Sometimes secrets are better left in the past

Renowned anthropologist Catherine March fears she’s the biological daughter of a convicted serial killer. Tormented for years by nightmares and vague memories, she’d make a deal with the devil to investigate her mysterious adoption. Nick LaSalle eagerly takes the case, determined to prove someone is willing to kill to keep Catherine’s past buried. But when the evidence hits too close to Nick’s home, he has a choice to make—uncover the truth or protect his reputation and family name…

AMANDA STEVENS is an award-winning author of over fifty novels, including the modern gothic series The Graveyard Queen. Her books have been described as eerie and atmospheric, ‘a new take on the classic ghost story.’ Born and raised in the rural South, she now resides in Houston, Texas, where she enjoys binge-watching, bike riding and the occasional margarita.

Also by Amanda Stevens

Criminal Behaviour

Pine Lake

Whispering Springs

Bishop’s Rock (ebook novella)

The Restorer

The Kingdom

The Prophet

The Visitor

The Sinner

The Awakening

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Incriminating Evidence

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09397-2

INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE

© 2019 Marilyn Medlock Amann

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The hammer of rain on her umbrella obscured the sound of any footfalls behind her. Still, Catherine March cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder. Nothing seemed amiss. No darting shadows. No lurking silhouettes. But she knew she was being followed. The certainty tingled down her backbone as she hurried along the rain-slick sidewalk.

She gripped her umbrella and willed away the icy sensation. She was letting the gloomy day get to her. Grief clouded her common sense. Why would she be under surveillance? She lived a quiet and unassuming lifestyle. Most of her time was spent in a university lab or classroom. She consulted with various law enforcement agencies in and around Charleston, South Carolina, but a sleuthing, gun-toting forensic anthropologist was a figment of Hollywood’s imagination. Catherine didn’t investigate crimes or chase down criminals. Her job was to examine, analyze and inform. The cases on which she consulted were mostly cold, the skeletal remains of the victims picked clean by time, weather and predation.

Take her current assignment. She’d been tasked with creating biological profiles for fourteen separate sets of human remains recovered from an abandoned house on the outskirts of Charleston’s famed historical district. The former owner of the residence, a paraplegic named Delmar Gainey, had spent the last five years of his life in a nursing home and the previous two decades confined to a wheelchair. Before the accident that claimed his mobility, however, he’d murdered those fourteen women and sequestered their bodies in the walls of his home and in his backyard.

The remains of his victims might have stayed hidden forever if not for an ambitious house flipper, who had acquired the property at auction following Gainey’s death. The first gruesome discovery brought the police. The coroner had brought in Catherine.

Butterfly fractures in the long bones told the story of the women’s brutal captivity while striae patterns on the sternums and rib cages painted a vivid image of their deaths. The victims had been stabbed repeatedly with a serrated blade. All except one. Jane Doe Thirteen.

She was the anomaly. An outlier. An inconsistency that needled at Catherine even now as she thought about the single bullet hole in the back of the skull. In all likelihood, the entry wound had been made by a full metal jacket fired at close range from a 9 mm semiautomatic. An execution.

No bone trauma like the other victims. No nicks or fractures. Not even an exit wound.

Jane Doe Thirteen had definitely captured Catherine’s imagination, but for now she had more pressing business.

Clutching the plastic bag to her chest, she plunged on through the puddles.

What were the chances? she wondered as she cast another glance over her shoulder. What were the odds that not one but two old serial-killer cases with seemingly no relation to the other had entered her quiet, ordinary world to wreak havoc on her peace of mind? Delmar Gainey had died in his bed at the Cloverdale Rest Home, no doubt savoring his monstrous deeds to the bitter end. Orson Lee Finch—the so-called Twilight Killer—was still very much alive but destined to spend the rest of his days in the Kirkland Correctional Institution, housed in a specialized unit for the state’s most violent inmates.

Catherine had been little more than a baby when Gainey and Finch had stalked the streets of her city, each possessing a very different set of stressors, signatures and criteria. Then the remains had been found on Delmar Gainey’s property and, soon after, headlines had exploded with startling new developments in the Orson Lee Finch case.

Catherine had experienced little more than professional curiosity until her mother’s death unearthed a more personal revelation. Since early childhood, Catherine had known she was adopted. Her mother, Laura, had spoken openly about the circumstances of Catherine’s birth. You’ll have questions as you grow older. At some point, you may even feel your loyalties are divided. That’s only natural. But I want you to know that you can always come to me, Cath. There should be no secrets between us.

No secrets? Then why hadn’t Catherine known about the loose floorboard in her mother’s closet or the box of newspaper clippings stashed inside the secret compartment? Why hadn’t she been told about the photograph?

Why had Laura March, so pale and weak on her deathbed, pulled her daughter close and whispered a distressing message in her ear?

It’s all a lie.

A car horn sounded in the distance, drawing Catherine’s attention back to the present. She stood shivering on the curb as she waited for the light to change. It was a hot summer day, but the rain and her dark thoughts chilled her.

She took another quick check of her surroundings. She was alone on the street. No one else was about. No one that she could see. The rain had chased everyone inside. She was tempted to scurry across the intersection against the light, but she could almost hear her mother chastising her from the grave. Careful, Cath. Always look before you leap.

Grief settled heavily on her shoulders and tightened her chest. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more alone than she did at the moment, huddled beneath her umbrella and missing Laura March more than she would have ever dreamed possible.

Wiping a hand across her damp cheeks, she drew a sharp breath. The feeling was there again. That frigid whisper up her backbone. She turned, almost expecting to find her mother’s ghost floating toward her through the gloom. Instead, she saw a man watching her from a recessed doorway.

Their gazes collided before he glanced away, but in that fleeting moment of contact, Catherine experienced a flicker of recognition. She searched her mind for a time when their paths might have crossed. The man was memorable, not so much for his crudely tattooed arms but for the aura of danger that shrouded him. There was something sinister in his closely set eyes, something threatening in his body language. He looked to be middle-aged, his hair longish and slicked back, his cheekbones as sharp as razor blades. As if aware of Catherine’s scrutiny, he tipped back his head and blew a long stream of smoke out into the rain.

Her heart raced as she considered her options. Run away or confront him. Before she had time to think, she found herself walking toward him.

“Excuse me!” she called out. “Do I know you?”

Even as she continued to advance, she admonished herself for provoking a stranger on a deserted street, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Grief did strange things to people. Maybe her emotions had been pent up for too long. Maybe her anguish had been suppressed to the point of explosion.

“Sir? Are you following me?”

He showed no visible reaction to the question, refused to acknowledge her presence with so much as a glance. He took another drag and then carefully flicked the cigarette butt into a puddle before he turned and walked away.

