CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 19

Rap. Rap. Rap.

"Brooke?" Leah's voice called from the hallway as she rapidly knocked on the bedroom door.

Brooke blinked.

Oh no. She'd forgotten about her sister.

How long had she been standing here, frozen in the bathroom, denying what was most possibly the truth? That she was pregnant? With Gideon's child. Her stomach churned as she attempted to collect herself. With a deep breath, she walked to the bedroom door and cracked it.

Leah was crying, dabbing at her eyes with a wadded tissue. "Is—is everything all right?" she asked. "I heard fighting and then someone getting sick and—" She let out a shuddering breath.

"That's not why you're crying." Brooke opened the door wide.

"No, of course not." She sniffed. "Sean texted me. He's been to an attorney and the divorce papers are coming through. He wants everything, Brooke: the house, the accounts, our time share, even my car."

"What? No. There must be laws in Arizona that split things evenly."

Her eyes slid away. Uh-oh. "What, Leah?"

"I, um, I may or may not have signed a prenup." She began blinking wildly and shredding the tissue.

"And—"

"It gives him everything."

"Including the money you inherited." Brooke's voice was a death knell.

"I was in love and, okay, stupid. I thought this one would really work out, but of course it didn't."

Brooke tried to concentrate, to let go of her own problems for a few minutes. "Let's not talk here," she said with a glance at Marilee's firmly closed bedroom door. "Downstairs." She ushered her sister into the living room. "I told you I would help."

"I know, and I appreciated it."

"Maybe you should talk to an attorney."

Leah was nodding. "I spoke with one in Phoenix, but he knows Sean and wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. He said I should work things out with Sean. In his opinion that would be the least expensive, but there's no way that's going to happen." Her jaw tightened. "It's beyond that. I thought maybe Neal might help."

"Neal isn't a divorce attorney, and even if he were, he doesn't have a license in Arizona," she started to argue.

"But you know, he might know someone who knows someone, or at least he could give me some professional advice, like, off the record." She cleared her throat. "I just need to talk to someone."

And that someone would have to be a man, Brooke finally understood. That was the way it was with Leah, always seeking male companionship, male advice, male opinions. The sisters had grown up without a father figure in their lives and they'd taken different approaches. Brooke believed in womanpower and that a woman was equal if different from a man. Leah was always seeking male approval, searching for a daddy who didn't exist.

And right now they were both in trouble.

"Let's see what he has to say," she finally decided and tapped with one knuckle on Neal's closed office door.

"It's open."

She twisted on the knob and found him lying on the sofa near the window, his ankles propped on the arm, his iPad open. He straightened and shut the tablet as he saw the sisters crammed into the doorway. "What's going on?"

"Leah wants to talk to you."

"Okay," he said, "sure. What's up?"

"I need some advice," Leah said, walking awkwardly into the room.

To his credit, Neal didn't throw Brooke a beleaguered, oh-here-we-go-again look, even though this particular scenario had played out a couple of times before. "Have a seat," he said, motioning to the overstuffed chair. "What's up?"

Brooke took that as her cue to leave and shut the door behind her before heading into the kitchen. Her stomach was still on the queasy side and a headache was beginning to pound behind her eyes. She found a glass and filled it with water from the dispenser in the refrigerator, then took a long, cooling swallow before pressing the glass to her forehead. What was she going to do? As she set the glass on the counter, she saw the French doors hanging open and she paused.

Shep was curled in his bed near the table. She wondered how often she'd left the door ajar, allowing whoever to gain entrance. She wasn't the only one; they all—she and Neal and Marilee—left the doors open for the dog to come and go throughout the day. Though Neal usually made certain the entire house was buttoned up at night, a habit Brooke had relinquished to him once he'd moved back in.

All that being said, someone unwelcome had been inside.

Someone with evil intentions.

Someone named Gideon Ross.

Her stomach soured and threatened to convulse again, and she closed her eyes, counted to ten, then to twenty, then fifty before the feeling subsided.

Then she, rather than wait for her husband, turned the dead bolt to the French doors, her gaze scanning the empty deck as she did so. Afterward she confirmed that all the doors were locked, starting with the front door, then heading downstairs to the garage and laundry room. Near the washer and dryer she paused. Not only did the laundry room open to the side yard, it also was connected to the old staircase—the "fire escape"—though that door was never used. Locked tight. She double-checked, and sure enough when she tried the knob it held fast.

