You’re going to get arrested again,” Sam muttered to himself. He’d been sitting in front of the Beckhams’ home for thirty minutes, trying to talk himself into going in. He’d gotten himself into trouble the last time he’d tried to play detective, the memory of his stupid crime board still making him flush with embarrassment.
But he thought he’d found another victim and he owed it to Skyler to at least try to find out who’d killed them.
He’d spent hours combing through the missing-person databases available online, then, on a whim, had googled “missing teenager,” “San Diego,” and “Avondale.” McKittrick had said that the family of Cecilia Sheppard, the lilac-wearing lacrosse player, had never mentioned the show. He’d begun wondering if Colton had mixed up the details in his mind.
He hadn’t gotten a hit right away but had kept digging into the many Facebook shares of missing kids who were suspected to be runaways and had finally found one who had been wearing an Avondale T-shirt the day she’d disappeared.
Naomi Beckham had been blond, five foot one, and fifteen at the time of her disappearance three years ago. She’d been declared a runaway because she’d already run once before, following a band she liked.
The post about Naomi’s disappearance had several hundred messages from her family and friends. In the beginning, they’d begged her to come home. And then weeks later, they’d begged whoever had taken her to tell them where she was. And, months after that, her parents begged to know where her body had been hidden.
They knew she wasn’t coming home. How their hearts must have been broken.
He could help find out what had happened to their daughter. He had to.
There were risks, of course. Especially now that he was considered a suspect. But his current reality was very different now. In the past he wouldn’t have considered interfering with a police investigation, but everything had changed with Skyler’s murder. His life would never be his own again if whoever killed her wasn’t found.
So he’d gotten into his RAV4, driving across town to where the Beckhams lived—stopping for gas even though he had three-quarters of a tank. He’d be on the gas station’s security camera. In case he needed an alibi.
He also kept the receipt, because those were good for alibis, too, right?
And now here he sat, in front of the Beckhams’ modest home. He could have been inside already, talking to them. But this was not so simple.
Should he give his real name? He’d considered an alias. It wasn’t illegal, per se, but it was dishonest. Should he simply be honest with them as to why he was asking questions?
If he did, he could ruin his career. Although if he wasn’t cleared without equivocation soon, he wouldn’t have a career.
And in the end, what mattered more? Stopping a murderer? Or his career?
He knew the right answer, but he was selfish enough to hesitate over the possibility of losing the career he’d worked so hard to build.
But what if he could save his livelihood and help this family?
So walk up to the door and knock. Help these parents.
Bracing himself, he got out of his vehicle and walked to the front door. A gangly teenage boy stood there uncertainly, his eyes red-rimmed, like he’d been crying. He looked to be about fifteen. The same age his sister had been when she disappeared, because this boy resembled Naomi too much to be anything but her brother. Nathan, Sam remembered, from the online messages to Naomi. He was three years younger than his sister.
“What do you want?” Nathan asked, voice husky. He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t open the door wide enough for Sam to see inside. “Didn’t you hurt my mom enough already?”
“Who?” Sam asked gently.
“You cops,” the boy spat. “You stir up everything but you don’t fix anything. You—” He broke off, shaking his head. “My mom can’t talk to you any more. She’s asleep now.”
Cops? “Did Detective McKittrick come by?”
The boy nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Two hours ago.”
Sam knew that he shouldn’t be surprised that McKittrick was also following leads. He’d mentioned Avondale when she’d had him in that interrogation room the morning after she’d arrested him.
This explained the boy’s tears. So many memories dredged up.
Any and all thoughts of disguising his name fled right out of his head. “I’m not a cop. My name is Dr. Reeves. I’m a psychologist.”
Nathan recoiled. “A shrink?”
Sam sighed and shrugged self-deprecatingly. “ ’Fraid so. Sorry.”
“What do you want?” Nathan demanded.
“A few answers. I’ve been drawn into this case. Not my idea,” he added when the boy scowled. “I was being a Good Samaritan, but everything’s gone upside down and now I’m involved. I know this doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it really doesn’t. Why are you here?”
