As soon as he asked for copies of the local paper for the month and year David had given him, the librarian, a short, plump brunette in her late twenties, nodded.
"The Moore girl's murder," she said knowledgeably. She turned away and began scanning the shelves behind the desk. "We've got it separate from the regular files because there was so much interest in it. Not so much now, but for the first few years there was quite a demand for it And people still come in now and again."
She slid a thick black notebook off a shelf and carried it over to the desk. "It was before my time, of course. I only moved here a few years ago, but my husband, Jim, he went to school with the Moore kids. He was a couple of years behind the murdered girl. He says the whole town was in an uproar for weeks. I'm from Detroit, and it seemed kind of odd to me that one murder could have such an effect on a town.'' Her shrug was self-deprecating. "But, after you live here for a while, you start to understand."
"Murder's a big deal in a small town," Neill said automatically. The word "murder" was spinning in his head. He'd considered the possibility, of course, but even after David had told him that Brooke's death had made the papers, he'd still thought it might have been an accident or even suicide. Suicide, especially, could certainly leave terrible scars on those left behind.
"And this was a particularly awful one," she said, shuddering a little. "And I suppose it didn't help that they never caught the guy."
"No. That makes it worse!" Neill murmured, thinking of the cases he'd written about, of the survivors' need to see the killer caught and brought to justice before they could start putting together the pieces of their own shattered lives.
"It certainly doesn't help." She continued more briskly, "We don't check the book out, but you can make copies if you want. The copy machine is on the west wall, just past the children's section. We close early on Wednesdays, so you've only got about an hour."
Neill carried the notebook to one of the oak reading tables and pulled out a chair. Aside from the librarian and the elderly gentleman he'd seen earlier, who was now dozing gently, he had the library to himself. He set the notebook down but didn't immediately open it. Tapping his fingers on the cover, he thought of Dorothy's comment that he might not like what he found out. He had an uneasy feeling that her words might turn out to be prophetic.
His jaw set, he opened the notebook's cover.
Despite the volume of clippings, it really hadn't been a complicated case. Gruesome enough to provide for some extremely lurid press coverage, but the actual facts available were fairly concise.
Brooke Moore had been an eighteen-year-old high school senior. She was a cheerleader, homecoming queen, ran track and was a member of the National Honor Society—the ideal American teenager. The grainy black-and-white news photos showed her in a cheerleading costume and on prom night, on the arm of a thin, serious-faced young man who Neill could barely recognize as David Freeman. If you could believe the press, she was beloved by all her teachers, adored by her classmates, and the pride and joy of her family.
And then she disappeared.
Brooke had attended school that day, and some of her friends remembered seeing her as they left the campus. They'd offered her a lift home, but she'd told them her brother was picking her up. But he'd lost track of time and was half an hour late, and, when he got there, she was gone. Assuming she'd grown tired of waiting and had walked home, Jack had gone out for burgers with friends. Their parents had assumed that Brooke was with her brother, and it wasn't until he came home alone that anyone felt concerned.
Reading between the lines, Neill could guess that it had taken several hours for the concern to become real worry and then for the fear to come.
There would have been calls to all her friends, a check of the local hangouts—not many of those in a town the size of Loving. When that turned up blank, the fear would have begun. Some of the calls would be repeated. Are you sure she didn't say anything about going somewhere? Friends would be calling each other, eager to share the news that Brooke Moore was missing and where on earth could she have gone?
He imagined that, in a town like this, it would have taken awhile for the possibility of foul play to really sink in. Though it looked like the sheriff had done everything by the book, Neill was willing to bet that he'd considered it a waste of time, had been fairly sure that Brooke would turn up safe and sound sooner or later. Only as one day became two, and then three, and she was still missing, would local law enforcement have absorbed the fact that they might be dealing with a serious crime. In a big city, that would have been not only the first thing they thought of but the first thing they believed. But in a town this size, where everyone pretty well knew everyone else, major crime was fairly rare. Stolen cars, an occasional robbery, domestic violence—those were the big crimes in a town like Loving.
It was almost two weeks before there were any leads. Neill's stomach rolled as he read the account. A farmer had stopped to repair a flat tire on a road about two miles out of town and had found a girl's hand lying in the ditch. After he finished losing his lunch, he left the flat tire to mark the spot and drove straight to the sheriffs office. Brooke's father identified the hand by the ring his daughter had worn.
