Dangerous Secrets

Nine

Parker’s Ridge

Midnight, November 20

“More?” Nick whispered into Charity’s ear Sunday night. From behind her, he shifted a damp lock of her hair to one side and licked the skin just behind her ear. She shivered.

More? Good God, he was buried so deeply inside her it almost—but not quite—hurt. How on earth could she want more? More of anything he could give her?

She was already completely his, completely in his grip. He was arched around her back, one muscled thigh between hers, opening her up. One hand held her breast, the other was holding her labia open around his penis.

“This feels so good, I don’t even want to move,” he murmured, his lips so close to her ear she could both hear his voice and feel the vibrations in his chest against her back. “But maybe—” the hand at her groin moved, opened her even farther, “maybe you want more.”

His hips tightened against hers and, impossibly, he slid in a little farther, to a place deep inside herself she had no idea existed.

Heat blazed from her groin and she could feel herself getting wetter by the second, just from having him there, inside her, hot and heavy and unmoving. So still she could have sworn he wasn’t even breathing.

Everything about this was a delight. His big, strong hands, powerful yet delicate. Capable of touching her just so. His chest hairs tickling her back, the rough hairs at his groin scratchy against her bottom. The strong, hair-roughened legs against hers. And of course, the biggie. Literally. His penis buried in her to the hilt.

She closed her eyes as her body spasmed helplessly around him. He reacted instantly, growing even longer and thicker inside her in the space of a heartbeat.

More. He’d asked her if she wanted more and was giving it to her. She hadn’t answered him, but her body had. And his had responded.

He withdrew, just a little, the friction against the walls of her sheath like painless fire, then moved back in. Oh God, she was starting that delicious slide into orgasm already. How did he do it?

She’d always been so slow to climax. A lover or two had even complained about it. She wasn’t slow now. All Nick had to do was touch her, enter her, and she was primed to go off.

Nick started slow, languid pulls and thrusts, lazy and leisurely, his chin nestling against her shoulder. Breathing relaxed and deep. Heart thumping hard and slow against her back. Muscles hard but not tense.

Experience told her that he was settling in for the long haul and could keep this up for hours. Recent experience. A lot of it.

She couldn’t keep it up for hours, though. No, in an instant her heart started racing, heat prickled in her veins, everywhere he touched her, inside her vagina, against her back. The musky smell of sex clouded the air. She was starting the slide…

The phone rang.

Nick stopped for a moment on the outstroke and Charity wanted to scream. So close, she was so close! She needed him back inside her, now. A whimper escaped her. Her thighs shook. She tightened around him and felt an answering surge.

The phone rang again. Nick was still, unmoving. What was he waiting for? His penis was barely in her, at her entrance and her sheath contracted sharply, anxious for him to fill her again.

The phone rang again.

It was just far enough away so that she couldn’t stretch out and turn the handset off. If she reached for it, she would pull away from Nick’s penis. Unthinkable.

The phone rang again.

Her heart pounded, her lungs felt tight. She was shaking all over now. So close. She was so damned close—

Her eye happened to fall on the big clock on her dresser drawer. Twelve fifteen. Past midnight. Who on earth—

Suddenly, reality crashed in on Charity, chilling her.

The only person who would call her at that hour was Uncle Franklin. And there could only be one reason to call. He needed her.

Charity moved, pulling away entirely from Nick’s penis, worry rising in her like a dark tide, so overwhelming she didn’t even have time to mourn leaving his embrace.

“Sorry,” she gasped and lunged for the cordless handset. “I have to get this.” How long had it been ringing? Was she too late?

“Hello?” Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears.

“Charity?” Uncle Franklin’s soft, quavering voice sounded dim, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. Her anxiety ratcheted up a notch.

“Uncle Franklin? What’s wrong?”

Holding the handset between her ear and her shoulder, Charity scrambled to get dressed. Whatever had happened was bad. She needed her clothes for this. Panties—where Nick had thrown them in a corner. Pants—over a chair. Sweater—at the foot of the bed.

“Your aunt, honey. She’s gone. I don’t…” Uncle Franklin’s shaking voice drifted off, the last word said away from the phone.

“Uncle Franklin!” Charity’s voice was sharp with worry. “Where? Where has Aunt Vera gone?”

Silence.

Desperately hopping on one leg to pull on her pants, Charity spared a second to look out the bedroom window at the heavy sheets of snow falling from the sky. A delight while in bed with your secret lover. A nightmare for an elderly and confused woman.

Uncle Franklin’s voice came back, a little stronger. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought I saw her out the window, but I was mistaken.”

“How long has she been gone?” Boots. Charity looked around frantically for boots. She dived for the closet and pulled out a pair of waterproof boots, shaking with urgency.

“I–I d-don’t know.” Uncle Franklin’s voice shook so badly she could barely understand him. “I woke up and wanted a drink of water. But I’d forgotten to put my usual water bottle on my bedside table because we had a leak in the downstairs bathroom and I had to call in a plumber, and by the time he left, it was time for dinner and I just completely forgot.”

