by Pamela Clare
“God, Sophie, you are too good at this.”
She’d teased him with her tongue, worked her hand and mouth in tandem up and down his length, loving the hard feel of him, taking her time, enjoying her sense of control. Just as he’d done for her, she’d tried her best to drive him crazy and had felt a thrill when he’d begun to unravel, saying her name over and over again, one big hand fisting in her hair, the other clenched in the sheets. At the last second, he’d lifted her mouth off him and had come in her hand, his head falling back on a groan, his back arching off the bed, ribbons of hot white semen shooting from deep inside him.
They’d lain there for awhile in silence, then he’d made long, slow love to her, every touch so tender and intimate that Sophie had come close to tears. Even though he hadn’t said it, she’d known what he was thinking, had seen it in his eyes.
There’s now. Only now.
Afterward, she’d made omelets, hash browns, and coffee for breakfast, while he’d taken a shower and dressed in jeans and a dark green T-shirt. He’d devoured every bite with such enthusiasm that she’d wished she’d made more. Then it had been her turn for a shower. By the time she’d dried off and dressed in a pair of borrowed jeans and a sweatshirt—she and Mrs. Rawlings were thankfully close in size—he was down here in the basement hard at work.
They’d already gone through almost half of the boxes in this room, searching for anything that might tell them where to look for Megan next—a diary that mentioned childhood friends, videos or photographs of friends or relatives who might have taken her in, favorite places she liked to visit. Instead they’d found old hymnals, mimeographed Sunday school lessons, old clothes and shoes, extra clothes hangers, broken kitchen gadgets, and cheesy Christmas decorations.
Sophie could tell from the occasional frown on his face that he was worried about his sister and niece and more than a little frustrated by their lack of progress, and she couldn’t blame him. The idea that the two overdose victims might somehow be related to Megan’s disappearance was terrifying.
Sophie pushed a heavy box aside, leaving it for Hunt, and found several smaller, dusty boxes tucked behind it. They were taped shut, the tape yellowed with age. She reached down, grabbed the bottom box to pull them out—and shrieked and stumbled backward as something large and black and probably eight-legged darted out from behind the box.
Strong arms caught her. “You okay?”
She pointed. “A really big spider—”
“I see it. Looks like a black widow.”
“Oh, God! I almost grabbed it!” A cold, greasy feeling slid through her stomach.
Hunt set her upright and walked past her toward the boxes she’d been moving, and she could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “I didn’t know you were arachnophobic.”
“I’m not. The word phobia implies there’s something abnormal about my reaction to spiders—horrid little monsters! They deserve to be hated!”
He chuckled, then knelt down. “Oh, she’s a big one, all right. Look at that fat belly.”
Sophie moaned, her stomach turning.
He glanced over at her, a grin on his face. “She’s a lot more frightened of you than you are of her.”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”
But Hunt kept on. “Think about it. This is the end of the line for her, and some part of her tiny spider brain knows it. See how she’s trying to hide?”
Sophie looked away, her skin crawling. “Oh, stop!”
She heard a thunk, then Hunt walked by her, holding something—an old boot?—in his hands. A moment later she heard the toilet flush and water running in the sink. Then Hunt reappeared and drew her into his arms.
“It’s okay, sprite. You’re safe now. I saved you from the big, bad spider.” He pulled her against him, ducked down, kissed her hard on the mouth. Then he walked back to the boxes she’d been moving and nudged them with his foot. “Let me just check behind here and see whether…”
Sophie stiffened. “Are there more?”
He shook his head, bent down, and turned the boxes to face her.
And there on the side, scrawled in black marker, was the word Megan.
MARC SET THE little plaster plate on the table, lay his open hand on top of the tiny handprint in its center, and felt something sharp twist in his chest. The indentations formed by Megan’s fingers barely spanned his palm. He looked at the date etched into the plaster—May 14, 1988. Only a few months after she’d been taken away.