Sam hesitated, but . . . In for a penny, in for a pound. This boy had lost his sister, and his mother was hurting. So he’d be honest. “Did you hear about the young woman who was killed last night?”
Nathan shook his head. “I wasn’t home from school when the cop came by. I got here in time to pick up the pieces of my mom she left behind,” he added bitterly.
Such pain. Sam’s gaze dropped to his feet for a moment before lifting to meet the boy’s angry eyes. “A woman was killed this weekend. The cops think the same person might be responsible for your sister’s disappearance. The woman was my friend. She walked my dog. Her killer made it look like I did it.”
Nathan took a step back, nostrils flaring. “How?”
“A text on her phone to her parents, saying she was meeting me. I was camping and . . .” He shrugged. “No alibi.”
Nathan scoffed. “Anyone could have sent a text. They could have spoofed it.”
“I know. And the cops know this, too.”
“Give ’em your phone, man. Have ’em track it.”
“I did. But that just shows my phone was at the campsite. Not me.”
“So you’re basically screwed.”
“Basically. So I decided that I didn’t have anything to lose by asking questions. I’m not a cop, but . . . Skyler was my friend. I want her killer punished.”
“And you want your life back,” Nathan murmured.
“Yeah. You don’t get yours back, though, do you? Not like it was before. I wish I could change that.”
Nathan swallowed hard, new tears filling his eyes. “I miss her.”
Sam exhaled, his own eyes burning. He understood this boy’s pain. “My friend is gone, too. Not the same as a sister, but still . . .”
“It hurts,” Nathan whispered. “And makes me so mad.”
“Me too. Look, if your mom can’t talk to me, I can come back. I don’t want to put either of you in a bad position.”
“She’s not really asleep,” Nathan said. “I only said that to make you go away.” He turned slightly. “Mom? Can he come in?”
A muted voice said, “Yes. But tell him I have a gun. In case he gets any ideas.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “I heard her. No ideas. I swear.”
“Then come in,” Nathan said, opening the door wider.
Questioning his life choices, Sam followed the boy into a living room that had been nice once. It was dark now, the drapes drawn. An inch of dust had gathered on all the surfaces and there was a fist-sized hole in one of the walls. Beer cans and wine bottles littered the furniture and, expression embarrassed, Nathan gathered them as they passed.
“I’ll be right back,” Nathan said. “Sit down, please.”
Sam sat in a wingback chair, facing a thin woman sitting in the corner of the sofa. She wore a thick sweater and had an afghan pulled over her legs. A dachshund sat on her lap, its muzzle gray. A half-drunk bottle of wine was on the lamp table beside her. Not a glass in sight. Either she hadn’t started drinking yet or she was guzzling straight from the bottle. Sam would bet the latter, because her eyes were glassy.
On the sofa cushion at her hip was the gun.
All right, then.
“So you’re not a cop,” the woman said, her voice raspy.
“No, ma’am.”
“A shrink,” she said, her eyes filled with misery.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to intrude.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Mom,” Nathan said quietly. He had a plastic grocery store bag in one hand and set about gathering more empty wine bottles.
“Leave them, honey,” Mrs. Beckham said with such heavy sadness that Sam had to swallow. “I’ll take care of them later.”
Nathan’s small sigh and slumped shoulders suggested that it was an old argument and that his mother would likely not follow through. He sat beside her, his cell phone in his hand.
“I’ll call 911 if you cross a line,” Nathan warned.
“I won’t,” Sam promised. “I just want to ask you some questions about Naomi. What you remember about when she disappeared.”
Mrs. Beckham gestured impatiently. “Then ask so this will be done.”
“You don’t have to answer anything, Mrs. Beckham,” Sam said gently. “I’m not a cop. They’d probably be furious with me if they knew I was here.”
“Good. Ask your questions, Dr. . . . Reeves, was it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look familiar,” she said, studying him.
A shard of panic pierced Sam’s chest. Had the papers published his name? But he kept his expression placid. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“No, but I’ve seen you.” She studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “At New Horizons. You were there a few times when I went there looking for Naomi.”
Oh. “I do therapy with the teens.”
