Her Stolen Son. Rita Herron

stare at the nasty words carved on the walls.

      A spider wove a tangled web in the corner of the cell, and she watched it work, thinking how elaborately the spider planned its trap.

      She was the fly caught in the web now.

      Because someone had orchestrated an elaborate plan to frame her for Lyle’s murder.

      Her head hurt from trying to figure out the puzzle. Who had killed Lyle? And why frame her?

      How could she prove that the evidence the sheriff had against her had been planted?

      AS COLT DROVE TOWARD Serena’s, he scanned the streets and alleys, hoping to spot Petey. But the darkness made it almost impossible to see, and intensified his worries. The mountains were massive, filled with dangers and places to hide.

      Would Petey even know how to find his way from Derrick’s house to his own?

      What if he was lost? Or what if some driver couldn’t see him and accidentally hit the poor kid?

      He never should have put Petey in that car. He should have brought him home with him.

      He was the one Petey had asked for help, and he had betrayed the boy by allowing the social worker to cart him away, and then by sending him to Derrick’s. But he’d honestly thought Petey would feel comfortable with Brianna.

      The streets were quiet, and except for an occasional car, traffic was virtually nonexistent. He veered onto Sycamore, keeping his eyes peeled for Petey, but all he spotted was a stray dog wandering through one of the yards. A catfight broke out somewhere behind one of the houses, the shrill screeching unnerving in the night.

      A lone light glowed in a room in a neighbor’s house, but most of the houses were dark, attesting to the fact that everyone was in bed.

      Where Petey belonged.

      He eased into Serena’s driveway, scanning the property. A nice white little bungalow with a fenced backyard. A porch swing on the front porch and the scooter and football in the yard gave the place a homey feel, another reminder that this house belonged to a single mother and her son.

      Ones who’d had their lives uprooted today. The question was, why?

      He cut the engine, then moved quietly toward the front door, checking windows and locks. All shut down. The house was shrouded in darkness, as well.

      If Petey had come home, would he hide out in the dark like this?

      He circled around the side to the back again, checking windows, but they were all locked, and so was the back door. He wanted inside.

      But he hated to break a window or lock. Rational thought kicked in, and he pivoted, searching the back patio for a place Serena might have hidden a backup key.

      A fort for Petey had been erected in the backyard, a bicycle lay on its side, and flowerpots filled with geraniums and impatiens flanked both sides of the patio.

      He stooped and dug beneath the first one but found nothing. Three more pots and his hand closed around the key. Using it to let himself in, he paused to listen for sounds. Any indication that Petey was inside.

      The ticktock of a clock somewhere in the house echoed in the silence along with the low hum of the refrigerator and air conditioner.

      “Petey, it’s Colt.”

      Not wanting to frighten the kid if he was here, he inched his way inside, then moved slowly across the room and flipped on a light. “Petey, if you’re here, please come out. I promise I’m not going to take you back to the manor.”

      Nothing.

      He crept into the den and switched on a lamp, blinking at the sudden brightness. The room was painted a pale yellow with a dark green couch and comfy chairs situated around a fireplace. Children’s books and toys occupied one corner. Family photographs decorated a far wall. He paused to study one of Petey and his dad, and his gut tightened. Serena had said her husband was killed in the line of duty.

      Old instincts kicked in. Police work was dangerous. Had her husband’s killer been arrested? Had his killer decided to come after Serena and Petey for some reason?

      If so, could it be related to Rice’s murder, and the fact that Serena had been conveniently framed?

      He rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he was making a wild jump, but it might be worth looking into.

      He glanced at the room that opened to the right and realized it was Serena’s office. A neat desk, filing cabinet, computer.

      But no Petey.

      Across the other side a small hallway led to two bedrooms. He flipped on a hall light and veered into the first one. The room was painted a warm red with a white comforter and red-and-white striped curtains. Obviously Serena’s room. “Petey, are you here, bud? If you are, please come out and talk to me. I want to help you.”

      The floor squeaked as he knelt and checked under the bed, then he searched the closet and bathroom. All empty.

      Damn. One more room.

      Petey’s. Maybe the kid was hiding in there. He entered it, his eyes quickly scanning the room. Bunk bed with a superhero bedspread, toy chest, action figures, a soccer ball.

      “Petey?”

      But he knew instinctively Petey was not there. Still, he threw open the closet door. Toys and clothes overflowed the shelves and a red fire engine sat on the floor.

      He closed the door, but as he started to leave the room, another picture of Petey and his dad caught his eye. Petey’s father was tall with brown hair and had his arm slung around the boy, but in this photo he wasn’t as clean-cut. His hair looked scraggly and long, and he sported a beard. Something about the look in the man’s eyes and his appearance seemed familiar.

      Like an undercover cop.

      He should know. He’d let his hair grow long and used beards, mustaches, tattoos, anything necessary to fit in with the scum he was supposed to be part of.

      Curious about Parker Stover, he hurried into Serena’s office to look for more information on him, then dug through her file cabinet, but everything inside pertained to her business.

      Had she thrown her husband’s things away?

      He had noticed a door in the hallway and wondered where it led. Maybe an attic.

      A great hiding place for a little boy.

      Spurned by adrenaline now, he flipped on the light and climbed the stairs. A few old pieces of furniture were stored in a corner, an antique chair, another bed, boxes of clothes and toys Petey had probably outgrown were crammed against another wall.

      On the opposite side beneath the window sat an old trunk. Just big enough for Petey to crawl inside.

      He crossed the room and opened it, hoping Petey was inside. Two worn blankets covered the top, then a lump.

      “Petey?”

      He felt beneath it, but his hand connected with a duffel bag instead of a child.

      Frowning, he yanked it out with a curse and unzipped it. The damn bag was filled with cash.

      All in hundred dollar packs.

      His stomach knotted. Why in the hell did Stover have this much money hidden in his attic? Did Serena know about it?

      And where had the money come from?

      He counted the first stack, and worry crawled up his spine as cop instincts filled in the blanks.

      A large sum of cash like this suggested that Stover had been dirty.

      UNABLE TO SLEEP, Serena’s anger festered. She had been a cop’s wife. She’d heard Parker talk about cases, had seen his methodical mind working to figure out the puzzles of a crime.

      She had to help herself and do the same.

      She