The Sheriff of Shelter Valley. Tara Quinn Taylor
“As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to own my own business.” She was so passionate in what she was saying that Greg almost missed how adeptly she’d sidestepped his question.
“I don’t know how we got that far off topic,” she added, before he could attempt to wade any further through the vagueness surrounding her, “but maybe Katie just doesn’t like kids who are a little more serious in their endeavors and that’s why she won’t play with my son.”
No matter how beautiful the teasing grin she shot him, it didn’t cover the fact that she had, once again, completely turned the conversation away from herself.
From his probing.
“I still think Ryan’s the problem,” he said, quite purposefully egging her on.
“My son is not a problem.” The teasing glint remained in her eyes, but she’d crossed her arms over her chest. Usually a defensive gesture.
At least, when you were a suspect being questioned.
“Okay, problem is the wrong choice of word. But if the kid’s anything like his mom…”
“Ryan plays with other kids,” she said. She’d lost the glint.
Sobering, Greg said, “Bonnie told me the reason you volunteer at the day care in exchange for playtime is that you’re trying to draw the little guy out more.”
“I want him to have a homelike environment during the day when I work, but I did think being around other kids his age might encourage him to talk.”
Greg nodded. He knew how much Bonnie and Keith—and he, too, for that matter—ached over every little glitch in Katie’s life. A measurement that wasn’t right in the middle of the chart. Teeth coming too soon, steps taken too late. Fevers, ear infections, runny noses. An aversion to vegetables. Shouldering all those worries alone had to be hard.
And that on top of losing the man you’d meant to spend the rest of your life with…
“If there’s ever anything I can do—teach him to play catch, empathize with you when he’s sick—you know I’m here, right?” he asked, certain that he was crossing a line he shouldn’t cross.
“Thanks.” Beth smiled again. A sad, very real smile, instead of the quick assurance he’d been expecting.
It wasn’t agreeing to a date. But in Greg’s book, it was far better than that.
And even though she’d given him more information about herself than he’d ever had before, he still didn’t have a clear picture of who Beth Allen really was.
“SO WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY?” Beth asked Greg when silence fell between them and she was afraid he might take that as a sign to leave.
She felt buoyed up and wasn’t ready to be alone.
He sat back, his uniform creased from a day in the August heat. That uniform made her uncomfortable. It reminded her of everything she couldn’t have. Freedom from fear. Freedom to speak openly. Sex.
“I can’t be sure, but I might have wasted the majority of it.” The words, accompanied by a tired sigh, completely surprised her.
Greg always seemed so on top of things. In control. Able to handle anything.
She couldn’t believe how quickly she wanted to help when she found out that wasn’t the case.
“Anything you can talk about?”
“I’m attempting to find a connection between some recent carjackings and the one involving my father ten years ago.”
Knowing how close Greg and Bonnie were, how much family meant to them, that couldn’t be an easy job. “You think there is one?”
He clasped and unclasped his hands. “I’m sure of it. Problem is, the deputy in charge—the best man in the whole damn department, as far as I’m concerned—doesn’t agree with me.”
“What does he say?”
“That I’m making it personal.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Beth didn’t know much about herself, but thought she had a pretty good sense of this man. The type of person he was. “You’re a smart man, Greg. And an honest one. I don’t think you’d kid yourself about something as serious as this.”
His eyes were grateful when he looked over at her, making Beth feel elated for no reason at all.
“I don’t think so, either,” he murmured.
“So what are the similarities you’re finding? Anything you’re free to discuss?”
“In the first place, we’re dealing with a series of carjackings in both cases. There are other random occurrences, but these fit an identical pattern—several assaults with the same MO over a relatively short period of time. Two guys, late teens-early twenties, just after rush hour—either morning or evening.”
“It’s the same two guys every time?”
“No.” Greg looked more than frustrated when he shook his head. “In fact, they aren’t always even from the same ethnic background.”
“So what else?” There had to be more. Greg wasn’t the type to be this concerned over flimsy evidence.
“They only take place in the summer, for one thing. I have no idea what that means, but it has to mean something. They start midsummer, there’s a rash of them, and then, inexplicably, they stop. No arrests. Not even any real suspects. They just stop.”
“What about the drivers?” Beth asked. “Could they be the tie-in somehow?”
With another shake of his head and a raised brow, Greg said, “I don’t find a single thing to connect them.
Not age. Not where they work or live. Not their religion, where they bought their cars or even their injuries.” A shadow of pain crossed his face.
She winced inside, thankful suddenly for the blessing of amnesia. “They weren’t all hurt?”
His brows drawn together, Greg gave her an apologetic glance. “You don’t have to do this.”
“What?” she asked, a bit afraid of how important it had suddenly become to talk this through with him. To do something to help him. “Talk to a friend?”
“Is that what we are? Friends?” His expression lost none of its seriousness.
“I don’t know.” Beth had to be honest. After a pause, she returned to her earlier question “So, they weren’t all hurt?”
“Of this current group, all but one,” Greg said. His voice was tightly controlled but she could hear the anger.
“Most were killed,” he went on. “But not in the same way. One was shot. Another raped and strangled. One was left unconscious in the desert to either succumb to the heat or die of dehydration, whichever came first.”
Beth swallowed.
“I can stop now.”
“No, go on,” she said. “It’s okay, really. I’m not squeamish. I’m just sorry for these people and their families.”
She wasn’t squeamish. Another characteristic to add to the list she was keeping in her memory notebook. This was a good one. The kind she liked to add. Rated right up there with orderly.
“This summer, a college girl chose to throw herself out of the back seat of her moving car rather than submit to whatever else her abductors had in mind. She was a dancer and knew how to land and roll. She was miraculously unhurt.”
Beth frowned, struck by an uncomfortable thought. Could something like this have happened to her? Had she merely been the victim