The Woman Who Wasn't There. Marie Ferrarella

her best to keep her thoughts from her face, Delene asked, “Why would you guess my mother instead of my father?” To her, that would have been the logical assumption.

      They drove by a mall that boasted fifteen different theaters. The marquee was just lighting up. “Because he left you.”

      “I never said that,” she pointed out quickly. She didn’t want this man poking around in her life. “You just assumed it.”

      “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

      Delene fell silent. She supposed that it did no harm to admit this tiny part. After all, it didn’t illuminate who she was, wouldn’t send him off on any trails toward the truth. It was just an isolated fact.

      One that saddened her whenever she let herself think about it.

      “Yes.”

      He glanced at her, trying to gauge her tone. “On both counts?”

      Delene blew out a breath. “You just don’t stop, do you?”

      Actually, Troy thought of his relentlessness as an asset, considering his line of work. His cousin Callie said he was like a bloodhound on the trail of a scent that was fifteen days old. He just didn’t give up until he got what he was after.

      He flashed Delene a grin. “There were eleven of us when I was growing up. You stopped, you got run over. Or missed out.” Shy and retiring just didn’t work in his family.

      Delene’s eyes widened in disbelief. She’d thought that Jorge and Adrian had been exaggerating earlier. They were prone to that.

      “Eleven children?” she echoed. He had to be pulling her leg. Nobody had big families anymore. Three was considered large by today’s standards. “Your mother had eleven children?” she repeated, waiting for him to own up to the exaggeration.

      “No,” he laughed. “My mother had four kids. But I have seven cousins. There’s maybe ten years’ difference between the oldest to the youngest. And we were all very close, even when we were fighting. Especially when we were fighting,” he corrected, remembering some of the finer exchanges of blows that had taken place. But the only casualties that resulted were skinned knees and knuckles, not feelings.

      At least in the very beginning, he added silently. That was before Uncle Mike had allowed his jealousy of his brothers to drive them apart. He and his family still turned up at some of the functions, but there was a difference, a sadness that emanated from Patience and Patrick that even he could feel. None of the younger Cavanaughs had realized just how deeply the wounds ran until Uncle Mike had been killed in the line of duty. After that, certain facts slowly made their way to the surface.

      His late uncle never felt he measured up to either his younger or especially his older brother. It turned him bitter. While he was still a decent cop, he wasn’t as good as Andrew or Brian. He took his feelings of inadequacy out on his family. And looked elsewhere for gratification. When he turned to Uncle Andrew’s wife, Rose, it resulted in near tragedy.

      Not knowing what to think, what to believe, Uncle Andrew had argued with Aunt Rose. She left the house in a huff and disappeared for fifteen years. Everyone thought she was dead until Uncle Andrew, who had never given up hope, had finally managed to locate her. Aunt Rose had been in a car accident the morning she left. The head injury she’d suffered, along with the emotional strain she was under, caused her to forget who she was. It had taken love and patience, not to mention an incredible amount of luck, something he’d always believed in, to bring Aunt Rose back to herself.

      But that was a story he figured he could tell Delene once he found out hers.

      If he found out hers, he amended.

      “You were lucky.” The words were uttered so softly, had the radio been on, he wouldn’t have heard them.

      But he had. And he’d also heard her tone, pregnant with unspoken angst. “And you weren’t.”

      Delene sighed, shifting in her seat. He was cornering her. She hated feeling cornered. Russell would always corner her. Physically and emotionally. Chipping away at her until she caved.

      But that was then, this was now. And she didn’t cave anymore. Or answer questions she didn’t want to answer.

      “You really don’t stop, do you?” She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. They’d been driving for fifteen minutes. The fluffy reporter should have been all talked out by now. “I think it’s safe for you to take me back now, Detective Cavanaugh.”