Sanctuary in Chef Voleur. Mallory Kane
at her. With any luck, she’d turn and run. Her type was easily intimidated.
But her gaze didn’t waver. She lifted her chin and to his surprise, he recognized a staunch determination in her green eyes, along with a spark of stubbornness. Interesting. But the small furrow between her brows didn’t smooth out and the corners of her mouth were still pinched and tight.
He put his hand on the doorknob, preparing to close the door and get back to his coffee. “Can I help you?” he asked grudgingly.
“I’m looking for Kathleen Griffin,” she said quietly.
The name hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. “Who?” he said, an automatic response designed to give him a second to think. But his brain seemed suddenly to be caught in a loop. Kathleen Griffin, Kathleen. Kathleen.
“K-Kathleen Griffin. The mailbox said Griffin.” She gestured vaguely toward the front door.
It had been twenty years since his mother had died. This young woman wouldn’t have been more than five or six at the time. Why would she be looking for his mother? “What’s this about?”
“It’s...personal,” she said, glancing behind him into his foyer.
“I doubt that,” he said flatly. “Go peddle whatever you’re selling somewhere else. Kathleen Griffin doesn’t live here.” He started to close the door, but she held out a small, dog-eared photo. The paper was old and faded, but one of the two women in the picture looked familiar.
“Please,” she said. Her hand was trembling, making the paper flutter.
“What’s that?” he asked, knowing he was going to regret having asked that question. He held the door in its half-shut position.
The young woman’s throat quivered as she swallowed. “It’s a picture of my mother and Kathleen Griffin,” she said, lifting her chin. “I really need to see her. It’s a—” she bit her lower lip briefly and her gaze faltered “—it’s a matter of life and death.”
He gave a short laugh, but cut it off when she winced. “Life and death,” he said dubiously. “Who are you?”
“Hannah Martin,” she responded. “My mother is Stephanie Clemens.”
She waited, watching him. But he didn’t recognize the name. He gave a quick shake of his head, took a small step backward and started to close the door.
“You’re her son, aren’t you?”
Her words sent his stomach diving straight down to his toes. He shook his head, not in denial—in resignation. She had him and he knew it. He also knew that if he didn’t do whatever he had to do in order to get rid of her this minute, he was going to regret it for a long time. “I’m sorry, but Kathleen Griffin is dead. So...” He put his hand on the door, preparing to close it.
“Oh. Oh, no,” Hannah Martin said, her eyes filling with tears and her face losing its color. “I’m so sorry—” she started, but at that instant, her phone rang. She jerked at the sound, then reached into her purse and pulled it out.
As Mack watched, she looked at the screen as if she was afraid it might reach out and bite her. When she checked the display, her face lost what little color it had. She made a quiet sound, like a small animal cornered by a hungry predator. Her fingers tightened on the phone until the knuckles turned white, and all the time, the phone kept ringing, a loud, strident peal.
Whoever was on the other end of that call frightened her. In fact, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. When the ringing finally stopped, Hannah dropped the phone back into her purse as if it were made of molten lava.
Mack had missed his best opportunity. He should have closed the door as soon as her phone rang. It was the perfect opportunity to escape. But he hadn’t taken it. He wasn’t sure why.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I apologize for bothering you.” She closed her eyes briefly.
She’d let him off the hook. He took a step backward, preparing to close the door, because of course, she was about to turn and walk away.
But she didn’t move. Her ghostly white face took on a faint greenish hue. She swayed like a slender tree in a punishing wind. Then she fainted.
Mack dived, catching her in time to keep her head from hitting the floor. She was fairly short, compared to his six-foot-one-inch height and he’d already noticed that she wasn’t a lightweight. Her body was compact and firm. Lowering her gently to the floor, he grabbed a pillow off the couch and placed it under her head, making the decision to leave her on the floor rather than try to move her to the couch or a bed.
By the time he’d gotten the pillow under her head, she’d woken up. He recalled a paramedic telling him once that if someone passed out and woke up immediately, they were probably in no immediate danger.
Her face still had that greenish hue, although surprisingly, it didn’t detract from its loveliness. He retrieved the photo she’d dropped when she’d passed out. He looked at the two young women—girls, really. They were both pretty and pleasant-faced. They were laughing at whoever was taking the picture, and behind them, Mack recognized the furniture. Most of it was still here. He knew one of the girls. It was his mother. He smiled sadly, seeing how young and happy and innocent she looked.
He’d never seen the other girl before, but the young woman lying just outside his door bore a strong resemblance to her. He turned the photo over. On the back was written “Kath and me at her house” in an unfamiliar hand. The other handwriting he knew. It was his mother’s flowery script. She’d written “sisters forever” and his address.
Hannah stirred and tried to sit up. “What happened?” she asked, looking around in confusion.
“You fainted,” he said.
She stared at him. “No, I didn’t,” she said, frowning at him suspiciously. “I never faint. Did you do something—?” But then her hand went to her head. “I feel dizzy.”
“Just sit there a minute. I’ll get you some water,” he said grudgingly. He rose and drew her a glass of tap water. When he handed her the glass, she drank about half of it.
Then she shook her head as if trying to shake off a haze. “I guess I must have fainted.”
“I guess,” he said, a faint wryness in his voice.
She rose onto her haunches and stood, then grabbed on to his forearm for a second, to steady herself. “I never faint,” she said again.
Mack smiled. “So I’ve heard,” he said, thinking she was stubborn. He assessed her. Her color was still not good. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, then felt irritated at himself for asking. Hell, she’d stood up on her own. So it was the perfect time for her to leave. And again, he’d missed his chance. And right there was one of the primary reasons why he didn’t get involved with her type. She was obviously on some personal mission that would consume her life until she accomplished it. A certain clue—she’d driven all night without stopping except to get coffee and gasoline.
“Thanks,” she said, and turned and headed, a little unsteadily, for the small dining table. He followed her.
She started to sit, then looked around.
“Here,” Mack said, handing her the photo. “This what you’re looking for?”
She took it. “Was this what we were talking about when I—” she gestured toward the front door.
“When you didn’t faint?” He nodded, deciding for the moment not to remind her that she’d received a phone call that had scared her.
She held the photo in one hand and touched the faces of the two girls with a fingertip. “According to my mother, she and Kathleen Griffin swore they’d always be there for one another. Sisters forever.”
“And?”