Mind Reader (14 page)

That, he believed.
 
“You’re coming home with me.”

 
“You live
here?”

Parker heard the surprise in Caron’s voice, and, looking through the Porsche’s windshield, he glanced up at the house. It wasn’t much different from the other homes lining Pontchartrain Drive—just three stories of white brick,
mortar and verandas surrounded by a lawn no self-
respecting weed would dare to grow in and a black wrought-
iron gate. Mossy old oaks lined the sweeping drive, and
strategically placed lawn lights shone amber on stately evergreens and fragrant magnolias. To him, it was home, just
as it had been home to three generations of his mother’s family. But to Caron, he was sure, the house reeked of
wealth.

He grimaced, sorry that he’d brought her here. She’d be stiff and formal with him now, intimidated, maybe even withdrawn. He’d lost it emotionally for a while back at her
place, but he’d calmed down since—at least enough to
know that he needed her comfortable, needed her guard down, to catch her cold and prove beyond all reasonable doubt that she was a con artist committing fraud.

Someone
was
after her, and he meant to find out who and why. But that didn’t exonerate her for what she’d done
to Harlan. Parker had to keep that injustice firmly in mind.

He gripped the steering wheel and compromised, telling
her a half-truth. “I stay here.” Dishonesty rubbed him the wrong way, but this time the end justified the means.

“Oh.”

No disappointment edged her voice, just acknowledgment. That surprised him, too. He drove through the gate and stopped in the center of the circular drive, near the gurgling fountain spurting streams of pink water. At least she was talking again. For most of the ride, she’d sat staring woodenly out of the window, nearly comatose.

Some truth niggled at the fringe of his conscience, as if he ought to be seeing something obvious, but wasn’t. Unable to put a finger on the source, he got out of the car, went around, then helped Caron out. Before plunging in, he should have thought this move through. But he hadn’t, and what was done was done. At least he wouldn’t have to explain this to his mother and Megan. They weren’t due back
from Europe until after Christmas, so there was no
chance they’d drop in on him.

And he wouldn’t have to worry about them confiding in Caron, blowing his cover and a year’s work.

Caron stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but she was scanning, taking it all in, the gardens, the house, the pool.

His fingers stiff on her arm, he grabbed her suitcase from
the back seat, then led her in and showed her around.

From her expression, it was clear she recognized that valuable antiques stuffed the rooms, all the way to the attics, that Turkish rugs littered the hardwood floors, and
that a Botticelli painting hung on the wall. But she kept her
thoughts to herself, not uttering a sound...until they stepped into the garden.

The scent of irises hung heavy on the cool night air.
Caron touched the petals of a white iris almost reverently.

“Ina likes irises,” she said softly. “I stomped hers.”

Parker stepped into a shadow. Caron seemed so fragile.
“We’ll get her some more.”

She looked back at him, still fingering the petal. “Decker
stomped them on purpose, but I didn’t know they were there. I jumped the fence...” She gave Parker a searching look that tied him into knots. “Do you think Ina will see
the difference?”

Doubt, he realized. Shock, too. “Sure she will.”

Taking Caron’s arm, he led her inside and up the glossy oak stairs. At the bedroom next to his, he stopped and
opened the door. “Here you are.”

She stepped inside and slowly turned in a circle. Parker’s gaze went with her. White oak furniture. A high can
opy bed draped in soft pink antique satin. A skirted
dressing table and tiny pink floral wallpaper.

“It’s pretty.”

Her simple remark eased the tense knot from his chest.
Seeing the house through her eyes made him feel guilty for
having been so fortunate—and acutely aware of how un
fortunate Caron had been. She’d been raised by her mother
in a shabby four-room house in a neighborhood that
spawned drug dealers and prostitutes. Thanks to her aunt Grace’s getting Caron in with Dr. Zilinger, Caron had become acquainted with Sanders. And money for the basics soon had become available through him—courtesy of the
good taxpayers of the city of New Orleans. Consultant fees
for Caron’s services.

Harlan had figured Sanders and Caron’s mother were
having a fling, but Parker wasn’t sure about that. The
woman was strapped financially and had been ever since
Caron’s father had taken off for parts unknown. But as far
as Parker had been able to tell, Sanders and Caron’s mother
had never met. On what basis had Harlan pegged them as
lovers?

The answer to that question had died with Harlan. But Parker felt sure that lack of money
could
induce a parent to coerce a child into pretending to “see” things she really
didn’t see. Kids wanted to please their parents. Hadn’t
Parker played tight end in the championship game with a broken wrist so that he wouldn’t disappoint his father?

That could be it. That could be why Caron pretended to be psychic. So that she wouldn’t disappoint her mother— her father having already deserted her. Or maybe she pre
tended for the money. Or maybe for attention? To get back
at life for having been so hard on her?

It was possible, Parker decided. But not probable. Car
on seemed appreciative of his things, but not overly im
pressed—except by the flowers in the garden. Frankly, pretense didn’t seem her style. But she was a con artist, he
reminded himself. Her seeming lack of interest could be
intentional.

He dragged a hand through his hair. Hell, what did her reasons matter, anyway? Harlan was dead. She was re
sponsible. That was the bottom line.

“Parker?”