“Isn’t this cute?” Across from him, Sophie held up a Christmas ornament that consisted of a tiny picture frame suspended from a red ribbon. In the center was Megan, giving the camera a shy smile. She was missing a tooth. “How old do you figure she was here? Six? Seven?”
“I don’t know.” His words came out cold, indifferent.
He set the plaster plate down, reached into the box, pulled out a stack of drawings—a very fat goldfish, three bright blue butterflies, the outline of a child’s hand turned into a turkey, a menagerie that must have been Noah’s ark—each one signed by the artist in a child’s simple scrawl: M-E-G-A-N.
“This is hard for you, isn’t it?” Sophie watched him, her gaze soft.
“Yeah.” He’d known it would feel strange to sift through the debris of Megan’s childhood. He just hadn’t expected the experience to dredge up so many memories, so many old feelings, so much shit. He felt like shouting at someone, breaking something, his skin too tight, his fuse short.
“She loves you.”
Marc didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
“I read through my notes before coming to interview you. She mentioned you every time I spoke with her—how you helped her get into a good rehab program, how you put money in her commissary account, how you encouraged her when she was going through withdrawal.”
“Yeah, I’m a fucking hero.”
“Megan thinks so.”
“Well, we both know that Megan has issues, don’t we?” Marc set the drawings aside, stood, and walked into the kitchen, pretending to need a drink of water when what he really needed was space—or a chance to live his entire life over again.
Ain’t gonna happen, dumbass.
He turned on the faucet, filled his glass, drank.
“You know what I think is so wonderful about the two of you? Even though you were separated as children and didn’t see each other for almost fifteen years, you still care so much about each other. Megan was only four. It’s amazing that she even remembered you after—”
Marc slammed his glass down. “Stop! Just stop!”
He turned to face Sophie and immediately felt like a dick. She stared at him, a surprised look on her face, the stack of Megan’s drawings in her hands. Shit. “I’m sorry, Sophie. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”
Not really. He walked over to the table, pulled out the chair next to her, and sat. Then he took a deep breath, rubbing his face in his hands. “Has Megan ever told you about the night Social Services came to take her away?”
Sophie shook her head. “I only know it was after her mother—your mother—was arrested for her second DUI.”
Marc remembered that day only too well. “I came home from school to find Mom hurting for booze and Megan sitting in front of the television, still in her pajamas. Mom grabbed whatever cash we had and headed off to the liquor store, leaving the two of us at home like she sometimes did.
“A lot of time passed. Megan got hungry, started crying. I made a box of macaroni and cheese and jelly sandwiches—my specialty at the time. It got late. I tried to put Megan to bed, because she was a little kid and Mom had left me in charge, but Megan wanted to watch cartoons. I got bossy. She got mad and threw a little tantrum. Then the doorbell rang.”
He couldn’t believe he was telling Sophie this. He had never talked about it with anyone, not even the stupid shrink the courts assigned to evaluate him for war-related posttraumatic stre
ss. But now that he had started he couldn’t seem to stop. The memories had been playing in his head like a bad movie ever since he’d opened that first box.
“I should have known better than to answer the door, but when I saw two cops standing out there…”
“You trusted them.”
He nodded. “They had a social worker with them, an older woman. She explained that Mom had done something wrong and was in jail and that we needed to go with the nice police officers. But I was afraid Mom would get out of jail and not know where to find us. I told them we would have to wait till she came home. God, I was an idiot!”
“No, you were a child.” Sophie’s voice was soft, sympathetic.
“The social worker explained that it would be a long time before our mom was allowed to come home and that they had come to take care of us. Then one of the officers picked Megan up and started to carry her out of the house. She was afraid and started crying and calling for me. I tried to get her away from him…”
Let her go! Leave her alone! She’s my baby sister!
He could hear his own pathetic shouts and Megan’s frightened crying.
