Jamie hung her keys on the hook by her phone and, with a smile, dropped her purse on the counter. Summer rocked. It was nearly nine in the evening and it was still light out and toasty warm. As much as she liked seeing the kiddos crowding the halls at her elementary school, she especially liked the quiet and the half-days of work during the summer. The warm afternoons and evenings were hers. No meetings with parents, no lectures on not hitting other students, no complaining teachers. She placed her hands on the small of her back and stretched, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut grass from the fields across the street. Her favorite smell of summer. Right after barbequed steak.
Her mouth watered. Opening the fridge, she took out a Diet Coke and frowned at the sparse offerings on her shelves. Yogurt, cheese, and milk. Dairy group accounted for. Not much else. She snagged a lemon yogurt and kicked her flip-flops onto the mat by the door to the garage. Living alone was great, but sometimes she wished she had a reason to cook a big meal. Meat and pasta and crusty bread. Lots of it. Once a month she met with girlfriends for dinner and wine to catch up on each other’s lives. The rest of the month she lived on protein bars, dry cereal, and fruit.
And yogurt, lots of yogurt.
She eyed the yellow, creamy substance. She needed a change. Work, eat, exercise, clean house, mow lawn. A solid and comforting schedule but rather boring. She glanced at the calendar. Next week she was off. She’d planned to paint two of her bedrooms, but maybe she should get out of town. Do something different, unplanned. Like…go to the beach and just read. Heather had been pestering her to visit her in Bend. Jamie could drive over the Cascades and sunbathe with Heather in the dry, baking heat of Central Oregon.
She rinsed out the empty yogurt container and placed it in the recycling. Her spoon went directly into the dishwasher. Who was she kidding? The numbers on the calendar taunted her. She would be painting next week. It needed to be done.
The doorbell jangled. Jamie strolled to the door and looked through the peephole. Male. Big. Don’t know him. Her stomach stopped digesting her yogurt.
“May I help you?” She spoke through the door.
His left eyebrow rose, and he gave a half smile. Instantly charming. And hunky. Jamie felt a different sensation in her stomach.
“Michael Brody. I’m with the Oregonian.” A laminated ID suddenly blocked her view.
Jamie wasn’t impressed. Anyone could make an official-looking ID, and this guy looked anything but official in his cargo shorts and snug T-shirt. But the name on the ID was familiar…
“What do you want?” She wasn’t about to open the door.
“I’m looking for your brother Chris.” He lowered the ID and looked directly at the peephole.
Jamie froze. Not again. Every few years, reporters and cold case cops came out of the woodwork to harass her brother. Temper swirled in her chest.
“He doesn’t live here.”
The man’s eyebrow rose further. “I know. Where can I find him?”
Jamie choked out a laugh. Did he think she was stupid?
His mouth twitched at her laugh. “Are you Jamie Jacobs?”
Did he just bat his eyelashes? She swallowed another laugh. “No.”
“Do I need to call the police because you’re in her house?”
Jamie snorted.
The reporter’s face turned serious. “They found the bus,” he stated quietly.
Jamie pulled back from the door, heart in her throat. Oh shit. “What about the kids?” she whispered.
He heard her. “I’ll tell you if you open the door. Do you know who I am now?”
His name echoed through her brain and hit its target. Brody. One of the other kids. She pressed her eye against the hole again. Michael Brody’s face had lost all expression, and she instantly saw the resemblance to Oregon’s Senator Brody.
This was the brother to the senator’s missing son.
Jamie forced her lungs to pump air. She’d never really met Michael Brody. He’d been much older than her at the academy. She mainly knew his name as a byline in the newspaper. Her parents had pulled her out of school and then isolated her and Chris from all media coverage after her brother had returned.
With shaking fingers, she worked the two deadbolts and opened the door.