Authors: Suzanne Ferrell
She stopped in the doorway. “You charged my phone?”
“Found it dead in my car last night. Figured you’d want to try to contact your brother when you woke up.”
Shaking her head, she went in search of her phone. Who was this guy? Yesterday, he acted like she was a nuisance bug better off squished the moment he learned she was a photographer. Then last night, he’d morphed into a protecting marshal. Now, he was the efficient, mind-reading host?
Just her luck. She was housed with a man possessing multiple personalities.
Inside his office she found her phone, just where he said it was, on his big Craftsman-style desk. The leather chair behind it looked to be from another century and quite worn from use. When she sat on it, the leather felt creamy-soft beneath her thighs. Comfortable.
Disconnecting her phone, she leaned back and turned it on. One missed call. She didn’t recognize it. No message, either. Surely, Ian would’ve left a message if he’d been calling from a different phone.
She flipped through the contacts and called his number.
“This is Ian. You know what to do. Name and number, I’ll call back…maybe.”
“Dammit, Ian, please just be ignoring me. Not dead.” She dialed him again, and got the same message. This time she left one. “Eee, it’s me. My house burned down last night. I don’t know what happened. I’m not blaming you, I just need to know you’re safe. Call me back so I know you’re all right.”
She pulled up her email to see if maybe he’d sent her a message. Nothing except shopping ads, two requests for photo shoots, and a reminder she needed to send Liv the photos from last week’s session.
Thank God she hadn’t gone home before going to Abby and Luke’s wedding. All her work was on her laptop that was here up in the bedroom.
So now what did she do?
Slowly, she looked around Castello’s office. It was just like his kitchen. No clutter. The left hand side of the desk held a note pad and the station for charging phones. In the center sat the computer monitor. She peeked below the desk where her feet sat. Yep, there was the modem, but the cords were clipped neatly to the side and back of the desk. Neat, orderly. On the right side of the desk sat a pencil holder with five matching pens in it and a stapler along the side.
She whirled the chair around. Behind her was a filing cabinet credenza matching the desk. On top sat a printer with a tray full of white printer paper stacked neatly inside. The only truly personal item in the room was a framed picture of the Edgars family on what appeared to be a camping trip.
Leaning in closer, she recognized most of the family from yesterday’s wedding, even Abby was there. And off to the side, just slightly separated from the group, stood Marshal Castello.
“Fishing up on the Mohican last summer. Last Edgars family get-together before Luke and Abigail went back to DC.”
Quickly, she jumped out of his chair and spun around to find him leaning against the door jamb, his hands tucked down in the pockets of his cargo pants, one leg crossed in front of the other. Completely relaxed. Very dangerous.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just,” she gave a wave of her hand as she grabbed her phone with the other, “that’s the only personal thing in the room. My office was full of stuff. Mementos of trips and shoots, family things…” She took a shaky breath as a new pain at the loss hit her. “Photos.”
She stared into his dark-brown eyes, trying to fight back her tears.
“Breakfast’s ready when you are,” he said after a moment, then walked back to the kitchen, leaving her standing alone with her sorrow.
Walking over to the window, she stared out into the late spring sunshine. Cars zipped by. People going to work, possibly up to the University for classes. Moving on with their lives. Everything normal with the world. Their world.
Hers?
She’d just been sucked into a vortex that left her in another dimension.
Yep. That was it. Had to be. Pretty soon she’d be zapped back to her reality and all of this would be nothing more than a dream.
Her phone rang. Swiping her finger over the unlock button, she didn’t recognize the number. She hit the answer button as she grabbed her bag off the straight-back chair near the door, and headed back to the kitchen. “Hello?”
“May I speak with Ms. Sydney Peele?” a male voice asked.
“This is she.”
“Ms. Peele, this is Detective Abrams of the Columbus Police.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, detective?” She set the handbag on one of the empty bar stools at the island, pulled the other out and took a seat, suddenly needing something solid under her.
