Making Her Way Home. Janice Johnson Kay

      The irony was that in the past week she had begun to relax. Her niece was quiet, organized and trying very hard to fit in. Too hard. Beth could see that, and it made her feel guilty because a kid should be confident she could belong without changing herself. But she could also tell that Sicily was skilled at going unnoticed, which meant she’d worked at it. That caused Beth to feel a rare flash of fury—what kind of men did Rachel keep around, that her daughter had to learn to be invisible? Or had Rachel herself been abusive?

      But that, of course, led to more guilt, because Beth could have tried harder to have a relationship with Sicily—Rachel might have given in—and she hadn’t.

      Still, even with all the turmoil, they were working out a routine and she was finding her ten-year-old niece unexpectedly easy to live with.

      Now this.

      Swept by a maelstrom of terror and guilt and that overwhelming sense of herself as small and useless and unable to do anything at all to impact the outcome, she drove her fingernails into the inner flesh of her upper arms.

      I will not feel.

      It didn’t help at all.

      Her initial gratitude to that cop—Detective Mike Ryan—slowly changed to resentment and eventually anger and something even more bitter over the course of the afternoon. It was like food left out, spoiling until it would have sickened anyone who took a bite. She kept thinking there wasn’t a single thing left he could ask her, that he’d go away and leave her alone, but he never went for long. The crunch of footsteps on the pebbles would herald his return. Sometimes she refused to look up until he was right in front of her. Other times she couldn’t help but turn her head to watch him stride toward her. It was hope, she tried to tell herself, that made her look at him. He was going to say they’d found Sicily—she’d taken one of the nature trails and sprained her ankle, or gotten lost exploring in the woods, or… Beth couldn’t think of any other explanations that were innocent, that meant Sicily would be returned to her now, today, safe and sound.

      Those small, irresistible spurts of hope might have been part of why she couldn’t help but look at the detective, but they were only part. He stirred something in her. Something dangerous.

      It wasn’t that he was a gorgeous man. He had a rough-cut face and hair not quite light-colored enough to be called blond. No talent scout would have grabbed him to be a GQ model. He did have nice broad shoulders and an athletic build and the walk of a man able to get where he wanted to go with speed and no deviation from the path. With that body, he probably would have worn beautifully cut suits well—if he didn’t shed the suit coat, roll up the shirtsleeves, tug loose the tie, scuff the shoes and get the whole ensemble wrinkled.

      When he’d hunkered down next to her, Beth had found herself staring at the powerful muscles in his thighs outlined by the fabric of his slacks. He likely ran, or something like that, to keep in shape. People in law enforcement were supposed to stay fit, weren’t they? She doubted he did anything like lift weights to increase muscle definition—his haircut looked barbershop instead of salon and his slacks and rumpled shirt did not resemble the ones worn by the businessmen she often dealt with through work. If Detective Ryan cared about his appearance, it didn’t show.

      What he was, was pure male. Dominant male. No question he was in charge from the moment he strode onto the beach. Beth wondered if his superiors ever tried to give him orders.

      His eyes were the one part of him she’d call beautiful. They were that rare crystalline blue, untouched by hints of gray or green. It had to be the color that made his every look feel like a scalpel cut. He turned those eyes on her, and she was terrified that he was seeing all the way inside her to the little girl huddled behind the suitcases in the under-the-staircase closet.

      She wanted him to go away and never look at her again. After he found Sicily.

      She also wanted to stare at him and drink in whatever quality it was that made him seem so strong.

      The sun sank behind Whidbey Island. Beth watched it go down as the shadow of dusk crossed the Sound and finally reached her beach. One moment, she could see everything clearly—rocks and dried gray driftwood logs, the peeling red bark of madronas, the weave of the blanket she clutched in tighter and tighter hands. And then, from one blink to the next, the clarity became muffled. Her surroundings were purplish and dim.

      She recognized the particular crunch of Detective Ryan’s footsteps.

      He crouched beside her, so close she had to look at his face.

      “We’re calling off the search for the night.”

      “No!” Her voice came out thin and high.

      “We’ll resume it tomorrow, although…” His voice was a deep rumble, “I’ll be frank, Ms. Greenway. We’ve covered the park pretty thoroughly. I don’t believe your niece is here.”

      “Then where…?” she whispered.

      “I don’t know.”

      She hated hearing her own words cast back at her. She couldn’t tell on that impassive face whether he’d chosen them deliberately as a slam at her.

      He’d kept her updated as the afternoon had waned. Small boats had trawled offshore. They couldn’t be sure Sicily hadn’t gone in the water, but the beach had been crowded enough today he thought someone would have noticed.

      Not a single trace of Sicily’s presence had been found. Beth kept telling him that Sicily hadn’t carried anything to drop. She’d worn exactly three items of clothing: panties, red twill shorts and a plain white crew-neck T-shirt. On her feet were a pair of thick-soled flip-flops that Beth had bought her when she first came to stay and it became obvious how inadequate her wardrobe was.

      That was it. No towel, no iPod—really? Did people buy cell phones and iPods for ten-year-olds? No sweatshirt tied around her waist, no jewelry of any kind, no cheap camera. Nothing.

      They wanted a photo of her, but Beth didn’t have one in her wallet. Rachel had never sent her not-so-beloved sister school photos, even assuming Rachel had wanted or paid for them in the first place. She’d been touched when Sicily offered her a couple of pictures not that long ago.

      “I have pictures at home,” she told Detective Ryan rather desperately, “but they aren’t recent ones.” Even she knew they wouldn’t be useful, given how quickly children changed.

      “Would her grandparents have something better?”

      “I don’t know,” she’d had to say, and hid her wince at the brief expression of disbelief—or was it contempt?—that flashed on the detective’s face before he hid it.

      During one of the many stretches where she had nothing to do but wait, she’d tried to think of some other way to say I don’t know.

      I’m not aware. Pretentious.

      You’d have to ask someone else. He would want to know who, a question to which, of course, she’d have no answer. Or she’d have to say, again, I don’t know.

      Not a clue. Inappropriately flippant.

      So were her thoughts. But she couldn’t control them, however hard she tried.

      “You need to go home,” he told her, with some gentleness this time.

      “No,” she said again. “No, I can’t!”

      Fingernails. This time she knew she’d drawn blood. I don’t feel. I don’t.

      “I’ll drive you,” he said, but already she was shaking her head.

      “No, I can drive myself. There’s no need.”

      “Then I’ll follow you.”

      Staring at his face, she realized he wasn’t offering her an option. He intended to see her home. The grim set of his mouth told her more. He’d want to come in. No, not want; he would come in. He still wasn’t done with her.

      And