“Why didn’t they?”
“Claire died.” Josie shrugged against the wash of sadness from what could’ve been. “Embolism. One day she was there, the next day she wasn’t.” Arthur had started drinking, nearly losing his accounting business. Social services took her away again, and probably would have even if Arthur hadn’t spiraled into depression. They couldn’t let her stay with a grieving single man.
Her first chance for a normal life had been snatched away so quickly. Her second, with Shane, had disappeared as well. Maybe some people were meant to live alone. Man, that was a depressing thought.
Shane released the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.” He opened his door. “What did Claire do?”
“She was a homemaker. Arthur was an accountant. He loved numbers.” Josie squinted to see out the window. Enough with the sad memories. Life moved on. “What now?”
Shane jumped out of the vehicle. “Stay here.”
No freaking way. She could either run back to the cops, or follow Shane into the bungalow. If somebody had been bugging her house, she wanted to see who and how. She leapt from the car, swaying until she regained her balance. Quick steps had her on Shane’s heels.
“I told you to stay in the car,” he muttered, his gaze swinging to both sides of the road.
“I’m scared.” She really should feel bad about manipulating him. “I don’t want to stay alone in the car.” Plus, anyone who had ever seen a slasher movie knew the person waiting in the car always ended up dead. She went for the jugular. “Please let me stay with you.”
He faltered and then sighed. “Okay. But stay behind me.” He took her hand, hurrying around the bungalow to open the fence toward the back. The rear yard had turned brown, weeds sprouting up. The smell of decaying brush scented the air. He peered into the kitchen window. “Empty.”
Glancing around, Shane grabbed a medium-sized rock and smashed the sliding glass door near the handle. Josie cringed. A dog barked in the distance. But nobody moved.
Shane reached inside and unlocked the lever, sliding the door open and stepping inside. He looked around and motioned for her to join him. She gingerly stepped over broken glass, her heart thundering in her ears. What was she doing? This was so illegal.
The kitchen area was empty, not even a table. Quick movements sent them hustling through the unfurnished dining room. Their footsteps echoed through the dusty space until they reached the living room.
Josie’s legs froze in place.
Her eyes stared back at her from a picture on the wall. The moment captured her smiling brightly into the sun, a daiquiri in her hand. She glanced at the next picture, taken of her at a baseball game. Several more pictures of her adorned the walls. Pictures of her coming home after work. Of going to the gym. Of gardening outside her home. Months’ worth. All tacked up next to a sprawl of surveillance equipment.
Shane growled, hurrying toward the equipment. “What the hell?”
Josie frowned. Her wedding picture caught her eye. The official one in the stunning silver frame. The one she’d left for him at his base when she’d moved to Washington. Just in case he wanted the memories. It sat on the end table. She looked closer at some of the pictures. Her hair was shorter. Lighter. Some of the pictures were from California. From before she’d met Shane. From three, maybe four years ago.
She stumbled back a step.
An empty Guinness bottle sat on the counter.
Guinness.
The picture.
With a soft cry, she ran for the bedroom. The scent of heated cedar filled her nostrils. The bed with its navy comforter made, the corners tucked. Shaky steps brought her to the small dresser in the corner. She pulled out the first drawer. Socks. Perfectly folded, in order of color. Just the way Shane organized them. His sole concession to being a soldier, to allowing himself one quirk.
She grabbed a discarded shirt off the floor and brought the material to her nose. Shane’s masculine scent filled her nostrils. Her fingers fisted in the material as she slowly turned around.
He overpowered the doorway. She took a step back, straightening her shoulders. There’d be no crying.
He frowned, glancing at the shirt. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She threw the shirt down, hiding the faded Marine Corps logo. Panic threatened to stop her breathing. What should she do? He’d lied to her—he’d stalked her. Even before they met, he’d watched her. Betrayal coated her throat until she wanted to choke. She’d trusted him. Anger wanted to roar, but self-preservation won. She couldn’t beat him, and she had one chance to get free. So she forced herself to shrug and walk toward him. “I just don’t like breaking and entering.” Her voice trembled. “Can we leave now?”
She brushed past him toward the door.