If they'd been clinging to any hope of seeing their daughter alive again, it must have disappeared then. It was two days before they found the next piece of her, about a mile from where the hand had been. After that, it was a matter of combing the roadside ditches, tracing the killer's path by the body parts he'd strewn behind him, like litter thrown from a passing car.
There was a big write-up on the funeral, which had been attended by nearly every citizen of Loving, as well as by press from every major wire service. Neill squinted at a fuzzy picture of the bereaved family and wondered if he was reading too much into the fact that they stood without touching each other—Olivia in a simple black dress, her spine rigid, her face absolutely still, her husband standing slumped next to her, head down, expression hidden. A younger, slighter Jack, his fair hair failing over his forehead, his face holding the blank emptiness of someone in shock.
And a ten-year-old Anne, standing at her brother's side, her eyes huge and bewildered, thin little legs sticking out from beneath the hem of a black dress. He wondered if Olivia had gone shopping for proper mourning clothes and then thought perhaps he was doing her an injustice. She seemed to be an ice-cold bitch now, but maybe Brooke's death was largely to blame for that.
The remaining clippings talked about the ongoing investigation, which had gotten nowhere. According to the police, aside from the body itself, they had nothing to go on. No one had seen anything. No one had noticed any strangers in town. They questioned everyone who knew her, but no one seemed to have a motive. Annoyance over being beaten out for Homecoming Queen rarely resulted in dismemberment.
The gaps between the clippings grew wider, until a little over a year later, when there was a flurry of new information over a murder with a similar m.o. in Oklahoma. The FBI was called in, and there was speculation that both killings were the work of a serial killer. But if they had been, he hadn't killed again—or his victims hadn't been found—and Brooke's death became another unsolved crime, the case file officially open but unofficially dropped, because the police had nowhere to go with it.
Neill sat, staring at nothing, his hand on the closed notebook. It explained a lot, of course. Anne's reaction to the attempted mugging, her near hysteria over the thought of having people looking at her, remembering. He could guess what it had been like for her. That's the murdered girl's sister, you know. Wonder how the family is holding up? Wonder if she knows what happened, poor thing. Most of it wouldn't have been intended unkindly, but for a sensitive little girl to suddenly find herself the cynosure of all eyes must have been painful.
Had her family understood that, in some ways, her sister's death had been hardest on her? Or had they been so absorbed in their own pain that they hadn't recognized hers?
And how was she going to react when she found out that he wasn't a struggling freelance writer but had instead made his name—and a considerable amount of money—writing books about exactly the kind of thing her family had gone through?
She should have felt awkward, Anne thought, as she exchanged greetings with the bank's other employees. After the emotional storm she had gone through the night before, she should have cringed at the thought of seeing Neill again. She should have been so embarrassed by her own loss of control that she couldn't bear to speak to him, she decided, as she put her purse in the bottom desk drawer and booted up her computer. She'd sobbed in his arms like a frightened child, allowed him to see the fear she barely allowed herself to acknowledge. Then she'd all but propositioned the man, telling him that he didn't have to sleep on the sofa, inviting him into her bed. And he'd turned her down.
Oh, but the way he'd turned her down. When we become lovers, I don't want any gratitude in the mix. When. Not 'if'' but 'when.'
Anne's mouth curved in a secret half smile. She supposed there were women who would be offended by the arrogance of that statement, but she wasn't one of them. To her, it had been reassuring. He wanted her. He'd said so. And he cared about her, because, if he hadn't, he would have taken her up on her invitation instead of spending what she was sure must have been a mostly sleepless night on a sofa that was a good foot shorter than he was. So it was more than just deske on his part. And, heaven knew, it was so much more than that on her side. Just how much more was something she shied away from defining, even to herself.
She was half in love with him—maybe more than half. It didn't matter that she'd only known him a matter of days. She'd always pictured herself slipping slowly into love— a long, leisurely process of getting to know someone, finding out their likes and dislikes, learning their goals and dreams. In her mind, she'd seen it as if through a camera lens coated with petroleum jelly, a little out of focus, violins playing in the background—everything soft and gentle.
