Trace Evidence. Carla Cassidy

circumstances as my mother. Riley’s father had been hit over the head. Unfortunately, he was killed. Riley’s mother was nowhere to be found. Some of her clothing was missing and the police assumed she was responsible for Riley’s father’s death.”

      “Sounds exactly like what happened to your parents, although thankfully your father wasn’t killed.”

      Clay nodded, and swallowed hard against the knot of emotion that twisted in him at thoughts of his mother. He remembered that night almost six weeks ago when he’d been called to his parents’ ranch. His father had been taken away in an ambulance and his mother hadn’t been anywhere to be found. He’d known then that something terrible had happened not only to his father, but to his mother as well.

      “True, although he’s still recuperating. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember anything about that night. Anyway, Riley’s mother’s body was found a week ago in Sycamore Ridge on some property he was excavating for building a home.”

      “How tragic,” Tamara replied. “Did anyone find out what had happened to her?”

      “According to the medical examiner, she’d been dead for about four months.”

      “Four months…but didn’t you say she went missing two years ago?”

      Clay nodded. “We don’t know what happened to her between the time of her disappearance and the time of her murder.”

      “Murder?” Tamara’s voice was a soft whisper.

      “Yeah, her skull was smashed in, just like her husband’s had been two years before.”

      Tamara wrapped her fingers around her mug. He noticed that her fingers were long and slender, and her nails just long enough to be completely feminine. “You said three cases. What’s the third?”

      “Two years before Riley Frazier’s mother went missing a woman in Sequoia Falls also disappeared under the same exact circumstances. The husband was hit over the head and killed, and she was gone, along with some of her personal belongings. She still hasn’t been found.”

      “So, maybe she’s still alive. Just like it’s possible your mother is still alive.” Her voice rang with hope that he desperately wanted to grab on to.

      “That’s the only thought that keeps me getting up in the morning.” He took another drink of the coffee, then continued, “I feel like I’m working against a bomb with a ticking clock, but the problem is I don’t know who set the timer, or how much time is left. I just feel so damned helpless.” Again, he felt a ball of emotion pressing tight against his chest.

      She reached across the table and lightly touched one of his hands. “You’ll find her, Clay.”

      He pulled his hand from her touch, finding it not only distracting, but disturbing as well. The touch had been too warm, too soft.

      He took a drink of his coffee, his thoughts returning to his mother. Yes, eventually he’d find her, but would he find her in time? Would he find her dead or alive?

      And what in the hell was he doing here sipping coffee and baring his soul to a woman he didn’t know at all?

      Tamara could tell the exact moment he turned off. His black eyes went blank and his jaw muscles tightened and she knew their conversation had come to a halt. Sure enough, he downed the last drop of coffee from his mug and stood.

      “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’ve got to get going.”

      She followed him to the front door. Even his walk looked uptight despite the fact that she couldn’t help but notice that his jeans fit quite nicely on his long legs and rear end.

      “One of the other officers will be in touch with you when they have anything on the vandalism.”

      “Thank you, Clay, for all your help.”

      “Just doing my job,” he replied as he stepped out of the door. “Good night, Tamara.”

      “Good night, Clay.”

      She stood on her front porch long after his van had disappeared from sight.

      It had been a long time since she’d felt a spark of physical attraction toward a man. But the moment Clay had stepped into the classroom and introduced himself, she’d felt a definite spark of warmth deep in the pit of her stomach.

      The last time she’d found herself physically attracted to a man she’d allowed herself to be swept into a relationship that had not only ended in heartache, but had also left her questioning her values and the very essence of who she was.

      She looked up at the moon peeping through the branches of the ancient trees. Good old Maxwell Bishop. He’d been her agent for six months before they had become lovers. He’d done amazing things for her career as an artist, but in the four months they had been a couple, he’d nearly destroyed her self-identity.

      According to everything she’d heard about Clay, he’d be a danger to her in much the same way. This was one particular spark she intended to ignore.

      Not that it mattered. Clay had made it quite clear that others would handle her case from here on out. Cherokee Corners wasn’t that small a town. The odds of her and Clay running into each other again were minimal.

      Reluctantly, she left the night air and went back inside the cabin. She had just finished washing the coffee mugs to put back in the cabinet when the phone rang.

      She hurried from the kitchen to the sofa and picked up the cordless from the end table. “Hello?”

      “Are you all right?” Alyssa Whitefeather’s voice filled the line.

      “Bad news travels fast in this town,” Tamara replied. “How did you hear about it?”

      “I heard between a hot fudge sundae and a banana split.” Alyssa owned the Redbud Bed and Breakfast. The top two floors of her establishment were guest rooms and the bottom floor was Alyssa’s living quarters and an ice cream parlor. “Burt Creighton stopped in for a cup of coffee and was talking about the mess in your classroom.”

      “It was a mess,” Tamara agreed.

      “You must have been terrified when you saw it.”

      Tamara thought of that moment when she’d first viewed the vandalized room. “Actually, it didn’t scare me at all,” she said. “Mostly I just felt sad for whomever had done such a terrible thing.”

      “Well, it frightened me when I heard about it,” Alyssa replied.

      There was something in her friend’s voice that sent a flutter of disquiet through Tamara. “Why? Have you seen something, Alyssa?”

      Alyssa laughed, the laughter sounding forced. “Oh, you know me. I’m the local nutcase in town. I’m always seeing things that aren’t there, having visions that don’t make sense. I should probably be on medication.”

      “Having a pity party, are we?”

      This time Alyssa’s laugh was genuine. “Maybe a little one,” she admitted. “It’s just been a bad week,” she added.

      Tamara heard the weariness in her friend’s voice. Over the course of their friendship Alyssa had confided in Tamara that she’d always suffered visions. Since Rita James’s disappearance the visions had increased in frequency and intensity.

      “I’ll tell you what I think you need,” Tamara said. “You need dinner tomorrow night with a friend.”

      “I can’t do that,” Alyssa protested. “Friday nights are the busiest of the week in the ice cream parlor.”

      Tamara frowned thoughtfully. She knew there was no way she could talk Alyssa into closing up shop on a Friday night. “Okay, then how about we meet at the café about four. You can get back to work by five or five-thirty when your Friday night rush usually begins.”

      “That sounds good,” Alyssa replied after a