TRACE EVIDENCE (23 page)

"That's impossible," he said. "As recently as a week before she disappeared Mom washed the spread. In fact, she was mad because Dad had spilled grape juice on it and she didn't think she could get it out."

"I hate to be contrary, but I really don't believe this spread has been through a wash cycle."

"But that doesn't make sense," he protested.

"I'm just telling you what I think." She flashed him a quick smile. "You never told me I had to make sense."

"We'll know soon enough. As soon as we get home I intend to go over it with a magnifying glass and see if I can tell if there are any places where threads have been ripped."

"If you have two magnifying glasses, we can do it in half the time," she said.

This time his gaze lingered a moment longer on her. "Sometimes I think you just might be too good to be true."

She smiled. "Not at all. I just … I just want to help you." She stumbled over the words, appalled to realize she'd almost said she loved him.

She was grateful when they reached his house and they immediately got to work. They laid the bedspread flat on the living room floor, then each armed with a large magnifying glass, they began going over it inch by inch.

Tamara knew it was quite possible this was a waste of time, that the threads might not even be from the bedspread. But she had to admit the color looked right, as did the mix of polyester and cotton.

If they found a place where the threads had been torn, then the mystery of those threads Clay had found in the striker plate would be solved.

But they found no place where the threads on the bedspread had been ripped or torn. They traded places and went over it a second time and still found nothing.

"There doesn't seem to be any grape juice stain anywhere, either," Tamara said. She sat on her haunches at one end of the spread and Clay sat on the opposite end, a wrinkle of confusion cutting into his forehead.

"I don't understand it. You really think this hasn't been washed?"

"All I can tell you is that it's got the feel of a brand-new bedspread," she replied.

His gaze held hers from across the blue flowered material. Dark and troubled, he stared at her, but it was obvious he was lost in deep concentration. "This isn't their spread."

"What do you mean? We just drove over and you took it from their bed."

"I know…" He raked a hand through his hair, his frown cutting deeper across his forehead. "When Mom first disappeared Alyssa kept getting visions of her in her bedroom. Alyssa said she knew it was Mom's bedroom because the bedspread was the same."

He ran his hand over the spread, lost in thought. Whatever he was thinking wasn't pleasant, for his eyes seemed to grow darker, more haunted by the moment.

She wanted to reach out to him, to take away the haunting that shadowed his eyes, but she knew nothing could … nothing except the return of his mother to the family … to the son who loved her.

"What are you thinking?" she finally asked, unable to stand it any longer.

He looked at her with eyes filled with torture. "What I'm thinking is that this isn't the bedspread that covered my parents' bed for the past eight or nine months. This spread was put on the bed the night that my mother disappeared."

"But why? Why would somebody do something like that?"

His fingers bunched up so that he held a fistful of the material. "I don't know the why, but if what I'm thinking is true, then this wasn't a crime of opportunity. This was thought out long in advance by somebody who knew my parents well, by somebody who had been in their house, seen the spread on their bed. This was done by somebody they trusted."

Tamara gasped. It was bad enough to believe a stranger had entered their house, nearly killed Thomas and apparently kidnapped Rita. It was far worse to contemplate that such a thing had been done by a trusted friend or acquaintance. "What are you going to do now?" she asked as Clay rose from the floor.

"Call my sisters and see if they know where Mom might have bought the spread. If my theory is right, then somebody recently bought that same spread and I'm hoping the spread is the trail that leads to Mom."

As he got on the phone, Tamara scooted around so she could look at the tag to see the brand of the bedspread and if there was a particular name of the pattern.

By the time he'd hung up from speaking to both sisters, she had the information written on a sheet of paper for him. "Select Bedding is the brand and Blue Wisteria is the pattern."

"Thanks." He took the piece of paper from her. "Neither Breanna nor
Savannah
have a clue where she might have bought the spread."

She followed him into the kitchen where he pulled a phone book from the cabinet then sat at the table in the chair next to where she'd been sitting and sketching before he'd arrived home.

"What's next?" she asked, also sitting at the table. "Mom was a firm believer in keeping Cherokee Corners money in Cherokee Corners. She would have bought the bedspread here in town." He opened the phone book to the yellow pages section. "It's probably too close to closing time for me to get any answers from anyone tonight, but I'll make a list of the stores that carry bedding, then start first thing in the morning and see what I can find out."

"Do you want me to make some coffee?"

"That would be great."

By the time the coffee was finished brewing he had a dozen names of stores written on a sheet of paper. He raked a hand through his hair and reared back in the chair. "This is such a long shot," he said more to himself than to her. "There are only three ways I'm going to find out who purchased a spread like Mom's. If the purchase was a charge, or a delivery, or if some salesclerk remembers who bought it."

"Clay, you can't think negatively before you even begin the search," she said as she poured him a cup of coffee. She carried it over to where he sat and as he reached for it he bumped her sketch pad.

The pad flipped and landed face-up on the floor. "Sorry," he said and reached down to grab the pad. He froze halfway to the floor and she knew he was looking at a sketch she'd never intended him to see. He picked the pad up and laid it on the table, sketch side up. "What's this?"

"It's just a sketch," she said and reached out to turn the pad over. He grabbed her wrist to halt her, his gaze still focused on the sketch.

It had been strictly a labor of love. It was a picture of Clay, long, straight hair streaming over his shoulders. He was clad in a pair of tight jeans and a traditional Cherokee ribbon shirt.

