Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(63)

“I can go alone,” Brian whined, but he stood and started to follow his father.

“I’ll just walk you in.” Chris pushed open the men’s room door and checked the stalls. All empty. “I’ll be back at the table. And wash your hands good.”

Brian nodded.

Chris slid back into his booth. Sure his son could use a public restroom alone. After he checked the inside and watched the door after. That wasn’t overprotective. That was smart parenting. He shuddered as he remembered how he used to run wild around his neighborhood when he was growing up. One dinner he’d been late and his father had been furious. Looking back now, his father hadn’t been worried about Chris; he’d been upset that his mom had been worried.

His son being snatched by a pedophile hadn’t crossed his father’s mind.

Chris didn’t look away from the men’s room door.

The waitress set a skinny basket of saltines on the table. “In case he’s got the munchies,” she said with a perky smile. Chris thanked her. And watched the door.

The door swung open, and Chris relaxed. He took a packet of cellophane-wrapped crackers and ripped it open, setting it on Brian’s coloring book.

“Awesome!” Brian proceeded to munch down on the crumbliest crackers ever created. Chris never bought them. They required too much clean-up.

A word from the television caught his attention, and his focus swiveled toward the bar.

…murdered…

A female reporter was standing in a city Chris knew all too well, a serious look on her face. Across the bottom of the screen, it said, “Murder in Demming.” He couldn’t make out her words.

Chris stood up, moving toward the bar, his gaze fixed on the screen. The waitress crossed his path with two plates.

“Your lunch is ready.”

He gestured in the direction of the table, attention on the television. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry. Closer, he could make out the reporter’s words.

“…deceased is the owner of the bakery, Juan Rios, who was killed during a break-in of the bakery overnight…”

Juan. Chris’s knees wobbled. He reached the bar and rested his hands on it, leaning heavily.

“Police haven’t revealed the exact cause of death but say it appears to be a result of homicidal violence.”

Juan.

What if Chris hadn’t been watching his house and hadn’t seen the Ghostman and decided to leave? Would she be reporting three deaths?

How had the Ghostman gone from his house to Juan’s?

He had no doubt who’d killed Juan. Chris thought hard. There’d been no evidence at his home that could have led anyone to Juan. But people knew he often visited old Juan. People knew he took Brian to play with Juan’s dog. The Ghostman must have talked to someone in town who mentioned his habits.

He glanced over his shoulder at Brian, who was busy devouring his grilled cheese. The boy hadn’t noticed the television story.

“…so far no suspects…”

Of course not. He’s a ghost.

The camera switched views to Juan’s bakery, a group of cops and onlookers milling outside. Chris recognized Sheriff Spencer from a distance. The cop was okay. He’d kept out of Chris’s business for the most part and had delivered the news of Elena’s death with a lot of tact and concern. The camera zoomed closer, and the back of a woman with long black hair caught Chris’s attention.

Elena.

He immediately shook that thought from his head. Elena was dead. The instant confusion happened frequently to him. Eastern Oregon had a large percentage of Native American and Hispanic women, many of whom wore their hair long like Elena had. From the back, they often resembled his dead wife, making him catch his breath and his heart stop. The woman turned to the tall man at her side, exposing her profile.

Jamie.

What the hell? His sister, who he’d been worried sick over, was standing on the street in his town? Christ. Chris blew out a breath. Holy crap. First Juan and now a glimpse of Jamie. He wanted to cry and laugh in relief at the same time.

The camera shot moved in on the group, and Chris soaked up the sight of his sister, healthy and whole. The stress he’d held in about her safety evaporated, giving him a release-activated, instant throbbing headache in his skull. He rubbed at a spot near his temple. Jamie spoke to the man at her side, and Chris felt his heart skip a beat. The man turned his head to the side the tiniest bit.

Chris stared.

The man turned more, and Chris felt all the veins in his skull swell.

Michael Brody. The man placed his arm about Jamie’s shoulders. Chris’s world shuddered, spun off kilter, and he grabbed at the bar. This wasn’t happening.

Why in the hell was Michael Brody with his sister?





Jamie flopped on the bed at the bed-and-breakfast. It had to be twenty degrees warmer in their room than the first floor. She’d felt the temperature rise as they’d climbed the old stairs. The bed-and-breakfast was charmingly quaint, but there were times when quaint didn’t cut it and you wanted modern hotel results. Like instant cold air, immediate coffee, and fast room service with cheesecake. “I’m beat,” she said. “And it’s too damned hot in here.”

“Trying to avoid sex with me already?” Michael asked as he cranked up the air-conditioning. “I thought that didn’t come till later in a relationship. Isn’t this where you say you have a headache?”