Page 11 of Closer Than You Know (Vera Boyett #2)

Boyett Farm

Good Hollow Road, Fayetteville, 10:30 p.m.

Vera sat in her SUV. She’d been sitting here for a while now. The cold had overtaken the warmth and had her on the verge of shaking. She should go inside. She should eat. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since ... she frowned. She had no idea. Maybe breakfast. Had she eaten breakfast? Yes, at Bent’s.

Evidently her memory was failing now that she was so very near forty. The new treadmill she’d ordered for Christmas was turning into more of a clothes rack than a workout feature for her room. She was getting soft. Complacent.

And desperate.

It had been a really long time since she’d been physically intimate. Back in Memphis she’d had Eric Jones. He was a colleague in the department and a good friend, had been for years, before she moved back to Fayetteville. The couple thing hadn’t worked out, but being friends had suited them. They had been friends first, long before the other development. Until she moved to Fayetteville, she could rely on Eric at times like this—when she really needed a thorough, physical workout.

Bent’s image filled her head, and she closed her eyes. Going down that road with him would not be smart at all. There was too much history between them. They were better, sort of, at the friends thing. No matter that Bent was an incredibly good-looking man and had the sexiest voice she’d ever heard. God, and those blue eyes.

Vera closed her own and fought the wave of need.

The memories of their many secret rendezvous all those years ago rolled through her mind like a favorite old movie.

Maybe it was the whole idea of turning forty and never having been married, no kids, no traditional anything. The last time she’d been in love was when she was seventeen and was head over heels for Bent. The fact that her life had spiraled in reverse, landing her back in Tennessee, with no career and no love life and in the middle of a murder investigation involving her family had been plenty with which to deal.

Now she was about to be forty, her parents were gone, and both her younger sisters were in relationships. Life was calm ... simple, for the most part.

That was the problem. There was nothing to distract her from the other.

The cold penetrated her coat, and she shivered again. Going into that big old empty house was maybe the issue tonight. It was late. She was tired and hungry, and the house was dark and empty. Eve had moved in with Suri, and Luna—the youngest Boyett sister—had gotten married.

That was enough to make a girl feel out of sorts.

She thought of how they’d found Nolan’s cell phone in that shed. How the hell had Owens gotten the phone? Had he found it somewhere? Or had Nolan been hiding in that shed while he pretended to be abducted? Certainly, someone had been using the sleeping bag in that shed, and there had been food remains lying around.

But if Owens found the phone somewhere ... why not turn it in when the news broke of Nolan’s abduction, assuming he heard about it? Were the man’s delusions driving him? There was no improvement in the last update from the hospital. Who knew when the guy would be able to answer any questions—if ever, for that matter. Long-term meth use could cause brain damage, among other terrible things.

The trouble was, if Owens wasn’t the Time Thief and Nolan wasn’t ... that meant they still had no true evidence in this case. How could four people go missing and no evidence be left behind? Either they had one hell of a good perp, or it was a hoax that had been planned very carefully. No evidence of that either.

Basically, they had nothing.

The only good thing to happen today was that she’d been able to call Liam Remington again. He’d sounded relieved that there were no intimate photos to be worried about. But the reality that there was still no sign of Nolan hadn’t been news he’d wanted to hear.

Still, Vera had been able to deliver on her promise to the man. He now owed her one. The thought of Teresa Russ and that voicemail she’d deleted had her nerves twitching again.

Finally, she reached for the door handle and got out of the car. The wind cut through her like a knife. She didn’t remember March being this cold when she was a kid. Hundreds of daffodils had formed yellow puddles all around the front yard. Tulips had already pushed their way through the soil but hadn’t started blooming just yet. Her mother had been a consummate gardener. The evidence bloomed all around the house from early spring until the dead of winter.

Vera had never fully appreciated all those blooms until the past few months. Considering all that had happened with the discovery of those remains in the cave, her mother’s sea of blooms had been a comfort all last summer, through one trauma after another.

She slid the key into the lock and gave it a twist. Inside, the sound of the alarm had her going straight to the keypad to disarm it before closing and locking the door once more.

She tossed her keys and her bag aside, shrugged off her coat, and hung it on the nearest hook. Then she headed to the kitchen. She needed something hot to drink. Maybe with a shot of whiskey. With her favorite oversize mug under the drip basket, she set the coffee to brew and went for the Jack under the sink. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she needed food too. The memory of having BLTs with Bent popped into her head. Along with Renae’s homegrown tomatoes.

Vera rolled her eyes. She’d have to go on social media and find this tomato-growing, salad-making friend of Bent’s. Not that she was jealous or anything. Why would she be? She and Bent were only friends. Sure, she was attracted to him. What woman—or man, for that matter—still breathing wouldn’t be? The man was ...

“Stop it, Vee,” she grumbled.

She poured a shot of Jack into the mug with the steaming coffee. Beyond ready for some sort of relief, she lifted the mug to her mouth and savored the heat and the taste of the promise Jack made with every damned drop—bottled right up the road in Lynchburg.

