Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(103)

But she’d already vanished up the stairs. The fleeting moment was lost. He’d probably imagined it anyway, knowing how f*cked in the head he’d always been about that girl.

Miles stared out at the lightening dawn. His heart felt heavy, a dead weight in his chest just like the gun in his hand, and a cruel, searing tightness in his throat, like someone was pulling a knot tight.

God help the fool who tried to assault that house on his watch. He would blow the f*cker full of holes without a shred of remorse.



“He looks just like Connor.” Erin sounded smug.

Cindy squinted her eyes, still gummy from last night’s mascara, and took another swig of coffee as she tried to make sense of the grainy sonogram images of her little nephew. “I still don’t see what you see.”

“Imagine that you’re looking straight up, under his chin,” Erin explained. “See? There’s his lips, that’s his little nose…see it now?”

It finally slid into place. She got a sweet, shivery thrill of wonder.

“Wow. Oh, yeah. I see it!” She peered at it again. “Like Connor? Everything about this little guy is round, Erin. Nothing about Connor is round. I’ll concede that he appears to be a recognizable member of the human species, but he doesn’t look like Connor.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless.” Erin got up, and scooped French toast out of the skillet and onto a plate, slapping them down in front of her sister.

“You’ll make me fat,” Cindy complained, out of reflex.

“Don’t even start,” Erin warned. She set the butter and maple syrup down in front of Cindy with a sharp, eloquent thud. “Miles? How many slices of French toast for you?”

“Not hungry, thanks.” Miles’s remote voice floated to the kitchen.

Erin fixed Cindy with a speculative gaze. Cindy’s eyes slid away. She felt herself blush, for no reason she could figure. She hadn’t done anything to Miles last night except give him one more spectacular opportunity to reject her. Which he had done. So thoroughly, she had finally gotten a clue. Charm, tears, even sex, nothing worked with that guy. Her usual tricks had bombed out, big-time. Looked like she was going to have to bite the bullet. Get a dignity implant, or something.

There was a rumble of male voices in the foyer, and then Connor appeared in the door to the kitchen. He looked tired and grim.

“What’s up?” Erin asked.

“Nothing good,” he replied. He grabbed her, kissed her.

Erin poured a cup of coffee, which he took with a sigh of thanks. He sank down into his chair, rubbing his leg. “I got there right after the cops. I parked in the alley, so I almost cut him off when he bolted.”

Erin scowled. “Did you chase him?”

Con didn’t meet her eyes. He sipped his coffee.

“You macho idiot!” she scolded. “You’ll limp worse for a week!”

Connor sighed. “Couldn’t stop myself,” he said dolefully. “I got so close. But then he vaulted the Sizemores’ fence, and I was f*cked.” He massaged his leg. “My days of chasing those bastards are over.”

“So? Did you see him?” Cindy asked. “Is he Sean’s guy?”

Connor shrugged. “Might be, might not. He was big, dressed in black. That describes a lot of lowlife scum who engage in B&E.”

“What did he take?” Erin asked. “Did he get Mom’s jewelry?”

“No. That’s what worries me.” Connor met her eyes. “He didn’t take anything. He’d deactivated the old alarm, but he didn’t cop to the SafeGuard one. He was there for twenty minutes. He didn’t take a thing. I think he was hunkering down. Waiting for somebody to come home.”

Erin shuddered, hunching down over her rounded belly and wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. “Why would he go after Mom, if it’s Sean’s guy? And not, say, us? Or Davy and Margot?”

Connor shook his head. “She’s an easier target.”

Cindy squirmed uncomfortably as she thought of her adventure with Porky yesterday. Her cell phone rang. She fished it out. The unfamiliar number made her belly twist. She picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Yes, is this Cindy? This is Bolivar.”

“Oh! Hi, Bolivar.” She padded into the living room, rummaging for pen and paper. “What’s up?”

“Look, I don’t want you to tell nobody I tell you this, OK? This is some bad shit here, and I don’t want no part of it.” He spoke so rapidly in his accented voice, she could barely make out what he was saying.

“Uh, yeah, I understand,” Cindy said. “Yes, of course.”

“That summer, there was three janitors. One was Fred Ayers. He died July, heart attack. There was another guy, Pat Hammond, a drunk. Died in a car accident. Then there was a Vietnamese guy, Trung. He left when the building closed, relocated up the coast. Town called Garnett. His daughter runs a grocery store there. I never talked to you. OK?”

Cindy scribbled it down on a Post-It note. “Sure,” she said. “The last thing I want is to make any trouble for you. Thanks, Bolivar.”

She hung up, and stared down at the square of paper. Her belly clenched. The moment had come to own up. And it wasn’t going to be pretty. Everybody was going to have a cow. Right in her face.