Single Father Sheriff. Carol Ericson

Kendall Rush was luring him into a trap—like a fly to a spider’s web.

      The dusty mustiness of the room closed around him, replacing the seductive smell of musk and even overpowering the pine scent from outside. His nose twitched and he sneezed.

      “I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to clean up ten months’ worth of dust in here yet.” She plucked a tissue from a box by the window and waved it at him.

      “Why don’t you open a couple of windows?” He scanned the room, cluttered with boxes of varying degrees of emptiness, his gaze zeroing in on a cabinet with an open drawer, papers scattered around it.

      “There was a breeze this morning, and I thought opening the window would stir up the dust and make it worse.” She walked backward to the cabinet and leaned against it, shutting the drawer with her hip in the process.

      “Hope to trap him in there?”

      A quick blush pulsed in her cheeks. “What?”

      “The spider.” He pointed to the cabinet she seemed to be trying to block with her slight frame. “It looks like you were going through that drawer when you discovered him.”

      The line of her jaw hardened. “I was going through the drawer, but the spider crawled on my hand while I was carrying one of the boxes.”

      He looked at the neat row of boxes, not one dropped in haste, and shrugged. If she wanted to continue lying to him about what gave her such a scare that she’d run headlong out of the house and into his arms, he’d leave it to her. He hadn’t minded the introduction at all.

      “If I happen to see him or any of his brethren, I’ll introduce him to the bottom of my boot.” He tipped his hat from his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Now, can I ask you a few questions, Ms. Rush?”

      “All right, but I can’t help you.”

      “That’s a quick judgment when you haven’t even heard the questions yet.” He put his hat on the top of a box filled with books. “Is there someplace else we can talk so I don’t have a sneezing fit?”

      “I cleaned up the kitchen pretty thoroughly. Do you want something to drink while we talk?”

      “Just water.” He followed her into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on the back of her head this time, although the way her dark hair shimmered down her back was just as alluring as her other assets.

      She cranked on the faucet and plucked a glass from an open cupboard. “That’s one thing I miss about living in Timberline, maybe the only thing—the tap water. It’s as good as anything in a bottle.”

      “It is.” He took the glass from her and held it up to the light from the kitchen window. He then swirled it like a fine wine and took a sip.

      She pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table stationed next to a side door that led to a plain cement patio. She perched on the edge, making it clear that she was ready to get this interview over with before it even started.

      She kicked out the chair on the other side of the table. “Have a seat.”

      He placed his glass on the table and sank into the chair, stretched his legs to the side and pulled a notepad from his pocket. “You obviously know I’m interested in asking you questions about the kidnapping of your sister.”

      She drummed her fingers on the table. “Did Wyatt Carson tell you I was out here?”

      “No. I heard you’d arrived yesterday—just local gossip.”

      She rolled her eyes, apparently not believing his lie any more than he believed hers. “Okay. Ask away, but you’re asking me about something that happened a long time ago.”

      “A traumatic event.”

      “Exactly, I’ve squished down a lot of those memories, and I’m not inclined to dredge them up.”

      “Even if they can help the Keaton and Douglas families today?”

      “I don’t believe they can.” She flattened her hands on the table, her fingers splayed. “You can’t seriously believe the two current kidnappings have anything to do with the Timberline Trio disappearances. What, some kidnapper has been lying dormant for twenty-five years and then up and decides to go another round?”

      “I think there are some similarities.” He hunched forward in his chair. “There are cases where a serial killer is active and then the killings just stop, sometimes because the killer goes to prison for some other crime. Then when he’s paroled, he starts killing again.”

      “So you think the man who kidnapped my sister is on the loose and picking up where he left off over two decades ago?” She folded her hands in front of herself, and his gaze dropped to her white knuckles.

      Before his action even registered in his brain, his hand shot out and he covered her clasped hands with one of his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”

      “I’d rather you be truthful with me, Sheriff Sloane.”

      “Call me Coop. Everyone does.” He slid his hand from hers. “I’d like you to be truthful with me, too, Ms. Rush.”

      Her eyes flickered. “Call me Kendall, and I’ll be as truthful as I can. What do you want to ask me?”

      So he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her again, he dragged his notebook in front of him and tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the first page. “What do you remember about that night?”

      “That’s an open-ended question.”

      “Okay. Why were you and your sister spending the night at your aunt’s house instead of your own?”

      “If you read the case file, you know the answer to that question.”

      “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

      Tucking her hair behind one ear, she ran her tongue along her lower lip. “I’m trying to make it easy on you and save some time. A lot of that stuff is in the case file. I don’t see the point in rehashing it with me.”

      “You’re the therapist. You understand the importance of reliving memories, of telling someone else your version of events. Isn’t that what therapists are supposed to do?” His lip curled despite his best efforts to keep his feelings about therapists on neutral ground.

      “You’re trying to psychoanalyze me?”

      “I’m trying to see if you have anything to offer that doesn’t come through on a page written twenty-five years ago.” He snorted. “Unless you’re trying to tell me talk therapy doesn’t work. Does it?”

      She studied his face, staring into his eyes, her own dark and fathomless. Could she read the disdain he had for therapy? He’d brought up the therapy angle only to make her feel comfortable.

      She tapped the table between them with her index finger. “Therapy is supposed to help the subject. You want me to start spilling my guts to help you, not to help myself.”

      He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he wished he was questioning Wyatt again and not this complicated woman.

      The gesture must’ve elicited her pity because she started talking.

      “Kayla and I were at Aunt Cass’s that night because my parents were fighting again. Aunt Cass, my mother’s sister, felt that my parents needed to work out their differences one-on-one and not in front of the kids.”

      “The police suspected your father of the kidnapping at first because of the fight.”

      “I didn’t realize that at the time, of course, but that assumption was so ridiculous. I’d given a description of the kidnapper, and I would’ve recognized my dad, even in a mask. I suppose the police figured I was too traumatized to give an accurate description or I was protecting my father.”

      “What was your