“White should stay with white.”
“Donahue.”
“Daniel Boyd here, Mr. Donahue.”
“Detective. It’s been months. Do you have any news on my wife? Is that why you’re calling?”
“You weren’t married to Amanda Blake,” Daniel said. For a brief time the previous year, he’d believed the missing Flagstaff woman had been kidnapped and was being held by a man at a motel in Tuscon, but she’d disappeared again before he had any real proof. A frantic Donahue had called him half a dozen times a day for two weeks, and while Daniel could have diverted the calls, he’d taken every one of them.
“She wore my ring. Bore my son.” Bobby Donahue’s words were softly spoken, his voice subdued.
His grief was real, which was why, in spite of what he and much of Arizona’s law enforcement believed about Donahue’s “business,” his “church,” Daniel had taken the time to speak with him.
“As far as I’m concerned, your wife’s case is closed,” he said now, before the younger man got himself worked up with hope again. “The woman who was seen at the Desert Stop motel fitting her description gave false identification and left no forwarding address. She is untraceable. She could be anywhere—or she could be dead. Unless she shows up again, there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Oh.” The deflation evident in that one word struck Daniel, despite his cynicism about Bobby Donahue. “So why am I getting a call from the Tucson police?” Donahue asked.
“Tell me you didn’t order a rape in Tucson. A white woman married to a black man.” The intricate and seemingly foolproof disguises Donahue used to cover his white supremacist activities didn’t fool Daniel for a second.
“What? Of course I didn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“As God is my witness.”
“If I find out you’re lying to me, I’m going to hunt you down, my friend, and just like you, I don’t feel any particular need to play by the rules.”
“I understand, Detective. You helped me with Amanda. I owe you and I’m a man of honor.”
And that, Daniel knew to be true. In his own twisted way, Bobby Donahue was a trustworthy, loyal and God-fearing man.
“If I ever ordered a rape, which I would never, of course, do, I simply wouldn’t answer your question.”
Satisfied, Daniel Boyd nodded. And silently disconnected the call.
At first Laura didn’t recognize the despair that accompanied her waking to a bright new day. She stretched. And her entire body ached. She felt a chafing between her legs.
“Hi.” Harry, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, his hair still wet from the shower, sat up against the pillows beside her, smiling down at her.
At least, his lips smiled. His eyes searched hers, sending love—and seeking it. Seeking reassurance.
It was something she couldn’t give.
“Hi.” Breaking eye contact, she sat up, pulling the covers over her chest.
“You should probably call your folks. Your mother will be starting to wonder why she hasn’t heard from you.”
Glancing at the small LED screen on the guest-room night table, Laura was shocked to see that it was almost eleven. Unless she was away she called her mother every Saturday morning. It was a kind of unwritten rule. Her mother didn’t meddle in Laura’s affairs—and Laura checked in regularly.
“I’m not ready to talk to them yet.” She thought about it. Tried to push herself. And felt tears choking her throat.
Her mother would take it hard—reacting to the attack as strongly as if it had happened to her. Laura couldn’t experience those feelings again right now. Couldn’t live through the commiseration and compassion that would allow her to fall apart completely.
If she did that, she’d never be able to pull herself back together.
“I called Dad.”
Thoughts of Kaleb and Alicia Kendall brought a tiny hint of warmth. Until she envisioned their reaction to—
“They want to see you, but will wait to visit until we’re ready. They asked if you want to go to Oregon and stay with them for a bit. And Mom says she’ll have her cell with her at all times if you need to talk.”
“Could you call them for me, please?” Laura asked. Harry’s parents had always been a safe place for her, for both of them. Not only accepting their love, but rejoicing in it. Welcoming her, a white woman, into their family. “Let them know I can’t answer any questions yet, if that’s okay, but I’d like to hear their voices.”
Harry had the phone to his ear before she’d finished the last sentence.
Daniel Boyd had worked easier cases than the Kendall rape. And harder ones. He was going over the scant information he had as he pulled up in front of their home late Saturday afternoon, then started up the walk to their door. He straightened his shoulders. Experience had taught him that there was no way to be prepared for whatever scene would take place inside that house. He was familiar with the range of emotions that might be released—anger, pain, grief, guilt—and could never predict which ones he’d face. Experience had also taught him that the sooner he uncovered more evidence, the higher his chances of finding the perpetrators of this particular nightmare.
Robert Miller was home with his wife and kids—certainly his right, since they were off duty. But Daniel couldn’t sit at home when a crime scene was getting colder by the second. And he didn’t have a wife or kids.
Cops relied on crime scenes for evidence. And in this case, Laura Kendall’s body—and to a lesser degree, her husband’s—was the crime scene. Her memory—and her husband’s—were about the only way he had to uncover any missing pieces….
He hated this part of the job. Nailing the bastards gave him a high unparalleled by anything else in his life. But looking a raped woman in the eye, having to imagine what she was feeling, figuring out how to get into her brain and find the information he needed, gnawed at his gut every time.
Forcing her to relive the worst night of her life was even worse.
He knocked on the door with two quick raps, praying to the god of cops that something he had to say, or ask, would trigger the inconspicuous clue that would let him do his job. If it came, he’d recognize it. Of that he was sure.
Harry could tell that Laura was doing better since speaking to his parents. She’d not only accepted his offer to make chicken parmesan for dinner, but she’d wanted to help. She was rolling boneless chicken breasts in his secret mixture on the counter while he broke spaghetti in half and dropped it in boiling water when they heard the knock on the door.
Her sudden tension seemed to bounce off the walls around them.
“Who could that be?” Her tone seemed to blame him, as though he’d invited guests without informing her. Something he’d never done. And never would.
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to hide his own concern.
Harry’s spirits sank back to that morning’s depths as he saw the detective on his doorstep. They’d been about to have the first normal moments since their ordeal had begun.
“Dr. Kendall, may I come in? I have a few things I need to discuss with you and your wife.”
“Of course. And please call me Mr. Or Harry. The title is just to impress my students.” Harry held open the door, motioned Daniel Boyd inside and invited him to have a seat on the couch while he waited to see if Laura would come in of her own accord.
He was relieved when she did.
Harry