Page 6 of In the Dead of Night

CHAPTER TWO

Sara stared at Nick, her mind reeling. She’d known that at some point she would have to face this. The past. The people whose lives her father had ripped apart all those years ago. But to face this man now—a man whose life had been shattered by the actions of her father—seemed a cruel twist of fate.

“Nicky?” she said.

“People don’t usually call me that now.” His grin transformed hardened features into a hint of the boy she’d once known. A rough-and-tumble kid with black hair and eyes the color of the Pacific. Her memory stirred like a beast that had been hibernating for two decades. She’d been seven years old. Twelve-year-old Nicky Tyson had talked her into playing hide and seek, but when she’d closed her eyes, instead of running and hiding, he’d stolen a kiss. Her first kiss from a boy. It had been innocent, but made a huge impact on Sara.

Funny that she would remember something so silly at a moment like this. But then she’d blocked a lot of things that happened that last summer.

The man standing before her was nothing like the ornery kid who’d pestered—and secretly charmed—her. There was nothing remotely innocent about him. His eyes were still the color of the sea, but now it was a stormy sea, all crashing surf and churning waves and water the color of slate. Beneath the brim of the Cape Darkwood PD cap, his black hair was military-short. He might have looked clean-cut if not for the day’s growth of beard and the hard gleam in his eyes.

“Surprised?” he asked.

Realizing his hand was still extended and she had yet to take it, Sara reached out. “I don’t know what to say.”

His hand encompassed hers completely. His grip was firm. She got the impression of calluses and strength tempered with a gentleness that belied the obvious strength.

“Hello would suffice,” he said.

An awkward silence descended. Intellectually, Sara knew what her father had done wasn’t her fault; she’d been a little girl at the time. But it was disconcerting to think that this man’s father had been her mother’s illicit lover. That her father had murdered Nicholas Tyson in a jealous rage then turned the gun on himself. That was the story the newspapers had reported, anyway.

Sara was no longer sure she believed it.

She studied Nick Tyson and thought about the call she’d received two days ago. The electronically disguised voice that told her Richard Douglas hadn’t murdered anyone on that terrible June night. Had there been a fourth person involved as the caller intimated? A person filled with hatred and a secret that was now up to her to expose—or disprove?

The memory of the voice spread gooseflesh over her arms. She studied Nick’s face. Familiar now, but somehow every bit as threatening. His was the face of a cop. Hard, knowing eyes filled with suspicion, cool distance and an intensity that thoroughly unnerved. She couldn’t help but wonder if, as a policeman himself, he’d ever doubted the scenario the police had pieced together.

“Ah, you’re in luck.”

The words jerked her from her reverie. She let go of his hand. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face because he motioned toward the drawer she’d opened. “Another candle,” he said.

“Oh. Right.”

His eyes shone black in the semidarkness. She could feel them on her, probing, wondering. Wondering what? Why she was back? Or was he wondering if a capacity for violence was inherited?

“I should probably check the fuse box while I’m here,” he said.

“We wouldn’t want those ghosts getting any ideas.”

He gave her a half smile. “Everyone knows they do their best work in the dark.”

The tension drained from her body when he started toward the utility room and, beyond, the garage where the fuse box was located. Using the dim light slanting in through the window, she began searching for another plate or saucer to use as a candleholder.

“Fuses look fine.”

She jolted at the closeness of his voice and nearly dropped the saucer she’d found. He was standing right behind her, so close she could smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave. For the first time she realized just how tall he was. At least six-three or maybe six-four. He towered over her five-foot-three-inch frame. Uncle Nicholas had been tall….

Nick stared at her intently. “You’re not still afraid of storms, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said a little too quickly.

One side of his mouth curved. “Looks like you’ll have to ride this one out in the dark.”

“Thanks for coming by. And for checking the fuses.” She wanted to say more, but what? Thank you for not hating me. I’m sorry my father ruined your childhood. Oh, and by the way, he didn’t do it….

The words flitted through her mind, but she didn’t voice them. Even though she was no longer convinced her father had done anything wrong that night, she needed to figure out who to trust—and find proof of her suspicions—before going to the police.

“Just doing my job.” His gaze flicked to the saucer in her hand. Usurping it from her, he set the candle on it and dug out a match. “This should help keep the ghosts away.”