“Cushy job,” she commented, as if daring him to deny it.
“No, ma’am. I don’t charge them anything.”
“Why?” she asked.
Sam frowned slightly. “Why don’t I charge them?”
“No. Why do you do it? Counsel them?”
“It started when I was an undergrad,” he said. “I needed volunteer credits. I realized how good my life had been. How lucky I was. And how alone these kids really are. I kept going even after I had my credits. Now it’s just part of my life.”
She stared at him as if testing the truth of his words. “Naomi didn’t run away, did she?”
He swallowed again. She likes Avondale, Colton had said. Somehow that man—or his partner or both of them—had gotten their hands on this woman’s child. “I don’t think so, ma’am.”
She looked down abruptly, her hand trembling as she petted the old dog. “I told her to go,” she whispered.
“Mom,” Nathan said heavily. A denial. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She shook her head. “I told her to go. She was talking back to me that day and I’d had a terrible day at work already. I was tired and . . .” A sob cut off her words, shaking her thin frame. Nathan put an arm around her shoulders, his expression helpless. Hopeless.
This family had suffered.
“We argued,” she said when she’d regained control. “I’d told her she had to clean her room before going out, but I caught her sneaking out anyway. It was a big fight. Then I told her if she walked out that door, not to come back.”
Oh no. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the words uttered by a parent, but it was never easy to respond. Sam leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees.
“Nathan is right. This wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of whoever took her.”
Tears ran down her gaunt cheeks. “My husband didn’t agree with that. He left. Blamed me for everything.”
Oh. Unfortunately, that was all too common as well. Many marriages crumbled under the strain of a missing child. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. That’s done. I don’t know what else I can tell you, Dr. Reeves. She was a headstrong girl, but she had a good heart. She liked animals. Volunteered at the humane society. Cried when dogs had to be put down. She hated math. Loved broccoli.” Beside her, Nathan sniffled and she patted his knee. “She was a good big sister.”
“Did she want to be an actress?”
“Oh yes. She did. She would’ve made it, too. She sparkled onstage.”
“What production was she in?”
“Several. Once upon a Mattress when she was in middle school. She had the voice of an angel, you see. She starred in The Little Mermaid the year she . . . well. You know.”
Sam knew.
“It was a big deal,” Mrs. Beckham went on. “She was only fifteen, still a freshman, but she got the lead.”
“You must have been so proud of her.”
Her smile was full of regret. “I was.”
“Was she seeing anyone? Maybe secretly?”
She shook her head. “The cop asked me that. She wasn’t. My Naomi was a good girl.”
But Nathan flinched. Sam briefly met his gaze, but the boy looked away. But not before Sam saw his panic.
Sam hesitated, then decided to try to get Nathan to tell him when his mother wasn’t in the room. “I read the posts her friends wrote on her Facebook page. She seemed to be a popular girl.”
Mrs. Beckham shrugged. “Most of those posts were from kids she knew at school, but few of them were friends. Not when she disappeared, anyway.”
He hadn’t expected that. “What happened?”
She sighed. “Normally the kids would tell each other about the open auditions and they’d go together, but Naomi had done that earlier in the year for Avondale and one of her friends got called back and Naomi didn’t. Naomi was disappointed, of course, but she was happy for her friend. Mostly. She was a teenager, after all.”
“Mixed feelings,” Sam said and Mrs. Beckham nodded.
“But the next time . . .” She heaved another sigh. “When Naomi disappeared, there was a rumor that she’d gone for another audition and hadn’t told a soul. Her friends were mad. Turned on her. But when she didn’t come home, a few of them felt ashamed, I think. That’s when the posts started, begging her to come home.”
Something she was hiding from her friends. That was new.
“Audition for what?”
“I don’t know. Nobody seemed to know.”
“Did you mention this to Detective McKittrick?”
Mrs. Beckham looked startled. “No. She didn’t ask.”
“Is it okay if I mention it?”
