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He’d certainly never met anyone with a more competitive drive, which was one reason they’d never been particularly close. As a child, she’d been given to long sulks over something as simple as losing at Monopoly.
“Your parents will give up one of these days.” Ian glanced at his watch. “Guess I’d better run. I’ve got a board meeting tonight.”
Nathan grinned. “I thought you’d retired. As the company owner, you should be basking in the sun in Cancun.”
“I can’t let go.” Ian smiled ruefully. “Mostly I just check in.”
“Everything going well?”
“Robert can be a pompous son of a gun, but Sanderson hasn’t had to lay off anyone this year. That’s more than a lot of companies can say these days. Sales for our Aunt Maisie Ellen’s product line are looking strong.” Ian jingled the change in the pocket of his slacks. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my company and this town going. Good to see you again, Nathan. Maybe we can have dinner sometime.”
“I’d like that.” Nathan waved as Ian stepped into his car, then turned back to the front of his house and studied his handiwork.
At least here he could accomplish something and see immediate results.
He hadn’t found evidence linking anyone to the break-ins at the trailer court over the weekend. The Hanrahan woman had been nearby, but there’d been nothing edgy or evasive in her manner when he’d questioned her on the street. Either she was innocent, or she was the most accomplished liar he’d come across in a long while.
Some aspects of his job were frustrating, blocked by dead ends, alibis, and legal red tape that could set a guilty man free. But this house—this entire place—filled him with a sense of peace and satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years.
Two hours of work, and he could have a section of fence fixed. In three or four hours he could reclaim an overgrown flower garden or give another part of the exterior a fresh coat of paint.
Ian had spoken of the potential here, and he’d been right. Nathan felt it every time he drove down the curved lane and parked in front. He was building a home, a good life for himself, and pursuing a career he loved.
But now he found himself wondering about a certain red-haired woman. A pretty, self-possessed woman with an air of mystery that had intrigued him from the first moment he’d seen her on the streets of Ryansville last Saturday.
What sort of woman went jogging in the middle of the night or had the courage to return to a town where people associated her name with the worst local crime in the past fifty years?
* * * *
THE NEXT MORNING, SARA was up by seven, dressed in a simple black skirt, peach-colored blouse, and low heels. She took Harold for a brief walk around the block. He wagged his tail forlornly as she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. “Not this time, buddy. But I’ll be back soon.” She rubbed his ears. “Wish me luck.”
Given the droop of his head, he’d be sitting patiently at the door until she returned.
Minutes later, she parked her car in Sanderson’s visitors’ lot and surveyed the building at close range.
She vaguely remembered the old section of the facility from her childhood. The security lighting and high perimeter fencing were new, but the old brick facade and cracked cement sidewalk leading to the front door were the same.
Her dad had worked here before his death. She remembered sitting with Mom and Kyle under the big old maple near the side entrance, with Dad’s forgotten lunch box in her hands. When the noon whistle blew, he’d stride out to greet them with a twinkle in his eye and a big smile on his face. “How’s my best girl?” he’d tease before lifting her high.
He forgot his lunch often, and looking back from an adult perspective, she realized he’d wanted the company of his family during his lunch break as much as he’d wanted those bologna-and-cheese sandwiches and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Where had everything gone wrong? True, she’d been just a child that summer, but she couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary. Yet just a few months later—right before Christmas—Dad had been found standing over the body of Frank Grover with a gun in his hand.
She’d been only seven years old the day he killed a man, then hung himself in the tiny Ryansville jail.
Shaking off the memories, Sara stepped into the cool, dark entrance to Sanderson’s front-office building and paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The central hallway was flanked by oak doors, each with opaque, pebbled glass windows bearing old-fashioned gilt letters. Main Office. Accounting. Manager. Mail Room. She walked down the hallway until she found Human Resources.
A heavyset brunette in her mid-thirties—Mrs. Webster, according to the nameplate on her desk—looked up from some documents in her hand and gave Sara an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring right n—” Her eyes widened. “Sara? Sara Hanrahan?”
Sara saw now that the woman did look vaguely familiar. Take off fifty pounds, change the hairstyle...
“It’s me, Jane Kinney. Webster, now.” She set the papers aside and gave a self-deprecating wave of one hand. “A lot older, a little heavier, but hopefully a little wiser. I was two years ahead of you in school, remember? When you worked at the Dairy Queen, I was next door working at Whidbey Dry Cleaners. I left town for quite a few years, but now I’m back for good.”
Allen’s preliminary report hadn’t mentioned Jane, but she might be an even better lead than the ones he’d listed. “So now you’ve got a job here,” Sara said. “Good going, Jane. You’ve obviously done well.”
“Maybe...but not with everything.” Her broad smile faded to rueful acceptance as she held up her left hand and wiggled her bare ring finger. “Divorced.”
