Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy

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СКАЧАТЬ after her father. Should she bring it up? Would he? Before she could make up her mind, Mick spoke, his words doing nothing to put her at ease. “Your father has the most to lose if something happens to Blanchard Fabrics.”

      “That doesn’t mean he’d kill to protect it.”

      “I hope you’re right.”

      “I am.” But even as she said it, Portia doubted her own words, her own belief in her father. If, as she suspected, he’d lied about her mother’s death to keep Trudy Blanchard away from her children for almost twenty-three years, what else might he lie about? What else might he be capable of? Her heart beat hard with what she was thinking and Portia stepped back toward the door. “I’d better get back inside.”

      She didn’t wait for Mick to respond, just shoved the door open and fled inside.

      Mick waited until the door clicked shut, then headed to his SUV. Portia’s loyalty to her family was something he admired, but it wouldn’t keep him from doing his job. McGraw had been murdered. Mick might have lost his respect for the man who had been a childhood friend and, later, a fellow Portland police officer, but he couldn’t allow that to influence his desire to solve the case. Especially since Mick had been partially responsible for McGraw’s dismissal from the force years ago. If he’d known then…

      He wouldn’t have done things any differently. What happened was a result of McGraw’s failures and sins, not Mick’s, yet somehow he still felt responsible. The wind howled, tugging at Mick’s leather jacket and urging him into the car and away from Blanchard Manor and his own dark memories. He couldn’t change the past, wouldn’t hurry the future. It was time to go home, to sit in front of a fire, maybe roast marshmallows with his six-year-old daughter Kaitlyn.

      He glanced back at the house as he pulled onto Bay View Drive. Lights were blazing from all three levels, but still it seemed a lonely place and once again he was struck by the difference between Portia and the environment she’d grown up in. When he’d first seen her on the ice, he’d thought her to be carefree and exuberant. That had changed when she’d walked into Blanchard Manor. All her vitality had drained away, replaced by a quiet somberness that didn’t match her bright clothing, or the vibrancy in her eyes. Had being around her father caused the change? Or was it the house itself, the staid, museum-like decor that had drained her?

      And why had he even noticed or cared? It had been three years since his wife Rebecca had died in a plane crash. In that time, he’d created a life for himself and his daughter. A life that didn’t include women. At least not women younger than Mick’s mother. Now was definitely not time to change that. Not when he was responsible for investigating Stoneley’s first murder in thirty years. And not when the woman in question was the daughter of Mick’s prime suspect.

      THREE

      Portia watched the sunrise from the balcony off her room. French doors open, icy air seeping through her pajamas, she stood in awe as dawn painted the sky with vivid pinks and golds. For just this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, no one hanging over her shoulder questioning her choices. She supposed that was the hardest part of belonging to a large family—always having people watching her, judging her actions.

      If she were a different kind of person, what her sister, her aunt, even her father thought wouldn’t matter quite so much. But she wasn’t and it did. Which was why her conversation with Ronald the previous night had left her antsy and unhappy, his insistence that her New York City lifestyle was a mistake making her question her certainty about where she should be. Where God wanted her to be.

      After all, wasn’t that the point—to be where He wanted, doing what He wanted her to do, whatever that might be?

      “And therein lies the problem. I have no idea what You want, God. I thought I did, but lately I’m just not sure.”

      “Talking to yourself again?” Rissa peeked in the room, her hair curling wildly around a makeup-free face.

      “Talking to God.” Portia threw herself down on the bed. “I don’t think He’s listening.”

      “Hmmm.”

      “Hmmm, what?”

      “Hmmm, you had a nice long chat with Daddy dearest last night and now you’re upset. Why am I not surprised?”

      “Because you know Father never gives up once he sets his mind to something and he’s set his mind to getting me to work for Blanchard Fabrics.”

      “Portia, he’d have every one of us working at the company if he had his way. Why do you let it bother you so much?”

      “I don’t know.” And she didn’t, though she wished she could change it. “Maybe because I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who’s still hoping to make her father proud.”

      “Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Rissa stretched and yawned. “Do you have big plans for today?”

      Portia did. She planned to visit the Stoneley police department to find out if there’d been any more progress on the McGraw case. That was something Rissa didn’t need to know, though. “I’m running errands for Aunt Winnie and picking up that horrid dress from Mr. Dugal.”

      “Not the Winter Fest dress?”

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “I thought you’d been saved that…honor.”

      “You mean humiliation.”

      “Hey, I wore it my senior year of high school. It wasn’t that bad.”

      “Riding in a horse-drawn carriage, dressed like a winter princess is fine when you’re seventeen. It’s not fine when you’re my age.”

      “Our age. So, say no.”

      “I tried, but Mr. Dugal takes a lot of pride in making sure every woman in Stoneley gets the opportunity. Apparently, he’s decided it’s my turn.”

      “And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings so you said yes.”

      “Actually, Aunt Winnie accepted for me. She thought it might cheer me up. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

      “In that case, I forgive you for being a push over. And at least you won’t go down in history as the oldest Winter Fest princess. Wasn’t Jenny Wilcomb sixty-five?” Rissa yawned again, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

      “Forty, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. Now, stop yawning. You’re making me tired.”

      “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

      “Me, neither.”

      “I doubt anyone did. We were probably all worrying about the same thing.” Rissa dropped down onto the bed and threw her arm over her eyes. “Mother.”

      “And Garrett McGraw.”

      “And how much Father really knows about all of this.”

      “I think he knows a lot.” Portia expected Rissa to agree and was surprised when her twin turned to face her. They were eye to eye, just inches apart the СКАЧАТЬ