Tin God (13 page)

“You can’t blame yourself.” His voice was closer now, near her ear. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Against her better judgment, she looked up. Their faces were mere inches apart. His hand tightened around hers.

She found her voice. “Neither can you.”

“Aren’t we a pair?” His smile didn’t help her plight. She needed to pull away, put some distance between them. Run to the other side of the room and draw an imaginary line. My space, your space. Don’t cross it unless you want a swift kick in the pants. She scooted closer.

“I guess we are.”

He licked his lips once, twice. His eyes were heavy-lidded, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. His palms were clammy.

Jaymee closed the distance, pressing her lips to his in one fluid movement. Nick groaned and pulled her close, his strong fingers digging gently into her upper arms. She snaked her hands over his chest. His muscles shuddered at the touch.

All of this was wrong, but she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop her euphoria at his touch or her heart from stuttering and racing. Every muddled thought in her brain became crystal clear, and for a few brief seconds, she felt content.

The box hit the floor with a thud. The cloud of satisfaction evaporated, and Jaymee tore herself away. Nick breathed in short, hard bursts, his reaching hands still suspended in mid-air. The ruddy flush on his cheeks extended to his collarbone.

“I’m sorry.” She wanted to crawl under the bed and never come out. “I shouldn’t have.”

He blinked as though coming out of spell. “S’ok. I should’ve stopped you.”

God, she’d made a mess of things. Jaymee wasn’t used to letting her libido go crazy. Ever since Holden tore her apart, she’d worked hard for self-control. Every relationship she had was on her terms. But this–this thing with Nick? It was something new and terrifying and quickly spiraling out of her control.

She looked at the box’s scattered contents. Her stomach soured. This was Lana’s husband, for God’s sake.

“Let’s just forget about this,” Jaymee said. “Call it a moment of insanity. Please.” A foolish demand, but making it was the only way she knew to salvage the situation. They’d come to Jackson to dig up clues to Lana’s murder, not betray her.

He closed his eyes. The harsh set of his jaw softened. “Yeah, all right.”

Jaymee leapt off the bed and started gathering up the spilled contents. There were letters written on college-ruled paper and a cluster of cards. Sticky notes, a journal. She stood and dumped them on the bed beside Nick.

His hand hovered over the pile. Finally, he traced the cover of the card nearest him. “This was the card I got her for her last birthday. I actually gave it to her on time.”

“It’s pretty.”

He shook himself and began slogging through the pile. “Cards. Letters I wrote to her in college. Letters from Cage.”

“Anyone else?”

“You. Just a postcard.”

He tossed it at Jaymee. She ignored the edge in his tone. She remembered the card. She’d sent it a couple months before Lana was killed to let her know she was fine. And to keep working at “it.”

“Thought you told her to back off,” he accused.

“I did, at your wedding. But it wasn’t that simple. I was hurting, and Lana didn’t want to let things go. She wanted justice.”

“And you wanted your revenge on Wilcher.”

“I wanted my daughter back.”

“And you used my wife to get her.”

“I never used her.” She worked to keep her voice controlled as she battled guilt to defend herself. “She wanted to help.”

“Of course she did. That’s who she was.” His loud voice echoed off the hardwood floors as he mirrored her stance. “She never met a lost cause she couldn’t take on. You knew that. Why else did you call her after you made a scene in church? You knew you couldn’t go back home.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. And I wouldn’t have called Lana if it weren’t for Cage. He thought I should get out of town and get my problems sorted out.”

“I bet he did. Probably figured you’d come back ready to be with him.”

“Don’t.” Jaymee held up her hand, marking an invisible battle line. “You can blast me over Lana all you want, but don’t bring my relationship with him into this.”

“Relationship? Those require give and take, Jaymee. What have you given to Cage? False hope? That guy is in love with you, and you don’t even care. You’re happy to string him along though.”

“Stop.”

“Why should I?”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Her knuckles dug into the tender flesh of her thighs.

“Nope, but it feels good.”

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re in denial.” His body was taut, shoulders rolled back, hands flexing and feet poised as though ready to spring. Jaymee knew the expression, knew the drive behind his words. She’d become a scapegoat for his pain–an easy outlet for grief and guilt.

They faced off, Jaymee standing at the end of the bed and Nick near the front, the precious tokens of Lana’s life between them.

She backed off first. Running her mouth was only going to fuel the argument. And it was difficult to stand her ground when part of her knew what he was saying to be true.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. You take your bed. We both need some rest.” She kept the tears at bay until she turned around. By the time she’d crossed the short distance to the door, they’d reached her cheeks.