A sting of cold washed over her body. Was the heat off? It felt unusually cold in this big old kitchen. That was the thing with old houses. The heat or air-conditioning was never exactly right. Too many cracks and odd spaces—not to mention the lack of insulation—to keep the climate properly controlled.

Mug in hand, she trudged to the thermostat near the stairs. Seventy-two. It was warmer here by the stairs, but it certainly wasn’t seventy-two degrees in the rear of the house. She walked back into the kitchen. Why was it so cold near the sink? This was more than just drafty.

She checked the back door. Locked. She went still. As she stood by the door, a stouter breeze swept past her. She turned to her right and recognized the cold was coming from the laundry room/mudroom. She walked through the cased opening, flipped on the light.

The window over the washer and dryer was up—not just a little, either. It was up all the way.

“What the hell?”

She set her mug aside, grabbed the stepladder from the corner. Had Eve or Luna been over here today? But why would they open a window? She should call and ask before she overreacted.

Climbing onto the top of the washing machine, she lowered the window and tried to lock it. Didn’t work. Lots of these old windows no longer locked. Damn it. The windows were the original ones and were slathered with more than a century’s worth of paint.

Once her feet were on the floor again, she put the stepladder away and picked up her mug once more.

The memory of this morning’s tracks in the snow just outside her kitchen nudged her. It was entirely possible the window had been opened by an intruder. A new wave of cold washed over her, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. They’d had alarms put on the doors, but they’d opted not to include the windows since there were so many of them and it was crazy expensive.

A lump thickened in her throat.

Had someone been in the house?

She dragged her cell from her back pocket and called Eve. She downed the rest of her coffee and Jack before her sister answered. It felt wrong to be drinking alcohol while talking to Eve, who was a recovering alcoholic.

Plus she needed her free hand for her daddy’s shotgun, which she hefted under her arm as she started a walk-through of the house.

“Do you know what time it is?” Eve demanded rather than saying hello.

It wasn’t that late, but Eve sometimes had very early-morning starts at the funeral home.

“Did you come to the house today?” Vera asked, ignoring her question.

“What? No. I didn’t leave the funeral home until an hour ago. I had to eat both lunch and dinner in the mortuary room.”

Vera suppressed a gag. How her sister could eat while preparing a body was beyond all reason. “Someone was here.”

“Maybe Luna came over. Did you ask her?” She yawned, as if the conversation couldn’t be over quickly enough.

“I will, but I called you first.” The living room and library were clear. The bathroom under the stairs too. That left the second floor. She started up the stairs.

“Why do you think someone was in the house?”

“The window in the laundry room was open, like someone used it for climbing in.”

At the top of the stairs, Vera used her cheek and shoulder to hold the phone so she could position the shotgun properly in the event she had to shoot at an intruder.

“You really think someone’s been in the house?” Eve’s voice was suddenly at full attention.

“I hope not,” Vera said, “but I can’t think of another explanation.”

“Call Bent,” Eve practically shouted. “Do you have Daddy’s shotgun?”

“I do.” Her room looked clear, but just in case she checked the closet and under the bed. Not an easy task while holding the shotgun and keeping her phone in place.

“I’m hanging up and calling Bent.”

“No,” Vera growled. “Just stay on the line until I’ve checked all the bedrooms.”

Eve’s room was next. All clear there too. Hall bathroom was as well. The same in Luna’s room.

“Going in Mama and Daddy’s room now,” she said, her heart beating faster.

The sound of her sister breathing on the other end of the line kept Vera steady. That and the shotgun in her hands.

Under the bed ... in the closet. All clear.

“Okay.” Vera let out a breath. “No one’s in the house.”

“I swear to God, if you go poking around outside without calling Bent ...”

“There were tracks in the snow this morning.” Vera sat down on the end of her parents’ bed. The Jack had kicked in and given her a light buzz, considering she’d had no food in more than twelve hours. “They came from the area of the barn all the way to the back door and that window next to it. Looked as if whoever was out there stood around for a while, packing down the snow under that window. Just looking inside, I guess.”

“Are you kidding me? I am calling Bent.”

“Eve, I checked it out.” Vera considered again that she hadn’t seen tire tracks by the barn. So whoever was here had come from the woods beyond the barn. A long walk in all that snow.

And, as she had pondered this morning, maybe he parked on the road, walked to the barn and waited for the snow ... but then how had he gotten back to the road or anywhere else without her seeing his return tracks? If he’d walked in the same tracks, it would have been obvious ... unless he’d been very, very good at walking backward.

It could be only one of two ways—he either sprouted wings and flew or he’d gone through the house. The thought settled deep in her gut and started to swell. Why would anyone go to all that trouble? While she was asleep inside? He would have had to remove his boots to prevent leaving a telltale mess, climb into her house, make it to the front, and go out ... a window. Opening the door would have set off the alarm.

The idea made her throat tighten.

“You can call him, or I’m calling him,” Eve threatened.

“Fine. I’ll call him.”

“Okay. I’m hanging up now, but if I find out you didn’t call him, I will be so pissed—you don’t even know.”

“I will call him. Night, Eve.” Vera ended the call before her sister could say more.