Catherine didn’t follow him. She watched until he was out of sight before she went back to wait for the light, positioning herself so that she could keep an eye on the sidewalk behind her. She tried to tell herself again that she was imagining things. The man had been minding his own business. If anything, she’d likely scared him away. What had she been thinking, harassing a total stranger?

No one was following her. Get over yourself. The only other person who knew of her discovery was her mother’s sister, and she couldn’t fathom a scenario where Louise Jennings would have her watched. Catherine still had a hard time believing her mother had kept secrets from her all these years, but the proof was in the plastic bag she hugged to her chest. The confirmation had been in her mother’s whispered confession.

It’s all a lie.

* * *

THE HEADLINE IN the local paper had called her the bone doctor, a champion of the forgotten dead. Strange that Catherine March would be in the market for a private detective when Nick LaSalle had been reading about her in the paper. The article had highlighted her profession as a forensic anthropologist in general and, more specifically, her efforts to help identify human remains that had recently been recovered from an abandoned house.

Nick knew the woman slightly from his brief time as a homicide detective. He remembered her as dedicated and meticulous in her work. Quiet and thoughtful in her demeanor. He had forgotten how attractive she was. That part had taken him by surprise when she walked into his office.

He let his gaze drift over her features as he wondered why he’d never gotten around to calling her once he’d closed the case. The spark had been undeniable. He felt it now as he took in the long, dark hair, still glistening with raindrops, and the wide brown eyes that observed him with a hint of suspicion.

She wore a fitted gray top with slim black pants and sneakers soaked from the downpour. The only hint of color in the whole of her presentation was an emerald ring that glowed in the too-bright lighting of his office. He’d turned up the glare in order to chase away the dreariness of a rainy day, but a cozier ambience invited candor. He started to get up and adjust the dimmer, but he didn’t want to interrupt her train of thought. Or his, for that matter.

“When did your mother pass away?” he asked as he pretended to jot notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Just over a week ago.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, noting the shadow that flitted across her expression and the telltale sheen in her eyes, which she quickly blinked away.

“Thank you.”

“You’re here because you found some old newspaper clippings among your mother’s possessions?”

“I’m here because I found them hidden beneath the floorboards of my mother’s closet. I hadn’t been by her house since she died. I wanted to gather up a few of her things to take home with me and to try and figure out what to do with the rest. Mostly, I wanted to feel close to her.” She cleared her throat and drew a deep breath as she smoothed her hands down the tops of her thighs. She was nervous. That much was obvious. Uneasy, too. Her eyes kept darting to the doorway and to the corridor beyond as if she expected to find someone listening in on their conversation.

They had the second floor to themselves and the receptionist wouldn’t be able to hear from her post in the lobby, but Nick got up and closed the door anyway. Then he surreptitiously dimmed the lights a notch. Catherine didn’t seem to notice. She picked up the plastic bag at her feet and extracted a shoebox.

“You brought the clippings?” Nick walked back over to his desk and sat down.

She nodded. “I noted a loose floorboard when I went into my mother’s closet. I pried it up and found this box inside.”

“When we spoke on the phone, you said the articles are about a serial killer.”

“Not just any serial killer.” Her gaze lifted. “Orson Lee Finch. The most infamous monster in this city’s history.”

“But not the most prolific,” Nick felt compelled to point out. “Delmar Gainey now holds that distinction.”

“Yes, I know. I’m working on the remains that were recovered from his property.”

“I’ve been keeping up with the case. I saw the article about you in the paper. How’s it going?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

She tucked back damp tendrils and seemed to relax. “We’re lucky in that most of the skeletons were found intact, with only a few missing bones. We also have all the skulls. I don’t have to tell you how helpful that is. It allows us to check dental records and, if necessary, reconstruct facial features.” She paused thoughtfully as if something had suddenly occurred to her.

He leaned in. “What is it?”

She said in surprise, “I’m sorry?”

“You look as if something just came to you.”

“I was thinking about one of the victims. There’s a rather puzzling inconsistency.”

She had a way of making everything sound dreamy and mysterious. A conversation about human remains and serial killers should have evoked gruesome imagery, but instead her melodic voice mingling with the sound of raindrops against the windows mesmerized Nick. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself drowning in the unfathomable darkness of her eyes. “What kind of inconsistency?”

She seemed to catch herself then, shaking her head slightly as she clutched the box with both hands. “That’s a discussion for the police. It has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

Nick leaned back in his chair feeling oddly thwarted. “Back to Orson Lee Finch, then. The Twilight Killer.” He took a moment to pretend to read his notes. He felt a little rattled and he didn’t know why. For all his shortcomings—and he had more than a few—a lack of confidence in his cognitive abilities had never been one of them. Yet he couldn’t seem to get a read on Catherine March. Beneath that ethereal demeanor, something dark and unsettling simmered. “When you called this morning, you mentioned a photograph.”

She glanced down at the box. “It ran in the local paper at the time of Finch’s arrest. The image is grainy, but it appears to be Finch. He’s holding the hand of a little girl who looks to be about two. According to the accompanying article, the photo was sent to the paper anonymously and is the only known shot of that child. It was speculated at the time that she was Finch’s daughter, but no one could ever locate her. Finch would never confirm or deny the rumor. Detective LaSalle... I mean... Sorry...” She faltered uncomfortably, realizing she’d addressed him by his former title. He wondered if she knew the circumstances of his departure from the police department. If so, he could only assume she’d reconciled the rumors to her satisfaction or she wouldn’t be here.

“Call me Nick,” he said.

She looked relieved. “There’s no easy way to say this. I’ve reason to believe that I’m the child in that photograph. If true, then there is a very good chance that Orson Lee Finch is my biological father.”

She’d shocked him, but he tried not to show it. “That’s quite a leap from one old photograph. Do you have more substantial evidence?”

“No,” she admitted. “Only that my mother saved every newspaper article written about Finch and she told me before she died that it had all been a lie.”

“Meaning?”

“She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t elaborate. It was near the end and she was in and out of consciousness, but she seemed lucid in that moment. Still, I might have chalked it up to delirium if not for the clippings and the fact that she took such pains to hide them from me.”

“So, to be clear, you think Orson Lee Finch and your mother—”

“No!” Her voice rose. She took a moment to collect herself. “I was adopted when I was two. Laura March was the only mother I ever knew. The woman who gave birth to me had a relationship with Finch.” She glanced away with a shudder. “At least, that’s the assumption.”

“How long have you known you were adopted?”

“For as long as I can remember. My mother and I spoke openly about it since I was a small child. She told me that my biological parents were very young. My father joined the military right out of high school. He died in a helicopter crash before they could marry, leaving my mother—my biological mother—alone and destitute. She tried to make a go of it, but she was too young and poor with no formal education and no job prospects. She gave me up so that I could have a better life.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

She hesitated. “I did for a long time, but now I think Laura March invented the story because the truth was too painful...too stigmatizing. And perhaps she wanted to ward off my curiosity.”