“Dr. Reeves, I’d give my own life to get her back.” Beside her, Nathan closed his eyes, his expression so desolate that it broke Sam’s heart. From the look of the place, it looked like she’d given up living long ago. So much suffering. “If you think it’ll help that detective find out what happened to my baby girl, tell her.” She slumped, clearly fatigued. “I’m really tired. You should probably go.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ma’am, New Horizons offers help to the families of runaways. Counseling. If you’d ever like to come in, I’d help find you someone to talk to. I do sessions with parents, but it doesn’t have to be me.”
Her jaw tightened. “Thank you, but I don’t need it. Please go now.”
“Of course. Thank you for seeing me.” He rose, as did Nathan.
Silently Sam followed Nathan to the front door, but instead of closing it behind Sam, Nathan exited with him and quietly closed the door behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan murmured. “She’s not the same.”
“I know,” Sam said, as comfortingly as he could. “I guess you’re not, either.”
Nathan shook his head. “No.”
He wanted to ask Nathan why he’d looked so panicked when he’d asked if Naomi had been seeing anyone, but he’d care for the boy first.
Sam softened his voice. “Sometimes this kind of loss pulls families apart. Makes the children left behind feel . . . lost. Abandoned.”
Nathan’s shoulders hunched. “Yeah.”
“We have group therapy for siblings of runaways, too. They miss their brothers and sisters. Some of them hope their siblings come back. Some know in their hearts that they won’t. They’ll understand where you are right now. I’d be happy to find you a group to sit with. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. Just listen. And be.”
Nathan swallowed. “Is it expensive? Because Mom’s not working anymore. She just . . . sits there. Drinking. I . . . I bag groceries on the weekend and Dad pays alimony, but . . .” He trailed off, looking ashamed.
Sam wanted to make things right, but he couldn’t. He could, however, get this kid into therapy. “It’s free, Nathan.” He gave the boy his New Horizons card. “Call this number and tell them that I sent you. They have a shuttle that’ll pick you up and bring you home.” It was one of the newer services they offered at New Horizons and one Sam had played a part in organizing. It had been immediately, wildly popular.
Nathan took the card gingerly. “Thank you.”
Sam waited for a few beats, then said, “You know who your sister left with.”
Nathan looked up, eyes flaring with panic anew. “I didn’t say that.”
“No. But reading body language goes with the shrink territory. Sorry.”
“I . . .” Nathan closed his eyes. “I told the cops back then. When she disappeared. I told them I saw a car lurking. But they didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?” Sam asked, because he sensed there was more to it.
“Because they said she ran away,” Nathan said bitterly.
“And?”
Nathan seemed to go limp. “They looked at the cameras from all the houses around us and didn’t see the car I described. They said I was making things up.”
“Why didn’t the car show up on the cameras?”
Nathan’s eyes opened. “You believe me?”
“I do. Why, Nathan?”
He sighed. “Because I said I saw it from my bedroom window. But I didn’t.”
Sam thought he understood. “Were you out of the house, too?”
Nathan nodded. “I was coming back from my friend’s house. We were playing video games and I lost track of time. I didn’t want to get into trouble, but I saw her—and the car—when I was two blocks away from home.”
“What kind of car?”
“Black Mercedes. New. Tinted windows.”
Sam’s heart started to race. “What time was this?”
“About two thirty. But . . .” Another sigh, this one weary, like the secret he’d kept for three years had worn him down. “The light came on when she got in. I only saw him for a second, but he was old. Like, older than my parents. His hair was gray and he wore glasses.”
Sam’s racing heart went into overdrive. Colton’s hair was coal black and he didn’t wear glasses. His partner, then. “Did you see his face?”
“Not really.”
Sam made his voice as gentle as he could. “Why didn’t you tell the police that you weren’t in your house? Your parents wouldn’t have been angry because you lost track of time, would they?”
Nathan made a wounded sound. “I snuck out after I was supposed to be in bed. My friend’s parents weren’t home. We drank their booze and smoked their weed. My father would have been so angry.”
“So you lied,” Sam murmured, hoping there was no judgment in his voice.
Nathan nodded, tears rolling down his face. “And then she didn’t come home. My parents were yelling at each other and I just . . . I wanted to hide. I’m sorry,” he ended in a whisper. “She wasn’t dragged into the car. She went on her own. Even told the guy ‘Hi,’ all cheerful and happy when she opened the door. I figured she’d come home. And she never did. This is my fault.”