“Jaymee.”

“Nick, let’s just sleep. We can sort this out tomorrow.”

“Listen–”

“Not tonight.”

“There’s something here. In Lana’s stuff.”

She swallowed back the hurt and quickly wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “What?”

“Her journal. Most of it’s just more poems and ideas for short stories. She loved to write.”

“I know.”

“But look at this. It’s in the back, like she was either trying to hide it or wrote it down in a hurry.” He crossed the room.

Jaymee took the leather bound journal. Her bottomed-out emotions slammed back into her throat. Lana had written a timeline of events starting with Jaymee’s affair with Holden.

“Sarah was born in 2005, right?”

“Yes.”

“Look at the timeline.”

Before Sarah’s birth, Lana had drawn a series of question marks with the words, “how many others And before that, a name with notes. Lana had circled it so many times the blue ink pen indented the paper. Jaymee couldn’t breathe.

“Elaine Andrews.” She couldn’t say the rest.

“The first one,” Nick finished for her. “Baby boy fathered by Wilcher in 2001. Bought by a wealthy Jackson family. Andrews willing to testify.”

Elaine Andrews’s name haunted Nick’s dreams. Lana’s notes indicated she was the first victim of Holden’s scheme. Was she still alive? Had Holden known Andrews was going to testify? Sent his cronies to take care of her?

There were several women with that name in the Jackson area, and while he wasn’t above contacting each and every one, there had to be a more efficient way. First, Hannah’s House. With any luck, someone would recognize Debra Davies’ name.

But he didn’t want to get up. Like a coward, he’d taken the bed as Jaymee ordered. Safer to hole up in his room with a locked door between them. A decent man would have gently pushed her away when she’d moved to kiss him. Instead, he’d been close to throwing Jaymee on her back and burying his face in her heated skin–with his dead wife’s precious mementos as a backdrop.

What an ass he was. Jaymee was as much a victim as Lana. And he’d taken advantage of that. No more. He was a professional, damn it. Detach, get the job done, and move on to the next.

He rolled out of bed and then quickly dressed and brushed his teeth. It was past eight a.m. and time for Jaymee to be up. First few minutes would be awkward, he’d apologize, they’d move on.

As he opened the bedroom door, Nick wondered if his face looked as tight as his heart felt. Thick hair pulled back into a wavy ponytail, Jaymee sat on the couch reading Lana’s journal. The blue tank top she wore set off her lightly tanned skin. She had a birthmark on her left shoulder shaped like a half moon. Her head was down, gaze focused on the journal.

Nick gulped nervous air and forced himself to speak. “Good morning.”

She tensed. “Morning.”

Cue the awkwardness. Nick made for the kitchen, trying not to walk too close. Still, the apartment was small, and he caught scent of her. Oranges, maybe. Or something sweet. Lotion or shampoo? Christ.

“Want some coffee?”

“Please.”

He grabbed the coffee from the top shelf. “You like it black?”

“Milk, if you have it.”

“Sure.”

He needed to apologize. They couldn’t work together with this shit hanging between them. “About yesterday–”

“Don’t worry about it. Heat of the moment, remember?”

“I’m not talking about that.”

The left corner of her mouth twitched. “Oh.”

“Look, what I said…I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Yes, you did,” Jaymee said.

“No, really. Lana was your friend. Of course you went to her for help. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. Everything else that happened was out of your control.”

“Maybe. But if I hadn’t asked for help, she never would have kept going. I should have stuck to what I said at your wedding.”

“Lana wouldn’t have let you,” Nick said. “You know that as well as I do.”

Jaymee looked down at the journal. “It’s not just about Lana. It’s about Cage, too.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you’re right. I know he loves me. I’ve told him it would never work, that he’s my best friend. And yet I keep clinging to him. It’s wrong.”

“You’re human.”

The coffee finished. Nick poured two cups: milk for her, black for him. He put her cup on the side of the bar and waited. She hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room.

“This is really good.”

“Gourmet. Coffee is the one thing I’ll splurge on.”

More silence. Outside, a car engine revved. A heavy vehicle lumbered by. Then footsteps overhead.

“Your neighbors must have lead feet,” Jaymee said.

“Worse. A teenager.”

A flicker of a genuine smile—one that lit up her eyes and made the dimple in her right cheek stand out. “I’m sorry, too.”

His body hummed at the thick tone of her voice. Energy raced through his veins. As they stared at each other, strange emotions stirred somewhere in the back of his brain. He pushed them aside.

