Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series, Volume 3 (6 page)

Instead of letting Hildebrand or his assistant call or visit Faith, he'd stepped in and volunteered to do it. She was, after all, his friend. Or at least, she had been. Mostly this visit was prompted by Troy's need to see how Faith was faring after the break-in.

When he'd parked in front of the house, he didn't leave the car immediately, mentally preparing himself for the meeting. He knew that seeing her would be hard. Faith had made it clear that she didn't want any further contact and he'd respected her wishes. This, however, was official business—even if it didn't have to be
his
business.

He marched up the steps leading to her front door, rang the bell and waited, hat in his hand.

She answered the door cautiously, and her eyes brightened when she saw him. That spark was quickly gone, however, replaced by a faraway look, flat and emotionless. In that moment, it demanded all his discipline not to pull her into his arms and beg for another chance. He needed Faith, loved her, wanted to marry her—and had destroyed any possibility of that happening.

“I have the report from the investigating officer,” Troy said briskly, conveying that this was police business and not a social call.

“Oh, good.” She unlocked the screen door and held it open for him to come inside.

Troy paused to examine the lock and was relieved to see that Faith had taken his advice and installed a dead bolt. Or rather, Grace and Cliff Harding, the owners, had arranged for it. Not surprisingly, Grace had been horrified by what she'd seen. This had been her home for decades—and Faith was her friend. Megan had told him that both Grace and Cliff had helped with the cleanup.

The house was tidy once again and back to normal. That couldn't have been an easy task. The aroma of baking reminded him that he'd worked through his lunch hour.

“I just took some bran muffins out of the oven. Would you like one?” Faith asked.

It'd been a long time since Troy had tasted anything home-baked. He wondered if she offered because she'd heard his stomach growl or if she'd noticed that he'd nearly swooned when he entered the house. Or maybe she was simply being polite. Whatever the reason, he
wasn't about to turn her down. “That'd be great,” he said, hoping he sounded casual.

“I have coffee on, too. Can I get you a cup?”

“Please.” He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poured the coffee and took a muffin out of the pan, setting it on a small plate. He waited until she was seated before he pulled out the chair across from her. It seemed to take her an inordinate amount of time to look at him. One quick glance in his direction, and then she lowered her eyes again.

“What did you find out?” she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Troy wished he had something positive to share with her. “Unfortunately, the news is…inconclusive.”

“What do you mean? Your people were here for hours, dusting for fingerprints. They wouldn't let me straighten a thing until they'd finished. The deputy said they managed to lift a number of solid prints.” Her eyes pleaded with him to explain this nightmare. Troy wished he could; he wanted to prove to Faith that he was her hero…and that she could trust him.

“You're right. The crime-scene technician was able to lift a number of fingerprints.”

“But they were all mine?”

“No,” he said. “Not all of them. But the clear ones weren't out of the ordinary. That's why we took the elimination prints.” He shrugged. “We suspect the intruder wore rubber gloves.”

She looked confused. “A professional, then.”

“At this point, we can't say. My guess is this isn't the first home this person has broken into.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I'd hoped—I was sure with so many prints…there'd be at least one that would identify whoever did this.”

“We checked each and every fingerprint and they were all ones we could identify.”

“Oh.” She didn't disguise her disappointment.

“Have you made a list of what's missing for Detective Hildebrand?”

Faith nodded. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“In what way?”

“The items taken. They're mostly things of sentimental value. Like you said earlier, this break-in seemed…personal.”

“Give me an example.”

She unfolded her hands and gestured helplessly. “They took a picture album I made when the grandchildren were born. You saw what they did to Carl's photograph. I had—oh, it's too silly to mention.”

“No, it isn't.”

Her lower lip trembled before she regained her composure. “A toy train… It was from Carl's boyhood. I had it sitting on the bedroom dresser. Scottie's son likes to play with it when they visit and—”

“That was stolen?”

Faith nodded again. “I never thought of it as a valuable antique, but perhaps it is.”

“What about jewelry, cash?”

“I don't keep anything of real value lying around.”

“That's smart.” Thinking over what she'd told him, Troy peeled away the paper from his muffin. It was still warm enough to burn his fingers, and he left it to cool a moment while he doctored his coffee.

“I can't believe this happened to me!” Faith cried, then inhaled a deep, calming breath. When she spoke again, her voice shook slightly. “I just don't understand it.”

He sympathized with her and knew how she felt—
angry, violated, afraid. “I want to assure you the department's doing everything within our power to find whoever is responsible,” he told her.

“Why me?” she asked, her eyes wide and imploring.

Troy longed to reach across the table to take her hand. “I wish I could answer that, but as you said, none of this makes sense. I'd like to think it was a random act of violence, but that doesn't appear to be the case. Regardless of who did this and why, you were an easy target. From this point forward you won't be again.”

“No, I won't.” Faith straightened, tensing her shoulders as if to say she'd dare anyone to try breaking into her home again. Troy had encountered that determination of hers more than once and almost felt sorry for anyone who earned her wrath.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Troy asked. “You never know where a small piece of information can lead, no matter how insignificant it seems.” He remembered a case years ago, when he was still a deputy. A break-in had occurred, and Troy had stopped to talk to some kids at a bus stop, asking if they'd seen anything unusual. A kid, who couldn't have been more than eight or nine, mentioned a white Jeep. The man who drove it wore a Mariners' baseball cap and had long, blond hair. The boy had claimed the man looked “mean.”

A couple of days later, Troy had passed a white Jeep parked at a gas station. When the driver came out, he had on a Mariners' baseball cap, covering long, stringy blond hair. Suspecting this might be the same person, Troy ran the license plate number—and discovered that the Jeep had been reported stolen. He followed the man and arrested him without incident. It later turned out that this man was responsible for a series of break-ins all around
Cedar Cove. The best part of the story was that the majority of valuables had been recovered.