Sam clasped the boy’s bony shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Hey, look at me, please.” He waited until Nathan met his eyes. “Like I told your mother, this is the fault of whoever took her. Not yours, Nathan.”
Nathan only shook his head miserably. “But it is. If I’d said something . . .”
“I hate to say this, but they might have still labeled her as a runaway. She left on her own. She wasn’t grabbed and dragged away.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
Nathan’s stare was mutinous. “But you think so.”
“Yes. I think so. I hope I’m wrong.” But he didn’t think he was.
“I have to go back inside.”
“Can I tell Detective McKittrick this information?”
A shrug. “Fine. I don’t care anymore.” Nathan opened the door and started to slip inside. “I just don’t care.”
Something in the boy’s demeanor had a shiver of dread racing down Sam’s spine. “Nathan, wait.” He took out another card and wrote his new cell phone number on the back. “Please call me if you feel like you’re going to do anything drastic.”
“Nobody would care.”
“I would,” Sam whispered fiercely. “And your mom would, too. Please.”
“Whatever.” But he took the card before closing the door in Sam’s face.
Heart heavy, Sam went to his car, pulled out his phone, and texted McKittrick. Sam Reeves here. New number since you have my phone. I have some things to share with you. Please call me as soon as you can.
Then he drove back to Joel’s house, wondering what he was going to do next.
Carmel Valley, California
Monday, April 18, 5:45 p.m.
Harlan’s eyes widened when Kit let herself in the McKittricks’ front door, Snickerdoodle at her heels. She’d picked the dog up from her place before heading to the farmhouse, thinking Rita might need some cuddle time after hearing the news. “Hey, Pop.”
“Kitty-Cat!” Grinning, he gave her a rib-popping hug, letting her go before she grunted this time. “We didn’t expect to see you tonight. And Snick, too.” He petted the dog’s head, sending Snick’s tail wagging.
Kit lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek, enjoying his pleased smile. “Is it okay?”
“Of course! Mom!” he shouted. “Kit is here.”
Betsy appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m glad I made pot roast.”
Kit’s stomach growled. She’d visited Baz on her lunch break and hadn’t stopped to eat. “With baby carrots?”
Betsy looked offended. “Of course.” She enveloped Kit in a warm hug and Kit inhaled, loving the smell of home on the woman who’d given her everything. “Are you all right?” Betsy whispered in her ear.
Kit tightened her hold because she wasn’t all right. Baz was in the hospital and the afternoon had been one major disappointment after another as she’d pursued leads on the case. But she’d kept her promise to Navarro and clocked out on time. Once she talked to Rita, she and Snick could go home and sleep. “I will be.”
“Of course you will.” Betsy let her go and patted her cheek gently. “You know we’re here to listen. And we’re the vault.”
They really were. Kit knew she could confide anything to them and it would go no further. She rarely did, though, mostly because she didn’t want anyone else to share the mental pictures that haunted her.
“I know. I actually came by to talk to Rita. Is she here?”
“In her room,” Betsy said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing bad. Well, I hope she doesn’t take it badly. She told me about her mother.”
Harlan’s gaze darkened. “That poor woman. And Rita found her.”
Kit’s heart squeezed because she’d read that in the police report. “I looked into her mother’s case again. We found some evidence that hadn’t made it into the case file.” Batra’s office was still trying to find out what exactly had happened, but it appeared that a clerk had uploaded the wrong photo. The person no longer worked for the ME’s office and, at last word, was nowhere to be found.
So . . . not good.
“And?” Harlan pressed. “Don’t keep us hanging.”
“Navarro reopened the case.” She couldn’t keep from smiling. “They arrested Maria Mendoza’s boss today.”
“Oh, Kit,” Betsy breathed. “That’s wonderful.”
Harlan grabbed Kit in another hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice breaking, his body leaning into hers. “Thank you.”