She would call Bent. But not tonight. She was too exhausted ... too out of sorts.

Instead, she went downstairs and started checking windows. The very first one next to the front door was unlocked and not quite pushed all the way down. Fury roared through her. She closed and locked it. It was one of the few that actually locked. Why the hell hadn’t he at least partially closed that back window too?

He had, she suddenly realized. She would have noticed when she made coffee this morning if he hadn’t. Which meant he’d been back again after she’d left for the day.

Son of a bitch.

She stormed back to the kitchen and poured another shot of Jack. Forget the coffee. She sipped it as she put her father’s shotgun away and walked through the downstairs again. More slowly this time. She hadn’t looked to see if anything was missing the first time. Not that the Boyett family had anything of any real value. Just a lot of stuff that prompted memories.

There was no one in the house, and there was nothing missing, as best she could tell.

It was possible the news had gotten around that she was helping with this Time Thief investigation. Some low-life reporter or, worse, someone involved with the kidnapper could have come in to see if she had anything relevant to the case in the house.

She shook off the endless possibilities. “Food.” She downed the rest of the shot. She needed food.

After a scan of the fridge, she went for a peanut butter sandwich—well, half of one. There was only one slice of bread. Since she needed something to wash it down, she poured another shot of Jack and snagged a bottle of water. She downed the shot and left the mug in the sink. The one-sided sandwich and the bottle of water she took to her room and placed on the dresser.

A shower would have to wait until morning. She was way, way too tired for that. She clawed at her sweatshirt and finally managed to get it over her head. Then she peeled off her jeans. The bra hit the floor, and then she grabbed her favorite sleep shirt: a Bon Jovi tee Bent had gone to great lengths to get for her more than twenty years ago.

“Means nothing,” she grumbled as she grabbed her sandwich and took a bite.

Her head swam from the booze. She took her sandwich, water, and phone to the window and settled there. As a teenager she’d ensconced herself by this window, all the time dreaming of when she’d grow up and escape her small town. Later, after her mama had died, she would sit here and watch for Bent.

She stuffed another bite of sandwich into her mouth and closed her eyes. The memory of twenty-one-year-old Bent and that damned cowboy hat he always wore had her smiling. She’d loved taking it off his head, running her fingers through his long, thick hair.

Her cell vibrated in her lap. She jumped, almost dropped her half-eaten half sandwich.

She tore off another bite and stared at her phone. Bent.

“Damn it, Eve.”

She swallowed, took a drink of water, then accepted the call. “Hey.” She swiped at her mouth.

“You okay?”

She was going to get her sister back for this. “I’m good. Really. Everything here is fine. Really. Fine.”

The fact that she sounded inebriated was not lost on her.

“Good.”

She wanted to demand to know if Eve had called him, but on the off chance that she hadn’t and this call was about work, she didn’t.

“What’s up?” She downed a swallow of water, then ate the last of her sandwich. Licked her fingers.

“I was on my way home, and, well, I thought I’d check in on you. You look comfy.”

She stopped licking and stared out the window. Right there, beyond the trees, was his truck ... parked exactly where he’d parked all those nights when she’d sneak out to meet him.

The water bottle slid out of her hand. “Shit.” She jumped up, grabbed it before it completely emptied on the floor. “Sorry.” She grabbed her sweatshirt and tossed it onto the puddle. “I dropped ...” She stared out the window, her throat so dry she could hardly speak, much less swallow. “I dropped my bottle of water.”

“I like the T-shirt.”

It hit her then that with the lights on in her room and him sitting in the dark out there, he could see her clearly. Oh God. He’d probably seen her underwear when she bent over to pick up the water.

“An oldie but goody,” she said, trying to sound nonplussed as she settled on the window’s deep ledge once more.

Silence filled the air for a long moment. The lack of talking had never bothered her, or him. They’d spent long minutes just listening to each other breathe.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong.”

She moistened her lips. “Sure.”

“I could come in, you know. Sleep on the couch.”

He’d done that more than once back in July when all hell broke loose with that damned cave.

The words ... words she knew better than to say ... crowded into her throat. How many times since July had she wanted so damned badly to ask him to stay the night ... not on the sofa downstairs but right here in her bed? How many hours had she spent daydreaming about how Bent the man might make love? The memory of how the twenty-one-year-old made love was seared on her brain. No imagination was necessary to envision his body now. Twenty years in the military had given him the patience and endurance of a warrior. He had a great body. She’d seen him without a shirt more than once.

She ran her fingers through her hair just to have something to do with them. She didn’t know why she did this to herself. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to have sex with the man, she should just do it.

Except the one thing she knew with absolute certainty was that if she did, there would be no turning back. She recognized with complete certainty that it would change everything.

“I’m fine,” she said, the breathless quality in her voice immensely frustrating. “Good night, Bent.”

“Night, Vee.”

The call ended, but she didn’t move. She sat there and watched him drive away, the urge to call him back and invite him to come inside a pulsing, throbbing need.

When he was gone, she got up, walked to the bed, and collapsed onto it.

The thought of how much she wanted something more than the emptiness she felt at that moment followed her into the darkness of sleep.