Buried Sins. Marta Perry

police be interested in Caroline?”

      The words might have sounded demanding. But there was a sense of fragility underneath that made it clear he couldn’t prolong this.

      “Apparently your granddaughter left Santa Fe without telling her friends where she was going. They’re worried about her.”

      Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone reported me missing?”

      “Raised an inquiry is more like it. The police department down there was willing to make a few phone calls to allay the woman’s fears.” He made a play of taking his notebook out and consulting it, although he remembered perfectly well. “Ms. Francine Carrington. I gathered hers was a name that made the police sit up and take notice.”

      “Caroline, wasn’t that your employer at the gallery?” Mrs. Unger glanced from her granddaughter to him. “My granddaughter had a position at one of the finest galleries dedicated to Southwestern art in the state.”

      She nodded stiffly. “Francine was my boss. And my friend.”

      “Well, then, why didn’t you tell her where you were going?” Rachel looked puzzled. Obviously, that was what she’d have done under the circumstances.

      “Because—” Caroline snapped the word and then seemed to draw rein on her anger. “I left a letter of resignation for her, planning to call her once I got here. I certainly didn’t expect her to be so worried that she’d call the police.”

      So she’d left what was apparently a good, successful life at a moment’s notice. In his experience, people didn’t do that without a powerful reason.

      “Apparently she told the officer she spoke with that you’d been despondent over the recent death of your husband. She—”

      A sharp, indrawn breath from Mrs. Unger, a murmured exclamation from Rachel. And an expression of unadulterated fury from Caroline. Apparently he’d spilled a secret.

      “Husband?” Mrs. Unger caught her breath. “Caro, what is he talking about? Does he have you confused with someone else?”

      Shooting him a look that would drop a charging bull, Caroline crossed the room and knelt next to her grandmother’s chair.

      “I’m sorry, Grams. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Tony and I planned to make a trip east this spring, and we were going to surprise you. But he—” She stopped, her voice choking, and then cleared her throat and went on. “He was killed in an accident a few weeks ago.”

      It was his turn to clear his throat. “I apologize. I thought you knew all about it, or I wouldn’t have blurted it out that way.”

      Caroline stood, her hand clasped in her grandmother’s. She had herself under control now, and again he found himself admiring the effort it took her. “I intended to tell my family when I got here, but I haven’t had the chance.”

      “I understand.” But he didn’t, and he suspected Mrs. Unger didn’t, either.

      “I’m sorry that I worried Mrs. Carrington. I’ll give her a call and let her know I’m all right.”

      There was more to it than that. He sensed it, and he’d learned a long time ago to trust that instinct where people were concerned. Caroline Hampton was hiding something.

      She’d left Santa Fe in such a rush that she hadn’t even talked to the people closest to her. That wasn’t a trip. It was flight.

      “I’ll be in touch with the department in Santa Fe, then. Let them know you’re fine and with your family.”

      She nodded, eyes wary. “Thank you.”

      And that was just what worried him, he realized as he headed out the door. Her family.

      Mrs. Unger had welcomed her granddaughter with open arms, as was only natural. But from everything he’d heard, she didn’t know a lot about the life Caroline had been living in recent years.

      It was entirely possible that Caroline Hampton had brought trouble home with her. Someone ought to keep an unbiased eye on her, and it looked as if that someone was him.

      Caroline woke up all at once, with none of the usual easy transition from dreams to morning. Maybe because it wasn’t morning. She stared at the ceiling in the pitch-black, clutching the edge of the Amish quilt that covered the queen-size bed in the loft of the apartment, and willed her heart to stop pounding.

      She’d been doing this for so many weeks that it had almost begun to seem normal—waking suddenly, panic-stricken, with the sense that something threatened her out there, in the dark. Nothing. There was nothing. There was never anything other than her own haunted memories to threaten her.

      She rolled over to catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. Four in the morning. Well, it served her right for getting onto such a crazy schedule. As it was, she’d slept twelve hours straight after that encounter with the cop and the endless explanations to Grams after the man had finally left.

      Much as she’d like to blame every problem in her life on Zachary Burkhalter, she really couldn’t in all honesty do that. And it wasn’t his fault that just seeing him sent her mind spinning back crazily through the years, so that she was again a scared sixteen-year-old, alone, under arrest, at the mercy of—No. She jerked her thoughts under control. She didn’t think about that ugly time any longer. She wasn’t a helpless teenager, deserted by her mother, thrust into the relentless clutches of the law. She was a grown woman, capable of managing on her own. And if she couldn’t sleep, she could at least think about something positive.

      She shoved pillows up against the oak headboard and sat up in bed. Her new brother-in-law was certainly talented. Most of the furniture in the apartment, as well as the barn apartment itself, had been built by him. Since so much of the furniture was built-in, he’d left it here, and she was the beneficiary.

      She couldn’t blame Burkhalter, she couldn’t blame the comfortable bed, and it was pointless even to blame the stress of the trip. She hadn’t slept well in months, maybe since the day she’d met Tony Gibson.

      She’d been working on a display of Zuni Pueblo Indian jewelry for the gallery, repairing the threading of the delicate pieces of silver and turquoise, set up at a worktable in the rear of the main showroom. That had been Francine’s idea, and Francine had a sharp eye for anything that would draw people into the Carrington Gallery.

      As usual, there was a cluster of schoolkids, accompanied by a teacher, and a few retirement-age tourists, in pairs for the most part, cameras around their necks. She’d already answered the routine questions—what did the designs mean, how valuable was the turquoise, did the Pueblo people still make it and, from the tourists, where could they buy a piece.

      She gave her spiel, her hands steady at the delicate work as a result of long training. Eyes on her—she was always hypersensitive to the feeling of eyes on her—but she wouldn’t let it disrupt her concentration.

      The group wandered on to look at something else eventually. Except for one person. He stood in front of the table, close enough to cast a long shadow over the jewelry pieces laid out in front of her.

      “Did you have another question?” She’d been aware of him the entire time, of course. Any woman would be. Tall, dark, with eyes like brown velvet and black hair with a tendency to curl. An elegant, chiseled face that seemed to put him a cut above the rest of the crowd. Even his clothing—well-cut flannel slacks, a dress shirt open at the neck, a flash of gold at his throat—was a touch sophisticated for Santa Fe.

      “I was just enjoying watching you.” His voice was light, assured, maybe a little teasing.

      “Most people like seeing how the jewelry is put together.” She wasn’t averse to a little flirting, if that was what he had in mind.

      “They were watching the jewelry,” he said. “I was watching you.”

      She looked up into those soulful eyes and felt a definite flutter of interest.