Kit hugged him back, happy to give him strength this time, instead of always taking his. “I only did the background work. Two of the other detectives brought him in.” It was Connor and Howard’s collar, which was why they were now freed up to assist her starting tomorrow. “I’m bringing in the cupcakes tomorrow. The really pricey ones from the bakery near the station.”
“Nonsense,” Betsy tutted. “I will be baking the cupcakes, Kit McKittrick. There is no way you will be celebrating this arrest with store-bought cupcakes.”
Kit smiled at her. “I will never say no to cupcakes baked by Mom McK.”
Betsy did a little shimmy where she stood. “Rita will be . . .” She sobered. “She’ll be satisfied, I think. But it took too long.”
Kit sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Hush now,” Betsy admonished. “That was an indictment of the system. Not you. Never you. Go on up and see her. She’s in your old room. Tell her that dinner is in fifteen minutes. If she’s too overwhelmed to come down, I’ll take her a tray.”
“I’ll tell her.” Kit reached out and squeezed Betsy’s hand, hoping the woman knew how much Kit appreciated her. “Homicide loves chocolate cupcakes.”
“I know,” Betsy said fondly. “Not my first rodeo, Kit.”
It wasn’t. Betsy had always sent baked goods in with Harlan and Kit when they’d visited Baz, long before Kit became a cop. Every time they’d found a lead or even a whisper of a lead, Betsy had made Baz’s favorites.
Kit called to Snickerdoodle, then jogged up the stairs, heading to her old room. It had been updated many times in the past sixteen years. Nearly every occupant had made new curtains because Betsy made sure everyone knew how to sew basic things. She’d made sure they could cook and balance their checkbooks and do all the necessary skills that adults needed to do to survive. Not everyone loved the sewing or the cooking or the math, but no one left McKittrick House unable to fend for themselves.
Kit rapped lightly on the door, pushing it open when she heard a muffled “Come in.”
Rita was sitting on her bed—Wren’s old bed—reading a tattered copy of . . . Kit’s throat tightened. Coraline. That had been Wren’s favorite book.
“Wow,” Kit said, forcing a smile. “Are they still making you read that for school?”
Rita lit up when she saw Snick, then her expression went abruptly wary as she stared at Kit. Patting the bed for Snickerdoodle to join her, she shook her head, the pink, purple, and blue streaks in her hair sliding against each other. “No. I read the book for school already. I was reading this for . . . you know. Fun.”
Kit sat on the opposite bed, happy that she’d taken the time to bring her dog because Rita had visibly relaxed, petting her. “That was my sister Wren’s favorite book. She loved the spooky, scary stories.”
Rita went still, then turned the book so that Kit could see it. Inside the front cover was written WMcK in a heartbreakingly familiar scrawl.
Kit swallowed hard. “I didn’t know that Mom kept it.”
Rita nodded. “She told me that it was precious and that I had to promise to take care of it.” Her chin jutted out. “I will.”
“I know you will.” Kit drew a breath. “I have some news.”
Rita stiffened. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I know, I know,” Kit soothed. “Nobody even hinted that you did. This is about your mom, honey.”
Rita carefully set Wren’s book aside. “What happened?”
“I looked into her case and we found some new evidence. Your mom’s boss was arrested today.”
Kit hadn’t been sure how Rita would react. It could have gone a number of different ways, from rage to tears.
Rita lurched to her feet, looking like she wanted to bolt. “He was?”
Kit remained very still. “He was.”
“He’ll get a fancy lawyer.”
“He might. But we have good evidence and good prosecutors.” She’d learned that Joel Haley would be first chair. “I know the man who’s going to be prosecuting your mom’s boss. He’s very skilled. If anyone can get a conviction, it’ll be him.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I don’t know yet. My boss just gave me clearance to tell you. We wanted to wait until he was booked before we told you in case something fell through.”
Rita breathed hard, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “What do I say?”
“To who, honey?”
“To you.”
“You don’t have to say a thing. I just wanted you to know that sometimes the system works. And that everyone matters. Everyone deserves justice.”
“You didn’t lie,” she whispered.
“No,” Kit said softly. She wouldn’t tell her everything, especially that her mother had been pregnant with her killer’s child. At least not now. She’d ask Rita’s therapist for help on that front.