“What about your adoptive father?”

“Aidan March. He was a cop, killed in the line of duty when I was little. That much is true. Even though I was only five when it happened, I still have vague memories of him. His voice. His smile. The blue of his eyes.” She glanced down at the ring on her finger. “This belonged to his mother. I’m told he wanted me to have it.” She fell silent as she twisted the band.

Her phrasing wasn’t lost on Nick. If Laura March had lied about Catherine’s birth parents, might she also have fabricated a connection to her adoptive father?

“Go on,” he prompted.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the specifics of the Twilight Killer case, but Orson Lee Finch was a gardener by trade. He went to college for a time majoring in horticulture, but his mother became ill and he had to drop out. Some say that fostered his resentment of the elite. They had what he so desperately wanted but could never acquire. His signature was a rare crimson magnolia petal, which he placed over his victims’ lips.”

“The kiss of death,” Nick murmured.

She closed her eyes briefly. “Finch preyed on young, single mothers from affluent families. Despite their advantages—or maybe because of them—he deemed them unfit to raise children. The FBI profiler on the case called the kills mission-oriented. He speculated that the mother of Finch’s child—possibly my biological mother—was his first victim. Her rejection may have triggered his spree. Finch denies it, of course. After all these years, he still maintains his innocence. At least to those who manage to get an interview with him.”

“Have you talked to him?”

The question seemed to distress her. “I haven’t gone to see him. Why would I?”

“You say you want answers. He would be the logical place to start.”

She shook her head. “No. I won’t see him. Let me be clear about that. I don’t want Orson Lee Finch in my life. I don’t want him to know who I am or anything about me. I only want the truth. I need to know the truth.”

“Why?” Nick asked bluntly.

She regarded him for the longest moment. “If the answer to that question isn’t obvious, then perhaps I’ve come to the wrong person for help.”

Nick returned her stare. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to ask—is it possible you’re latching onto an implausible scenario as a way to distract from your grief? Stories about the Twilight Killer have dominated the news lately. The media has even managed to resurrect the mystique surrounding Twilight’s Children,” he said, referring to the moniker assigned to the offspring of Orson Lee Finch’s victims.

“I’m well aware of the stories. I’ve read all the articles and watched the documentaries. If what I suspect is true, then I’m the ultimate child of Twilight.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Not just Finch’s daughter but the offspring of his first victim.”

Nick let that soak in for a moment. Catherine March didn’t seem the type to court publicity—the opposite, in fact—but he’d been fooled before. If her story got out, he had no doubt the details would be sensationalized. She might even be offered a book or movie deal. Her profession would only feed into the public’s fascination. The daughter of a serial killer devoting her life to forgotten victims.

He searched her face once again, staring deep into her eyes, waiting for a twitch or a blink that would give her away. Her gaze remained unwavering.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” Nick said. “I was just thinking about everything you’ve told me. At any other time, without the recent media circus, do you think you would have given those clippings a second thought?”

Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “A box of newspaper clippings hidden beneath a floorboard in my dead mother’s closet? Yes, I think I would have given them a second thought.”

“I’m not trying to offend you.”

“I’m not offended. But if you knew me at all, you would know that I’m not the type to embellish or dramatize. I’m nothing if not practical. I’m not jumping to conclusions nor am I trying to distract from my grief. This isn’t a bid for attention or some misguided need to feel special or important. For any number of reasons, I want to know who my biological parents are. Is that so hard to understand?”

“No,” he said. “But you’ve heard the old saying, sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

She removed a newspaper clipping from the cigar box and slid it across the desk. “That’s a picture of Orson Lee Finch, is it not?”

He picked up the yellowed clipping and studied the subjects. “Hard to tell. As you said, the shot is grainy and there’s a shadow across his profile. It could be Finch.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “The child with him...the little girl...do you see a resemblance to me?”

Nick took his time studying her features before glancing back down at the clipping. Truthfully, there was a similarity but so vague as to be insignificant. “She has dark hair and dark eyes. Beyond that...”

She placed a photograph on his desk. “This is a shot of me taken in our backyard when I was three.”

He compared the photo to the clipping. “There’s a definite likeness, I’ll give you that. But I’m still not willing to draw any conclusions.”

“I’m not asking you to. All I need from you is a thorough investigation. Do you want the job or don’t you?”

He waited a beat before he answered. “Why me? Why this agency?” He wondered if she would remind him that she had once consulted on one of his cases, but instead she withdrew a creased business card from the shoebox and handed it to him.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked.

He gazed down at the familiar logo. “It’s one of our old business cards. The design was changed years ago.”

“I found that card in the same box with the clippings. There’s a number scribbled on the back.”

Nick flipped the card and a shock wave went through him. This time he was unable to hide his astonishment.

“I take it from your expression that you recognize the number,” she said.

“It’s my father’s home number,” he conceded reluctantly. “It’s been unlisted for years.”

“Which means he must have spoken with my mother at some point. I think she came to him hoping that he could help her find out the truth about my biological parents. She must have had suspicions for a long time. Why else would she have saved those clippings? Why else would she have kept them from me? Ask your father if he remembers her. Or, better yet, check to see if there’s a case file.” Her gaze intensified. “It could be that the work has already been done for us.”

Nick picked up the card and flicked it idly between his fingers. “I can tell this means a lot to you.”

“Of course, it means a lot to me. Put yourself in my place.”

“I’ve been sitting here trying to do just that and here’s my conclusion... What if you are Orson Lee Finch’s biological daughter? It won’t change who you are. It won’t diminish your accomplishments.”

She sighed. “Nurture over nature. I get it. I may even believe it. Laura March was a wonderful person. Everything I am, I owe to her. I couldn’t have asked for a more loving parent. But she kept things from me and I need to know why.” Catherine’s voice quivered and for the first time, she looked vulnerable. Lost. “A person needs to know where she comes from, Nick. A person needs to know the truth about her past.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like you to leave the clippings with me for now. The photograph, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Does that mean you’ll take my case?”

“I’ll look into it. If Orson Lee Finch will agree to see me, I’ll press for a DNA test. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s what I want,” she insisted, even as she looked anything but certain.

“If Finch cooperates—which I doubt he will—you’ll have your answer in a matter of days. If not, we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

“You have no idea what this means to me.” She stood. “I realize how deluded I must sound. Thank you for hearing me out. You could have just sent me away.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Depending on the outcome, you may not want to thank me at all.” He rose and walked her to the door. Their shoulders brushed as he reached for the knob. She moved away quickly and muttered an apology. But in that fleeting moment of contact, awareness sizzled. Nick found himself breathing in her scent. She smelled of raindrops and vanilla. A clean fragrance with more than a hint of mystery.

