Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy

      As dismissals went, this one wasn’t subtle, but Mick had learned what he’d wanted to. Bianca and Miranda seemed forthcoming and willing to work with him. Ronald was a different story altogether. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

      “Let me walk you to the door, Mick.” Winnie Blanchard stepped toward him, her hazel eyes asking questions he couldn’t answer. At church they were acquaintances, maybe even friends. Here, Mick was a cop with a job to do.

      “Aunt Winnie, you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll walk him out.” Portia put a hand on her aunt’s arm, her gaze on Mick. “I need to get something out of my car anyway.”

      “All right, but put your coat on. It’s a bitter night.”

      “I will.”

      “Don’t forget, Portia, we were planning to discuss your possible transfer to Blanchard Fabrics tonight. I’ll expect to speak with you when I get home.” Ronald’s tone held a hard edge Mick couldn’t ignore. He studied the other man, saw that he watched his daughter with a mixture of frustration and confusion, as if there were something about her he just couldn’t understand.

      And maybe that was the case. Portia did stand out from the rest of Ronald’s daughters, her style alone separating her from her casually sophisticated sisters.

      “Of course, Father.” Portia’s words were stilted, her expression blank, and Mick felt something stir in his chest, a need to step in, to offer protection. Though from what he didn’t know.

      He pushed the door open, held it as Portia proceeded him into the foyer, catching a whiff of sunshine and flowers as she passed. “Do you really need to get something from your car?”

      “My cell phone. Though I suppose it could have waited until morning.”

      “But what you have to say to me can’t wait?”

      “Something like that.” She smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d walked into the house, her dark curls bouncing as she stepped outside.

      Beyond the soft glow of the porch light the world was pitch-black, the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds, the roar of the ocean a rumbling backdrop to the still night. What had it been like to grow up here, so close to the pounding fury of the ocean and the stunning beauty of cliffs? Mick supposed the experience would have been different for each of the six sisters, though he had a feeling that for Portia it hadn’t always been a good one. He reached toward her, pulling her coat closed. “You need to button up. It’s freezing out here.”

      “I’m okay.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding the coat closed and emphasizing a too-thin frame. Had she been ill? Or was she one of those women that thought thinner was better?

      And why did he even care? He raked a hand through his hair and tried to refocus his attention. “So, do you want to tell me why we’re out here?”

      “I want to know if you really believe my sisters are murderers.”

      “I don’t believe anything…yet.”

      “Come on, Mick, we both know that’s not true. You’ve got suspicions. I want to know what they are.”

      “I think Garrett McGraw’s murder has something to do with your family.”

      “But—”

      “But I don’t think any of your sisters are involved.”

      “That doesn’t leave many other possibilities.”

      “No. It doesn’t.”

      Which meant, Portia thought, that Mick either suspected her father or her aunt. Since she couldn’t imagine anyone believing that Aunt Winnie was a murderer, she had to assume he was going after her father. Should she bring it up? Would he? Before she could make up her mind, Mick spoke, his words doing nothing to put her at ease. “Your father has the most to lose if something happens to Blanchard Fabrics.”

      “That doesn’t mean he’d kill to protect it.”

      “I hope you’re right.”

      “I am.” But even as she said it, Portia doubted her own words, her own belief in her father. If, as she suspected, he’d lied about her mother’s death to keep Trudy Blanchard away from her children for almost twenty-three years, what else might he lie about? What else might he be capable of? Her heart beat hard with what she was thinking and Portia stepped back toward the door. “I’d better get back inside.”

      She didn’t wait for Mick to respond, just shoved the door open and fled inside.

      Mick waited until the door clicked shut, then headed to his SUV. Portia’s loyalty to her family was something he admired, but it wouldn’t keep him from doing his job. McGraw had been murdered. Mick might have lost his respect for the man who had been a childhood friend and, later, a fellow Portland police officer, but he couldn’t allow that to influence his desire to solve the case. Especially since Mick had been partially responsible for McGraw’s dismissal from the force years ago. If he’d known then…

      He wouldn’t have done things any differently. What happened was a result of McGraw’s failures and sins, not Mick’s, yet somehow he still felt responsible. The wind howled, tugging at Mick’s leather jacket and urging him into the car and away from Blanchard Manor and his own dark memories. He couldn’t change the past, wouldn’t hurry the future. It was time to go home, to sit in front of a fire, maybe roast marshmallows with his six-year-old daughter Kaitlyn.

      He glanced back at the house as he pulled onto Bay View Drive. Lights were blazing from all three levels, but still it seemed a lonely place and once again he was struck by the difference between Portia and the environment she’d grown up in. When he’d first seen her on the ice, he’d thought her to be carefree and exuberant. That had changed when she’d walked into Blanchard Manor. All her vitality had drained away, replaced by a quiet somberness that didn’t match her bright clothing, or the vibrancy in her eyes. Had being around her father caused the change? Or was it the house itself, the staid, museum-like decor that had drained her?

      And why had he even noticed or cared? It had been three years since his wife Rebecca had died in a plane crash. In that time, he’d created a life for himself and his daughter. A life that didn’t include women. At least not women younger than Mick’s mother. Now was definitely not time to change that. Not when he was responsible for investigating Stoneley’s first murder in thirty years. And not when the woman in question was the daughter of Mick’s prime suspect.

      THREE

      Portia watched the sunrise from the balcony off her room. French doors open, icy air seeping through her pajamas, she stood in awe as dawn painted the sky with vivid pinks and golds. For just this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, no one hanging over her shoulder questioning her choices. She supposed that was the hardest part of belonging to a large family—always having people watching her, judging her actions.

      If she were a different kind of person, what her sister, her aunt, even her father thought wouldn’t matter quite so much. But she wasn’t and it did. Which was why her conversation with Ronald the previous night had left her antsy and unhappy, his insistence that her New York City lifestyle was a mistake making her question her certainty about where she should be. Where God wanted her to be.

      After all, wasn’t that the point—to be where He wanted, doing what He wanted her to do, whatever that might be?

      “And therein lies the problem. I have no idea what You want, God. I thought I did, but lately I’m just not sure.”

      “Talking to yourself again?” Rissa peeked in the room, her hair curling wildly around a makeup-free face.

      “Talking to God.” Portia threw herself down on the bed. “I don’t think He’s listening.”

      “Hmmm.”

      “Hmmm,