But the key to the lock was on a ring that hung inside the cupboard over the washer. She looked again. The ring was there, in its spot, partially hidden by a jug of bleach. She slipped the ring off its hook and fingered the individual keys. This ring was the spare set and not all the keys to the house were included. They'd had the original set since they purchased the house and some of the keys were orphans. They obviously went to locks they'd never found and were useless, but in the group she recognized the old-style skeleton key to the back staircase.

She hesitated just a moment before unlocking the door to the aging staircase and stepping inside the dark, closed area. The switch for the single light that hung over the landing worked, thank God, but the bulb was dim, the steps narrow, the thin rail wobbly against dingy, wood-paneled walls. Swiping at cobwebs, she wound her way to the first floor as dust filled her nostrils and she tried to avoid the planks that were visibly rotted. At the wide top step that led to the back of the pantry she tested the door.

Locked.

Good.

She heard the muffled sound of voices. Leah and Neal. She couldn't detect what they were saying; she could only make out a word here and there.

Heading upward, feeling a little claustrophobic, she heard the steps creak beneath her feet. Just as she'd heard the other night, her heart lurching at the thought.

At the landing on the second floor the stairs ended. She tried the door, but it didn't budge. Good. Located next to the linen closet in the upstairs hallway, it was locked tight.

Only one more space. With more than a little trepidation, she glanced upward to the rungs that disappeared into the ceiling and led to the cramped attic beyond—an area they never used.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself. With her injured ankle protesting, she climbed up the ancient rungs, and as she ascended, sweating nervously, she told herself she wasn't being paranoid. After all, she had heard someone in the house. Could there be some kind of camera or microphone that Gideon had planted inside? Was he that obsessed? Or was she that paranoid?

Time to find out.

With an effort, she pushed the trapdoor up, its old hinges grating. Once it was open she eased herself upward into the musty, cold space. She located a light switch on a post near the entrance, but when she flipped it nothing happened, the old bulb burned out.

Great.

The space was dark as night, the ceiling low. As she felt around in the darkness, allowing as much weak light from the stairway below to enter the area, her eyes adjusted and she could barely make out the exposed joists with the ancient insulation packed between.

An uneven plank walkway had been set upon the cross beams to an area where the ceiling was the highest. There, the previous owner had nailed down a couple of pieces of plywood to create some rough flooring in the area.

The attic felt undisturbed.

She touched the nearest plank and discovered dust, cobwebs, and the desiccated remains of a dead insect. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that appeared out of place.

And yet . . . she sensed someone had been in the house. Someone unwanted. Someone who had access and a key. As she shone the flashlight toward the rafters, she noticed some of the spiderwebbing seemed torn and was that a spot where the dust had cleared? An old mousetrap, scooted out of the way?

The skin on the back of her neck pimpled.

It had to be Gideon.

He knew too much.

Her heart pounded. Her thoughts swirled. Would he have really broken into her house? Spied on her?

Call me or else.

She swallowed hard.

Your daughter is as beautiful as you are.

Be careful.

It would be a shame if you were to lose her.

"No way," she whispered, a sense of terror gripping her. She fought it and tried to ignore the fact that the attic seemed suddenly cloying, as if the darkness were closing in on her.

The tense moment was broken by the sounds of life. She heard movement downstairs, people shuffling around, a toilet flushing, water running.

She didn't want to try to explain why she'd been on the back stairs, so she quickly climbed down the rungs, then paused at the landing of the bedroom floor, where she listened for a second. She didn't hear a thing. Letting out her breath slowly and being as quiet as possible, she made her way back down the stairs quietly and found Shep waiting for her in the laundry room. "Nothing," she said to the dog, as if he'd asked what she'd found. She quickly brushed the dust and cobwebs from her hair and clothes, replaced the keys, and took a deep breath.

Luckily, no one was in the kitchen.

She heard muffled voices coming from Neal's office, so she took a quick minute to step outside, across the deck.

Rain was starting to fall, the chill of deep autumn in the air as she stuffed the bracelet into the birdhouse to hide it. For now. Not that it was safe here, but for the moment she could think of nowhere else to stash it. She intended to get rid of it more permanently ASAP, but for now she didn't want to be caught with it in her pocket.

Back inside, she noted that Shep was sniffing for crumbs under the table and Neal was stepping out of his office, the lights already off. "Leah?" she asked.

"She went upstairs to her room, I think. She's leaving tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But she just got here."

"I know." His smile was cold. Cynical. "I think she got what she came for."