He cleared his head as he pulled open the door. “It was good seeing you again, Dr. March.”

“You, as well. It’s been a long time. And please call me Catherine.” She smiled for the first time since entering his office. “I was surprised to hear you’d left the police department.”

“Were you?” His smile felt brittle. “No one else was.”

“Charleston PD’s loss is my gain.”

“We’ll see, I guess.” He handed her a fresh business card. “My cell number is on the back. Call me if you need anything or if you have questions.”

She pocketed the card. “We haven’t talked about financial arrangements.”

“Jackie at the front desk will explain our terms.”

“Thank you again.”

Nick waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs before moving into the hallway. He stood at the railing overlooking the lobby as she paused at the reception desk to speak with Jackie Morris.

Then fetching her umbrella and raincoat, Catherine March went out into the rainy afternoon, leaving Nick feeling oddly troubled as he stared after her.

Chapter Two

Nick turned away from the railing, anxious to have a look through the newspaper clippings, but the sight of his uncle Emmett lurking in the hallway stopped him cold. He hadn’t expected to see anyone on the second floor. Since his father and uncle retired, Nick mostly had that area of the building to himself, although Emmett still retained his office and he almost always attended the weekly briefings.

He’d made a point of telling Nick not to expect him until the end of the week, but there he stood looking pleased with himself that he’d caught his nephew off guard. Emmett LaSalle was nothing if not competitive. He took great pride in one-upping the younger detectives in the agency.

“You’re awfully jumpy,” he observed.

“I tend to get that way when someone sneaks up behind me,” Nick countered. “What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t expect to see you until Friday.”

“Change of plans.” Emmett nodded toward the long row of windows in the lobby where rain still pelted the glass. “Can’t take the boat down the coast in this weather.”

“Fish bite best in the rain,” Nick said. “Or so I hear.”

“Rain is one thing, but a monsoon is something else. I may be crazy but I’m not stupid.”

Like Nick’s dad, Emmett LaSalle was a handsome man, tall and lanky with an easy grin. They were fraternal twins with physical similarities, but their personalities were like night and day. Emmett had always been a little on the slippery side whereas Raymond LaSalle was about as straight an arrow as one could hope to find. To Nick, his uncle looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of a noir detective novel. No matter the season or trend, he favored pleated slacks and fitted knit shirts topped with a weathered fedora. He claimed he’d given up gambling years ago, but Nick had his doubts. The detective agency had been a lucrative investment for the LaSalle brothers, and both Emmett and Raymond enjoyed fully funded retirements. But Nick couldn’t help questioning some of his uncle’s recent purchases, like the forty-foot fishing boat he slyly called The Shamus.

Emmett leaned both forearms against the railing and called down a greeting to Jackie, who had glanced up when she heard their voices. As always, her gaze lingered on Emmett before she turned back to her work. She’d had a thing for him for as long as Nick could remember. Everyone at the agency knew it but pretended not to. Nick sometimes wondered if they’d had a romantic relationship in their younger days. Maybe that explained why she’d stubbornly carried a torch through both of Emmett’s marriages. Maybe she was waiting for him to wake up one day and realize the love of his life had been right in front of him all along.

Emmett gave him a sidelong glance. “The woman that just left. New client?”

“She could be. I’m looking into something for her. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Quite a looker, from what I could see. Way out of your league, though.”

Nick was used to his uncle’s ribbing. He gave a careless shrug. “Then I guess it’s a good thing she’s a client and not a date.”

Emmett grinned, displaying a slight overbite that gave him a boyish air despite the silver at his temples. “My first wife was a client.”

“And look how that turned out.”

“Everything was fine until she got nosy.”

“Yes, how dare she take offense to all those clandestine trips to Vegas,” Nick said dryly.

Emmett’s expression sobered. “What did you say her name was?” He stared down at Jackie until she glanced back up at him. Something flared between them. Not attraction or even affection, but the silent communication of an old and complicated liaison.

Nick paused at the abrupt change of subject. “You mean the client? Her name is Dr. Catherine March.”

“Doctor, huh?”

“She’s a forensic anthropologist.”

Emmett repeated her name with a frown. “Has she been in before? I swear I know her from someplace.”

“Maybe you recognize her from her work with the police department. An article ran in the paper yesterday about her efforts to help the county coroner’s office identify the victims in the Delmar Gainey case.”

Something flashed across his uncle’s face, an emotion gone so quickly Nick wondered if he’d seen it all.

When Emmett didn’t respond, Nick said, “Surely you’ve heard about the Gainey case. Human remains found in an abandoned house? You’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard all the breathless reporting.”

Emmett frowned down into the lobby where Jackie had returned to her work. “Has she been able to identify any of the victims?”

“She’s working up profiles for the coroner.” Nick thought about the enigmatic glint he’d caught in her eyes and the hesitant revelation about a puzzling discrepancy. He shrugged. “But to answer your question, I gather the work is ongoing. She didn’t talk much about it.”

Emmett glanced at him. “That’s not why she came here, then. Good. I’d hate to see you get dragged into that mess. I hear heads are still rolling at police headquarters.”

“I hear the same, but why would you even think that a possibility? Why would she come to me about a police investigation?”

“It was just a thought,” Emmett said. “Wouldn’t be the first time an overzealous consultant tried to go behind a detective’s back. The last thing we need is to step on any CPD toes, especially in a high-profile case like this. If they thought you were trying to undermine an investigation, they could get your license yanked.”

“You don’t need to remind me to proceed with caution when dealing with the Charleston Police Department.” Nick didn’t have to elaborate. His uncle would get his meaning.

Emmett gave a grim nod. “All the more reason to keep your nose clean.”

“My nose has always been clean.” Nick turned to his uncle. “What’s really going on here? You don’t have reason to worry about the Delmar Gainey case, do you?”

“Why would I worry about a dead serial killer?”

Nick searched his uncle’s profile. “Gainey was active while you were still a cop. Didn’t you work some missing-person cases back then? You must have had a theory about all those disappearances. Fourteen women don’t just vanish off the street without someone noticing.”

“Happens all the time. Hookers, addicts, runaways. People live in the shadows for a reason,” Emmett said. “They don’t want to be noticed.”

“You’re saying not a single missing-person report was filed on any of the victims?”

“I’m saying if a report was filed, it would have been investigated like any other complaint.”

“What about Gainey? No red flags?”

“Lived alone and kept to himself. Familiar story, right? From what I understand, he didn’t have so much as an outstanding parking ticket. No one deliberately looked the other way, if that’s what you’re implying, but I’ll be the first to admit, most of our resources were allocated elsewhere at that time.”

“You mean to the Twilight Killer case,” Nick said.

“Orson Lee Finch’s victims were all young women from well-to-do families. They didn’t just disappear from the street. He put their bodies on display. That generated a lot of attention. A lot of heat from the powers-that-be.”