She hadn't expected to feel the flare of lights and colors when Neill kissed her; had never imagined the sharp bite of hunger she felt when he touched her. There was nothing soft and dreamy about what had happened between them. It was bright and brassy. Edgy and needy. Elemental and irresistible. And, for once in her cautious, safe little life, she wasn't going to try to resist.
When we become lovers.
Oh yes, she definitely liked the sound of that.
***
Most days Anne's job was not particularly demanding, and this day was no different. It gave her time to think, and what she thought about was Neill. At one point she actually caught herself staring into space, fingers lax on the keyboard, her mouth curved in what she suspected was a sappy smile. Twice Marge stopped by her desk to ask her if she was feeling all right.
"Cause you looked like you were somewhere else just now. And that's the third time today that you've watered that philodendron over by the window. One more time and the poor thing's going to float right off. And that's the second set of loan docs that you've passed on for approval with nothing but the customer's name filled out."
"I'm sorry." Anne flushed and took the paperwork from the older woman. ''I guess my mind's wandering a little today."
"Well, it happens to the best of us." Marge's exasperation shifted to curiosity. "Any particular direction it's wandering? In my experience, when a woman can't think straight, more often than not it's because she's thinking about a man. I know a lot of people would call that old-fashioned nonsense, but the world hasn't changed that much since I was a girl, and there's still nothing like a man for scattering a woman's thoughts."
"You're right, it is old-fashioned nonsense." Anne's smile took any possible sting out of the words. "I'm just feeling absentminded today. That's all."
"If you say so," Marge said, without any pretense of belief. She looked past Anne and smiled. "Of course, if it did happen to be a man you were thinking about, might be you're going to get a chance to talk to him."
Neill.
Anne turned quickly, her heart fluttering in anticipation. Then had to struggle to hide her disappointment when she saw Frank Miller approaching the low rail. Frank. She'd known him all her life, had had dinner with him just a few days ago, but it seemed almost an effort to remember his name. She hadn't given him so much as a thought since that tepid kiss on her front porch on Friday night.
"Anne. Marge." He nodded to both of them.
"Hey, Frank." Marge's smile was friendly. "How's your mom doing these days? Didn't see her in church on Sunday."
"She's fine. Caught a bit of a cold. Nothing serious, but she's got a sore throat and a bit of a cough, and she decided not to risk a coughing fit in the middle of the sermon."
"Honey and lemon in a little hot water," Marge suggested. "Best thing for a sore throat."
"I'll pass that along." Frank shifted his eyes to Anne, who still hadn't said a word. "I was wondering when you might be taking a break."
It didn't take a mind reader to guess what he wanted to talk to her about, Anne thought. Some helpful soul was sure to have mentioned seeing her with Neill. She had to squash a quick surge of guilt They'd never made any promises to each other, she reminded herself. They weren't engaged, or even engaged to be engaged.
"Why don't you take your break now, Anne?" Marge said, a plump, smiling matchmaker in a blue-striped dress.
"I...thanks." Anne saved her work then started the screen saver, waited to see the slowly changing kaleidoscopic pattern begin and then pushed her chair back.
Ever polite, Frank moved to open the little gate for her, and she smiled a
thank-you
and stepped through. She could feel Marge's speculative look boring into her back.
"I thought we could sit in the patrol car and talk for a minute, if that's all right," Frank said, pushing open the bank's outer door for her.
"As long as you don't make me sit in the backseat behind the mesh window," Anne said, trying for a touch of lightness, but one thing about Frank, he didn't have much of a sense of humor, even on a good day.
"The front seat will do just fine," he said seriously.
The cooling effect of the previous night's rain had burned off before noon, and Loving steamed gently under a cloudless blue sky. Frank opened the passenger door for her and then went around the front of the car, sliding beneath the wheel and starting the engine so that the air-conditioning would kick in.
"I wanted to talk to you about Friday night," Frank said.
''Frank, I—" Anne stopped, swallowed and stared down at her hands, which lay clasped together in her lap. She liked Frank. She didn't love him, but he was a good man, and she didn't want to hurt him. Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her eyes to his. "I don't think we should see each other anymore. At least, not the way we have been. It's not...going to take us anywhere."