When he looked at her, his eyes were filled with cool anger. "You can sketch it, paint it or dream it, but I'm never going to be this man." He released her wrist.

"It … it doesn't mean anything," she said quickly. She couldn't stand the sudden distance his eyes radiated as he gazed at her. "I was just messing around … I'm an artist … I sketch what's in my head. Clay … I'm in love with you."

She wasn't sure whether she spoke the words as some sort of crazy defense or simply because she couldn't hold them inside her heart for another minute.

Abruptly, he shoved away from the table and stood. The frown he'd worn before had only been a hint of the one that now tormented his features.

He thumped a finger against the sketch. "That's who you're in love with. Some Cherokee warrior who's only a figment of your imagination." He raked a hand through his hair, his gaze not quite meeting hers. "We've been foolish, playing house and making love when both of us know there's no future with each other."

The words, even though she'd thought them to herself before, spoken out loud by him devastated her. No future. She'd recognized it with her head, but her heart still refused to fully accept it.

She took a step toward where he stood, but he held up a hand to halt her, as if he couldn't stand the thought of her near him. "Clay … I love you, but I don't understand you. You are Cherokee, and no matter how much you deny it, that's who you are."

"I'm half Cherokee. My father is Irish."

"But, you are Cherokee nevertheless. Why have you turned your back on that part of you? Please, help me understand," she begged.

"I already told you what happened … what made me realize I didn't want to be Native anymore." His voice was curt, the words clipped.

She gazed at him in amazement. "You mean because a bunch of silly boys made fun of you years ago? That's it? That's all there is to it?"

His eyes flashed with anger. "You weren't there. You have no idea what I went through."

"You've allowed childhood pain to follow you into adulthood and dictate who you've become." A frustrated anger rose up inside her, an anger bred in the growing hopelessness that filled her heart.

"You've known from the beginning who I am and what I believe. Science … that's all that matters to me," he said.

"You hide in your science," she scoffed, surprised to feel the heat of tears coursing down her cheeks, tears bred in heartbreak. "Because you have nothing else in your life … because you've turned your back on the man you could be."

"You're the one who talks about how important it is to remember the nature of the beast," he retorted, "but somehow you forgot my nature."

"I didn't forget it, Clay." She swiped at her tears impatiently. She hadn't wanted him to see her cry. "I know that inside you is that warrior, proud and strong and stubborn, but he's been blanketed with so much baggage you've lost touch with him."

"I know who I am and I'm not that man." There was pain in his eyes as he held her gaze. "And I can't be the man to share the future you see for yourself."

She drew a tremulous breath, unable to staunch the tears that swam in her eyes. "You're right, Clay. The man I eventually marry will be proud of his roots. When we have children it will be as important to him that we take them to the cultural center, where they can share in the extended family that's there and learn wisdom from the elders by listening to their storytelling. I want my children to be proud of their Cherokee blood and the strength and grace of the Cherokee people."

The pain she'd felt when she'd left Max had nothing on the wrenching heartache that tormented her now. She'd never really believed Max had loved her for anything other than her talent as an artist. But, Clay … she knew when she gazed into his eyes that he loved her, not as an artist, but as a woman.

"You know the really sad part about all this? I believe you love me as much as you're capable of loving, but even if you wanted a future with me, it wouldn't be enough." His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent and she continued. "As long as you hate who you are, you'll never be able to truly love anyone else."

With these final words she turned and ran. He didn't try to stop her and she knew it was because there was nothing more to say.

She ran into the bedroom where she'd been staying, half-blinded by the tears that seemed to be burning hotter, flowing like a river down her cheeks.

He was right about one thing. They had both been fools, sleeping together, eating together, spending quiet time in the evenings together. They had been indulging in a pretend marriage of sorts.

The only thing she was left with was a very real broken heart.

* * *

When Rita thought of her husband, she couldn't stand the pain. Even if she managed to escape from this prison, or was found and rescued, what would her life be like without her Thomas?

From the moment she'd met him when he'd been a handsome police officer, she'd known he was the man for her, the man who would father her children and share her dreams.

That momentary glimpse she'd gotten of him before she'd been drugged and carried from their home had devastated her. There had been too much blood and he'd been too still to think anything but the worst.

And her poor children, not only coping with her disappearance, but also with their father's death. Her heart embraced them all … Breanna, who had been so wounded when the man who fathered little Maggie had left her.
Savannah
, who had lost her husband in a tragic car accident. And Clay.

She lay on the bed on the familiar bedspread and thought of her eldest son. She'd had little else to do but think while in this place and with thinking came regrets.

She needed to tell her son some things, share with him some insight she'd gained. She hoped she got the opportunity.

A clang of metal resounded and then the wide slit in the metal door opened, revealing another box like the one she had previously received.

Scattered on the floor around her bed were the pieces of the first dress that had come in such a box. The dress had terrified her, as if whoever held her captive wanted to dress her up like a doll.

This box terrified her, too. Did it hold another dress, or something to punish her for ripping up the last one? Should she open it or leave it be?

She dragged a hand across her chest, trying to still the frantic beating of her heart. What worried her most was the fact that she knew she was in the middle of some sort of psychological game. She was terrified that eventually, if she was found and rescued, it would be too late … she'd already be stark, raving mad.

Chapter 15