“I’ve heard Dad talk about that case. He was on the task force.”

“Yeah, before the feds took over. Then Raymond and I left the department to open this agency. But you already know that story and, anyway, this is all ancient history. Personally, I’m a little sick of hearing about those old cases. I look forward to the time when Delmar Gainey and Orson Lee Finch fade back into the dustbin of history where they belong.”

“I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon. Serial killers fascinate people. The fact that two were active in the city at the same time adds a new level of enthrallment.”

“People are nuts,” Emmett muttered.

“No argument there.”

“So, this March woman.”

Another abrupt transition. Nick gave his uncle a wary glance. “What about her?” He felt uneasy but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because his uncle was acting strangely. Showing too much interest in Catherine March while dismissive of the two old cases that had taken the city by storm. If Nick didn’t know better, he would almost believe something had struck a little too close to home for his uncle.

He cast another glance down into the lobby where Jackie pretended to type away on her keyboard. She didn’t look up again, but Nick had no doubt she was listening to their every word. She was good at her job, efficient and loyal to a fault, but at times, she seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere.

“Let’s go into my office,” he said.

Emmett followed him down the hallway, but instead of taking the seat across from Nick’s desk, he walked over to the window to stare down at the street. He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the frame, seemingly absorbed in the patter of rain against the glass.

“You wanted to know about Catherine March,” Nick prompted.

Emmett turned. “I like to keep apprised of all our open investigations. Just because Raymond has distanced himself from the business doesn’t mean I will. I still have a vested interest in the reputation and financial well-being of this agency.”

“I know you do. That’s why we have our weekly briefings. But since you asked, she came to see me about her adoption. Her mother died last week and she has reason to believe her birth father is Orson Lee Finch.”

Emmett visibly started. “What?”

Nick nodded. “I had the same reaction.”

His uncle just stared at him for a moment. “That’s why she was here? Damn, Nick. What exactly is she asking you to do?”

“She insists she wants to know the truth about her birth, so my recommendation is that we contact the attorney that handled Finch’s last appeal and try to set up a meeting. If Finch will see us, I’ll press for a DNA test since I no longer have access to any databases.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking a man who murdered all those women and is now serving consecutive life sentences for a sample of his DNA? Good luck with that, bud.”

“It’s a long shot,” Nick agreed. “But what’s he got to lose?”

“Are you going to tell him why you want the test?”

“I’ll tell him as much as I have to. Catherine doesn’t want to see him, though. She doesn’t want him to know who she is.”

“Smart woman. And if he insists?”

“I’ll walk away. No deals. Protecting the client’s privacy and safety is paramount.”

Emmett gave him a reproving look. “I think you’re being dangerously naïve. Psychopaths are by nature cunning, and as you just said, Finch has nothing to lose. He’ll do whatever he has to in order to gain the advantage. If he does agree to see you, then you can bet he’ll already have worked out an angle. You won’t even see it coming until it’s too late.”

“I’ll be careful. I’m not exactly a novice at this, you know.”

Emmett turned back to the window. He looked glum as he watched the rain. “If Finch says no to a DNA test, what then?”

“Where we go from there will be up to Catherine. We’ll see how far she wants to push this thing. Money could be a factor. If it was a closed adoption, then it’ll take a lot of digging. A lot of billable hours.”

Emmett hardly seemed to hear him. “What if Finch does turn out to be her biological father? Have you or she given any thought to the consequences? You won’t be able to keep something like that quiet. It’ll get out. It always does. A bombshell like that could be a life changer.”

Nick fiddled with a pen on his desk. He wished he didn’t have such a bad feeling about all this. It wasn’t too late to walk away, but he knew that he wouldn’t. He was hooked already and he told himself Catherine March’s deep brown eyes had nothing whatever to do with his interest.

“I don’t know how well she’s thought this through,” he said. “To be honest, I’m not sure there’s anything to investigate. She found some newspaper clippings hidden in her mother’s closet, along with an old business card from this agency. That and her mother’s mysterious last words are about all we have to go on.”

“Sounds to me like she’s holding out on you. She has to have more evidence or another angle. People save newspaper clippings for any number of reasons, and as to the business card, we used to hand those things out like candy. It’s an understatement to say you don’t have much to go on.”

“The card is significant because Dad’s home number is scribbled on the back,” Nick said. “That’s why she came here. She thinks her mother may once have been a client. Her name was Laura March. Does that ring a bell?”

“Not for me, but you can ask Raymond. Or, better yet, check with Jackie. She never forgets a name or a face.”

Nick nodded. “I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll take a look through the archives, too. Anyway, that’s it. That’s the extent of our conversation. Do you want to hear about our other cases or should we wait until Friday?”

“Save it. I just remembered an errand I need to run.” Emmett moved toward the door. “Don’t forget your grandmother’s birthday party later in the week.”

“I won’t forget.”

“Buy her something nice. You can afford it now that we made you partner.”

“Already taken care of.”

“Nick?” Emmett paused on the threshold and glanced back. “I meant what I said earlier. You need to watch yourself with Finch. With Catherine March, too. Her story doesn’t sit well with me. Might be best to take a pass on this one.”

“Since when do we take a pass on interesting investigations? You and Dad built this agency by taking cases no one else would touch.”

“This one is different,” Emmett said with a frown. “Call it a premonition or a gut feeling, but I think that woman is going to be trouble.”

Nick had had the same presentiment, but he shrugged. “I can look after myself.”

“Yeah. That’s what we all say until we’re in too deep and there’s no turning back.”

“Voice of experience?”

Emmett shrugged. “Voice of wisdom. Take it with a grain of salt.”

As he had earlier, Nick waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs and then he got up and went into the hallway. Instead of moving up to the railing, though, he lingered in the shadows at the top of the stairs as Jackie’s voice rose.

“You said that was all taken care of—”

Emmett’s gaze flicked to the second floor. “So I forgot to order the cake. It’s not the end of the world. Your sister is a baker, right? I know you don’t make all those Christmas cookies yourself. Give her a call. Convince her to help us out.”

Jackie followed his gaze up the stairs as Nick pressed himself deeper into the shadows. Then she said a little too loudly, “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Not the first time I’ve had to pull your bacon out of the fire.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I always do.”

They spoke for a few more minutes, and then Emmett left by way of the rear exit and Jackie returned to her work. She didn’t glance Nick’s way again, but she knew he was up there. He could tell by the rigid way she held her shoulders and by the overenthusiastic pounding of her fingers on the keyboard.

Whatever Emmett had said to her obviously upset her and Nick was certain it had nothing to do with his grandmother’s birthday cake.

