In the Enemy's Arms. Marilyn Pappano
screen door behind GayAnne. “Can’t,” she called over her shoulder. “No time.”
Leaving her own bag where it was, Cate walked to the door. A young man was swinging off a scooter out front. He tossed a second helmet to GayAnne, then heaved her bag onto the back of the scooter, securing it while she strapped on the helmet. A moment later, they were roaring out the gate, and the silence returned.
Cate swallowed hard, and her stomach knotted. Where was Trent? Susanna? The other volunteers? Where were the girls La Casa was built to serve? What in hell was going on here?
Slowly she turned away from the door again. Compared to La Casa’s usual activity, everything seemed unnaturally still. The house not only appeared abandoned, it felt it. It felt…lost. The sheen of the ancient wood floors seemed duller than usual. The paint on the thick plastered walls looked more faded. The very air smelled empty. Unused.
It unsettled her deep inside.
Her stomach still tight, she walked to the door of the room that served as La Casa’s office, making as little noise as possible—as if there were anyone around to hear it. Trent might have just taken off, even though he had obligations here, even though he’d known for six months she would be arriving today. He’d always been lazy and spoiled and selfish. He’d run out on her when things got tough more times than she could count, including that last time. The time she’d filed for divorce.
But Susanna Hunter, God love her, didn’t have a lazy, spoiled or selfish bone in her body. She’d been volunteering at soup kitchens when she was a kid, tutoring at-risk children when she was still in school, mentoring, fundraising, serving. This place and the girls it cared for meant the world to her. She would never just leave them.
Maybe GayAnne was wrong. Maybe she had a flair for the dramatic that Cate had missed seeing on her last visit. Maybe…
Susanna had run the shelter from this office, while the rest of the place housed the staff. Usually that in cluded Trent and three or four volunteers from the States. GayAnne had been there the longest, since Cate’s first visit. The others came from the college Susanna had attended or one of the churches back home that helped fund the mission, and they stayed anywhere from a week to six months. In addition, a couple of local women worked there, too.
Like the rest of the house, the office had an abandoned look: a half-eaten cookie on a saucer, a cup of coffee long gone cold. As if Susanna had merely taken a break and would be back any moment now. Her desk was covered with papers, but Cate had never seen it otherwise. The bulletin board hanging above it didn’t have a scrap of empty space available, and the chairs were piled with stacks of things to be filed—again, normal. Susanna was a hands-on person; she tolerated paperwork because it was an evil necessity.
A second, smaller desk on the other side was almost compulsively neat—not because Trent was, by nature, a neat person but because he opted for the easiest way out and, in this case, that was filing as he went along. The corkboard next to his desk held a calendar, with her arrival and departure dates circled in red, and a half-dozen photographs thumbtacked on randomly. They hadn’t changed since her last visit: three of Susanna, two of his parents and brothers and one of himself with Justin Seavers, his best friend from college. Two damn good-looking men, and together they weren’t worth a damn.
She eased the picture from under its tack, as was her habit, and studied it. The first time, Trent had cocked one brow and she’d shrugged. Just wondering where he hides his horns and pitchfork. The second time, alone in the office, she’d wondered if anyone had ever taken as quick a dislike to her as Justin had. She wasn’t ac customed to scorn at first sight. Usually, she had to do something significant to piss someone off that badly.
The photo had been taken within the last few years, on a boat somewhere off the coast of Cozumel. Both Trent and Justin wore dive skins pulled down to their waists. Though they were roughly the same size, they looked as different as night and day. Trent was dark— hair, eyes, skin; a gift from his Italian mother—and Justin was light—blond hair, café au lait skin and coffee-dark eyes. Though one came from Georgia, the other from Alabama, their lives had been pretty much the same from birth: privileged. The Seaverses had even more money than the Calloways; Justin’s sense of entitlement had been even greater than Trent’s.
Justin’s dislike for Cate had been even stronger than that.
Her cheeks heated, and the knot in her gut eased enough to summon her usual derision for Justin. He’d hated that she wasn’t just another of Trent’s passing diversions. He hadn’t wanted to lose his partying buddy—which he hadn’t—and he’d thought she didn’t deserve Trent. He’d told her so at the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding.
Cate hadn’t seen him since the following day, and she hoped she never would again.
Still clutching the photo, she turned and looked around the office once more. Maybe she should call the police, or Trent’s parents. Maybe she should get out of the house and get the authorities in there before any evidence that might exist was destroyed.
Tell the police what? her little voice scoffed. That her irresponsible ex-husband had forgotten she was supposed to arrive today? That his very responsible girlfriend had actually left the house rather than wait for Cate to make her way there? As for evidence, didn’t that imply a crime? Was there anything in this room to suggest something had happened?
Her eyes couldn’t see it, but her gut felt…something.
Gradually she became aware of a textural difference beneath her fingertips. Turning the photo over, she found a small Post-it note affixed to the picture, the precise writing in Trent’s hand.
C: If anything happens, call him. He’ll know what to do.
Call Justin Seavers? Yeah, right. The only times she’d ever called him, she’d been looking for her fiancé/husband when he hadn’t returned from a night out with the boys. He’d always been at Justin’s place, too hung over to talk to her, Justin had said in that superior tone. He’d told her to go on about her business, that Trent would come home when he was ready. Smug bastard.
And Trent wanted her to turn to him now? What could one lazy, irresponsible trust-fund baby do to help another?
Then she read the note again. If anything happens… Finding the shelter empty and silent certainly qualified as anything.
He’ll know what to do. Maybe Trent had confided in him. Maybe Justin could at least tell her something to report to the police. Maybe he knew where Trent and Susanna were and why everyone else had left.
Gritting her teeth, she stuck the photo back on the bulletin board, opened the lower-left drawer on Trent’s desk and pulled out a leather-bound address book. Trent relied on his smartphone for a lot, but he also liked pa-per-and-ink records. She found the entry she needed, then punched the numbers into her cell with tiny, vicious pokes.
The phone rang once in her ear, followed by a sound from outside the office. Moving the cell away, she took a hesitant step toward the door and listened hard. Music came faintly from somewhere inside the house, and it was moving closer.
Her palms went damp, and her heart stuttered to a stop before breaking into a gallop.
Oh, God, someone else was inside the house!
The ringtone was an Eric Clapton song, about a man on the run, trying to avoid getting swept away by a river of tears. Of course, a woman was his downfall; so often they were, though Justin Seavers had had better luck at avoiding that fate than most guys he knew.
There was no special meaning to the ringtone, though. He’d known Cate would call; the song had been on his phone; it was a thoughtless choice. It didn’t mean he’d ever cared—would ever care—enough to run from Cate, and it sure as hell didn’t mean she could save him. He wasn’t of the opinion that he actually needed saving, at least not anymore.
He silenced the phone as he reached the hall, then stepped through the office doorway. She was standing there, posture rigid, fingers clenched tightly around her cell phone. She was ten inches shorter than him, enough to make