The Missing Twin. Pamela Tracy

wasn’t home. Said he was only gone two hours. Enough time for someone to break in. He’s mad as spit that someone would steal his belongings.”

      Amazed, Jake said, “Have you been to Albert’s cabin? How can he tell anything is missing?”

      Albert’s cabin was truly in the middle of nowhere. His driveway was identifiable by an opening in the weeds. He was a hoarder. His long-deceased father had been hoarder, too. Jake figured that somewhere in Albert’s house there could be anything from a letter signed by George Washington to a Model-T Ford. That’s how eclectic Albert’s taste was.

      “What’s missing?”

      “Something called Bisbee Blue.”

      Now Jake understood. Albert’s grandfather had been a miner at the copper mine in Bisbee. He’d recognized what the Phelps Dodge Corporation did not. The waste rock surrounding copper contained turquoise. Unlike many of his fellow workers, Albert’s grandfather hadn’t taken the beautiful hard stone home in his lunch box to sell. He’d kept it.

      “I’ve seen a lot of Albert’s Bisbee Blue.” Jake pictured the boxes of turquoise, some polished nuggets, some rough, broken pieces the size of his hand all the way down to just a fingernail. Albert had most of the treasure stored in boxes. Some distant Cunningham relative had framed a few pieces.

      Rafe shook his head. “None of it authenticated or insured.”

      Jake closed his eyes, picturing the blue-green mineral formed by copper and iron that Albert cherished. What a Monday morning. Albert getting robbed, Billy almost getting kidnapped, Angela putting herself in harm’s way.

      She had wound up in his neck of the woods unintentionally, sure, but now that Angela was here, he’d make up for what happened on the bus.

      * * *

      SATURDAY MORNING, WITH a fascination that both worried and impressed Angela, Celia stood in her favorite spot next to their big living-room window and peered around the curtain. She even held a notebook in which she recorded sightings.

      “They might see you,” Angela said, eyeing the notebook and remembering how she’d kept one for the first few years on the run. She recorded the comings and goings of neighbors, the staff at the grocery store and every person who’d walked by their house.

      Those first two years, when she and Marena lived together, Marena had taken the dominant role, reassuring Angela. It was a reversal for the twins. All their lives, Angela—make that Sophia Erickson—had been the risk-taker. She’d jumped in the deep end of the pool at age four. She’d had the nanny take her to the skateboard park at age five. She’d zip-lined at camp when she just six. Marena had been the bookworm. She’d loved the pool, but she’d taken a scooter and not a skateboard to the skateboard park and had only zip-lined hooked to her sister.

      She’d rarely instigated.

      But, in those first years in witness protection, Marena had been a single mother, too busy to let every shadow scare her.

      Angela’s existence had been all about guilt and fear. What had she done? Buck had told her she had no reason to feel guilty and that fear was a good thing. “We had one young girl,” he said, “who couldn’t stay away from her friends. Only thing was, they weren’t really friends.”

      All those years ago she hadn’t asked what happened; she knew.

      Celia said, “I think they’re moving.”

      Angela came to stand beside her. “What have you seen?”

      “Lots of suitcases, but I can’t tell if they’re taking them out to that black truck or if they’re taking them inside. Plus, there’s a guy who looked a lot like the husband.”

      “It’s not our business and I hope they are moving. Now, put your notebook away,” Angela said. “We’re going shopping.”

      It was a beautiful day, with a predicted high in the sixties. Both Celia and Angela were ready to spread their wings.

      “I can’t believe school starts on Monday.” Celia jogged out to the car, tucking her cell phone into her purse and smiling. She shot one more look at the Rubio place. “You know, ever since those men tried to take Billy, I’ve felt safer.”

      It had to do with being a teenager. Great declarations would emerge in the middle of the most normal activities. “What do you mean?”

      “Well, when I saw what you were willing to do for that little boy, I realized you’d do double for me.”

      Based on how much Angela had laid out for dental bills, those teeth had better be strong.

      Then, without so much as a transition, Celia changed the subject. “So, how much do I get to spend?”

      “Three new outfits. We’ll decide on cost as we go.” Angela knew Celia. She wanted to go into Tucson to shop in a big mall. Angela wanted to do some investigating in both Scorpion Ridge and Adobe Hills. She had to be careful. The problem with searching for someone who was living under witness protection was she just couldn’t go into a shop, show a picture and say, “Have you seen this woman?”

      If someone else was looking for Marena, they might get tipped off. If no one was looking for Marena, they might suddenly find reason to.

      During the twenty-minute drive to Scorpion Ridge, Angela and Celia bargained. Celia agreed to give the clothing store in Scorpion Ridge a fair shot if Angela agreed to go to Tucson and do some mall shopping, too.

      Especially since Celia was fairly certain that any small-town clothing store would not have what she wanted.

      “Fair shot,” Angela reminded her niece.

      At thirteen, Angela had gone shopping pretty much whenever and wherever she’d wanted. The mall had certainly been a favorite place, but more often she and her sister had shopped at luxury boutiques, never thinking about the cost.

      Marena had been the clothes expert. Usually, Angela just got what Marena did but in a different color.

      “This is cute,” Celia admitted after Angela parked the car. Betsy’s Bests, or BBs, was in a historic building that had always been a store. It had display windows on each side of the front door. One half was devoted to women—both Angela’s age and older. The other was devoted to kids.

      Pushing open the door, Angela stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the owner. “Come in. I’m Betsy Madison. This is my store. How may I help you?”

      “I start school Monday,” Celia said. “Mom says I can have a few new outfits.”

      Funny how the number three had changed to “a few.”

      Betsy was no dummy. Before Angela could add a word, the woman had her arm around Celia’s shoulder, was calling her by her first name and was leading her to the back of the room. Angela followed. Betsy’s Bests might be historic on the outside but it was glass-and-white and full-service on the inside. A white pillar was in the middle of the teen section. Mannequins sat on benches around the pillar, wearing jeans, shorts, crop tops and T-shirts.

      “Most girls your age go for shorts,” Betsy said. “How long have you been here in Scorpion Ridge? I don’t think I’ve seen you before, and I know most everyone.”

      “A little over a week,” Celia said.

      Angela gave the barest nod of her head. She’d taught Celia to be careful, not to share much, and to stay as close to the truth as possible.

      “What grade are you going into?”

      “Eighth.”

      An hour later Celia had five pairs of shorts, three new shirts and a backpack that looked more like a purse.

      The only thing she couldn’t find at BBs was a pair of shoes she liked. “I’ve my mother’s feet,” Celia explained to Betsy. “Really narrow and sometimes we really have to shop before we find a pair I’ll wear.”