Otters. Dead, trapped otters. Ivy swallowed at the idea of the trap’s vengeance on the little animals. “Goodbye then.” She waved at the older man. He returned the wave and set off in the opposite direction. Thankful he wasn’t going her way, Ivy regretted not returning with Maggie, especially now that she’d uncovered nothing at the orphanage.
Hurrying forward, Ivy followed the footprints in the patchy snow she had left on her walk there. They overlaid some carriage tracks and one of an automobile, until she joined with Maggie’s footprints coming toward the orphanage and then returning to town.
Ivy increased her speed. An unnerving sensation of being watched had raised bumps on her arms. Had Mr. Foggerty opted to follow her instead? He and his sack of dead animals?
A raindrop hit her cheek, and she swiped it away with her hand. The clouds were dark and churning. A spring storm with its icy drops and thunder was exactly the ambience she didn’t need on her lonesome return to town. Ivy rushed down the aisle of trees, their scraggly arms reaching for her. Her toe caught on a stone in the road and she stumbled, righting herself as her left foot planted alongside her footprint from earlier.
Ivy froze.
Beside it was the impression of a larger set of footprints. Most assuredly not hers or Maggie’s. They were booted and deep. The weight of a man that overlapped her original steps.
A frigid gust of wind surged through the woods and plastered loose tendrils of hair to Ivy’s cheek. Shivering, she fastened the top button on her coat. She searched the woods for a face, a form, a pair of eyes, anything.
“Mr. Foggerty?” Her voice quivered as she called. Perhaps he’d followed her and Maggie, innocently checking traps. But traps were set in the woods, not on the road.
Movement by the trunk of a maple tree made Ivy squint. Rain began to fall in earnest, the drops like tiny knives assaulting her face. The figure of a man came into view, and her eyes widened. He stepped from behind the tree, his features hidden by the downpour and shadows.
“Mr. Foggerty?” she called again, unable to make out details in the heavy rainfall. Thunder rumbled and rolled its warning through the thick clouds.
“None to hear you. None to care.” The figure’s voice mocked her, mingling with the pounding of rain against the canopy of trees. She didn’t recognize the voice but could distinguish its tone as thunder swallowed the words.
Terror catapulted Ivy into a sprint. Her feet slipped in the mud as she ran. He was right, whoever he was—there was none around to hear or see. She was alone. Foolishly alone.
Chapter 15
Kaine
She’d been selfish to pester Grant Jesse at one in the morning. But it was too late now, so Kaine took a deep breath, and the truth fell from her mouth, escaping like it didn’t want to be held captive a moment longer. Grant let her spill without interruption, but his face tightened as she told him an abbreviated version of what brought her from San Diego, of her stalker, and now the refocus on Danny’s death.
“Man, Kaine. Come here.” Grant didn’t address the word vomit she’d just expelled. He reached for her hand and led her back to the house. His grip was comforting and confident. Right now, Kaine needed someone who could inspire her own sense of self-confidence that warred against the feeling of being hunted. She and Olive followed him up the porch steps. As the red farmhouse door pushed open beneath his hand, the sandy-colored pit bull lunged toward her. Kaine squealed, but Grant put out his free arm.
“Down, Sophie.” He gave Kaine a crooked smile. “She’s friendly, just super exuberant.”
Kaine scratched the dog’s head, and Sophie licked her hand. Olive hurried in after her, the dogs sniffing noses again.
Grant closed the door and locked it. The sound of the dead bolt sliding into place eased the last of Kaine’s panic.
“In here.” Grant showed her into the living room. An oversized black leather sofa tempted Kaine’s overtired body. A love seat angled to the right of it and formed a half square in the middle of the room, with a massive stone fireplace in the corner. There were coals in the firebox, and Kaine wondered if it would be rude to pull the couch right up to it and stick her feet on the hearth.
The lights were dim and emanated from iron floor lamps with shades in two different hues of burnt orange. The plaster walls were painted in a subtle khaki, and a large rug in the center of the floor was vibrant with more oranges and reds, browns and blacks. Kaine was ready to peel off her shoes and dig her toes into the rug. Everything about this space contradicted the dark, gray hollowness of Foster Hill House.
Kaine sunk into the welcoming couch cushion, and Olive settled over her feet, her body warmth a special kind of comfort. Grant grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and handed it to her. Sophie eyed them from across the room, then dropped to the floor by the fireplace.
“Coffee?” Grant’s complete lack of response to her unannounced visit and shocking pronouncement was soothing. It must be his career that enabled him to hide any reactions to emotionally charged situations.
Kaine nodded, then shook her head. No. She really shouldn’t. “No, no. That’s okay. I really need to go and let you get some sleep now that I’ve dumped my drama all over your home.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Grant’s smile was gentle but protective. The kind that told her she’d be safe with him even in a zombie apocalypse. He pushed his blond hair back from his forehead. His chunky black glasses framed eyes that pierced her with their sea-green intensity. “I have a Keurig. Colombian or Guatemalan?”
She would have preferred hazelnut, but Kaine was in no position to be picky.
“Guatemalan.”
“Perfect. Sorry, it’s not decaf.”
“That’s fine.” She wasn’t going to sleep anyway. Kaine picked at a loose thread on her yoga pants as she waited. A clock ticked on the wall. A worn Bible sat on the coffee table, along with a highlighter and a Louis L’Amour western. Finally, Kaine could breathe without fear lacing each intake of air.
Grant returned with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one, teal-and-brown pottery. His orange mug had a silhouette of buck antlers on the side. He settled on the couch next to her, close enough that Kaine could feel the warmth of his body. Grant took a sip of his brew, then lowered it from his mouth. His upper lip had an indentation in the middle. Kaine used to kiss Danny on his. She looked away.
“So . . .” He took another sip of coffee. “Danny.”
Kaine stared into her mug. The dark liquid was hypnotizing as it swirled with creamer he’d failed to mix in with a spoon. She couldn’t meet Grant’s eyes. He was too tender. She was vulnerable tonight. The broken part of Kaine longed to cover the few feet between them and curl into his broad chest, feel his strong arms around her, and the assurance she was safe. This was what it was like to be on the side of the abused. To run until exhaustion and fear either drove you mad or pushed you into the grip of someone who would pull you to safety.
“Danny,” Kaine whispered, reminding herself that Grant wasn’t him. She sipped the coffee, her eyes following a particle floating on its surface.