If her words had any impact, she couldn't tell it by looking at him. He continued to regard her with the same calm, steady gaze he always did And, just like always, he was in no hurry to say whatever was on his mind. Waiting, Anne found herself acutely aware of the muted hiss of the air-conditioning. People were walking past on the sidewalk, some of them eyeing the patrol car curiously.
"Is it this guy with the motorcycle? The one who's supposed to be a writer?" There was no accusation in his tone. She wasn't even sure there was curiosity.
"If you're asking if I've gone out with him, I'm sure you know the answer is yes. If you're asking if that's why I think we shouldn't date anymore, the answer is no. Neill may have been the catalyst," she added honestly. ''But I've known for a long time that you and I..." She trailed off, groping for something that was honest without being hurtful. "I just don't feel for you all the things you deserve a woman to feel."
"That sort of thing grows with time."
Or it springs up overnight
But she didn't say that. She wasn't sure what Frank felt for her. That was one of the problems: she'd never been sure what Frank felt about anything—or even if he felt anything. But, if his emotions were involved, then she didn't want to hurt him any more than she had to.
"I'm sure they can grow with time," she said honestly. "But there has to be something there to get them started—a spark, at least—and, much as I like you, I just don't feel that spark."
"That's honest enough." Frank looked away from her for a moment, and when he looked back, there was concern in his eyes—one of the few times she'd been able to read what he was feeling. "This guy is just passing through, Anne. From what I hear, he'll be hitting the road as soon as David gets the parts for that bike of his. I'd hate to see you get hurt."
"I won't be," she said, and hoped it was the truth.
He nodded. "Well, it's your business." The brief flicker of emotion was gone, and Anne wondered if she'd imagined it.
There was another short silence, this one awkward and stiff. She'd never broken up with anyone before. Was there a certain length of time you were both supposed to sit, perhaps contemplating what might have been? Was there a protocol to cover who was supposed to make the first move?
"I guess I'd better get back to work,"she said finally, when the silence threatened to become unbearable. She reached for the door handle. "I...I'll see you around."
"Sure.'' He nodded but didn't look at her, and she slipped gratefully out of the cool car and into the steamy heat outside.
By the time she stepped onto the sidewalk, Frank was backing away from the curb. She turned to watch as he drove away and hoped she hadn't hurt anything more than his pride. But she'd done the right thing. Whatever happened between her and Neill, there was no chance of anything ever happening between her and Frank Miller.
"Oh!" Turning, she nearly walked straight into the man who'd been standing behind her. "Neill."
"That wasn't your brother," he said, his eyes on the patrol car.
"No. That was Frank Miller. He and I have...um...we've gone out a few times." She wasn't sure why she felt the necessity of offering an explanation.
"Should I be jealous?" His eyes, a sharp, questioning blue, cut to hers.
"Would you be?" she asked, and then caught her breath at the lightning-edged expression that flashed in his eyes. It was gone in an instant, and he was smiling, but, for a moment, there had been something dangerous there, something that, God help her, sent a shivery little thrill down her spine.
"Frank and I are just friends," she said breathlessly. Later she would allow herself time to consider the idea that she could make a man like this feel jealous. No doubt it was completely shameless of her, but it was a thought she had every intention of savoring.
"Friends are a good thing," Neill said. He brushed a loose tendril of hair back from her forehead. He lingered to let his fingers trail over her cheek. "I came by to see how you were feeling."
"Fine. I'm just fine." Unless you counted the fact that her knees were melting and her pulse was beating double time.
"Good." His thumb stroked across her lips, and Anne barely restrained the urge to open her mouth and draw it inside. "Come to Chicago with me."
It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, her eyes widened. "What?"
"Come to Chicago with me for the weekend. This weekend. We'll have dinner, maybe take in a show. My brother has a restaurant there. I can probably con him into feeding us at least once. If you can get off early on Friday, we can drive up Friday afternoon, come back Sunday afternoon. I'll get—''
"Yes!" Anne didn't have to think about it. It was probably crazy to agree to spend the weekend with a man she'd known less than two weeks.
A cautious woman would take a little more time, not make any hasty decisions. But she knew from experience that cautious women led very dull lives. This one time, she was going to take a chance, ignore common sense and listen to her heart.