had he come to form an opinion? Or had he already decided? When his brows crested above the silver rim of his shades, I said, “I’m happy you’re here.” Hope surged. “But does this visit mean you believe me?”