"Your sage advice." She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Yeah, that's it."

"And a check," she guessed.

He was nodding. "A significant check."

Brooke visibly cringed. "Ten thousand?"

"That would hardly get you into the door of a good divorce lawyer."

"So?"

"Twenty-five."

"What?" She sucked in her breath. "Twenty-five thousand dollars? Are you nuts? Where did you find that lying around?" she asked, trying and failing to keep her voice down. Her thoughts zeroed in on Marilee's college fund and her insides went cold.

"I can borrow. Against my retirement. I just have to pay it back soon."

"With what?"

He looked weary but managed a tight smile. "I'm working on a big case." When he saw her about to protest he held up a hand to stop the tirade he expected, "I know it's a lot of money. Don't worry about it. This is the last time."

"It had better be."

"I swear. And she signed a note."

Brooke leaned against the counter and slid him a disbelieving glance. "Another one?"

Sighing, he nodded. "Seems as if we're collecting them." He wrapped an arm around her. "It'll be all right. She'll divorce Sean and maybe be more careful before she walks down the aisle again."

As they mounted the stairs together, she threw him a glance. "People don't change, you know."

"She might, after this one."

"Wishful thinking."

"I talked to her."

"Oh good," Brooke said sarcastically. "And she actually listened? It sank in?"

"I think so."

"Wanna bet?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Don't think I can. I just loaned away my last dollar."

"Fool," she said, teasing, her lighthearted mood a mask as they entered the bedroom, and he snapped on the TV before kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the bed.

Brooke spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom, washing her face, brushing her teeth, and changing into a nightshirt. By the time she returned to the bedroom he was sleeping, softly snoring, his hair falling over his forehead, eyelashes visible on the blades of his cheeks.

She took the throw from the back of the chair near the dresser and tossed it over him. He didn't stir.

Quietly, she slid under the covers and snatched the television's remote from the bed near his hand. As she pointed the remote at the flat screen, intending to shut off the television, she froze and stared at the screen.

Neal had been watching the local news, which he'd recorded earlier, and Brooke recognized the people on the screen. Elyse and Tony Carelli were huddled together in front of the local police department. Tony's arm was around his ex-wife, and Josh McKrae, Elyse's son from her first marriage, stood a little behind to one side of his mother. Wearing a jacket with the Steadman Auto Parts logo emblazoned on it, Josh was tall and thin, the hint of beard shadow covering his jaw. He fidgeted, avoided looking at the camera, and appeared uncomfortable, as if he would rather be any other place on earth.

A detective from the police department stood front and center, fielding questions from several reporters while blond Elyse, in a long jacket and jeans, battled tears. Tony's stoic stare was betrayed by a wobbling, whisker-stubbled chin. He was a stocky man with a thick neck, and in his plaid jacket he appeared as destroyed as his gaunt ex-wife. The opposite of Jack Sprat and his wife of nursery rhyme fame, Brooke thought oddly as she sat on the foot of the bed and watched Elyse swiping at her eyes, her mascara running.

The questions came fast as a machine gun's spray.

"Are there any suspects?"

"None at this time."

"Does the police department have any idea what happened?"

"The investigation is continuing."

"What about leads?"

"We're following up on several. If anyone has any information, please call the department." She rattled off the number and reminded viewers that it was visible as a chyron running at the bottom of their screens.

"Is Allison Carelli's disappearance related to Penny Williams's?"

"The investigation in the Penelope Williams case is ongoing. So far we have not linked the two cases."

"But they're both teenage girls, both from Seattle. That can't be a coincidence."

The detective's gaze focused hard on the reporter who'd asked the question. "The department is looking into all possibilities. Again, if anyone has any information about Allison Carelli or Penelope Williams, please call the department at the number listed below. Thank you."

At that point the image on the screen switched to anchors who launched into a story about Halloween festivities planned in the area.

Numb, Brooke clicked off the TV, then lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of the missing girls, her daughter's animosity, and Gideon Ross, who seemed intent on ruining her life. For a second she thought about the tracker found attached to her car, then the knowledge that Gideon had been in her home, stealing some things and leaving others, letting her know that he'd invaded her space.

She remembered the warnings she'd received, hissed and harsh: He's not who you think he is.

Who sent them?

Who knew?

And then she touched her flat abdomen and considered the fact that new life might be growing inside her.

Gideon's baby.

She closed her eyes.

Dear God, she hoped not.