The Chance (Thunder Point #4)(95)

It was interesting to Laine that she could take on a case of human trafficking or domestic terrorism and go through the steps, line up the evidence, secure a warrant, go undercover or tap a line and yet when it came to nursing care for her own father, she felt completely helpless. Mrs. Mulligrew and her husband had been like a part of the family for years! When Janice Carrington had been so ill, Mrs. Mulligrew was always close at hand in case she was needed. When there were heavy jobs she couldn’t manage alone, like moving furniture for painters or paperhangers, her grown children were glad to help for the extra income. Mr. and Mrs. Mulligrew had been dependable house sitters for many years.

At the moment, the Mulligrews’ divorced daughter and her three children were living in their home, trying to get back on their feet, and Mrs. Mulligrew said she and her husband would be more than happy to move in with Dr. Carrington and keep an eye on things. They’d still need some home nursing help, “But you can be sure there won’t be no pot smoking in the backyard, Lainie,” she said.

Why Laine had not seen this potential solution, she wasn’t sure. Maybe just the fact that she was inexperienced in this. Or maybe it was her terrible fear of making a mistake with her father’s care. It appeared things might work. Surely there would be issues now and again, interruptions in their routines, but Pax and Genevieve and Laine and Eric could live their lives for the most part.

It was a very long day of flying. It seemed forever before she saw the town and she had to concentrate not to burn rubber all the way to her house. She was not surprised that it was dark—Eric always worked late, especially when she was not around. She was fine with that—she’d light the place up! She dragged her suitcases inside and began asking herself—shall I let him find me on the deck with a fire? In the tub? Maybe just na**d in the bed...

But something was wrong. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she couldn’t smell him. She couldn’t smell his aftershave or his last meal. Everything smelled like fresh cleaning supplies. She turned on lights and it was shiny clean, not so much as a speck of dust or smear of glass cleaner—but the house was so empty. No shoes on the stairs waiting to be carried up to the closet. No towels on the washer waiting for the next load. And no dishes in the dishwasher?

Reluctantly, filled with trepidation, she went to the master bedroom. Again, so tidy. Eric was orderly and neat, but vacuum tracks on the carpet? She went to the closet and... Oh. My. God. One lone winter shirt hung there. A couple of wool trousers kept it company. Her heart hammering, she flew into the bathroom and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. His shaving kit was gone. His toothbrush stood stoically alone in the toothbrush caddy.

Gone? Without a word?

A million possibilities shot through her mind, none of them good. Had he found himself a house he preferred? One he liked better? Was he seeing someone? Someone who, like she had, was collecting one piece of his clothing at a time? But why had he never mentioned he didn’t live here? Why hadn’t he said...?

Her first instinct was to call him and ask him what was going on, but she’d become too sneaky as an agent; wherever he was now living, she intended to catch him there. And she felt a need to look into those beautiful green eyes for the truth. Instead of calling, she left the rental car in the drive and walked the few short blocks to his station, which was still lit up. She recognized Al, pumping gas and cleaning off a windshield. She’d heard from Eric that Al had left, that he had returned....

“Laine!” Al said, grabbing her in his big bearlike embrace. “When did you get here?”

“Just a little while ago, but I can’t find Eric,” she said. “Al, please be straight with me—where is he?”

Al seemed to get a pained look on his face and ran a hand nervously around the back of his neck, a wince on his face. “Honey, he doesn’t talk about it, but I’ve seen him heading in the direction of the Coastline. I sent him home early tonight—I told him I’d lock up.”

“Why?” she asked. “Oh, Al, is there a woman there?”

“I can’t imagine that, honey. When I checked out of the Coastline, I think he kept that room he used to live in. He didn’t say anything to you?”

“I talked to him three or four times a day,” she said, shaking her head.

“He didn’t say you were coming back today....”

“He didn’t know,” she said. She sniffed and lifted her chin. “I guess I should go find out what Mr. Lucky does when he’s off work. At the Coastline.”

“Ah, Laine...”

She turned and regarded him coolly. “Yeah?”

“Welcome home,” he said.

“Thanks.” And then she walked away.

It was a short walk to the motel. There were more cars there than she usually saw, but that might be due to the start of summer. She knew the room number and knew that Eric had never kept a car there. His three vehicles—two classics and his SUV—took up residence at the station. She knocked on the door, ready to get to the bottom of this. Although her instincts told her there had never been any reason to suspect Eric of anything wrong, there was a tiny part of her ready to see a floozy with bad roots in a push-up bra and garter belt.... She wasn’t sure where he would find one of those, but—

“Just a sec,” he yelled.

Hiding the floozy under the bed...

He threw the door open and the shock on his face was absolutely carved in stone. Pale, hard stone. His green eyes glittered, his mouth dropped open, he was frozen motionless as if trying to figure out if she was real. And then suddenly he grabbed her, pulled her hard against him, buried his mouth in her neck and groaned, “Laine,” in a throaty whisper. “God, Laine.” He pulled her into the room, kicked the door closed and held her so tight she could barely breathe. “What are you doing here?”