To Catch A Thief. Nan Dixon

she pulled into the right-hand drive, but couldn’t park her car completely under the overhang because boxes filled the parking space.

      After unloading her bags, she headed up the steps. In the screened-in porch, she found the spare key hidden in a small case under Poppy’s rocking chair.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned the key and pushed open the door. A wave of cold from the air-conditioning hit her first, making the skin on her arms pebble. But then the sterile furniture her mother had bought to replace her grandparents’ warm sofas and chairs chilled her heart. Gone were the blues of the ocean and yellows of the sun. Mamá had replaced everything with black, gray and metal.

      She hauled her cases to her bedroom. Even here, her mother had taken out the colorful quilt Yaya had made for her. Now a black comforter covered her bed. Carolina couldn’t hold in another shiver. “Oh, Mamá.”

      She opened her suitcase but couldn’t dredge up the energy to unpack.

      Down in the kitchen, she made a cup of calming tea, a box she’d bought the last time she’d visited. Then she turned up the temperature so she didn’t freeze. She tried to sit in a gray chair in the living room, but her legs stuck to the cold leather.

      It was hotter than a skillet outside, but she headed to Poppy’s porch rocking chair. She flipped on the ceiling fan and waited, cuddling her mug.

      A half hour slipped away. Her tea cooled. She sipped and rocked, her life on hold, waiting for her mother. Always waiting. Her eyes closed.

      There was a crunch of tires on the drive and she jerked awake.

      Her mother pulled up in a new car. A BMW? How could her mother afford a new car on a legal assistant’s wages? Carolina’s eight-year-old Focus looked out of place next to the sleek foreign vehicle.

      “Carolina,” her mother called as she climbed out. “Help me!”

      Carolina pushed open the door and hurried down the steps.

      “Mamá.” She wrapped her mother in a hug. “How are you feeling? Should you be running around?”

      Her mother air-kissed her cheeks. “Right now I’m fine, more than fine. I can’t believe these doctors. Always trying to scare me to death.”

      Her mother’s black hair was long and curly. When it had grown back after her breast cancer treatments ten years ago, it had gotten curlier. Chemo curls. She smelled of—amber and sandalwood. Her blue eyes sparkled. There were lines around her mouth and eyes, but she was still beautiful.

      And didn’t seem sick—at all. The tea churned in Carolina’s stomach. She’d run home from Nashville and missed her chance at a record contract. She bit her lip. “Is your cancer really back?”

      “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her mother waved at the bags in the back seat. “Can you grab those, dear?”

      Carolina gathered the bags. “I thought you were hurting for money.”

      “I deserve some joy.” Her mother’s heels clicked on the steps. “I’m dying.”

      Dying. The word smashed into her diaphragm, knocking the air out of her lungs. Her mother was her only family. If she died, there would be no one. She’d be alone.

      “Come on.” Her mother held the door open. “Let me show you what I bought.”

      Carolina dragged the bags up the stairs and into Mamá’s colorless living room.

      “I found this incredible scarf so I had to find a dress. And, of course, I needed new sandals.” Her mother tugged the bags out of Carolina’s hands.

      Carolina sank into the chair for the fashion show. How many times had her mother modeled beautiful clothes—clothes she couldn’t afford. The scarf was gorgeous—and expensive. But then, so were the dress and sandals. “Can you afford all this?”

      Her mother twirled. “I deserve this. After I got pregnant with you, I had to give up everything—my career, my travels, my fun. Since my cancer is back, I refuse to go out looking like a hag.”

      “Mamá.” She didn’t want to hear the tirade again, the one she’d heard all her life. She wanted the time they had left to be special. “Tell me exactly what the doctor told you.”

      “There’s a big word.” Her mother waved her hand. “All it means is the cancer moved from my breast to my brain.”

      Carolina released a heavy breath. “Metastatic?”

      “Maybe.” Her mother spun around, holding up the dress. Then stumbled.

      “What does Dr. Laster want to do?”

      “Oh...stuff.” Mamá staggered to the sofa. “Not again.”

      Carolina pushed out of the chair. “What’s wrong?”

      “Maldición.” Her mother collapsed, holding her head. Her eyes filled with tears.

      Carolina shot over to her mother. “Are you all right?”

      “Headache.” Blood dripped from her mother’s nose.

      “Mamá!” Carolina snatched up tissues and pressed them under her nose as her mother tipped her head back.

      “How often does this happen?” Carolina grabbed more tissues.

      “Headaches? Daily.” Her mother pinched her nose and moaned. “Bloody noses? Off and on.”

      This was bad. “What can I do?”

      “Shut the blinds.” Her mother sank into the pillows, closing her eyes. “Medicine. In the bathroom.”

      Carolina ran around the room, pulling the blinds. Her mother winced at each clank. Dashing up the stairs, she stared at the bottles lining the bathroom counter. One after the other, she picked them up until she found one that talked about headaches. Shaking out a pill, she took the stairs two at a time and headed to the kitchen. After sniffing the milk, she poured a glass and hurried to her mother’s side. “Here you are.”

      “Milk?” her mother waved her hand at the glass. “I want water. Or better yet, wine.”

      “This is better for your stomach.” She helped her mother sit, forcing her to take the pill with the milk.

      Mamá sank back, her fingers pushing into her temples.

      Her mother hadn’t been faking. She was sick.

      * * *

      “AGENT CORNELL?” someone called. “Agent Cornell?”

      Sage’s foot jerked from something poking his instep. He waved his hand, hoping whomever kept waking him would go away.

      His hand wouldn’t move. What the...?

      He forced his eyelids open, though grit sealed them together. Light drilled behind his eyes like a steer’s horn. His head pounded with each beat of his heart. Damn. Even his teeth hurt. “Turn. Light. Off.”

      “You’re back.” A woman in nausea-inducing pink scrubs patted his leg. She ignored his request. “Hopefully, for good this time. Happy Labor Day.”

      “Back?” he croaked. An antiseptic smell invaded his nose. Hell. He was in a hospital. “Labor Day?”

      She brought a cup with a straw to his mouth. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for two days.”

      The water eased the dryness. Damn—two days? What had happened?

      The nurse puttered near his bedside.

      He lifted his hand but it wouldn’t move. “What the—?”

      She unstrapped his hand. “I don’t think you need these anymore.”

      “Why?” He pushed the word out. Exhaustion closed in on him like a tornado across the prairie.

      “You