Lost Cause. Janice Johnson Kay
which people were the family he’d lost and which were foster families. But sometimes he saw this woman, pretty and dark-haired, smiling as she bent to swoop him up. There’d been a girl, too, dark-haired and skinny. And a baby. He had this memory of crying in terror when someone tried to get him to go to bed in a room by himself. He wanted to stay with… He didn’t know. The baby sister? Well, that made sense. From what the P.I. and this Carrie had said, the two of them had been taken away and then adopted out, and the big sister got to stay with family.
And he was supposed to worry about hurting her. Gary grunted and shook his head.
But he guessed the fact that she’d gotten the breaks wasn’t her fault. And chasing memories that refused to be caught was getting old.
So he figured he’d take a ride cross-country to Washington state, maybe stay a couple of weeks, talk to this Carrie and…Suzanne? yeah, Suzanne, a few times, hear the real story.
Then figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life that would keep him from flying over the guardrail the next time, into the welcoming darkness.
CHAPTER TWO
REBECCA WILSON LOOKED forward to this home visit. She’d scheduled it almost three weeks ago, so she had reread the file this morning. Once again, she liked what it said about Suzanne Chauvin, especially her open attitude about what age or gender or race of child she’d take. So many people acted as if they were shopping for a garment of a particular color and style.
“We’d consider a girl up to two and a half,” they’d say. Two and three-quarters would apparently be too old. “We’d like fair skin. Nobody in our family can even tan! Blond would be great. And blue eyes.”
She could tell that they were really envisioning a baby. Their ideal. Which left her wondering: Would they be disappointed by a healthy, happy two-year-old with brown hair, hazel eyes and a golden tint to her skin?
Oh, well. Rebecca understood the desire to adopt a child who looked as if she could be yours. Nonetheless, she was grateful for the occasional parents-to-be who just wanted a kid to love and didn’t care if people could tell their children were adopted.
She glanced again at the map of Edmonds in the Thomas Guide that lay open on the seat beside her. If she turned up ahead…
Edmonds was so pretty. Climbing a hillside rising from Puget Sound were neighborhoods of a mix of older and new homes, many on lots terraced by stone or cement retaining walls. Even several of the more modest houses had peekaboo views of the Sound, blue and choppy today, the green-and-white Washington State ferries that arrived and departed every forty-five minutes, and the Olympic Mountains on the other side, already white-capped in mid-October. Rebecca wished she could afford to live here, rather than in her small condo in Lynnwood within earshot of I-5 and night-and-day traffic.
But social work of any kind didn’t pay that well, even though she had a master’s degree. It would help if she’d stayed put rather than changing jobs, but after three years of dealing with an overwhelming caseload of abused and neglected children and their horrifically dysfunctional families, she hadn’t been able to handle the stress anymore. What she’d done there had been so important, she felt guilty for quitting.
She kept telling herself this job was a break. A vacation. She’d be ready again someday to rescue children from the parents they loved desperately despite the blows and the filthy homes and the nights huddled alone because Mommy hadn’t come home. But not yet.
She turned onto the street and looked eagerly ahead. Halfway down the block…yes, it was the gray rambler with white trim, dwarfed by the two-story next door. The house was friendly-looking, Rebecca decided immediately, before laughing at herself. Way to jump to conclusions!
As she approached from one direction, she noticed a gleaming black-and-chrome motorcycle coming from the other way, the powerful roar out of place on this quiet street. The rider was going slowly, just as she’d been, as if also scanning house numbers. When she pulled to the curb, he did the same, swerving onto her side of the street and stopping with the front tire of his bike only a few feet from her front bumper.
She turned off the engine and checked in the rearview mirror to be sure her makeup was intact and her shoulder-length, copper-red hair was smooth. As she reached for her briefcase, she saw him set the kickstand and swing his leg over the back of the bike. He pulled the helmet from his head and hung it over the handle bar. Although he wasn’t obvious about it, she had the feeling he was watching her, which made her nervous. Without standing next to him, she couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think he was a huge man. Still, there was something…tough about him. His dark, straight hair was shaggy, his blue jeans and black leather jacket well worn, his gaze narrow-eyed and…well, she couldn’t tell whether he was wary, hostile or just naturally unfriendly looking.
Was he Suzanne Chauvin’s boyfriend? She’d denied having a serious relationship in the questionnaires she’d filled out.
Rebecca hesitated, then got out. For Pete’s sake, it was broad daylight! And just because a man rode a Harley-Davidson—at least, she thought that’s what it was—didn’t mean he was a Bandido or Hells Angel.
Nonetheless, she circled the back of her car so that she wasn’t too near him on the sidewalk. She gave a vague, pleasant nod in his direction, then started toward the driveway.
His voice followed her. “Are you Suzanne?” He sounded doubtful.
“Me?” She turned, startled. “No. Is that who you’re looking for?”
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the house. “This is the address I have for her.”
“It is her address.” Should she have told him that? “If you don’t know what she looks like, I guess you’re not an old friend.”
A nerve jumped in his cheek. “She’s my sister.”
She gaped. “Your…what? But…”
“I don’t know what she looks like. Yeah.” His mouth twisted. “Long story. Do you know her?”
“Not yet. I’m here to interview her.” None of his business, she reminded herself. He didn’t know what his own sister looked like. Sure. “Well.” Out of her element, she said, “Shall we go to the door together?”
He didn’t move. “No, go ahead. She’s not expecting me.”
O-kay. She gave another nod his way and continued up the driveway. To her annoyance, she was too conscious of his gaze to assess the house or yard as she walked, or to organize her thoughts.
She rang the bell, and the door opened so quickly, Suzanne had to have been hovering nervously in the entryway. She looked just like the photo in the file, pretty and petite with warm brown eyes and thick, glossy dark hair bundled on the crown of her head with a scrunchy.
Smiling, Suzanne said, “Hi, you’re Ms. Wilson?”
“Rebecca, please.” They shook hands. “What a nice neighborhood! And I see you have a bit of a view.”
Suzanne laughed. “That’s a generous way of describing the fact that if you stand at the very edge of the porch and crane your neck you can see a sliver of blue.” Her gaze went past Rebecca. “I wonder who that is.”
Rebecca looked over her shoulder. “The guy with the bike? He says…” Wow, she felt silly even saying this. “He says he’s your brother.”
She could never have expected the reaction she got. A tiny whimper escaped the woman who’d greeted her with such friendly poise and Suzanne gripped the door frame, face suddenly pale. “My…brother?” she whispered.
“Well, he said you’re his sister, but he doesn’t know what you look like. I didn’t take him seriously….”
As if she didn’t hear her, Suzanne brushed past Rebecca and hurried down the steps and then the driveway.
The man, who’d been half sitting on his bike, legs