The stoplight turned red. The driver slowed the Suburban. A hat was pulled low over his eyes. A baseball cap with a white M on the brim. She couldn’t make out his features as his hand lifted in a wave.
“Now go home where you belong.”
Then the light switched to green and he drove away. The phone went silent. The Suburban’s taillights blinked three times as if in a final message. Kaine squinted, trying to read the license plate—except there was none to be read. The huge vehicle turned the corner and disappeared, taking with it the answers to the hundred questions that riddled Kaine’s mind.
They’d interrogated her at the station for over an hour. Did she have the piece of the quilt left on her windshield? Yes? They’d need it for evidence. Had she left her new cellphone number with anyone? No. Was she positive? Well, she’d given it to Detective Hanson, Leah, to Grant, and to Joy. Had she let anyone use her phone? No. Maybe. There was the lady at the grocery store the other night who had a dead battery in her car and needed to call her husband to come jump it. Kaine had let her borrow it but only for a call. Who was the lady? She didn’t know. Did her husband come? Kaine hadn’t stayed to find out.
By the time she was through, the police were fairly convinced the only plausible way Kaine’s number had been obtained was that the mystery woman had stolen her number off the phone. But finding out who she was and how she was connected to a male caller was a shot in the dark. They would try to trace the call back to the originator, but odds were high it’d come back as a burner phone.
Kaine held the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, squeezing away the headache. It was calming to see Grant waiting for her in the lobby of the station. He took her by the arm and led her outside. She opened the passenger-side door to his truck, and Olive met her with a few friendly licks.
“Hey, girl.” She rubbed her neck, then urged her to the back seat with a tug on her hot-pink collar. Settling into the passenger seat, Kaine slammed the truck door shut. With a deep sigh, her head rested back against the seat and she closed her eyes. She fiddled with a button on her purple flannel shirt. Tylenol. She needed Tylenol.
“What’s next?” Grant waited.
Kaine kept her eyes shut. So much for coffee this morning. She had to admit, she’d hoped it’d be more like a first date and less like another traumatic layer in their relationship.
“Same as usual. They’ll investigate. The alarm at the house hasn’t been tripped since they installed it. I was stupid and gave my phone to a stranger to use, trying to be helpful. They probably stole my number from there.”
“We’ll figure this out.” Grant’s assurance fell flat. She’d thought the same thing with Danny’s death. Two years later, that resolution had collided with an entirely new case.
Kaine ran her fingers through her dark hair. Finally, she turned her head, and her gaze fell on the books in his lap.
“What are those?”
Grant furrowed his brow at the swift change in subject, but he followed where she was looking. “Oh, those. They’re books on the Fosters. I checked them out at the library.” He chuckled. “Patti begrudgingly showed them to me. I think she’d gladly trade places with you if it meant she could own Oakwood’s Foster Hill House.”
Kaine rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t if she had to deal with filing endless police reports and running for her life.”
Grant smiled at the sarcasm. “Anyway, according to Patti, the books were self-published about thirty years ago by a local historian who passed away in the nineties. I thought maybe they’d give us some insight into the house’s history.”
Kaine reached over and picked up the top book, a paperback. It was square, more like a coffee-table book, its cover including a photograph of the faded portrait of Myrtle Foster from the hallway. She eyed the author’s name. “Who’s Levi Foggerty?”
“A descendent of the man who used to trap animals in the woods around Oakwood.” Grant grabbed another book and thumbed through it. “Patti told me it was his grandfather who first discovered the body of the woman in the oak tree.” He showed Kaine a black-and-white photograph taken in 1906 of a hollowed oak tree, its bark gone from its skeletal form. “But Levi Foggerty traces the history further back into who Myrtle Foster was, her children, and even some weird things that happened while they were living in the house. It seems Oakwood thought Myrtle Foster was a bit crazy before she left town.”
“Interesting. Oakwood has a history of accusing women of lacking intelligence.” Kaine set the book back onto Grant’s lap, remembering how the town had labeled Ivy as a mystic. “I think we need to let it rest. The whole thing. Just let it be.” After the phone call today with the veiled threat toward Grant, Kaine couldn’t even fathom seeing another person she cared about hurt or killed in the cross fire of her choices. Panic replaced her earlier sarcasm, and she tried to swallow it. When she couldn’t, she turned away and stared out the window at the trees, the birds, the city park, anything but Grant. “Just let it be,” she repeated.
“Oooookay.” He put the books in the back seat.
“Okay?” Kaine pulled back. “Just like that? Okay?”
“I’m not going to force you to go somewhere or do something you don’t want to.” Grant was too understanding, but Kaine could see disappointment in his eyes. He wanted to uncover how she was tied to Ivy and in turn to the dead girl, Gabriella. He wanted to see resolution to her fear. So did she. But not at the cost of his safety. Or Joy’s or Megan’s. Her choices had already killed Danny. She couldn’t bear a repeat of that.
“When he called me . . .” Kaine paused. Grant deserved to know. He needed to know. “The man knew you were at the coffee shop waiting for me.” She pulled a strand of hair to her mouth and chewed on it.
Grant reached over and pulled it from her fingers. “Don’t, Kaine.”
She grimaced and sighed. “Grant, you don’t understand. He knew you were at the coffee shop.”
“I heard you.” Grant’s hazel eyes drilled into hers. They held a stormy kind of strength. “But I’m not going to overreact, and I’m not going to put myself in lockdown mode.”
Kaine leaned into the middle part of the front seat, her eyes wide. “C’mon, Grant. He’s studied me. Now he’s studying you. He even asked—” Whoa. She didn’t want to go there.
“Asked what?” Grant pressed. He leaned over the center console toward her, filling the remaining space between them. He let his hand rest against hers, the sides of their palms touching. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away. She glanced at their hands before she looked out the truck window again.
“What did he ask?” Grant asked again.
Kaine turned back and pulled her hand away. “He asked if I . . . cared for you.”
“What did you say?” Grant looked out the front window. Whether to give her emotional distance or because he was uncomfortable, Kaine couldn’t tell.
“What could I say?” Kaine’s brows dipped in frustration. “Yes, I care for you? Have him kill you like that other creep in San Diego killed Danny?”