* * *

CATHERINE HAD A hard time falling asleep that night. She lay in the dark listening to the rumble of thunder as she went over the day’s events in her head. She couldn’t blame Nick LaSalle for questioning her frame of mind. The evidence she’d presented of her parentage was sketchy at best, but she could think of no other reason why her mother would have kept those clippings all these years. People often saved newspaper articles about events that were historical or even interesting, but why hide them in a secret compartment if she hadn’t at least suspected the truth?

Rolling to her side, Catherine fixated on the flicker of distant lightning out her window. The wind was picking up and she could hear the patter of rain on the roof. Her landlady was away visiting family and Catherine suddenly felt very alone and isolated, set back from the street as she was. Her apartment was on the second floor, nestled in a thick canopy of oak leaves. Most of the time, she enjoyed the illusion of living in the trees and the peace and quiet of being located off an alleyway rather than a busy street, but tonight the solitude seemed oppressive, the shadowy yard and side street menacing. Who knew what danger prowled the dark?

She shifted to her other side, deliberately turning her back on the window, and fluffed her pillow. Insomnia had been a problem since childhood. Night terrors, too. Catherine had never understood her fear of the dark, but now she had to wonder if long-buried memories lurked somewhere in her subconscious. If she truly was Orson Lee Finch’s daughter, what horrors might she have witnessed as a child?

The notion haunted her, so much so that when she finally drifted off, her sleep was filled with terrible visions of Finch’s deeds. She dreamed of his victims’ screams and of crimson magnolia petals raining down upon her. She awakened in a cold sweat, clinging to the covers as her gaze darted about her bedroom. Once her heart settled, she got up for a glass of water and then stood at her bedroom window peering out into the rainy night. Another image came to her—that of the man who had watched her from a recessed doorway. He had walked off when she called out to him, but Catherine couldn’t suppress the worry that he had been following her, that he might even now be out there with his eyes trained on her bedroom window.

The dark and her nerves played tricks on her vision. She saw him everywhere—inside the back gate, hiding behind the azaleas, perched on her landlady’s back steps. The intermittent lighting revealed the truth. The shadows dissolved into nothingness. No one was out there. She was perfectly safe ensconced as she was behind locked doors and a latched gate.

She went into the bathroom and took a melatonin tablet, determined to salvage what was left of the night. Then, shivering, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Turning her mind away from Orson Lee Finch and his victims, she let her thoughts drift back to her meeting with Nick LaSalle.

She remembered him well from their previous encounter. Skeletal remains had been discovered in a wooded park after a heavy rain and Nick had been the detective assigned to the investigation. He’d come to Catherine for help in establishing a biological profile of the victim. Their consultation had been brief, but he’d made an impression. Tall and lean with dark hair and gray eyes the color of a rain cloud.

He’d struck her as professional and methodical with flashes of intuition that had surprised her. She’d been unexpectedly drawn to him and had been disappointed when he hadn’t made further contact. Perhaps the attraction had been one-sided. Or perhaps other things had occupied his time. She vaguely recalled something unpleasant about his departure from the police department. She searched her mind for the details, but drowsiness clouded her memory and anyway, she’d never put much stock in rumors.

She drifted in and out of sleep, aware of her surroundings on some level even as she started to dream. She was in her bedroom, safely tucked beneath the covers. If she opened her eyes, she knew that she would see all her familiar possessions. The refinished dresser that had belonged to her mother, the vase of blue hydrangeas on her nightstand that she’d picked from her landlady’s garden.

And yet the room that flitted at the edge of her consciousness was very different. Tiny and dim with pictures cut from a storybook taped to a drab wall. She could hear a man’s voice, distant and angry, and a woman softly pleading. The sound frightened Catherine. She tried to rouse herself, but sleep tugged her deeper. The tinkle of a music box muted the voices and lulled her senses. She floated on those melancholy notes until her eyes fluttered open and she waited for the music to stop.

Fully awake, she bolted upright in bed. She could still hear a distant tinkle. She tried to convince herself that her landlady had returned. The older woman suffered hearing loss so perhaps she’d turned up the volume on her TV or radio. But the house was too far away and noise had never been a factor in the two years Catherine had lived in the apartment.

She clutched the covers to her chest, paralyzed with fear, though she couldn’t say why exactly. The sound of a music box was hardly threatening, and yet dread clawed at her spine as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Barefoot and trembling, she crossed the bedroom and peered down the narrow hallway toward the living area. Nothing moved. She reached for the light switch but checked herself. She knew her way around the apartment with her eyes closed. If someone had broken in, the dark would give her an advantage.

Retreating back into the bedroom, she grabbed a baseball bat from the closet and then returned to the hallway, easing her way to the front of the apartment where she stood in the dark as the haunting melody washed over her.

The music box wasn’t in her apartment, she realized. The notes drifted through her front door. Inching her way along the wall, she peeled back the curtain to peer out into the wet night. A set of wooden stairs led from the garden up to a tiny covered porch dimly lit by sconces on either side of her front door. An old-fashioned swing hung from a tree limb at the bottom of the steps. The chains squeaked ominously in the breeze, and for a moment, Catherine imagined someone sitting there staring up at her.

No one was there. But someone had just been there. The music box was only now winding down.

Gripping the handle of the bat, Catherine unlocked the dead bolt and pulled back the door.

She didn’t see anything at first, but then her gaze dropped. The music box had been shoved up against the wall, protected from the rain by the porch roof. As the notes faded, the tiny ballerina froze in a suspended pirouette.

Catherine knelt to examine the box even as her gaze scanned the night. Someone had been on her porch moments earlier. They’d wound the spring and left the music box for her to find. But why?

Rising, she walked to the edge of the steps and stared down into the soggy garden.

“I know you’re out there,” she whispered. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The breeze blew through her hair and the rain dampened her nightgown. It almost seemed to Catherine that she could feel the cool caress of her mother’s hand against her cheek. But Laura March hadn’t left the music box on Catherine’s porch nor had she followed her to LaSalle Investigations that afternoon.

Someone very much alive knew who she was. And they were trying to make contact.

Chapter Three

The oak trees were still dripping the next morning as Nick let himself in the gate and made his way along the flagstone pathway to Catherine’s apartment. The rain had slackened sometime before dawn but the weather forecast called for more thunderstorms in the afternoon.

The gloom wore on Nick’s mood, but the unexpected phone call from Catherine had given him a lift. He hadn’t planned on contacting her until he heard back from Finch’s attorney. If that source didn’t pan out, he’d have to figure another way to get a visitor’s permit for the Twilight Killer. He could always find a work-around, but first things first.

Pausing at the bottom of the outdoor staircase, he scoped out his surroundings. The garden was lush and redolent with the scent of flowers stirred by the heavy rains. The main house was historic, with gleaming columns and wide verandas, but the garage apartment was rustic and weathered. As his gaze moved over the facade, he saw a curtain flutter at a front window.