“I’m sorry for yesterday, too.”

“Good.” She broke eye contact first, glancing back over her shoulder. “So, Hannah’s House. God help me.”

###

Hannah’s House looked far more benign than Jaymee remembered. In her dreams, the place was a cavernous building with sterile rooms, cold hallways, and a hushed atmosphere. A place where women were stashed away in secret and left to pray for their sins.

The reality was a modern building with minimal furnishings and authentic hardwood floors. A brightly lit entryway welcomed visitors, and Jaymee remembered most of the women’s rooms were upstairs. The requisite reproduction of the famous Head of Christ painting had a prominent place in the small lobby, and beneath it were several gold nameplates paying homage to the benefactors of Hannah’s House. Holden Wilcher’s nameplate had its own row.

Jaymee’s skin was clammy. Her insides were cold. Hollow. She took a deep breath.

“You okay?” Nick touched her elbow, and she ignored the current that raced through her.

“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

A middle-aged woman emerged from a closed door just off the entryway. Jaymee didn’t recognize her.

“Can I help you?”

Jaymee’s throat closed up. For a moment, all she could hear was the sound of her own young voice, begging her father to let her keep Sarah.

“We’d like to speak to the administrator,” Nick said. “We have a friend who needs help.”

“That would be me.” Short and squat with heavily plucked eyebrows and a matronly face, the woman extended her hand. “RaAnne Blanchard.”

“How long have you worked here?” Jaymee blurted out. A man ran Hannah’s during her stay.

“Two years.” Blanchard glanced at her watch before motioning to the door behind her. “I’ve got about ten minutes before an appointment. Why don’t you step into my office?”

Blanchard’s office was small and sparse, the single window decorated with a plant whose vines threatened to take over the entire space. Jaymee took the seat closest to the window and tried to breathe. Her scalp tingled, and her fingers wouldn’t stop moving.

“How can I help you?”

Nick nodded at Jaymee. He thought she should take the lead, appeal to Blanchard as a former member of Hannah’s.

“I stayed here eight years ago, when I was pregnant with my daughter.” Sweat beaded on her forehead, and Jaymee tried to discreetly wipe it away with the back of her hand.

“Welcome back.” Blanchard smiled.

“I gave her up.”

“I’m sure she has a lovely home.”

Jaymee’s lips twisted into what she hoped was a sincere smile. “Yes. I’m actually here to help a friend. She’s considering adoption, and I’m looking for the social worker who assisted me. I haven’t been able to track her down anywhere. You’re our last hope.”

“We work with a lot of social workers, but I’ll try to help. What was her name?”

“Debra Davies.”

Jaymee’s pulse quickened as she watched Blanchard for any sign of recognition. Instead, the administrator wrinkled her wide forehead and picked at her lower lip. “I don’t recall that name, and I know all of our social workers. Of course, she may have been here before my time.”

“What about records?” Nick said. “Do you have a database of previous contacts?”

“We do, but it’s down right now.” Blanchard looked at her watch. “Let me check our written records. There may be something in there.”

As soon as the door closed, Nick sprang from his seat. “You listen for her to come back.”

“What?”

He moved around the desk. “Get by the door, please.”

As she hurried across the small space, he pulled out the first drawer and carefully sifted through the contents.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking for information.”

“She’s helping us,” Jaymee whispered. “She’s not going to if she busts us digging through her stuff.”

“How do you know she’s helping? What if she’s calling Holden, Royce, or your father right now and telling them we’re here?”

“You don’t really think that?”

“I don’t know.” He dug through a second drawer. “But I’m not taking the chance. We’ve got to come away with something. Damn, phone’s password protected. So’s her computer. I don’t have time to hack them.”

“Then sit back down.”

“She coming?”

“I don’t hear her.”

“Then I’m still looking.”

He twisted around to the double file cabinet sitting behind Blanchard’s desk. “These aren’t locked.”

Jaymee tried to peer over his shoulder while keeping an ear on the door. They were both going to jail.

Nick suddenly let out a low whistle. “Hello, Elaine Andrews.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, she’s a social worker.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and quickly jabbed the keypad.

Jaymee recognized the trod of Blanchard’s heavy shoes. “Here she comes.”

Nick shut the file cabinet. They’d barely made it back to their respective seats when the office door opened.

Blanchard sat back down. “Nothing. I went through all of our records to the time we opened. No mention of Debra Davies. Are you sure that’s the correct name?”