“We’re investigating the fire at your house on Hamlett. Would there be a convenient time for you to come to the station to speak with us? Or someplace we could meet?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, then glanced up at Castello, who’d taken another barstool catty-corner from her at the island. She hit the mute button. “It’s a police detective. He wants to meet with me to talk about the fire.”
“Figured they’d be calling. Tell him this afternoon.” He grabbed a napkin out of the wooden dispenser on the counter, jotted down an address, and handed it to her. “Here. Let him pick the time.”
She unmuted the phone. “This afternoon would work at the place I’m staying. What time would be convenient for you?”
He said three, and she gave him the address Castello had written down before hanging up. She set her phone down and studied the address again. “This is up near the Polaris shopping mall. Not anywhere near here.”
“You remember where we are? Didn’t think you were paying much attention last night.” he asked, then tucked into his breakfast.
“I didn’t. You could’ve taken me to the other side of the world last night, I doubt I would’ve noticed anything more than getting on a plane or boat.” She paused and laid her hand on his free one.
He stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“I haven’t thanked you.”
“No problem. I just acted out of instinct.”
“I know, but it’s exactly what I needed. I was a mess.”
“Given that you watched your home explode into a pile of burning rubble, I’d say you were allowed to fall apart. In fact, I’m a little surprised you’re able to get out of bed and function at all today. Most people wouldn’t be, after a tragedy like this.”
Taking a deep breath, she focused on scooping some eggs onto her plate, then two slices of the bacon. “My dad died in Two World Trade Tower on nine-eleven. I’ve got a bit of experience in pulling myself up and going on. Sometimes, you have no other choice. But I really appreciate you helping me last night.” She squeezed his hand, then picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. “As for knowing I’m not in a house near the mall? Nothing but new construction in that area. This house is definitely a turn-of-the-nineteenth-century Craftsman, if I’m not mistaken. Recently remodeled, if the attention to period details but new materials is any indication. Victorian Village?”
He nodded. “Less than two miles from your place.”
“Then why not meet the detective here?” she asked, as she put one large pancake on her plate, slathered on some butter, then poured syrup on it. Next to her plate sat a crystal tumbler full of ice and the can of pop she’d opened earlier. She poured some in, listening to the carbonation sizzle and the ice crack.
“I prefer to keep my actual address out of public record as much as possible.”
“So whose address did I give the detective?” She took a bite of the pancakes. Light, fluffy and… “Oh my God, those are good.”
“Old family recipe.” He’d finished his food and leaned up on his elbows on the table. “The address is one of my private safe houses.”
“How many do you have?”
“Here in Columbus, six besides this house. Two up north in Cleveland, and two more in the countryside in between.”
She swallowed her food and gawked at him. “You have ten houses?”
“No kids, no wife. I inherited family money when my grandfather passed away, which I invested. Seemed to me I could kill two birds with one stone. Invest in real estate and have places to store high-target witnesses when necessary. This is the only one listed in my name as official residence.”
“Amazing.” Not wanting to pry too much more and suspecting he’d told her more than he usually told people about himself, she focused on eating her breakfast. She hadn’t expected she’d be able to stomach much food after last night’s events, but between the smell and the taste, she was near ravenous.
“Did you get through to your brother?” he asked after a few minutes.
And like that her appetite disappeared.
Looking at her dark phone, she set her fork down and sat back in her seat. “No. It went straight to voice mail again. Same as last night.”
“Does he usually answer his phone?”
“Not really. In fact, he never picks up. Usually, I leave a message and he calls me back. Sometimes days or even weeks later. I always chalk it up to him being out of the country on assignment.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
“If it were his pattern to respond immediately, then you’d have cause to worry. Since it isn’t, I’d say he’s probably safe somewhere else, ignoring your calls as usual.” Castello took their plates to the sink and began cleaning the remnants into the trash can he’d pulled out of its spot in the connecting cabinet. The way he said her brother ignored her calls hit a nerve.