“But they cuffed me—”
“They cuffed you? A ten-year-old boy? Oh, Hunt!”
“I was a hellion. I hit the officer who had her, kicked him, bit him. They put me in the back of one squad car, and Megan in the other, still in her pajamas. That night was the last I saw of my sister until after I left the army.”
Sophie watched as Hunt struggled with his emotions. She’d sensed that something was eating at him. From the moment they’d started looking through Megan’s things, he’d lapsed into a thick, dark silence. His face was expressionless as he spoke, but she could feel the emotion beneath—the rage, the sense of loss, the guilt. Images filled her mind, images of a neglected young boy fighting to defend his little sister against those sent to help them. How afraid he must have been, so much responsibility dumped on his ten-year-old shoulders. How helpless he must have felt when they put Megan in that car and drove her away. And the grief of losing his sister, of never seeing her again, of having been the only family nearby when they’d taken her…
Her throat tight, she fought to speak. “That must have been terrifying for both of you.”
“Yeah. Like ice in the gut. I threw up in the squad car.” He stood, took a few steps, faced the drawn curtains as if he were looking out the window, his back to her, both fists clenched. “It turns out my mom had been so hard up for a drink that she’d downed a bottle of peppermint schnapps in the parking lot of the liquor store and had run over some guy on her way back home. She damned near killed him.”
Sophie stood, walked over to him, wrapped her arm around him, resting her head between his shoulders, wanting somehow to comfort him, to reach the boy inside him. “So Megan was brought here—to Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.”
“Yeah.” His voice sounded flat, empty. “Within a year, the courts had terminated my mother’s parental rights where Megan was concerned. She became Megan Rawlings instead of Megan Hunter. I went from one foster home to the next, too old and too angry and too much trouble to interest adoptive parents.”
“You acted out because you wanted to stay with your mother.”
He turned his head, glanced down at her, a suspicious look on his handsome face. “Yeah. Are you psychic?”
“No. You told me twelve years ago. Remember?” It was obvious from his confused expression that he didn’t. “You said something like, ‘If I’d have been a good kid, they’d have found a home for me and taken me from my mom. No matter what she’s done, she doesn’t deserve that.’ But you didn’t tell me about Megan.”
Now that she knew about his sister, Hunt’s teenage years made even more sense. Always in trouble, always at the center of mayhem. He’d lost his little sister, seen her taken from their home and…
And then Sophie understood. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Tracking her down after the army. Killing Cross. Going out of your way to help Megan from your cell. Breaking out of prison to look for her. Risking your life to find her. You blame yourself. You blame yourself for what happened that night, and you keep trying to make up for it.”
His body tensed. “That has nothing to do with this.”
Sophie stepped to stand in front of him, lifting her palms to his cheeks. “It has everything to do with this. You couldn’t save Megan that night, and you’ve beaten yourself up for it ever since.”
He glared at her. “I’m her older brother. I’m supposed to take care of her!”
“Is that what your mother said? Did she try to shift the blame from herself onto you? I know you loved her, Hunt, but what she did was wrong.”
A muscle clenched in his jaw, and Sophie knew her words had hit home. For a moment she thought she’d pushed him too far. But then he closed his eyes and drew a long, shaky breath. “Megan was so little and so afraid. I should’ve—”
“You were ten years old! There was nothing you could have done! You needed protection as much as she did. Don’t you see that? It wasn’t your job to save her.”
He opened his eyes, gave her a sad, lopsided grin. “Is it your job to try and save me? It’s sweet of you, but it won’t work, Sophie.”
She ignored him. “What made you decide to find Megan after you left the army?”
He wrapped his arms around her, kissed the top of her head. “My mother died while I was stationed overseas. Losing Megan destroyed her. She quit drinking, but she started shooting up and just couldn’t stop. It killed her in the end—hepatitis C and liver cancer.”
“So Megan was your only family.”
