Cut and Run(41)

She reached her car and got in. She sat, absorbing the day’s residual heat radiating from the seats. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the display. Mitchell Hayden.

She drew in a breath and answered the phone. “Hayden.”

“Where are you?”

“In my car, but still at the medical center,” she said.

“You’ve read Macy’s email?”

She sat straighter. “I have. How did you know about it?”

“We found her computer in her hotel room. Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

“I only just received it. It’s been nonstop on this end.”

Again, they were trapped between a personal relationship and a professional one. Distance and anonymity had worked well for them up to this point. But this case was twisting around them both, forcing them to interact with each other more than either had originally planned.

“I’m five minutes away. Stay put.”

“Understood.”

She grabbed her purse and got out of her car, and in just under five minutes, a dark SUV pulled up beside her and the passenger window rolled down.

Hayden nodded to the empty passenger seat. “Let’s go.”

She sensed his irritation as she got into the car. “I just planned to have a look around.”

He shot her a glance. He pulled onto the main road and wove through town toward I-35. “Has Macy Crow sent you any other communication?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?” An edge sharpened in his tone, and she sensed a line drawn between them. The Rangers were on one side and she on the other. Fine. So be it.

“I would know if a twin communicated with me,” she said. “Those are the details that don’t normally slip by me too often.”

He drove in silence for several miles and then asked in a softer tone that radiated genuine concern, “How are you holding up?”

“Hayden, don’t patronize me. That’s about the one thing I can’t take right now. I like you better when you’re an SOB.”

His frown telegraphed his own uneasiness with this new journey they were taking together into uncharted emotional territory.

“And for the record, I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone,” she said.

“I’ve been there before. Not a good place.”

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

She watched as the cityscape yielded to the rugged, brown countryside covered in scrub trees and cacti. She pulled up the email from Macy as he drove, referencing the map.

Strong, weathered hands, which gripped the steering wheel and looked suited for hard work or a brawl, were so gentle when they ran over her skin.

His watch was older, a throwback to the fifties. He’d always worn it, but she’d never asked about it. “Nice watch. You don’t strike me as the type to chase the vintage look.”

He didn’t spare the watch a glance, but his pride was evident. “It was my grandfather’s, then my father’s. A tradition the oldest male inherits. Still keeps perfect time.”

Faith countered, “My mother nurtured a deep reverence for her sixth-generation Texas lineage. Continuity was important to her. She and I would stand in front of the portrait of my great-grandmother, and she’d say, ‘Generations of stern stock like us. One day you’ll have a daughter and carry on the line.’”

Faith had been proud to be the descendant of a strong line of women. And when she found out she was adopted, she realized she would never be a genuine standard-bearer for the Wallace women whose lineage ended with her mother.

“And it bothers you?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“You saw how Jack Crow died. I’d bet you my watch he did that for Macy, who by all accounts is not his flesh and blood.”

A sudden surge of sadness wrapped around her voice. “Don’t mind me. Feeling sorry for myself.”

She clicked on the radio and selected a country song. They listened as he made his way through the still-congested evening traffic clogging up I-35. By the time he took their exit, there’d already been a fender bender up ahead and the sluggish traffic was coming to a stop.

He turned right onto a rural route that wound farther west, closer to the Hill Country. Another five miles and he slowed as he approached a rusted mailbox. He took a right and plowed down the dusty driveway. The SUV kicked up blooms of dust.

The driveway cut through fallow fields. In the distance Faith spotted a brick rancher surrounded by tall weeds, an old Ford truck on blocks, and several large oil drums.

Hayden parked, but he didn’t get out right away. He studied the area. “Stay close to me. Don’t wander off.”

“I’ve worked my share of crime scenes.”

“Like I said, stay close.” He got out of the car, shrugged off his jacket, and tossed it in the back seat. His hand automatically went to the weapon on his hip. He touched it lightly as he appeared to go down a mental checklist.

Faith joined him at the front of the SUV. She studied the house, knowing from experience that the least remarkable places could hide the worst horrors.

“Let’s have a look at the house first.” He strode up the three front steps and tested the door handle. It was locked. The curtains were drawn over the large front display window, and the side windows were also covered. But the dust on the porch had been disturbed. And it wasn’t just from the one set of footprints that he had expected after Macy’s visit. He estimated there were at least three sets.