Page 18 of Juan

“And this woman?” he asked, his finger resting on another photo. An older woman, maybe late sixties, early seventies, with wild curly gray hair.

“Clara Beverly. Adrian’s mother. Who, interestingly, has a house in the same neighborhood where Amber lived when she was married,” Mantis replied.

“I thought this wasn’t tied to Anthony,” Juan said, his breath sharpening as rage against Amber’s ex began building in his body.

“To the best of our knowledge, it’s not,” Mantis replied.

“What’s not what?” Amber asked, entering the kitchen as she zipped a lightweight blue sweatshirt over her tee. They hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning and knowing the day might be a long one, he’d wanted her to get as much sleep as possible. When he’d slipped out of her room a little after six, she’d been tucked up under her comforter, warm, cozy, and relaxed. The way he liked seeing her.

“What are these?” she asked, glancing at the photos.

“Leo found the owner of the phone last night, and HICC sent a drone up early this morning,” Juan said. “It’s Adrian Mills, and she’s traveling with her mother. They’ve rented a small cabin, but the RV is parked outside. The drone captured a few images of them.”

“Who’s this?” she said, lifting the top photo.

“Adrian Mills,” he said. “Do you recognize her?”

Amber tipped her head as she studied the image, her curtain of hair falling over her shoulder. A few seconds later, she shook her head. “I don’t. It’s still possible she attended me during one of my rare hospital visits, but I don’t recognize her.”

“What about her?” Mantis said, handing her the next picture.

Again, Amber’s gaze took in the photo. “She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“Clara Beverly,” Juan said. “She lives in your old neighborhood.”

Color leached from Amber’s face, and she rested her hand on the counter. “Anthony.” The raw whisper of her voice scraped across his skin.

“There’s still no indication he’s involved, but HICC is digging deeper,” Mantis assured her.

Like an automaton, she turned and looked at their club president, although Juan would bet his bike she wasn’t seeing a thing in the room. The only thing playing in her mind was the brutal memories of her marriage.

“Amber,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady as he curled a hand over hers. Her glazed gaze remained fixed for the space of two heartbeats, then she blinked, dropped the photo, and looked at him.

“I remember Clara now. I didn’t see her often. I didn’t see anyone often. But she’d wave to me from down the street every now and then. Once she brought me a batch of cookies. Browned-butter sugar cookies.” A faint smile touched her lips. “They were delicious. Like crack in sugar form, though. You know the kind? You almost have to eat the entire batch in one sitting.” She paused, then frowned. “I ate several. Anthony found the rest on the counter when he got home that night. Made me throw them out, then forced me to drink ipecac. I vomited for eight hours. He didn’t want me to gain any weight.”

After leaving the military, Juan vowed to never kill another person again, not unless he had no other choice. He’d held on to that vow over the years, but if he ever encountered Anthony Ely, he’d be tested.

“Did you ever get a sense that Clara knew Anthony?” Mantis asked, gently bringing the conversation to the present.

Amber blinked, then shook her head. “Anthony didn’t know anyone in our neighborhood. Having friends meant letting people into our private lives.” She turned to look for something, her gaze landing on the coffeepot.

“I’ll get you some,” Juan said, setting his mug down. As he did, the cup bumped the corner of a picture, sending it fluttering to the ground.

“I’ll get it,” Amber said, ducking to pick it up. He’d just reached for an empty mug when a strangled sound jerked him back. Already pale, Amber had gone white. By the time he took the two strides back to her, her body swayed like a sapling in a storm.

“Amber?”

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

He glanced down at the third picture in the stack, Adrian Mills holding a little girl on her hip. Both were smiling, fingers raised, as if pointing to the birds in the trees.

“He died,” Amber cried, shaking her head, the anguish in her voice ripping his soul in two. “He told me he died,” she said before crumpling to the floor.

Thank god, his reflexes hadn’t dulled, and he caught her before she hit the ground, swinging her into his arms. Her head lolled at an odd angle and her arm hung limp, suspended to the side.

“Mantis,” he said, already moving. His brother was ahead of him, opening the kitchen door to the lodge room. “Bring me a blanket,” he said, striding across the wide-plank floors to the closest sofa. By the time he lowered her down, gently laying her head on a pillow, Mantis had a wool throw ready to spread over her.

“Call the doctor,” he said, pulling a chair over and taking a seat by her side, her hand clasped between his. Shifting his fingers, he felt her pulse. Still strong and steady. Steadier than his. Then feeling her forehead, he tested it for heat. No fever. For whatever reason, she’d fainted, but at least she didn’t appear gravely ill. That knowledge eased a tiny fraction of his anxiety, but not enough for him to let go of her.