“Absolutely.” Jaymee’s stomach sank to the hardwood floor. Debra Davies was still a ghost. “She’s a beautiful woman. Tall, red hair. Wore it back a lot, though. Like she was trying to understate her looks. You don’t remember ever seeing someone like that?”

“I’m sorry, no. I can contact our previous administrator, but he’s in Florida. I’m not sure when he’ll get back to me.”

“What about Royce Newton?” Nick changed tactics. “Has he handled any adoptions for you?”

Blanchard drummed her fingers on her metal desk. “The attorney? No. He specialized in divorce. We work with his partner, L.J. Clark.”

Jaymee’s stomach squirmed. “Did Hannah’s House work with L.J. Clark seven years ago?”

“Yes. Mr. Clark has been one of our primary attorneys since Hannah’s House opened. Wonderful man. A great advocate for mothers and adoption.”

A bell chimed from the lobby. “That’s my appointment. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. If you’ll leave your number, I’ll contact our previous administrator and see if he remembers Ms. Davies.”

“Thank you.” Jaymee wrote down Nick’s cell phone number.

“And your friend,” Blanchard said. “Shall I call her?”

“She’s not ready for that,” Jaymee said. “But hopefully soon.” She allowed Nick to pull her down the hall and out the door of the agency. They’d barely reached the car when he had his cell phone to his ear.

Jaymee didn’t have to ask who he was calling.

“Elaine Andrews? My name is Nick Samuels. I believe you knew my wife, Lana.”

###

No response. Just a sharp, quick gasp, and then accelerated breathing.

Nick cranked the ignition and turned on the air conditioning. Jaymee leaned on the console between the front seats, her hair tickling his arm. He angled the phone so she could hear, too.

“Elaine? I’d really like to speak with you.”

“No.” The voice was rough, the response firm.

“It’s urgent.”

“I’m busy.”

“You knew my wife, Lana. I assume you’re aware she was murdered four years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Samuels, but I don’t know what you could possibly–”

“Yes, you do,” Nick cut her off. “My wife was looking into illegal adoption activities concerning the child of a friend of hers and involving some very powerful people. She had your name listed with her information. You know exactly what I want from you.”

Sharp clicks. Had she hung up? No, Nick realized. She was walking down a hall in high heels. Probably inside a courthouse or other sterile building. The noise echoed right into her phone. He knew the moment she stepped outside–a rush of air over the line and then the familiar noise of traffic.

“I can’t help you.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Jaymee tapped on his arm. “Let me talk to her.”

Nick shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Elaine Andrews said. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Samuels, is your wife’s murder still unsolved?”

“Yes.”

“And I’d guess you’re on the trail of her killer now. Finally putting two and two together.”

Nick pushed harder. “If you thought Holden Wilcher had something to do with her murder, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“I never said that name.”

“You didn’t have to. Please answer my question. Were you threatened? By who?”

“No one. I didn’t need to be. When I heard she’d been killed, I knew. And I didn’t want any part of it. Call me a coward if you want, but I made my mind up then and there I wasn’t getting involved anymore. Especially when the newspaper said her personal items were missing.”

Nick’s fingers ached; he loosened his grip on the phone. “What? What do her personal items have to do with anything?”

“Put her on speaker,” Jaymee said.

“Who’s that? You have the police there?”

Nick glared at Jaymee. She matched his challenge. “No. It’s the friend Lana was trying to help when she was killed. The one whose baby–”

“Jaymee?” Her voice rose, turning shrill. “I want to talk to her.”

Nick lowered the phone and thumbed the display. “You’re on speaker now. She’s here.”

“Jaymee?”

“Yes. Please, Elaine. We saw Lana’s notes. Wilcher did the same thing to me, three years later.”

“I know. And you’d better let it go, just like I have. Or else you’ll end up like your friend.”

“Don’t you want to get your son back, Elaine?” Jaymee’s words came fast, her tone pleading.

“My boy’s almost twelve years old now. He’s with a good family. What good would it do him for me to take him away? Wilcher would never let that happen.”

“We can stop him. If he did this to you and me, he’s done it to others, too.”

“Course he has. He’s probably still doing it. You don’t think his show’s allowing him to live the way he does, do you? In this economy?”

“Then help us.”

“You have any more children, Jaymee?”

“No.”

“I do. A little girl. And a husband. We’re happy. Living okay. I’m not going to leave her without a mama. I became a social worker to help other women from falling into traps like Holden’s. That’s all I can do.”

“Elaine, why did you mention Lana’s personal items?” Nick asked.

They heard her unlock her car, start the engine. A top forties song blasted over the speaker and then faded away.