She Can Hide (She Can #4)(10)

His mom stirred honey into her tea. “I heard she’s a math teacher at the high school.”

“You know I can’t talk about the details of the case.” Even though his mother probably knew as much—or more—as he did.

His mother’s blue eyes sparkled, a sight guaranteed to give Ethan indigestion. “I heard she’s pretty too.”

Pretty was an understatement, but Ethan gave her a pointed look. “Mom, this is a case. I’m a professional.”

“Of course you are.” She put a hand on his forearm. “I didn’t mean to suggest you would be anything else. But if that were me, and a handsome young man came to my rescue…” His mother sighed, and Ethan knew she was thinking about his father. Dad had only saved his mother from a thunderstorm and a flat tire, but when she told the story, Dad was her white knight. “Well, he’d be my hero.”

Ethan covered her hand with his palm. “I was just doing my job.”

“You’re a good man, Ethan. Your father would be proud.” His mom sniffed and stood up to clear the table. “I’d love to see you with your own family instead of getting stuck taking care of me. I’m sorry I’m such a burden.”

“You’re hardly a burden, Mom.” And Ethan could hardly think about having another family when he was still taking care of this one.

She smiled and patted his hand. A scraggly gray tomcat sauntered into the kitchen and wound around her legs. “Would you like some roast beef, Sweetums?” She bent down to scratch behind the torn ear of her latest rescue.

“Sweetums is a ridiculous name for that cat. You should call him Scarface or Reaper.” Ethan could hear the feline purring from across the room. He emptied his milk glass and crossed the tile floor. Sweetums raised his back and hissed. Ethan gave the feline a wide berth. Sweetums might be old and missing an eye, but those claws were Wolverine sharp. A fact Sweetums liked to remind Ethan of every once in a while. Apparently, Sweetums never got the memo about all animals liking Ethan. The old cat trusted Lorraine and no one else.

“Nonsense. He’s very affectionate.” His mom minced some meat and gravy on a saucer and set it at her feet. She stroked the old cat’s head. “That’s a good boy.”

Not.

Still purring and pointedly ignoring Ethan, Sweetums attacked his food like a cat who didn’t know when his next meal was coming, which was exactly what he’d been until last summer. His throaty rumble sputtered as if his transmission had dropped a gear.

Ethan tossed his wet uniform in the washer. His shoes weren’t salvageable. He headed for the master bedroom on the second floor. His mom’s arthritis made climbing stairs painful. Ethan had converted the downstairs den into a bedroom and handicapped-accessible bath, complete with grab bars and every other piece of safety equipment available.

Separate floors gave them the privacy they both appreciated. Thirty-year-old men weren’t supposed to live with their mothers, but with the twins’ college tuition on top of the farm upkeep, Ethan wasn’t moving out anytime soon. His mom had suffered so much, he’d be damned if she’d lose the house she loved on top of it all.

His muscles relaxed as he stepped under the hot spray, his thoughts turning toward the intriguing woman he’d rescued earlier. Was Abby Foster at home? Had she warmed her skin with a hot shower? And how the hell had she ended up in the creek this afternoon? Images of the pretty blonde losing her struggle with the frigid water sent pot roast tumbling through his gut and eliminated all his woe-is-me thoughts.

He left the shower and dressed in thick sweats, then stretched out on his bed and grabbed his electronic tablet from the nightstand. He’d get the official reports on Abby Foster tomorrow at the station, but everyone was on the Internet. Or so he’d thought.

Foster was a common name. He found a few results in this geographical area: mentions of her name in a local newspaper when the high school track team she helped coach won a big meet. A couple of school photographs came up with Abby and Brooke flanking the kids. There were no other pictures or mentions. He couldn’t find a single social media account that fit his Abby Foster—correction—the Abigail Foster he was seeking. Frustrated with the scant results, Ethan shut down his device.

How could a thirty-year-old avoid the Internet to that extent?

Fatigue seeped through his muscles. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was fitful, disturbed by visions of a beautiful woman sinking beneath the surface of the water. This time Ethan didn’t reach her in time. Her brown eyes pleaded with him to save her while ice crystallized over her face. Ethan hammered on the thickening ice, but she sank deeper until she completely disappeared.





CHAPTER FOUR

The crystal paperweight shattered against the wall, but Ryland got no satisfaction from its destruction. It was just one more beautiful object acquired, then ruined by his hand.

Damn it. What was he going to do?

He spun his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse office suite. The overcast night sky loomed over a white-topped expanse of ocean. Below, lights illuminated the windswept Atlantic City boardwalk. In winter, both beach and boardwalk were empty, the stark beauty of the New Jersey shoreline unmarred by tourists. Ryland had mixed feelings about winter in Atlantic City. On one hand, summer tourists brought revenue to his casino. On the other, they littered the beaches and destroyed his view.