Never Die Alone

He’d left her then. Never returned. Didn’t attend her damned funeral. For if she had no son, then he had no mother.

Now, in this basement with its bluish light, the girl looking nearly catatonic, her hands clutched together as if in prayer, he opened the can of Ensure, slid in a straw, and carried it to her. Eyes round and staring straight ahead, she shivered against the cracked cement wall, huddled close to the corner.

“Drink,” he ordered when she turned her big eyes up to him. They shined in the half-light, shimmering with tears.

She was scared shitless.

Excellent.

When she didn’t reach for the can, he placed it on the floor close enough that she could grab it, and he noticed something else about her, a kind of zombie-like expression. Shit, she was a basket case.

“Suit yourself.” He turned back to his table, carefully returning his tools, the ribbon, and the folded clothes, relegating each to its assigned spots.

Once he’d restored some order, he felt a little less tense.

He thought about Zoe, how he intended to track her down at dawn’s first light. The dog hadn’t had any luck on this side of the river, so he would canoe over to the far bank and start over again. His bloodhound was a tracker. Old Red would find Zoe if she was anywhere in the area, and he’d wager that if she was still alive, she hadn’t gotten far.

He would find her. Come the morning. That was what would happen, and he wouldn’t even consider that he might not catch her. If the day lengthened into darkness, he’d use his night goggles. She wouldn’t get away.

Hadn’t he promised Myra that he would fix things?

He couldn’t fail.

CHAPTER 16

Why not trust Jase? Bria

He was a reporter, and that could work in their favor. Let him write his story, spread the word, maybe get coverage on television and radio as well, get people looking for Selma’s daughters. Why wait for the damned police to take her seriously?

Her thoughts played out as she scrubbed, washing her hair and body, rinsing off the long hours, sweat, and frustration of the day in her claw-footed tub that had been retrofitted with a shower kit.

After all, Jase Bridges had resources. What did it matter if she’d had a stupid schoolgirl crush on him half a lifetime ago? And just because as a kid he’d been only half a step out of juvie way back when didn’t mean he couldn’t be trusted now. In fact, it might help that he had some street smarts. He’d already started gathering facts on the story. She realized he might be trying to get close to her only to get a leg up on the case. And maybe he was motivated more by the lust for a story to boost his career rather than any real empathy for Selma and her daughters. So what?

And hadn’t Bria

“Oh, for the love of God!” Angrily she twisted off the spray, reached past the curtain, and pulled her towel from a decorative hook. What the hell was she doing, thinking about a steamy sexual encounter, a fantasy? Now? With all that was going on? But wasn’t that always the way it was in times of stress, she thought, drying first her body, then her hair. People sought physical and emotional release, whether it be ru

Not that she would know personally.

Lately her love life had been nil.

Angry with herself, she threw back the curtain to find St. Ives seated on the small counter next to the sink. His tail was flicking dangerously close to her can of hair spray and her toothbrush holder. “Pervert,” she accused as he stared at her, and she wrapped the towel around her torso. “What’re you looking at?”

He stared at her with unblinking eyes.

“Down!”

Ignoring her, he set about washing himself.

“Fine. Suit yourself,” she said, but petted his head.

He paid no attention.

Using a washcloth, she tried to wipe away the condensation that had collected on her mirror. When that didn’t work, she opened the window over the tub. As she did, she peered outside to the darkness and told herself there was no one lurking outside. She forced herself to remain calm, just as she had earlier on her drive home when she’d thought for a few anxious minutes that someone was following her.

Of course the delivery truck had turned off.

“Silly,” she said as she padded to the bedroom. Discovering her robe at the foot of her unmade bed, she let the towel fall to the floor and shrugged into the soft terry wrap. Back in the bathroom she stood in front of the mirror and tried to untangle her wet hair. As usual, her curls fought her, but when the mirror slowly defogged, she was able to drag her comb through her wet hair.

Again, she thought of Jase. Of course. Despite all her worries about the De

Who knew how much of that information was true and how much was, if not fiction, an edited version of his life, a whitewashed story molded to gain her trust?

And that was a big part of the problem.

Her inability to trust.

Although she hated to blame every bad emotion that slipped through her on the loss of her twin, losing Aria

“Chicken!” she called over the roar of the dryer. God, she loved that cat. Sometimes she thought she should adopt a dog, one that would bark wildly if anyone came near the house and stay by her side when she went out for a run, but St. Ives would never stand for it.

Once her hair was dry and semi-manageable again, she turned off the dryer and put it away only to find the cat back in the doorway. “Yeah, a whole lot of protection you are,” she said, and scooped him up, holding him close, listening to him purr. She’d adopted him as a kitten after the loss of the tuxedo tom she’d had since high school, a pet she’d shared with Aria

Fu