“Yeah. After Afghanistan I felt like I’d straightened myself out enough to be a decent brother to her. But when I found her…God! It was like looking at a younger version of my mother.”
Sophie held him tighter. “I’m so sorry, Hunt! I’m so sorry!”
She knew the rest of the story. Hunt had gotten his sister into rehab and was helping her to turn her life around, when Cross had come over and Hunt had learned the truth about his DEA buddy—and had killed him. It was terrible beyond words.
But at the same time…
“You know, if we could win you a new trial and present all of this to a jury, prove the drugs weren’t yours—”
“No!” He set her away from him, looked straight into her eyes. “No new trial. No jury. I told you already. I won’t put Megan on the stand. She’s been through too much already.”
“She’s not a helpless little girl anymore, Hunt. She has the right to make that decision for herself! Do you think it will do her any good to watch you rot in prison, knowing that she could have helped you and didn’t?”
“It won’t accomplish anything! Even if my conviction is overturned, I’ll still end up in prison for a long damned time, and Megan will feel like she’s been raped all over again. Think about it. On top of Cross’s murder, I would also be facing charges of assault on an officer, theft, felony menacing, kidnapping, breaking and entering. What do I stand to gain, Sophie?”
“Justice!” She shouted the word, tears pricking her eyes. “Even if they sentence you to life, at least you’ll have a chance for parole. I won’t watch you throw your life away, not if there’s the slightest chance for us—”
“For us to be together? Are you going to wait for me until I’m sixty?” He shook his head, gave a little laugh, drew her back into his arms. “Remember what I told you? No happy endings. Don’t try to make these few stolen days more than they are, Sophie. You’ll only end up getting hurt.”
But Sophie knew it was already too late for that.
CHAPTER 23
BY NOON, THEY’D found three more boxes in the basement, each of them holding mementos of Megan’s childhood. None of it would help them find her, but every piece of it felt like a prize to Marc—crafts projects, two blue ribbons from track-and-field day, a little book of poems she’d written. He looked at each one, held them, then passed them on to Sophie for repacking.
Somehow, telling her had made this easier, as if some of the weight he’d carried for so long had been lifted from his shoulders.
It was Sophie who found it, scrawled in black marker on the foot of an old brown teddy bear. She held up the stuffed animal’s foot for him to see, her eyes glittering with tears, a sad smile on her sweet face. “Look what she named him.”
Mark.
Megan had spelled it wrong, but there it was—his name.
Sophie ran her thumb over the awkwardly spelled letters. “So Megan snuggled with a teddy bear named ‘Mark.’ I’d say she missed you and that thinking of you made her feel safe. How wrong it was to tear two siblings apart like that! My relatives talked about splitting David and me up, but my grandma, bless her heart, wouldn’t hear of it. I don’t think I fully appreciated what she did for us until just now.”
Marc took the bear and looked at his misspelled name, feeling like his chest might burst. The stuffed creature was lumpy and worn, a few of its seams threadbare, one of its eyes sewn back on with a different color thread than the other. It looked as if it had been hugged a lot before it ended up in this dusty box.
And just like that Marc knew what he wanted to do. “Let’s pack this stuff up and go.”
“Go where?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings disowned Megan. They tossed her out of the house on her eighteenth birthday. This stuff no longer belongs to them. I’m taking it someplace safe.”
“And where’s that?”
“Boulder.”
The drive up US-36 took only thirty-five minutes. It could have gone a lot faster, but Marc decided it was best to stick to the speed limit. Besides, with Sophie beside him and classic rock on the radio, he was right where he wanted to be. The day was sunny and warm, one of those strange Colorado winter days that seemed like spring. Ahead of them, the Rockies stretched as far as the eye could see to the north and south and far into the west, a horizon of jagged white.
“I understand why you’re doing this, and I can’t say I blame you.” Sophie looked over at him from beneath her sunglasses, her expression neutral. “But technically this is theft.”