In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (22 page)

Now Megan's disappearance had added to the worry that
weighed down Rebecca's slender shoulders. Jeannette wished
there was something she could do to smooth the furrows from
her only child's brow, to wipe away the shadows under her eyes
as she'd once wiped away her daughter's childhood tears.

"I don't mind coming over, Mom"

At Rebecca's comment, Jeannette forced herself to refocus. "I
know, honey. But there's no need. I'll call you a little later, after
I'm more awake. Okay?"

"Okay."

Rebecca didn't sound convinced, but Jeannette was glad she'd
relented. She needed some time alone to recover from her shock
and think things through. "I love you, honey."

"I love you back"

Pressing the off button on her portable phone, Jeanette set
it on the table. They always ended their calls the same way.
With an expression of love. Her friends had often remarked
on Rebecca's kind, caring nature, crediting it to her and Stan's
parenting skills. And there was some truth to that. She and Stan
had lavished love on their only child, who had come into their
lives after both had given up hope of having the family they'd
always wanted. From the instant they'd held her in their arms,
Rebecca had added joy and light to their days. They'd always
considered her a precious gift.

The microwave pinged, alerting Jeannette that her coffee was
ready. Gripping the edge of the table, she pulled herself to her
feet and crossed the faded linoleum. For years, Rebecca had
been after her to update the house. In recent months, however,
her daughter had changed tactics, urging her instead to sell the
place and move to a condo.

But Jeannette hated change. Always had. She had a good life,
for the most part, except for the increasing reminders from her
seventy-four-year-old body that time was passing. Why upset
the applecart? If life was good, why change it? You could end
up making things worse instead of better.

She retrieved her coffee, pausing to finger the gaudy potholders
Rebecca had woven in a craft class the summer before she entered
third grade. They'd hung in a place of honor beside the stove for
more than twenty-five years. Continuing toward the table, she
lingered in front of the refrigerator, where a dozen magnets held
photos of happy times, some so old the color had faded.

Taking her seat again, she ran her hand gently over the worn
pine surface where she and Rebecca and Stan had shared thousands of meals. Where laughter and conversation had flowed.
Where homework had been done and after-school snacks devoured. Where she and Stan had shared end-of-day chats over a
cup of coffee after Rebecca went to bed. Fresh-brewed in those
days. Not instant.

Jeannette stared into the dark depths of her mug. Things
changed, that was the truth of it. No matter how hard you tried
to hold on to a perfect moment, it passed. People grew up. Got
married. Died. Change happened. Period.

And not all of it was bad, like Stan's death had been. While
the black hole that it had left in her life would never be filled,
Rebecca's marriage had brought many blessings. Instead of losing
a daughter, she truly had gained a son. Colin treated her with the
same respect and consideration he showed his own mother. And out of that marriage had come the incredible gift of grandchildren.
Bridget and Megan not only helped fill the empty place in her
heart left by Stan's death, they added sunshine to her days. Once
again, she had begun to taste the sweetness life could offer.

Until Megan disappeared.

And that brought her back to Rebecca's bombshell.

Rachel Sutton.

What a bizarre twist of fate. Never could she have imagined
that a choice she'd made decades ago would come back to haunt
her, bringing with it new decisions and the daunting specter
of change. And her feelings about it were the same as they'd
been for thirty-five years. The notion of sharing her secret still
scared her to death.

Lifting her mug with unsteady hands, Jeannette took a sip of her
coffee. Stan had never understood her fear. Especially once Rebecca
reached adulthood. He'd often encouraged her to reconsider her
decision. Yet he'd respected her wish to maintain the status quo.

In truth, Jeannette didn't quite understand the fear herself.
She supposed, if a psychiatrist dug deep into her background,
a cause would be lurking there somewhere. Maybe it was connected to her studious, introverted best friend, who'd told her
once that she always felt like an outsider in her boisterous family.
Or perhaps the memory of her aunt and uncle's distress when
her cousin had run away from home at eighteen to "find herself"
was somehow to blame for her anxiety. But the cause didn't
matter. The fear was there, no matter the source.

If Stan were here, Jeannette knew what he'd say. And he'd be
right. Holding on to her secret when the life of her granddaughter
might hang in the balance was unforgivably selfish. From the
instant Rebecca had mentioned Rachel's name, Jeannette had
known what she had to do.

But first she'd spend an hour seeking strength and courage
from the Lord.

`Are you still getting calls about that article in St. Louis Scene?"
Marta took a bite of her hamburger and slid the bag of fries
across the table toward Rachel.

"They've tapered off." Rachel slid the bag back without succumbing to temptation and speared some lettuce and a chunk
of meat out of her chicken Caesar salad. "Nick said it would be
old news pretty fast, and it's been four days"

"Speaking of Nick ... I was afraid he'd invite you to some
little French cafe again and you'd stand me up"

Rachel played with her fork. "Not for a while"

Marta looked around the crowded fast-food outlet and lowered her voice. "His impromptu official visit yesterday didn't put
an end to your relationship, did it?"

