LITMIR.BIZ

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been looking for a father figure and didn’t want to start now. In some ways her job was perfect.

      But apart from work, she felt stressed and tense, and thought about Hudson. Considered calling him.

      Again.

      Despite what she’d told Renee.

      “Liar,” she muttered to herself. Ever since seeing Hudson a week earlier at Blue Note, she’d had trouble keeping her mind off him.

      So why not call him? Why not take the initiative? Don’t be an insecure schoolgirl. You were friends once. Lovers. You nearly had a child together.

      Becca picked up the receiver and put it down three times before, exasperated with herself, she dialed Hudson’s number with such speed, it was as if the touch-tone pads were on fire. She was putting way too much energy and emphasis on this one phone call. So she was calling him. So what? She wanted to see him. She was a widow. There was nothing wrong with it.

      It rang six times before his answering machine picked up and then the sound of his recorded voice made her breath catch in her lungs. Which was just damned stupid! As soon as the recorder buzzed, she said, “Hi, Hudson. It’s Becca Sutcliff. I was thinking…(about you)…about things…and I feel a bit unsettled, I guess…about the bones found at St. Elizabeth’s. I keep thinking…(about you)…about Jessie. If you have some time, maybe we could get together and talk? My number is…” She rattled it off quickly, almost breathlessly, then replaced the receiver with a hammering heart. Then she literally banged her forehead against the kitchen wall several times, feeling like an idiot.

      “This can’t be healthy,” she muttered to Ringo, who cocked his head with interest.

      Becca changed into her running shoes and threw on a lightweight jacket, then grabbed Ringo’s leash and bustled him outside, running her words through her mind again and again as she started jogging. Ringo wanted to stop and sniff every twig, leaf, and blade of grass, but Becca was having none of it. After stopping to allow him to relieve himself, she took off toward the park, the dog at her heels, running hard. Her feet slapped the pavement, water in standing puddles splashed, but she kept at it, feeling her heart begin to pump faster as she passed an apartment building and a few cottages on large lots, original houses built in the twenties or thirties that hadn’t yet fallen to the subdivider’s axe. She thought about the fact that she’d felt someone watching her, in her apartment, from the bushes, at the maze, someone evil, but she set her jaw. She wouldn’t be controlled by fear. Would not.

      Ringo, sometimes nervous, wasn’t on edge. He was enjoying the exercise as much as she.

      The air was cool, the afternoon clouds high and wispy as she rounded the far end of the park and cut through a copse of oaks, nearly running into a kid on a scooter. He swore at her with invectives she’d heard a million times before and she barely broke stride. Up the short hill and down the other side, across a footbridge spanning the creek, then back toward the condo. By now she could feel her muscles working, her rhythm established, the dog running effortlessly with her.

      All in all, she ran nearly three miles, and by the time she walked through the front door, her face was flushed and sweat had broken out on her scalp and down her back despite the cool weather.

      The first thing she did was check her messages. Zero.

      What did you expect? That he’d hear your voice and hit his speed dial to connect with you? Idiot.

      Muttering to herself, she showered, then, at a loss, headed for her computer again. She was glad to find that Colleen at Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer had sent another pile of paperwork. Good. She wanted to lose herself in busywork forever.

      It was early evening before she lifted her head and wondered when the last time she’d deigned to eat was. Climbing from her chair, she stretched her back, heard it make a disturbing pop, and tried to ignore the words that ran in a circle inside her head: he hasn’t called…he hasn’t called…he hasn’t called…

      When the phone rang, Becca jumped as if someone had goosed her. She snatched up her desk phone and said, “Hello?”

      “Hey, Becca, it’s Tamara,” her friend greeted her cheerily.

      Becca’s heart sank.

      “Are you busy? I’m going to grab some dinner and wanted to know if you could join.”

      “Sure,” Becca said, hoping she sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. She hadn’t forgotten the last time she’d seen Tamara climbing into Hudson’s truck. Big deal. So what? It’s nothing. She might as well get out of the house. Waiting for a phone to ring was too much like being thirteen all over again.

      She agreed to meet Tamara at a Mexican restaurant only a couple of miles away, then changed her clothes, fed Ringo, and was heading for the door when the phone rang again.

      She recognized the number and her stupid heart started to pound as she picked up.

      “Becca?” Hudson’s voice greeted her, and a flood of warmth rushed into her veins.

      “Hi, there,” Becca responded, pretending that her nerves weren’t vibrating like electrical wires—there it was again, that back to thirteen thing. Disgusting.

      “I saw you called. Heard your message. I’ve been thinking about things, too, and yeah, I think we should get together, talk things through. It might not be such a bad idea.”

      Her stupid heart was slamming against her ribs. “Great.”

      “How about later tonight?”

      “Sure, after dinner,” she said, frustrated that she’d just made plans with Tamara. “I’ve got plans earlier, but we could meet somewhere…?”

      “How about my place, you remember where it is? The old ranch?”

      Like it was yesterday.

      “Sure do. I’ll be there, sometime after eight,” she said and found that her damned hands were shaking as she hung up. “Maybe thirteen’s too mature,” she confided to the dog as she dashed to the bedroom to change.

      She met Tamara at the small restaurant with its faux stucco walls painted as if they were in a Mexican villa, complete with views of an azure ocean and fishing boats. As if here, on the top of Capital in the south hills of Portland, they had a view of the Sea of Cortez. She tried not to keep looking at her watch or rush the meal, but found it hard to enjoy the platter of fajitas they shared or the piped-in peppy, upbeat, almost frantic music.

      Not long after the sizzling platter of shrimp and vegetables was served, of course, the subject turned to Jessie.

      “Do you think she’s dead?” Tamara asked. She was on her second margarita while Becca sipped through the ring of salt on her first.

      Becca shrugged. She was tired of the question. Tired of not knowing.

      “I think she’s just messing with us, like she always did.” Tamara spooned shrimp, onions, and peppers into a warm flour tortilla. “Just because Jessie went missing and just because she attended St. Elizabeth’s doesn’t mean she’s dead.”

      “Then who is?”

      “God knows.” She licked her fingers. “What did you think of Vangie and Zeke?”

      “Déjà vu all over again.”

      Tamara snorted. Her red hair caught in the lights high overhead as a waiter called out orders in Spanish to a line cook, visible through an open window to the kitchen. “She was sure flashing that ring. Think it’s real?”

      “She acted like she and Zeke were engaged.”

      “Wonder if she’s gotten over her jealousy?” Tamara lifted a brow. “She sure as hell kept him on a short leash in high school.”

      Becca remembered Evangeline pining after Zeke in high school, attending every game or wrestling match in which he competed, and there were a lot, as Zeke had been a star, all-league athlete in something…baseball?

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