92 Pacific Boulevard. Debbie Macomber

point forward you won’t be again.”

      “No, I won’t.” Faith straightened, tensing her shoulders as if to say she’d dare anyone to try breaking into her home again. Troy had encountered that determination of hers more than once and almost felt sorry for anyone who earned her wrath.

      “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Troy asked. “You never know where a small piece of information can lead, no matter how insignificant it seems.” He remembered a case years ago, when he was still a deputy. A break-in had occurred, and Troy had stopped to talk to some kids at a bus stop, asking if they’d seen anything unusual. A kid, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, mentioned a white Jeep. The man who drove it wore a Mariners’ baseball cap and had long, blond hair. The boy had claimed the man looked “mean.”

      A couple of days later, Troy had passed a white Jeep parked at a gas station. When the driver came out, he had on a Mariners’ baseball cap, covering long, stringy blond hair. Suspecting this might be the same person, Troy ran the license plate number—and discovered that the Jeep had been reported stolen. He followed the man and arrested him without incident. It later turned out that this man was responsible for a series of break-ins all around Cedar Cove. The best part of the story was that the majority of valuables had been recovered.

      At his question, Faith hesitated. “I’m not sure this means anything,” she said.

      “Let me be the judge of that.”

      “Okay.” A vulnerable look came over her. “I have a feeling that the person who broke into the house has been back.”

      Without revealing any outward sign of alarm, Troy asked, “What makes you say that?”

      Faith stood and walked over to the kitchen sink and pointed out the window. “There was graffiti on the back of the garage.”

      “Show me,” he said abruptly.

      “I painted over it the next day… . The words were ugly and I didn’t want my grandchildren to see them… . Or anyone else for that matter.”

      “Show me, anyway.”

      Faith grabbed a coat from the peg by the back door and led him outside. He shivered in the January cold as he followed Faith to the far side of the garage. He could see the fresh layer of white paint. “Although it might be embarrassing, tell me exactly what the message said.”

      Faith stared down at her feet and told him. She was right; they were ugly words. He wished she’d told him about this earlier, since it might have yielded evidence. Now, however, it was too late.

      Troy frowned. “You think whoever was responsible for the break-in came back and did this?” It was definitely a reasonable assumption.

      Faith nodded. “The other night … I woke up and heard noises. At first I was too terrified to move. I was afraid they were inside the house. It took me a few minutes to realize the sound came from the garage.” She was obviously making an effort to control her voice, but despite that it started to tremble.

      “You should’ve called 9-1-1,” he said urgently.

      “I know … I wish I had. Oh, Troy, I’ve been so scared.”

      Troy couldn’t bear to see Faith upset. Instinctively he slipped his arms around her—and she willingly moved into his embrace. He felt her shudder and his hold tightened. He wanted to reassure her that he’d do whatever he could to prevent anything like this from happening again.

      “You should’ve called 9-1-1,” he repeated.

      “But what if it was nothing? I thought my imagination might be running away with me.”

      “Then you saw the graffiti… .”

      “The next morning,” she confirmed, “and I realized I’d been foolish not to call the authorities right away.”

      “You should have,” he said. There was no telling what might’ve happened while she hemmed and hawed, afraid to risk a little embarrassment.

      “Faith, listen to me.” He cupped his hands around her face and raised her head so that their eyes met. “I would rather you had peace of mind. I don’t want you lying awake at night, worrying that someone’s on the property.”

      Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m not sleeping nights … I haven’t slept more than two or three hours at a time since the break-in.”

      “Faith …”

      “I know I was ridiculous. I won’t ignore any noises again.”

      “Has this happened more than once?”

      “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know … I don’t think so. I sleep so lightly now. I’m afraid someone will break in… . My emotions are all askew—just look at me.

      I’m not a weak woman! I hate being vulnerable. I’m on the verge of tears, and all because I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m afraid it’s going to affect my ability to do my job. The worst thing—” she paused “—is the fear. Night comes and I’m terrified all over again.”

      Troy pressed his hand against her head, weaving his fingers into her thick dark hair. He was almost overwhelmed by the temptation to bury his face in the clean freshness of it. He’d missed her more than he’d dared admit, even to himself.

      He wished he knew how to reassure her. But no matter how strong that desire, he refused to whisper platitudes, nor would he mislead her by making promises he couldn’t keep.

      Faith must have recognized that she’d said more than she’d intended. She eased out of his embrace and glanced self-consciously at the street. She folded her arms around her waist, as if she suddenly felt cold.

      “Let’s talk about this inside,” Troy suggested, placing his arm around her again as they headed back to the house.

      Once inside, Faith removed her coat and hung it by the door, first straightening the shoes and boots that stood there. Then she refreshed their coffees. Troy could tell that this busywork was an attempt to regain her composure.

      For his part, he would’ve been content to spend the next ten years holding Faith, even if it meant standing in full view of the street on a bitter January day. With the woman he loved in his arms, physical comfort didn’t matter. He’d hardly noticed the damp or cold—until she’d stepped out of his arms.

      “Would you like another bran muffin?” Faith asked.

      Before he could answer, she added, “I believe I got this recipe from my mother. If you like, I could pass it along to your daughter. I saw Megan the other day. Did she mention that?”

      “Faith.” Troy took off his damp coat and hung it over the back of a chair.

      “She’s a lovely girl, Troy.”

      “Faith,” he said a bit more loudly this time.

      She clutched the kitchen counter with both hands.

      “I know how distressed you must be.”

      She spit out a laugh as though his statement had been an exaggeration. “I’m fine, really. Tired, but. Okay, I’ll confess this break-in has me unnerved. But wouldn’t anyone feel that way?”

      “Of course they would. Now, promise me you won’t hesitate to call 9-1-1 if you suspect someone’s on the property.”

      “I …”

      “Faith,” he coaxed.

      “I will,” she finally said, “if I really think there’s someone here.”

      Troy figured this half promise was about all he could wheedle out of her.

      They stood just looking at each other for a moment, neither of them inclined to speak.

      “Would you like me to stop by one evening?” he asked, hoping she’d agree to that, too. Maybe