"No. But it's on hold for a bit:' Everyone at both schools where
she taught had known within hours that the FBI had come calling. A wry smile twisted Rachel's lips. The grapevine was alive
and well in the world of elementary education.

"Can you talk about it?"

"Sorry. They asked me not to"

"That's okay. I'm married to a cop, remember? I know all about
discretion and confidentiality and not compromising cases. I'm
just glad their visit didn't dampen the romance"

"I'm not sure I'd call it a romance at this stage:"

"Trust me, it's a romance. The man invites you out to a cozy
cafe for lunch, sends you roses, makes you glow-romance, no
question about it. And that reminds me ... I want to hear all
about the weekend you described to me yesterday as amazing. We only had five minutes, and I've been dying to hear the
details"

Smiling, Rachel toyed with her lettuce. "It was perfect. We
went to the Botanical Garden. Took in a movie. Ate dinner on The Hill. And that was just Saturday. Oh, and did I mention he
cooks a mean eggs Benedict?"

Marta swallowed and stared at her. "He cooked for you?
Wow:" She shook her head. "I've been married ten years, and
the one time Joe tried to fix dinner we had to call the fire department:"

"Very funny."

"No. Very true. The neighbors still talk about it. What did
you do on Sunday?"

"We went to church, and then he drove me to the hotel and
stayed for tea while I played"

"You went to church. And he went to tea" Marta mulled that
over as she munched on a French fry. "This is serious, Rachel:"

"It's too soon to be serious"

"It might be too soon to buy a marriage license, but it's not
too soon to know it could be serious. I knew Joe was the one
on our first date. Sparks flew from the beginning. They still do.
How are you and Nick doing in the sparks department?"

A flush warmed her cheeks. "I'd call it more like an electrical
storm. On my end, anyway"

Marta wadded up the wrapper from her burger and dropped
it in the bag, grinning. "Yep. Romance with a capital R. And all
thanks to a bedraggled Raggedy Ann doll. What a story to tell
your grandchildren."

As Rachel followed Marta out, she considered her friend's
final comment. Although the foster system had taught her to be
cautious about jumping to conclusions or expecting too much,
deep in her heart she had a feeling Marta might be right.

And as soon as Nick was finished with the O'Neil case, she
intended to find out.

"Mrs. O'Neil ... Sorry to delay you, but do you have a minute?"

Balancing a foil-wrapped muffin on top of a covered dinner
plate, Rebecca secured the magazines tucked under her arm
and shifted toward the voice.

Dismayed, she watched as Doug Montesi, the reporter from
the Tribune who'd been covering the kidnapping case, unfolded
his long, lanky frame from an older-model car in front of her
house. He was nice enough, and he seemed to have integrity,
but she was anxious to be on her way. She hadn't liked how her
mom had sounded this morning, and she'd picked up a strong
undertone of tension when her mother had called back and
asked her to stop by. Besides, she'd been diligent about following the FBI's advice to limit her contact with the press to official
public statements.

Doug loped across her lawn. "You have quite a handful there.
Can I help with anything?"

"No thanks"

"At least let me get the door."

Before she could protest, he pulled it open. Too bad she hadn't
loaded up in the garage instead of pulling out first. But with
full arms, it was easier to maneuver in the driveway than in a
confined space.

"She sure is a cutie." Doug leaned down and smiled at Bridget, who observed him, finger in mouth, from her car
seat.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Montesi?" Rebecca leaned past
Bridget to set the plate of food on the seat.

"I thought I'd stop by and see if there was any news. We haven't
run any updates on the case for a while, and all I get from the
FBI is the standard line:"

"I don't have anything to add, either" Rebecca reached under
her arm for the reading material she was taking to her mother.
As she pulled the magazines out, a single sheet fluttered to the
ground.

Doug stooped to pick it up, and Rebecca bent over to dump
the magazines on the floor of the back seat. Bridget grabbed her
hair, giggling as Rebecca tried to extricate herself.

"I think I'm going to have to call the tickle monster," Rebecca
teased, rubbing noses with Bridget as she tickled her tummy.
The flaxen-haired toddler chortled, releasing her.

Smiling, Rebecca swung around to find Doug staring at the
printout of the Raggedy Ann doll the FBI had given her this morning. Her smile vanished and she snatched the photo from his hands,
slammed Bridget's door, and backed toward the driver's seat.

"That's the doll Megan had when she was abducted, isn't it,
Mrs. O'Neil?"

"No comment." She groped for the door handle behind
her.

"But you mentioned it in a press conference, remember?" He
stuck his hands in his pockets, his stance casual, his eyes probing. "It's public knowledge. The doll is awfully dirty, though. I'm
surprised you let an infant play with it"

"It wasn't dirty before ..." Her voice trailed off.

"So the FBI found the doll:"

Rebecca opened the door and slid behind the wheel without
responding. She'd said too much already. But the picture alone would probably have tipped off the reporter. The journalist might
have a friendly, aw-shucks demeanor, but you didn't get to be
the lead crime reporter on a paper like the Tribune without a
lot of smarts. Plus some sense of integrity.

And as she shut the door, put the car in gear, and backed out
of the driveway, she prayed he would use both when dealing
with this new information.