Kit was startled when Rita threw herself onto her lap, her arms twisting around Kit’s neck so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. The girl was shaking. Not crying, just shaking.
Kit carefully wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
A wordless nod was all she got in reply, so Kit patiently waited until Rita’s body shakes became trembles and finally a great shudder. Then Rita was still.
“Nobody cared,” she whispered. “My mom was dead and no one cared.”
“I care,” Kit whispered back. “Mom and Pop care. My boss cared.”
“I miss my mom.” The words were a pitiful whimper that broke Kit’s heart again.
“I know, baby. I miss my sister, too.”
Rita’s tears started then, soaking into Kit’s neck, but Kit didn’t move. Didn’t stop hugging this thirteen-year-old girl who reminded her so much of herself. She rocked Rita gently, murmuring into her hair.
Just as Betsy and Harlan had tried to do for her when Wren died. But she’d pushed them away for more than a year, even after seeing Harlan crying in the barn. Then one day she’d crumpled under the strain, and their comfort had become a balm rather than a torture to be endured. It was shortly thereafter that she’d asked them if she was still adoptable.
She’d been Kit McKittrick ever since. So she’d pay it forward now, giving this child the comfort she hadn’t been ready to accept herself.
Rita’s sobs turned to hiccups, then little snores. Snickerdoodle carefully climbed onto the bed beside them, nuzzling into Kit’s side. Eventually Betsy came up with a tray but backed out of the room when she saw Rita curled up on Kit’s lap.
Later, Betsy mouthed.
Kit edged backward until her back was against the wall. Rita slept on, a warm presence in her arms. Normally she didn’t like to hug people for so long, but Rita was different. Rita needed her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she’d wake the girl if she grabbed it. So she let it go for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes. Then I’ll wake her up and get us dinner.
Kit woke with a jerk, stunned to see that it was dark. She was no longer sitting against the wall, but lying down, her head on the pillow of her old bed. Someone had covered her with a blanket and taken off her boots.
Blinking hard, she fumbled for her phone.
Shit. It was eleven o’clock. Kit sat up, rubbing her eyes, irritated with herself, but Rita was sleeping in Wren’s old bed, Snickerdoodle cuddled close, so Kit kept her grumbles silent. Plus there was a note on the nightstand in Betsy’s looping handwriting.
I didn’t wake you because you needed to rest. Dinner’s in the fridge. Eat before you leave. Cupcakes for tomorrow on the table in a box. Love you. —Mom.
Kit exhaled, relieved. She wasn’t sure what she’d ever done to deserve the McKittricks, but she was so glad she hadn’t had to do anything to earn their love. It was the purest thing she knew.
Giving herself a minute to wake up, she scrolled through her texts.
Baz: Come and spring me out of this joint. Stat!
Baz: Why aren’t you answering? Are you okay? Now I’m worried.
Baz: Called Harlan. Says you’re asleep. About time, kid. Call me tomorrow. Marian is taking my phone away now. Won’t let me text at night. She is a beast. Don’t tell her I said that please.
Kit smiled. Baz’s love for his wife was another pure thing. They were so good together.
She went through another few texts, deleting the spam, then paused at a number she didn’t recognize. She clicked on the text and barely restrained a gasp.
Sam Reeves here. New number since you have my phone. I have some things to share with you. Please call me as soon as you can.
He’d sent the text at six fifteen, so it must have been the buzz she’d felt right before she went to sleep. She debated whether it was too late to text back, then thought, Screw it. This sounds important.
Apologies. I didn’t see your text till now. Too late to call? She hit send and waited. A few seconds later he replied.
Still awake. I did something you probably won’t like, but I learned important details.
Kit stared at the text for a few hard beats of her heart. What had he done?
Forcing herself to remain calm, she tapped out her reply. Give me fifteen minutes. Need to get food and then go somewhere where I don’t wake up the house. And why she’d explained, she didn’t know.
No problem. Will wait for your call.
She started to call for Snick, but her dog looked comfortable in Rita’s arms, so she left them to sleep. Time to work.