Standing by the window, she looked small and solemn.
From the knees down, her white slacks were mud-spattered,
and a bit of mustard competed with the water stains on her
crumpled yellow blouse. Her hair hung in damp wheaten
ropes, and her eyes...damn those eyes for looking so
vulnerable. How could she look so lost and vulnerable?

“I want to thank you for...tonight.”

She meant it. He could see that she did. Now he felt
guilty
and
like a heel. Wishing she was fighting mad, wishing she wasn’t looking at him like she’d lost her last friend,
he shrugged. “What are partners for?”

“I’m scared.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m not
used to being scared.”

“I know.” The awareness that her words barely pricked the surface of her feelings had the urge to comfort her
slamming into him. Parker stiffened against it. But once
more she’d touched him. She’d reached deep inside him and
wrenched out feelings he didn’t want to have for her. And
he had to admit that, if only to himself. “Why don’t you
get into bed? I’ll bring you a glass of warm milk to help you
get some rest.”

Caron nodded, and he left the room.

By the time he heated the milk, called police headquar
ters to report the break-in to Sandy—getting his machine—and walked back upstairs, Parker was convinced. He was a walking lump of screwed-up con
tradictions on all matters relating to Caron Chalmers. He wanted her, and he shouldn’t. He doubted there was
a case, yet knew there was a case. He hated her for deceiving others, yet he willingly deceived her. He knew she was
a fraud, yet she didn’t look or act like a fraud. She looked
and acted vulnerable. She
was
vulnerable. And, despite his
resolve not to, he felt protective toward her. It was like he’d
told her. He gave a damn. He cared. And he had no right.

Deciding he’d definitely lost his mind, he tapped on her
door.

No answer. He tapped again. “Caron?”

Still no answer.

Parker eased the door open. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, her legs folded under her, a long flannel nightgown, so faded it belonged in a rag bag, covering every inch of her skin, from chin to toes. Her expression
was wooden, so fixed that Parker feared that if she blinked
an eyelash would crack off, and her skin was the color of
the milk.

“Caron?” He stepped closer, but still she didn’t move. He set the milk on the nightstand and sank down onto the
edge of the bed. “Caron,” he said again, touching her arm.
“Don’t let this get to you. Not like this.”

Something in her seemed to snap. “It’s gotten to me,
Parker.” She glared at him, fury sparking in her eyes. “It’s
gotten to me way down deep.”

“I’ve reported the break-in. Tomorrow you’ll need to do
the paperwork.” When she didn’t say anything, he let his hand slide up the length of her arm. The flannel was soft, and it felt good against his palm. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“I am scared.” The look in her eyes changed. Her irises
deepened to a dark purple that bordered on black. “But
I’m even more angry. I was violated. So was Misty. That’s
wrong, Parker. No one should be violated.” Her voice grew harder. “Misty can’t fight whoever’s behind this. But I can,
and I will.”

Relieved that she was rallying, Parker smiled and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “When you get your spunk back, you do it with a vengeance, don’t you?”

“It surprised me.” He heard her swallow. “We all have a dark side that’s dishonest. I should know that in some people dark’s about all there is. It’s happened so many
times.” Lines proving she’d received one too many disappointments etched her face, and she let out a self-mocking
laugh. “I’m a slow learner.” Her gaze, steady and prob
ing, locked with his. “No matter how often it happens, dishonesty always surprises me. Does it you?”

Did she know? A streak of uncertainty shot up his spine, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Had she connected him with
Harlan? Instead of answering, he asked a question of his
own. “Have you been deceived a lot?”

“Many times.” She sighed deeply, avoiding his eyes. “Once people realize you can see things, they’re always
scheming of ways to use you—usually to get them money.”
She reached past him for the milk and took a drink. “That’s why Aunt Grace took me to Dr. Zilinger’s.”

So Caron didn’t know, and it was her Aunt Grace who’d wanted the money, not her mother. Could Harlan have
confused the women? Maybe it was Grace and Sanders who
were lovers. Maybe...Caron’s hand was steadier now. Parker was glad to see that. “How old were you?”

“Seven.” Caron again sipped from the glass. “My fa
ther was a heavy gambler. All the family knew about my
gift, of course, though my mother drummed it into my
head to ignore the images. One night, my father handed me
a racing form. I pointed out the winner.” A sad smile
curved her lips. “That was the last time we saw him.”

She rubbed her calf, the same one she’d rubbed in the
I and in the car. Parker frowned. “The horse won.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Why didn’t your father come back, then, for more winnings?”

She lifted her chin a fraction. “My mother forbade him to come near me again. He called a couple of times. Once, I even answered.” She looked over to the window. “But Mother took the phone and told him not to call again.”

Parker’s stomach pitched. He was torn. On the one hand, her father had the right to be a part of his daughter’s life. On the other, her mother couldn’t be
faulted for not letting Caron’s father use his daughter. This explained a great deal. It was no wonder Caron was reluctant to trust him, or any man. “Your mother blamed you, didn’t she?”

“Yes, and no.” Caron slumped back against the pil
lows. “She didn’t openly say it was my fault Dad was gone,
but I felt guilty.” She scraped her lower lip with her teeth.
“If I hadn’t had the gift, she wouldn’t have sent him away.”

“And she never let you forget that, did she?”

Caron didn’t answer. Nor did she look at him.

She didn’t have to; he knew. Anger at her mother burned
in his stomach. How many times had Caron paid? How often had barbed remarks, accusations and blame been
thrown in her face?