Catherine was up there watching him. He felt a prickle of awareness at the base of his spine, one that seemed equal parts attraction and trepidation. She hadn’t elaborated on her need to see him, but there’d been a hushed quality to her voice and an underlying excitement in her tone that heightened his curiosity even as it deepened his unease.

He tried to shake off the foreboding as he climbed the steps. The door opened before he had a chance to knock and their gazes collided. Her hair was pinned up loosely and worry lines creased her brow. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much the night before, but despite the shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes, she was far too appealing in her faded jeans and sneakers.

In that drawn-out moment of awkward silence, she gave him a return scrutiny before she motioned him inside. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I could have met you at your office. You didn’t have to make a special trip over here.”

He shrugged as he entered her apartment, trying not to stare but curious about her living arrangements. The place was small, but the layout was efficient and the furniture had been arranged to accommodate an easy flow from one area to the next. Watercolors accented the white walls and area rugs warmed the tile floor. It was nice. Homey with a touch of eccentricity.

He turned. “It’s no trouble. I pass right by here on my way to the office.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. Still, I don’t want to take up too much of your time so we should probably get right to it.” She walked into the small kitchen. “I made coffee. How do you take yours?”

“Black is fine.”

She carried a tray into the living room and placed it on the coffee table. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she filled the cups while Nick took a chair across from her. He accepted the steaming brew gratefully. He’d gotten up early and he had a long day ahead of him. A jolt of caffeine was just what he needed.

“I suppose I should start at the beginning.” Catherine lifted her cup and then set it back down without tasting the coffee. She adjusted her position and cleared her throat. “I neglected to tell you something yesterday. I didn’t think it important, but in light of what happened last night...”

He leaned forward. “What did happen last night?”

“I’ll get to that. Let me come clean first.”

“By all means.”

She absently rubbed the tops of her thighs. What was she trying to scrub away? Nick wondered.

“I think I’m being followed,” she said.

“What makes you think that?” Reluctantly, he set his cup aside. The coffee was excellent. Strong and aromatic with a hint of chicory.

“On my way to your office yesterday, I had the strangest feeling of being watched. When I stopped for a light, I saw a man lounging in a doorway behind me. He was just standing there smoking, seemingly minding his own business, but he looked familiar somehow even though I couldn’t place him.” She paused with a frown as if trying to conjure a previous meeting. Then she shrugged. “I called out to him. I even asked if he was following me, but he just turned and walked away.”

“It’s rarely a good idea to confront a stranger, even if you think he’s following you. Especially if you think he’s following you.”

“I know. I’m not usually impulsive, believe me, and I hate confrontations, but something came over me. Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of things that are out of character for me.”

“Such as?”

“Hiring a private detective, for one thing.” She clasped her hands in her lap as if she could somehow restrain her impulses. “I’ve read that grief can make a person behave oddly. That’s why it’s ill-advised to make important decisions for at least a year after the death of someone close.” She sat quietly for a moment. “Before my mother passed away, I would never have dreamed in a million years that I would require your services.”

“You never considered searching for your birth parents before?”

“I had always been told that my biological father was dead. As to the woman who gave birth to me...yes, of course, I considered finding her, but I never pursued it seriously. It would have felt like a betrayal of the woman who raised me. Not that she would have seen it that way. She would have encouraged me had she known. I think I’ve been afraid to find my birth mother.”

“Because you think she’ll reject you?”

“No, it isn’t that. There are things about myself that I’ve never understood. Certain anxieties. I’ve always had a fear of the dark and I don’t know where that comes from. I was raised in a safe and loving environment. It makes no sense and yet...” She trailed off. “I don’t sleep well because of that fear. Ever since I was little, I’ve had sporadic bouts of insomnia and night terrors.”

“What are the night terrors about?”

“Nothing concrete. Vague images. A feeling of being lost and not being able to find my way home. A feeling of being pursued through the dark.” She paused. “Typical childhood fears that I never outgrew.”

“You think these night terrors are caused by something that happened before you were adopted?”

“I don’t know. But maybe it’s time I find out.”

“Have you ever talked to a professional? Sorry,” Nick muttered. “Maybe that’s getting too personal.”

“Not at all. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother took me to see a therapist when I was young. After a few visits, he suggested the night terrors were a manifestation of deeper abandonment issues. Maybe he was right. It makes sense, I guess. But ever since I found those clippings in my mother’s closet, I haven’t been able to shake the notion that I’ve suppressed memories from my early childhood.”

“You said you were adopted at the age of two. Few people have memories that go back that far,” Nick said.

“Few people remember back that far. Who’s to say the memories aren’t still stored somewhere in the subconscious? We know so little about memory and how it works. What if I saw something as a very small child? Something so terrible that I can only let those memories come out when I dream?”

“You think this is all tied to Orson Lee Finch?”

“That’s my worry.” She rose and went over to the window to glance out. “I know I shouldn’t dump this on you. You’re not my therapist.”

“I’m here to help,” he said. “In whatever form that takes.”

She turned with a brief smile. On the surface, her gaze seemed guileless, even grateful, but her eyes looked troubled and Nick couldn’t help wondering again what lay hidden in those endless depths.

Was she the offspring of Orson Lee Finch? He let his mind wander to that dark place and tried to imagine what the ultimate child of Twilight might have locked away in her subconscious.

She came back over to the sofa and sat down. “I’m sorry for going so far down the rabbit hole, but you’re a very good listener. Patient. Nonjudgmental. I can talk to you more candidly than I ever could to my therapist.”

Nick tried to shake off the disturbing images that had formed in his head. “There’s a shrink in every good detective. You listen, you learn.” He observed her for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this yesterday? Particularly your worry about being followed?”

“Because I already sounded delusional and I didn’t want you to also think me paranoid. And now I’ve managed to sound completely unhinged. I can only imagine what you must be thinking.”

“I’m thinking you’ve been through a life-changing event,” he said. “You’ve suffered a devastating loss and you’re still reeling. A week isn’t a very long time. Cut yourself some slack.”

“I’m trying. It’s just all so confusing. So many things have happened since my mother died. Maybe I am still reeling.”

“Then slow down. Take a breath. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.” He picked up his cup.

She did the same, sipping slowly with eyes closed as if to savor the aroma while she collected her thoughts. “After I left your office yesterday, I felt better about things. Taking action gave me purpose. Something concrete to focus on. I even managed to convince myself that the man I’d seen in the doorway was nothing more than a stranger. He hadn’t been following me at all. I’d let my imagination get away from me. But last night after I went to bed, I kept picturing him out there in the dark watching my apartment. The feeling was so strong that I even got up to look for him.

“I finally managed to doze off, but I wasn’t completely asleep. I drifted in that gauzy, half-aware state where real-world sounds and scents are incorporated into a dream. Like falling asleep with the TV on. I saw myself in a strange room, tiny and dim with storybook pictures taped to the wall. I could hear voices and they frightened me. Then a music box started playing and when I awakened, I could still hear the melody. At first, I thought it was just a figment of my imagination or a lingering fragment of the dream. But the music was real.”

