Because Of A Girl. Janice Kay Johnson
shook her head. “In a way, but I never defied my parents right to their faces. I wouldn’t have dared. I suppose that’s why—”
“You wanted a different kind of relationship with your own daughter.”
She stared at him. He understood, at least on the surface.
His phone must be on vibrate, because he took it from a pocket and looked to see who was calling. An intense expression came and went on his face so fast, she couldn’t pin it down. Then he put the phone away and looked at her again, eyes flat.
“If your daughter lied successfully to your face, why are you so sure she isn’t lying about Sabra?”
Didn’t it figure he’d pounced right on the contradiction she’d admitted to him. Something cool in the way he was looking at her suggested all that friendly understanding had been thrown in to soften her up. So much for letting down her guard. They were not friends.
But this was important, and he had to ask. She took a minute to examine her feelings.
“When I thought back,” she said slowly, “after the lie about where they were going that evening, I realize how elaborately casual she was. Plus, saying I could call Maria’s mother if I wanted should have been a flashing red light. Usually she’s really touchy about me checking up on her. Now that I think back, there have been a few other times, too. It was so obvious.” She was embarrassed to have been so gullible. “As far as the stuff with Sabra goes, Emily isn’t an actor. She likes behind-the-scenes with the drama club, but has never tried out for a part. I don’t believe she could fake all the anxiety and fear she seems to be feeling.”
He watched her, evaluating every word that came out of her mouth and undoubtedly coming to his own conclusions. He finally gave an abrupt nod. “I see what you mean.” Lines formed between his eyebrows. “Occurs to me, though, that it doesn’t take any acting to not tell you something.”
No. Some things she refused to believe. Emily might be emotionally volatile, but she was responsible.
“I trust her.” Meg couldn’t allow any other possibility. “She is scared for Sabra. Why wouldn’t she tell us if she knew anything?”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. He made her self-conscious in a way she didn’t remember ever feeling. Because he represented authority? No authority had ever done her any good. She’d had to save herself. What’s more, self-employment meant she rarely had to answer to anyone. But...she didn’t think who or what he represented had much to do with her feeling off balance. He shook her up on a much more personal level, because of the way he watched her, the gleam she sometimes saw in his eyes.
Men had looked at her that way before, but she’d never felt any reciprocal interest. Zip. This...tingle of excitement was unsettling in and of itself. Never mind the way he blew hot and cold.
“Do you mind my asking what you do for a living?” he said abruptly, yanking her from her uneasy reverie.
“I consider myself an artisan,” she said a little stiffly. “I hook rugs.”
Was she imagining that his lip curled? She couldn’t tell, because his gaze flicked to the pillows scattered on the sofa before resting on the sheepdog near his feet. “Like that one.”
“Yes.”
“Hook?”
She gave a very short explanation of the technique.
“You can make enough to live on doing that?” He sounded incredulous.
“If you work hard enough and market your product effectively.” With her crispness, she hoped she conveyed that, yes, it was work.
“Like arts and crafts fairs?” Disbelief and the faintest hint of scorn sounded in his voice.
Stung, she wouldn’t have explained at all if she wasn’t painfully aware he was investigating her right along with the girl who’d gone missing under her care.
So she said calmly, “I still do a few of those, but being on the road like that isn’t very practical when you’re raising a child.” Once upon a time, Emily had loved helping her at summer festivals. “I sell through a number of galleries and gift shops. Increasingly, most of my sales come from my shop on Etsy and my own website. Additionally, I design my own patterns—everything I do is original—and sell kits made from them. I’ve also licensed a couple of patterns, which means women in China or Bangladesh hook hundreds or thousands of the exact same rug that is then sold through a catalog or in stores. Those are very profitable.” She wasn’t about to tell him about the offers she’d declined, when she doubted the quality of the company’s products. He could think what he wanted about her. “I’m putting together a proposal for a book right now.”
His expression had become unreadable, another good reason not to trust him too much. His current stare annoyed her. She stared right back, afraid her chin had lifted in a subtle challenge.
If so, he didn’t react to that, either. His jaw did tighten. When he finally broke the silence, he managed to take her by surprise.
“Tell me what you know about Sabra’s father.”
* * *
JACK WAS IN a foul mood by the time he left Meg Harper’s house. Déjà vu. Mostly he was angry at himself. He’d stayed too long, let the conversation veer into irrelevancies. For minutes at a time, he’d let himself forget why he was there, and he couldn’t afford that.
He stalked across her unkempt lawn and swung himself into his department-issue SUV.
The woman was still a cross between a suspect, an informant and a witness. He couldn’t yet rule out the possibility that she had a role in Sabra’s disappearance. He sure as hell hadn’t been able to prove she’d driven the girl to school the way she claimed.
From her glorious hair to eyes that betrayed her every thought to her ripe curves and quick movements, she did it for him physically, big-time; he couldn’t deny that. So what? He’d already made his decision. Beyond the purely physical, she was the absolute last kind of woman he’d want to get involved with.
With a snort, he fired up the engine. An artisan! And she’d said it with a straight face. What she did was a craft. One with a folk art charm, sure—but to call it work? Glorifying the pretty rugs she made gave her an excuse to play instead of keeping other commitments.
Something like anger roared through him. With a real job, she might be able to buy a decent car or get some work done on her house. Was “hooking” rugs going to pay for her kid’s college education? Or was she capable of thinking that far ahead?
She was pretty damned emotional, too, her eyes getting moist because her daughter was acting like every other fifteen-year-old in existence did. Who was she kidding?
Backing out of the driveway, he continued to brood over the woman he’d just left.
Yeah, she’d done a generous thing, taking in a troubled kid just because she was a friend of her daughter. The impulse was good, even if the execution had been as slapdash as he suspected everything else she did. She’d gotten nothing in writing. Letting the authorities know she had the girl? Why would she want to do that?
What annoyed Jack most was how she aroused his protective instincts. He’d had her on his mind all day, worrying about how hard the Child Protective Services worker would come down on her. He had flinched to see the pain in her eyes as her daughter flung angry words.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He would have to step carefully with her. Avoiding her would be best, but that probably wouldn’t be possible, if only because he couldn’t lean too heavily on Emily without her mother’s presence or permission.
And lean he would. Emily was key. If she didn’t know what was going on with Sabra, she suspected. Despite her mother’s denials, he’d put money on it. And, for no good reason, his gut was telling him that the pregnant girl was in trouble, if not already dead.
During