Modern Romance Collection: April 2018 Books 1 – 4. Lynne Graham

and wondered where all Maggie’s neighbors had been that one hadn’t noticed this guy messing with her door, then going in. And why had Maggie marched right in when she’d returned home and found the lock broken? The woman was too gutsy for her own good.

      Inside, he stopped, hands on hips, looking around. What a mess! Cushions yanked off the couch and tossed on the floor, books and curios from the bookcase flung aside, the desk drawers methodically upended and emptied. The man left no space untouched.

      Then the fingerprint guys had come through dusting every surface with fine black powder. When Tate saw this, she’d be horrified. No sooner had the thought formed than he heard a car with a wheezing engine pull into the driveway. Glancing out the window, he saw Tate and her son climb out of an older yellow Buick LeBaron convertible. A ’92 or ’93 he’d guess and probably had the mileage to prove it.

      Her arm protectively around the boy’s shoulders, Tate guided Josh onto the porch and nodded to the officer who greeted them both.

      “Is that yellow tape necessary now?” she asked the police officer. “People are driving by and staring.”

      Nick answered for him. “Officer, you can take the tape down now.” He held the door open for them, aware this would be her first glimpse of the wreckage.

      “Thanks,” Tate said, stepping inside. She looked around, her lips thinning, the hand on her son’s shoulder tightening. Otherwise, she gave no sign of how upset she must be inside. Nick had seen worse, but she probably hadn’t.

      “Listen,” he began, “I can call this cleaning crew that we recommend. They’re honest, reasonable and work fast. Why don’t I help you look through things to see if anything’s missing, then I’ll call them to do the heavy stuff?”

      She’d wandered to the large kitchen where canisters of coffee and sugar and flour had been emptied onto the floor, some dishes smashed as if in an angry frenzy, doors to the cupboards hanging open, spice containers helter-skelter on the counter. Tate felt her shoulders sag at the enormity of the cleanup task. But she couldn’t afford to pay a crew no matter how reasonable they were. And this was her obligation, not Maggie’s.

      Since her frightening conversation with the detective at the hospital, all she’d been able to think of was that her worst nightmare was beginning all over again. He’d tracked her down and found her again, just when she’d begun to think he’d forgotten all about her. And now Maggie was hurt and Josh was in danger. Where could she go? Where could they hide? Would this ordeal ever end, and end happily?

      Nick couldn’t tell if the weary look on Tate’s face had to do with the mess she was facing or something else. When she turned, he caught a hint of fear in her eyes. Anyone who’s experienced a home invasion would have lingering fear, but he had a feeling she was afraid of something else. “Tate, did you hear me?” he asked gently.

      “I heard you. We can’t afford a cleanup crew. I’ll manage.” She placed her shoulder bag on the kitchen table, just about the only clean spot in the room as Josh spotted something and rushed over to a box upended near the back door. “What is it, sweetie?”

      Kneeling, the boy choked back a sob. “My…my Pokémon cards. They’re all over and some of them got wet.” Obviously upset, he tried to pick up the scattered cards.

      Moving to his side, Tate felt her heart twist. The new craze of collecting Pokémon cards and playing games with them had been the first thing Josh had shown real interest in in ages. She’d bought him as many as she could afford and Maggie had found a tin box to store his collection. “Don’t worry, honey. You pick up the dry ones and I’ll clean off the others. They’ll be okay.”

      Having watched the scene, Nick wandered over. “I have two nephews who collect these, too.” He stooped down and began to help the boy. “Which are your favorites?”

      Josh looked at him suspiciously, moving closer to his mother. Tate had explained to him on the way over that Maggie’s place had been trashed by bad guys and that the police were going to catch them. He’d been okay with that, but it was hard to tell the bad guys from the good ones sometimes, especially if you were seven, she thought.

      She brushed a lock of her son’s blond hair off his forehead. “Josh, Mr. Bennett’s a detective. He’s going to find out who hurt Maggie and made this mess. It’s okay. He’s here to help us.” Tate prayed she was right, that Nick could find the person responsible and put him away for good. But if her worst fears were realized, she doubted that, even if identified, any investigation would get to the arrest stage. Unfortunately some people were above the law.

      It was hard to tell if Josh believed his mother since he didn’t answer Nick, but he did accept his help. Tate watched for a few minutes, then straightened. “I have to change clothes before I can start here. I’ll check to see if I find anything missing as soon as I return. Josh, come upstairs with me, please.”

      Left alone, Nick decided this was way too large a job for one small woman. He found a utility closet next to the back door and pulled out a broom and dustpan. Then he went to work sweeping up the kitchen floor.

      Changed into a navy T-shirt and jeans, Tate brushed her hair back, trying to tame the unruly waves, then quickly formed a ponytail. Her mind, however, was downstairs focusing on the mess someone had made of dear Maggie’s home. And it was most likely her fault, all her fault. That sharp-eyed detective was already suspicious of her answers to his many questions. She’d have to watch that.

      Sitting down, Tate pulled on her white canvas shoes and stooped to tie them. She hadn’t known many cops, except the ones who’d come to her apartment a while back when someone she’d once trusted had sent a man to try to persuade her to give up her son. The police had taken lots of notes of her vague answers to their questions and then advised her to get a restraining order. How could she file charges against one of the most powerful men in the state, someone respected and admired by nearly everyone? She knew no one would believe her.

      Familiar guilt washed over Tate as she sat still for a moment. One mistake and look at the ramifications, all these years later and all the years in between. That mistake had cost her dearly and now was probably the cause of Maggie’s beating. Fortunately the older woman would recover. But if Maggie had died…

      No, she wouldn’t allow herself to go there. Rising, Tate took a deep breath and swallowed the old guilt as she’d done many times before. They’d get through this somehow.

      She passed by Josh’s room and saw that he was busily playing with his Pokémon cards, talking to himself, involved. Relieved that he was handling the break-in and that the intruder hadn’t made it to the second floor, she started downstairs. Probably Maggie arriving home had interrupted his search.

      At the archway into the kitchen, Tate stopped, staring. Nick had taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His shoulder holster, the gun barely visible, was a stark reminder of his profession. But that wasn’t the astonishing part. The floor had been swept clean, the broken dishes piled into the trash bin and Nick was busily wiping off the counter. “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked, surprised enough to blurt out her first thought.

      He glanced over as he turned on the faucet to rinse some lingering sugar down the drain. “Just giving you a hand.” He saw the play of emotions on her face—surprise, annoyance, relief.

      Hands on her hips, she walked over. “Do you pitch right in like this for every case you handle? Must keep you pretty busy.”

      Nick shrugged. “I’ve got the time. If you won’t let me call out a crew, then I’m volunteering.”

      She was clearly taken aback. “But I…” The doorbell ringing startled her. She swung around, a question in her eyes.

      “Easy,” Nick said, wiping his hands on a towel. “It’s just the locksmith. Come tell him what kind you want installed. You really should have a dead bolt.” He urged her toward the living room.

      Silly to just about jump out of her skin at the sound of the doorbell, Tate told herself. The last thing