Nick found himself enthralled by her story and once again mesmerized by the darkness of her eyes. Her skin was smooth and tanned, and when she turned her head, light glistened in her hair. For one split second, she seemed so ethereal she might have been a figment of his imagination. He could smell vanilla again and something more exotic like sandalwood or myrrh. The fragrances mingled into an intriguing dichotomy that disquieted Nick even as it aroused him.

He glanced around, taking in the candles on the kitchen bar and a small incense burner on one of the end tables. At the farthest end of the coffee table, she’d placed a small jewelry box, the kind that might adorn a little girl’s dresser. The keepsake looked old. The hinges were tarnished and some of the decorative paper had peeled away from the cardboard.

His gaze went back to Catherine. She reached over and picked up the small box, running her finger along the top before opening the lid to display a tiny plastic ballerina. “While I lay sleeping in my bedroom, someone left this outside my front door. They wound the key and then shoved the music box up against the wall so that it would stay dry until I found it.”

“You didn’t see anyone? You didn’t hear anything besides the music box? No footsteps, no car door...?”

“Nothing. But I didn’t venture past the top of the stairs.” Her voice lowered. “It was very dark out last night.”

He wondered if she realized just how much she had revealed to him in that moment. “That was smart. Did you consider calling the police?”

“The thought crossed my mind, but what could I say? What could they do? No law was broken except trespassing, I suppose. I wasn’t threatened. By the time the police got here, whoever left the music box would have been long gone.”

“We can try lifting prints,” Nick suggested.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been careful with it,” she said with regret. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“That’s okay. We can eliminate yours. I still have a friend or two at CPD. If we’re able to get a viable print, we can run it through the databases. I’m assuming you believe the music box is also connected to Finch and to those newspaper clippings.”

She gave a helpless shrug. “How could it not be?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Did you talk to anyone else about those clippings?”

“My aunt. I wanted to know if she had any idea why my mother had saved them.”

“Did she?”

“She said Mother had always been fascinated by true-crime stories, but I’m not sure I believe that. She never even watched the news when she could avoid it.”

“Do you think your aunt deliberately tried to mislead you?”

“I think she was trying to protect me. I don’t know how much she knows about my adoption, but if Mother suspected that Orson Lee Finch was my father, it stands to reason she would have confided in my aunt. Louise is an attorney. Mother may have even gone to her for advice.”

“Is there anyone else your mother would have talked to?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t have many close friends.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone else? Even a casual mention?”

“Only you.”

He held out his hand. “May I?”

She reluctantly gave up the music box. Nick was careful to handle only the corners as he turned the box over to examine the bottom. Then he placed it on the coffee table and opened the lid with his finger. The ballerina turned jerkily then stopped. “It looks old,” he said.

“Yes, though not an antique. It’s cheaply made. Just cardboard and paper.” Catherine paused. “Someone must have loved it, though. A child may even have cherished it.”

Nick glanced up. “You’ve never seen it before?”

“Not that I remember. I’ve never been particularly drawn to music boxes until I heard the sound of one in my sleep last night.”

“Did you recognize the song?”

“‘Clair de Lune,’ I think.”

“Does that tune mean anything to you?”

“No, but someone left this on my doorstep for a reason. Someone is trying to tell me something. But why now? Why after all these years would my birth mother try to make contact?”

“Assuming it was her, maybe she heard about your mother passing away.”

“That would mean she’s kept tabs on me all these years. The notion that she’s watched me from afar since I was two years old is disconcerting to say the least. But it makes sense in a way. I’ve always had these odd moments in my life. Something comes over me. A chill that I can’t explain. A sensation of being watched.” She shivered. “There I go, sounding unhinged again.”

“Not at all,” Nick said, but the hair at his nape had unaccountably lifted as she spoke. He didn’t know what to make of this new turn of events. A trip to the prison to request a DNA sample from Orson Lee Finch had suddenly morphed into something darker and much more complex. He thought about his uncle’s warning not to get involved and Nick’s answering assurance that he could handle himself. That’s what we all say until we’re in too deep and there’s no turning back.

Was he already in too deep? He was attracted to Catherine March, no question, but he had always prided himself on his level-headedness. On his ability to steer clear of dangerous distractions. He didn’t know if he could do that with Catherine. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

Beyond her physical allure, she had presented him with an intriguing case, the kind he hadn’t come across since he’d left the police department. He hadn’t realized until that moment how restless he was, how hungry he’d become, in more ways than just one.

“Do you mind if I take the music box back to the office? I don’t have a print kit with me.”

“No, I...no.” She stood abruptly. “I’ll get something to put it in, although I suppose we’ve handled it too much already.”

She brought him a bag from the kitchen and he carefully placed the music box inside. “I’ll take good care of it.” He stood and she walked him to the door.

“Thank you again for coming.”

“Anytime. I mean that, Catherine. If you see anything out of the ordinary or if you just feel uneasy, I’m only a phone call away.”

She followed him out to the porch and stood at the top of the steps as he descended. When he got to the bottom, he turned with a wave, but she was no longer watching him. Her attention was fixed on something in the garden, and he turned with a frown, almost expecting to find the stranger from the doorway lurking beneath one of the dripping trees.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, but a chill swept across his nerve endings as his gaze returned to Catherine March.

* * *

THE WEATHER WAS still clear by the time Catherine set out for work and she decided to take a chance that the promised thunderstorms would hold off until she returned home that evening. She didn’t much like to drive and the walk from her apartment to the university was so beautiful. Many of the homes in her adopted neighborhood were historic with walled gardens and secret courtyards that could be glimpsed through wrought-iron gates. The scent of jasmine clung to the humid air, tugging loose memories from her childhood. She missed her mother. Missed her soothing voice and gentle hand, her quiet smile and the too-rare glint of mischief in her blue eyes. Everything will be okay, Cath. You’ll see. Just keep breathing. One day at a time.

What if another mother was still out there somewhere? Watching from afar? Trying to assuage Catherine’s loneliness in the only way she knew how?

Catherine wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wasn’t ready to move on. She wasn’t ready to let Laura March slip away from her. She needed to clutch those memories tight.

Maybe it had been a mistake to hire a private investigator. She had no doubt Nick LaSalle would be good at his job. Maybe too good. Did she really want to know about her past? Was she ready to make peace with her DNA?

“Miss, you okay?”

She started out of her reverie. A man had approached her on the street. She’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t even noticed him. Now her hackles rose as she nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You look a little lost,” he said. “Need directions?”

She mustered a smile even as she backed away. “Kind of you to ask, but I know where I’m going.”

She just had no idea where she’d come from.

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