A Sinclair Homecoming. Kimberly Meter Van

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      Wade was losing ground quickly. He crossed his arms. “This is borderline ridiculous.”

      “I agree.” She smiled but he got the distinct impression she was referring to him and not Adult Protective Services. Opening her file, she selected one of the glossy eight-by-ten photos taken by APS when the house was condemned. “Mr. Sinclair, I find a picture to be worth a thousand words in these types of situations.” She handed him the photo with a brisk but apologetic smile. “It can be a shock to see a family member living like this, and denial is common. But as you can see...your mother was living in very dangerous conditions.”

      What the... Wade stared at the photo, unable to comprehend what he was staring at. Nothing looked remotely familiar from his childhood. He wasn’t even sure what room he was staring at because everything was obliterated by floor-to-ceiling junk. “What the hell...?” he breathed, shooting a shocked look at his sister. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

      Miranda was neither shocked nor surprised and proceeded to explain. “That’s the living room. Or at least, it used to be. See that tiny, clogged walkway? That’s the hallway toward what used to be our bedrooms. Simone’s bedroom is off to the left. And the kitchen...well, you ought to be lucky that picture isn’t a scratch-and-sniff. She’s been sleeping in the bathtub for months.”

      Wade stared at his sister. His mother had been sleeping in a bathtub? “How do you know this?”

      “Talen told me. She tried to deny it but it’s true.”

      Wade returned the photo, sick to his stomach. The pounding behind his eyeball had turned into a battering ram against his skull. He’d wanted to believe that his siblings had exaggerated, that somehow this was all some big misunderstanding but there was no misinterpreting that picture. Mounds of unrecognizable garbage and clutter filled every nook and cranny that he could see. And if the entire house was like that? “How’d this happen?” he asked, talking out loud mostly to himself. He didn’t expect an answer.

      “It’s too early to tell until I’ve done a full evaluation but I do know a little bit about your family’s personal history, and I’d say this may stem from grief that never found an appropriate outlet.”

      Simone. Everything always spiraled back to Simone. Of course it did. “My sister.”

      “Yes.”

      Miranda piped in, saying, “Mom won’t let anyone into Simone’s room anymore. It’s weird, almost as if she’s trying to forget that Simone is gone. She spends a lot of time in that room.”

      “Have you been in there?”

      Miranda shook her head. “She guards it like a watchdog. I don’t know what’s going through that head of hers.”

      So much for a quick three-day trip to sort out details. “What do you need from us?” he asked, resigned.

      “Just your cooperation. She’ll need your support but she also needs to know that you’re not going to enable her to hurt herself again. It’s a delicate balance of support and tough love. I won’t sugarcoat things...these types of situations are hard on everyone involved but I have seen positive outcomes with proper therapy.”

      “My mom will never agree to therapy,” he said grimly. “I can tell you that right now.”

      “Well, you’d be surprised what motivates people. That’s where the support comes in. I’ll wait to introduce myself until tomorrow, seeing as I’ve already made contact with you. Likely, what I have to say is going to be upsetting.”

      Upsetting? That was too mild of a word. He nodded. “What time?”

      “How’s 10:00 a.m.?”

      He looked to Miranda. “That works for me. How about you?”

      She nodded. “I’ll check with Trace.”

      “Thanks.” He had no wish to talk to his brother at the moment. He returned to the doctor. “We’ll be here.”

      Dr. O’Hare smiled. “Excellent. It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances.”

      It was probably a standard comment meant to relax people but Wade caught a flash of genuine emotion in her eyes. Or at least, he thought he did. Hell, maybe he was seeing things. Everything in his world had just been tipped on its ass. He ducked his head to the doctor in goodbye and he and Miranda left the hospital to go pick up his mom’s car.

      His last thought as Dr. O’Hare walked away—inappropriate and flustering—was how pretty she was and how he wished she’d been a wizened old man with a bald head and knobby knuckles.

      If that were the case he surely wouldn’t be spending undue time thinking of those deep blue eyes behind those designer frames.

      And what the hell was he doing thinking of any woman in that capacity? He’d told himself he was going to take a breather in the romance department after suffering through a particularly uncomfortable breakup with Elizabeth, his mostly casual bed partner. Well, he’d thought what they were doing was casual. When he realized Elizabeth had different ideas, he’d decided to cut ties. Better that way than dragging out something that was never going to go where she’d hoped it would.

      So that left the question: Why was he noticing how deep and blue Dr. O’Hare’s eyes were? Had to be the strain of the moment because if he were thinking straight... Hell, no. It just wouldn’t happen.

      Besides, he had a feeling things were going to get worse before they got better—and that pretty doc was going to be in the center of it all.

      And not in a good way.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      MORGAN LEFT THE HOSPITAL, thinking of the Sinclair family and everything they’d been through over the years. She remembered when the youngest Sinclair went missing and then was found the following day by Trace Sinclair, frozen to death on the mountain. The poor girl had been brutalized and left to die. So pretty, so young. It’d been a senseless tragedy that’d scared the entire town. For weeks everyone had been on hyperalert, terrified that the killer was among them. Her father had been paranoid, insisting on a strict curfew for his kids, particularly his daughters. Her younger sister, Mona, had actually known Simone. They hadn’t been friends, per se, but Simone had been a tidal wave of charisma and it’d been difficult to prevent getting swept up in her energy. Mona had told her how pretty and sweet Simone had been.

      Cheerleader, dance team, pep club, French club—the girl had been into everything.

      And then, just like that, she was gone. Her life snuffed out at the whim of a psychopath. Add in the fact that her killer had never been caught and well, it created a perfect cocktail for paranoia in a small town.

      Morgan vaguely recalled Wade from school—he’d been older than she was in school—and of course everyone had had a crush on Trace, even though he’d been over the moon gaga for Delainey Clarke. But she remembered that Wade had been the quiet one. She also remembered that he drove a burgundy Chevy Blazer. Why she remembered that, she didn’t know. Well, time had been kind to the Sinclairs in ways that fate had not. They were a good-looking bunch. No quirks of DNA in that chain.

      She also remembered that David hadn’t СКАЧАТЬ