At his question, Faith hesitated. “I'm not sure this means anything,” she said.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Okay.” A vulnerable look came over her. “I have a feeling that the person who broke into the house has been back.”

Without revealing any outward sign of alarm, Troy asked, “What makes you say that?”

Faith stood and walked over to the kitchen sink and pointed out the window. “There was graffiti on the back of the garage.”

“Show me,” he said abruptly.

“I painted over it the next day…. The words were ugly and I didn't want my grandchildren to see them…. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Show me, anyway.”

Faith grabbed a coat from the peg by the back door and led him outside. He shivered in the January cold as he followed Faith to the far side of the garage. He could see the fresh layer of white paint. “Although it might be embarrassing, tell me exactly what the message said.”

Faith stared down at her feet and told him. She was right; they were ugly words. He wished she'd told him about this earlier, since it might have yielded evidence. Now, however, it was too late.

Troy frowned. “You think whoever was responsible for the break-in came back and did this?” It was definitely a reasonable assumption.

Faith nodded. “The other night…I woke up and heard noises. At first I was too terrified to move. I was afraid they were inside the house. It took me a few minutes to
realize the sound came from the garage.” She was obviously making an effort to control her voice, but despite that it started to tremble.

“You should've called 9-1-1,” he said urgently.

“I know… I wish I had. Oh, Troy, I've been so scared.”

Troy couldn't bear to see Faith upset. Instinctively he slipped his arms around her—and she willingly moved into his embrace. He felt her shudder and his hold tightened. He wanted to reassure her that he'd do whatever he could to prevent anything like this from happening again.

“You should've called 9-1-1,” he repeated.

“But what if it was nothing? I thought my imagination might be running away with me.”

“Then you saw the graffiti….”

“The next morning,” she confirmed, “and I realized I'd been foolish not to call the authorities right away.”

“You should have,” he said. There was no telling what might've happened while she hemmed and hawed, afraid to risk a little embarrassment.

“Faith, listen to me.” He cupped his hands around her face and raised her head so that their eyes met. “I would rather you had peace of mind. I don't want you lying awake at night, worrying that someone's on the property.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I'm not sleeping nights…I haven't slept more than two or three hours at a time since the break-in.”

“Faith…”

“I know I was ridiculous. I won't ignore any noises again.”

“Has this happened more than once?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don't know…I don't think so. I sleep so lightly now. I'm afraid someone will break in…. My emotions are all askew—just look at me.
I'm not a weak woman! I hate being vulnerable. I'm on the verge of tears, and all because I haven't been able to sleep. I'm afraid it's going to affect my ability to do my job. The worst thing—” she paused “—is the fear. Night comes and I'm terrified all over again.”

Troy pressed his hand against her head, weaving his fingers into her thick dark hair. He was almost overwhelmed by the temptation to bury his face in the clean freshness of it. He'd missed her more than he'd dared admit, even to himself.

He wished he knew how to reassure her. But no matter how strong that desire, he refused to whisper platitudes, nor would he mislead her by making promises he couldn't keep.

Faith must have recognized that she'd said more than she'd intended. She eased out of his embrace and glanced self-consciously at the street. She folded her arms around her waist, as if she suddenly felt cold.

“Let's talk about this inside,” Troy suggested, placing his arm around her again as they headed back to the house.

Once inside, Faith removed her coat and hung it by the door, first straightening the shoes and boots that stood there. Then she refreshed their coffees. Troy could tell that this busywork was an attempt to regain her composure.

For his part, he would've been content to spend the next ten years holding Faith, even if it meant standing in full view of the street on a bitter January day. With the woman he loved in his arms, physical comfort didn't matter. He'd hardly noticed the damp or cold—until she'd stepped out of his arms.

“Would you like another bran muffin?” Faith asked.
Before he could answer, she added, “I believe I got this recipe from my mother. If you like, I could pass it along to your daughter. I saw Megan the other day. Did she mention that?”

“Faith.” Troy took off his damp coat and hung it over the back of a chair.

“She's a lovely girl, Troy.”

“Faith,” he said a bit more loudly this time.

She clutched the kitchen counter with both hands.

“I know how distressed you must be.”

She spit out a laugh as though his statement had been an exaggeration. “I'm fine, really. Tired, but… Okay, I'll confess this break-in has me unnerved. But wouldn't anyone feel that way?”

“Of course they would. Now, promise me you won't hesitate to call 9-1-1 if you suspect someone's on the property.”

“I…”

“Faith,” he coaxed.

“I will,” she finally said, “if I really think there's someone here.”

Troy figured this half promise was about all he could wheedle out of her.

They stood just looking at each other for a moment, neither of them inclined to speak.

“Would you like me to stop by one evening?” he asked, hoping she'd agree to that, too. Maybe she'd let him come over occasionally and then, given time, he'd have the opportunity to regain her trust.

She considered his question, then slowly shook her head. “I appreciate your willingness to look in on me, but…but I don't think that's a good idea.”

Personally Troy thought it was brilliant.

“Would it be all right if I phoned and checked on you in the morning?” Maybe he was pressing his luck, but he had to try.

“I suppose…but only this once.”

“Only this once,” he echoed. “I won't call again after tomorrow.” The crack in her resolve to keep him out of her life was barely discernible but it was there.

Reaching for his coat and hat, Troy saw that he'd left a small portion of his bran muffin on the plate. He popped it in his mouth and gave Faith a lopsided grin. He swallowed, wishing he'd accepted a second one when she'd offered it. “I'll ask Megan to get the recipe from you,” he said on his way to the door.