One Man's Family. Brenda Harlen

in his broad shoulders that appealed to her at this time in her life when she so desperately needed someone to lean on.

      The thought brought a rueful smile to her lips as she pulled into the designated parking space outside her apartment building and shut off her engine.

      She didn’t like to lean on anyone and wasn’t in the habit of doing so. But she could imagine herself leaning on Scott Logan—and enjoying it, despite a track record with men that was both pathetically short and sad.

      She hadn’t been involved with anyone since her disastrous relationship with Ross Harmon more than three years earlier. And, truth be told, she hadn’t felt as if she was missing out on anything. Or maybe she’d been so devastated by Ross’s betrayal, and so angry with herself, that she’d accepted the denial of her own wants and needs as punishment for her error in judgment.

      But no matter how attractive Scott Logan was—and he was, undoubtedly, very attractive—there were toomany other things going on in her life to even contemplate a relationship. And right now, she needed to pack up more of her clothes and personal effects to take to her brother’s house.

      She felt a pang of sadness as she stepped into her apartment and looked around. It wasn’t spacious or fancy, but it had been her home for the past three years. She’d moved in when she’d started her job at the fertility clinic linked to the Children’s Connection, taking over the lease from another nurse who was getting married because it was an easy—albeit intended temporary—solution to her housing dilemma.

      She’d stayed because she’d genuinely liked the neighborhood and her neighbors. There were the Walkertons, a young couple with a four-month-old baby; the Racines—Harriet and Abe—who’d been married almost sixty years and, if Myrtle Grossman was to be believed, fighting all of that time; Marissa Alonzo, a single mother who juggled three jobs to support her three children; Ronald Tedeschi, an engineering student at PSU; and Ingrid Stavros, her seventy-year-old landlady who baked cookies for every tenant on his or her birthday.

      Alicia ignored the tightness in her throat as she shoved the last of her clothes into her duffel bag. She’d been living at her brother’s house since his arrest, taking care of his children, and though she loved Joey and Lia more than anything, she really missed the eclectic group of tenants who had somehow become her extended family. And she missed her home—her private haven that was comfortable and familiar and entirely her own.

      As she zipped up the bag, she pushed her petty regrets aside. She had no right to complain about giving up her home when her brother had lost everything.

      Besides, if Scott Logan was as good as his reputation, she wouldn’t be gone for long.

      He can’t find evidence that isn’t there, Jordan had warned her. But if there’s anything the cops missed, he’ll uncover it.

      Alicia was counting on that. More importantly, Lia and Joey were counting on it.

      Thinking of her niece and nephew, she hefted the stuffed bag onto her shoulder and headed back outside to her car. She waved to Myrtle Grossman across the street as she tried to recall if she’d taken anything out of the freezer for dinner that night. Steak, she remembered now. She’d planned to make a stir-fry—one of her nephew’s favorites and one of the few ways she knew to get him to eat vegetables.

      She had her key in hand to unlock the trunk when she noticed something written in the dust on the back window. One of the neighborhood kids—probably Marissa’s eldest son, she guessed, although she’d never actually caught him in the act—seemed to think it was funny to write WASH ME on her vehicle when it was obvious that Alicia had neglected to do so.

      But this time the message said: BACK OFF.

      She felt a chill skate over her skin despite the late afternoon sun beating down on her.

      It wasn’t just the words that were different, it was the style of lettering. Bigger and bolder.

      Or was she wrong?

      She’d been uneasy since Joe had gone to prison, jolting at noises in the night, jumping at shadows. She was overreacting, letting her imagination get away from her, envisioning dangers where there were none. No doubt this was another example of the same thing.

      The message probably wasn’t even intended for her, but for the driver of whatever vehicle might find itself behind her on the road. And the logic of this reasoning soothed her skittish nerves.

      Until she noticed the slashed tires.

      Chapter Two

      Scott arrived at Alicia’s apartment complex less than fifteen minutes after her call.

      He recognized Detective Mel Rucynski from his years on the force and greeted his former colleague with a firm handshake.

      “What are you doing here?” Rucynski asked.

      “Alicia called me.”

      “Alicia, huh?” Rucynski lifted his thick black eye-brows. “Well, your taste in women has definitely improved in the past couple of years.”

      The cop’s suggestive tone made Scott realize he’d slipped in referring to Alicia by her first name, as he’d slipped throughout the day whenever thoughts of her came to mind. And although those thoughts had been anything but professional, focusing on her as a woman rather than a client—a woman with dark sparkling eyes, wide full lips, and temptingly round curves that he wanted to feel pressed against him—he didn’t want Rucynski to get the wrong idea about his relationship with Alicia.

      “Actually, Miss Juarez is a client,” he said, reminding himself as well as Rucynski of that fact.

      “A client, huh?” the cop asked doubtfully. “Well, if she has enough money to call you out to investigate a juvenile prank, she should have enough money to move out of this neighborhood.”

      “What kind of prank?” Scott asked, ignoring the dig about his fees. A lot of his former colleagues assumed he’d made the jump to the private sector to fatten his wallet. And while he did take home a heftier paycheck now, it wasn’t money that had motivated the switch.

      “Slashed tires.” Rucynski gestured to the parking lot behind him.

      Scott looked over his former colleague’s shoulder and saw an ancient red Jetta in one of the few occupied slots. “Slashed tires” was something of an understatement, he thought, noting that the vehicle was actually resting on its rims because the tires had been so completely decimated.

      “Looks like an unusually violent prank,” he noted.

      Rucynski shrugged. “Some kids are carrying around a lot of anger.”

      He nodded. It was an act of vandalism, possibly—probably—random, and yet there was something about it that bothered him.

      “What did you tell Al—Miss Juarez?”

      “The truth—that this neighborhood isn’t exactly upscale, and the fact that she’s lived here for three years without incident is only proof that she was due for some trouble.”

      “What about the words on the back windshield?”

      “By her own admission, the neighborhood kids sometimes leave messages in the dust on her car.”

      Scott nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.

      Not that he blamed Rucynski for looking for an easy answer. He’d responded to too many of these same types of incidents when he’d been in uniform, and usually the simplest explanation was the right one. But he’d also learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts were warning him that this might not be as straightforward as Rucynski wanted it to be.

      “Is that going to be the conclusion of your report?”

      “We’ll ask around, see if any of the neighbors saw anyone or anything suspicious. But at this point, yeah, I can’t see that it will play out any other way.

      “I know that won’t