She grabbed her empty glass and stomped over to the dishwasher, setting it in the center of the bottom rack. “He doesn’t ignore me. He just can’t pick up the moment I call.”
“If you say so.” The marshal picked up the glass and replaced it in the smaller top rack.
Leaning one hip against the counter, she folded her arms in front of her. “You don’t know my brother. And you certainly don’t know our relationship.”
Castello kept cleaning the dishes and methodically placing them into the dishwasher in a neatly, irritatingly organized manner.
“Ian was a senior in high school when our father died. He never really came terms with that. Mom had to move us back to Ohio near our grandparents so she’d have some support while she went back to work. Ian left town the day after he graduated from High School. We didn’t know where he was for months. Mom was afraid he’s joined the army or something. I hadn’t seen her that scared since the attack on the towers.”
She stopped and took a deep breath. Why the hell was she babbling on about this to this man? She didn’t owe him any explanation about her family or her brother or their relationship.
“But he didn’t join up.” The statement offered so matter-of-factly took some of the starch out of her ire.
“No, he did something even more dangerous. He’d gotten a job as a photographer tagging along with the troops on their first forays into Afghanistan. No weapon and no combat training. He was lucky he made it out alive.”
“Many didn’t.”
“I know.” She huffed out a sigh and shrugged. “It’s just you’re accusing him of willfully ignoring me, when he’s usually busy doing something important.”
Castello finished putting the pans in the dishwasher, turned off the faucet and shifted to look at her. “I’m not making a judgement call on your brother. He may be off on assignment. I just believe if you care about someone, you do your best to respond when they try to contact you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And I suppose when you’re protecting someone or whatever it is marshals do, you answer your phone for your sister or mother?”
Just as he opened his mouth to answer his phone started buzzing on the countertop.
“Really?” She gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Did you plan that?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a little grin and reached for the phone. “What’s up, Sami?” he said, helping himself to the last piece of bacon. “Yes. Sydney’s out of bed.” He cupped his hand over the phone. “Sami wants to know how you are.”
“Physically? Okay. Emotionally? A little overwhelmed. Psychologically?” She just shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“She’s as good as can be expected,” he said, staring right at her, his dark eyes sending heat and something strong coursing through her as he listened to the phone.
It took a moment for Sydney to break the connection, but she finally did, grabbing the empty bacon plate and carrying it to the sink. She rinsed it and stuck it in the dishwasher, intentionally mucking up his organized pattern. He was way too calm for her liking.
When she finished he was still watching her, even though he’d moved to stand near the back door. The phone turned off in his hand. “We need to go over to your place.”
“You mean the giant pile of smoldering rubble I now have a mortgage on?” She couldn’t help the snarkiness in her voice. Two years into a thirty-year mortgage, and she was homeless.
“You have insurance, right?”
“Yes. It covers fire, but I don’t know if it covers explosions.”
“And that’s why I want to go over this morning. I’d like to talk with the firefighters.”
“You think they’re still working on it? Surely they’ve got it out by now?”
He gave a shrug. “Pretty big—how did you put it?—smoldering pile of rubble for them to sift through and be sure won’t reignite. I’d like to see if they know what caused the explosion. Maybe looking at in the daylight they’ll have an idea.”
“I see your point. Do I have time for a shower?” she asked, grabbing her purse and phone and heading towards the stairs.
“Sure. That should give the arson investigator time to get on site, too.”
She stopped and peered over her shoulder at him. “Arson investigator?”
“They come to all suspicious fires.”
“What makes you think it was suspicious?”
“Explosion?”
Again, she saw his point, but wasn’t going to admit it. Instead, she went to stand under some hot water and wish it would wash away this whole horrible mess.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A fire truck sat on the curb in front of the mass of beams, bricks and ashes that had been Sydney’s home when Frank pulled up an hour later.
Dressed once more in the jeans, sweater and hiking boots she’d arrived at the wedding in, Sydney reached for the door handle, but Frank took her other hand, which was holding one of her cameras, stopping her.