“Thanks. And slice the tomatoes?”
“Sure.”
They worked in silence punctuated by the sizzle of bacon in the pan and the howl of the wind outside. A log shifted in the stove, the toaster sprang with golden-brown slices and still they said nothing. Lauren took the toast and tomatoes from Chris and piled on bacon and lettuce. Still neither of them spoke.
Then Lauren opened the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink? I have three kinds of pop, milk and orange juice.”
“Can I trouble you for coffee?” Chris carried the plates of sandwiches to the small round table by the stove. “I need to warm up and stay awake.”
“For what?” She began to run the coffee carafe beneath the tap. “You look like you need sleep.”
He shouldn’t care that she noticed his fatigue.
“I presume Ryan has a key to this house?”
“He does not.” She set the carafe on the hot plate.
Chris watched her graceful movements, the sureness of each scoop and pour without scattering grounds across the countertop as he always did. She was smart and good at just about everything she tried—except for loving him.
He shook his head. “You expect me to believe you never gave a key to your big brother?”
“I expect you to believe the truth.” She turned from the counter and filled two glasses with water. “Let’s eat while it’s warm.”
They settled at the table, thick sandwiches and a bowl of apples between them. The table was so small their knees nearly touched. It was a table meant for playing board games. The dining table was across the room, in the shadows away from the warmth of the fire. That warmth eddied around them like an invisible cocoon holding them in the same place—a place full of memories of other meals shared at a similar table, of rainy days spent playing Scrabble or Monopoly at his mother’s house.
If he hadn’t needed fuel, Chris might have pushed away and retreated to the room upstairs. He didn’t need reminders of that blissful summer in another cabin at another lake, before his father had died and he changed careers.
The crunching of teeth on toast and crisp bacon sounded like an army tramping over crusty snow.
Last week’s warmer weather had given the snow an icy surface, a natural warning if anyone approached the cabin.
The howling wind and occasional rattle of a snapping tree branch suggested no one in his right mind would prowl outside. Getting inside wouldn’t be easy without a key to the many locks on the doors.
Not easy, nor impossible.
“Why is this house built like a fortress?” Chris asked.
Those locks, heavy doors and solid shutters raised his law-enforcement antenna.
Lauren shrugged as though every house was built with so many reinforcements. “It wasn’t built like a fortress. I had the doors changed to steel-cored and the shutters installed after those murderers escaped in New York and broke into summer cabins. I don’t want anyone trashing this place when I’m not here, and I want to feel safe when I am.”
“It’s a good place for a man on the lam to hide.” Chris probed the wound of her brother. “Where else would Ryan go?”
“Not here for long. I told him he isn’t welcome.” Lauren selected an apple from the bowl, then returned it and rose to go into the kitchen. “Do you take your coffee black?”
She didn’t remember. Oddly, that annoyed him.
“A splash of cream, if you have it. Black, if all you have is skim milk.”
“Please. Who insults good coffee with skim milk?” She warmed half-and-half in the microwave, poured it into two coffee-filled mugs and carried them to the table before she spoke again. “Ryan handles commercial real estate in Colorado. How could he be a drug smuggler in Texas? Besides that, I’ve seen his tax returns. He doesn’t need the money.”
“He’s too rich to break the law?” Chris didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “That isn’t a very convincing defense.”
“The evidence is circumstantial. No one ever caught him with drugs in his possession.”
“If he isn’t guilty, Lauren, why didn’t he accept the plea bargain? And why did he run?”
Lauren stared into her coffee for so long Chris thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she wrapped her hands around the mug commemorating a ten-year-old Christmas and gave him a direct look. “Prison scared him to death. He’s not a fighter, even if some of his activities may be on the wrong side of the law. The idea of being separated from fresh air and open spaces scares him. The nights he’s spent in jail while awaiting arraignment and bail still give him nightmares.”
“He’s not a fighter?” Chris stared at her, his own hands wrapped around a mug proclaiming Peace on Earth and Goodwill toward Men.
“He wouldn’t even fight with me when we were children.”
“Then how did he manage to overpower a courtroom security guard, steal his gun and evade capture this morning?”
Lauren gnawed on her lower lip.
Chris drank his coffee. It was high quality, as was everything surrounding Lauren Wexler since she had turned a school computer science project into a prosperous business. He could wait her out. Patience came with his job.
Across from him, Lauren sipped at her coffee, set down the mug, then picked it up immediately to sip some more. When Chris tried to hold her gaze, she turned her head toward the end of the great room, where the door led to the deck overlooking the lake. For a heartbeat, Chris thought she was simply avoiding his scrutiny. Then he heard the crunch of footfalls on the deck, the rattle of the door handle followed by a resounding thud. The door shuddered under the impact of someone trying to break into the house.
Chris reached for his weapon. He had forgotten it wasn’t there. It had vanished somewhere during the moments when he and Lauren had headed for the house the first time. Or it had vanished with Lauren, and she had stashed it away somewhere when she said she was collecting the first-aid kit. Either way, the gun was gone. He had no way to protect Lauren or himself while someone slammed hard enough against the back door to make it shudder in its frame.
Chris glanced around the room for some sort of weapon. Other than chunks of wood too short and thick to use as clubs, nothing presented itself to him.
“Where is my gun?” Chris demanded, not expecting an answer.
“I don’t know.” Lauren gripped the edge of the table. “I felt it beneath you near the woodpile—”
“Ryan Delaney,” a man shouted outside the door, “open this door if you know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t—”
“Ryan isn’t in here,” Lauren shouted back before Chris could get out his warning for her to remain quiet.
“Come out, Delaney, if you want to keep your sister alive,” another man yelled.
“He’s not—”
Chris grasped Lauren’s hand and headed for the steps. “You can’t argue them into believing your brother isn’t here.”
“Wait.” Lauren held back. “I should get my cell phone. I’ll need it when we reach the road and have service.”
“No time.” Chris pounded up the steps, Lauren sprinting behind him in her moccasins.