He could keep this up forever. For an instant, Charity mourned the Uncle Franklin she’d known all her life. Judge Franklin Prewitt, sharp-minded, sharp-tongued. Steely intelligence wrapped up in a take-no-nonsense demeanor; a rapier wit, which he often flashed in court. Woe betide the defense attorney who hadn’t done his homework. He’d leave the courtroom with his hide in strips.

She saw that man less and less.

And Aunt Vera—elegant, ironic, well-read. Devotee of chamber music and the theater. Who read Rimbaud in French and Isabel Allende in Spanish. That Aunt Vera was gone forever.

“I’ll g-go outside and l-look for her—”

“No!” Charity said sharply. God, the last thing she needed was for Uncle Franklin to get lost in the snow, too. “You stay put, now. I’m coming right over.”

She clicked off so he wouldn’t have time to protest. It was entirely possible that Aunt Vera was in the basement or had wandered into the cellar. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Charity yanked out her down parka from the closet, rattling the hanger, and turned around with a heavy heart.

Through the haze of anxiety, she could still feel Nick inside her, that warm column of hard flesh making her glow with heat, his large hands gripping her, the feel of him hard against her back. The signs of sex were still in her body—her panties were damp, her supersensitized nipples grazed the sweater she’d pulled on—yet her body already felt bereft, lost and cold without him.

This might actually be the breaking point. When Nick decided she was more trouble than she was worth. There was no time to explain that she had to rush off, that it was her duty. He’d have every right to be annoyed. Bed partners aren’t supposed to disappear in the middle of the night. Certainly not in the middle of making love.

He was too good to be true, anyway. Maybe the sooner he left, the better, before she started hoping—

Zipping up the parka, she turned her head toward him as she rushed to the door. “Nick, I’m sorry, I really am, but I have to—”

But he wasn’t on the bed. He wasn’t anywhere in the room. Oh, heavens—had he somehow left while she’d been fumbling in the dark? Wouldn’t he have at least said good-bye?

She switched on the overhead light and there he was, fully dressed, waiting by the front door. Oh God, he was going.

“Nick, I’m really sorry, but my aunt Vera is missing and I have to leave. Believe me I wouldn’t go unless I had to.” She swallowed heavily. “But, wouldn’t you like to stay the night? I might not be too long.”

Just the thought of coming back to an empty house made her heart clench.

He didn’t answer, just opened the door. “Let’s go, Charity.” He had a grim expression which she couldn’t decipher. She was in a hurry, but she stopped when she saw his face. Was that anger? No, not anger. But what was it?

“Go?”

Snow was already accumulating in the foyer through the open door. “I’m not letting you drive in this weather. You can tell me all about this in the car. Now move.”

Charity started at his tone. “But—” She was talking to the empty air. He’d disappeared into a white swirl.

Charity locked up and followed Nick as fast as she could over the slick ice-covered path down to the street where Nick’s car was parked. What a nightmare of a night.

Her heart squeezed and she prayed to the god of good, elderly women that Aunt Vera had simply wandered into the basement or the garage.

It felt like forever but was probably only a minute before the shiny black fender of the Lexus appeared between sheets of snow.

It looked like they were taking Nick’s car. This was good news and bad news. His car was undoubtedly better equipped to deal with bad weather than hers. It was powerful and would hold the road much better than hers. That was the good news. The bad news was that Nick was a poky driver, overly cautious. Charity wanted to get to her uncle’s house as fast as possible and Nick was guaranteed to take forever getting there.

In good weather it was a twenty-minute drive. In bad weather forty minutes. Nick, slow, careful driver that he was, could take almost an hour. In that hour, Aunt Vera could die.

Nick was behind the wheel, the engine running, windshield wipers clacking back and forth, passenger door open. Charity poked her head down.

“Nick, um, do you want me to drive? I know the way and—”

“No,” he answered curtly, jaws clenched.

“But—”

“Get in. Fast.” There was real command in his voice, flat and imperative. “Now, Charity.” He glanced at her briefly. One look was enough.

Charity instinctively obeyed, scrambling into the passenger seat as fast as she could. The powerful engine idled, the vibrations a low hum of power under her. It was like sitting on a tiger in the instant before it leaped.

“Buckle up.” Charity turned her head. Nick’s face was completely impassive, devoid of all expression. She was so disoriented and frightened she’d forgotten to buckle her seat belt. Driving in a snowstorm without a seat belt was just asking for trouble.

“Tell me where we’re going.” Nick’s tone was flat, remote.

“Ferrington. It’s a small town about fifteen miles—”

“I know where Ferrington is. Hold on.”

Hold on? Charity reached for the pull-down handle over the door, wondering why she had to hold on, when the car suddenly shot forward violently, pressing her against the seat back like an astronaut during liftoff. In a second, it seemed, they were at the end of her street, still—amazingly—alive. A miracle considering she’d never dared to drive this fast on a sunny, dry day, and she was a woman who liked her speed.

On icy roads and in the middle of a snowstorm, this speed was suicidal.

A scream vibrated in her throat and she clamped her lips shut. A scream might distract Nick and that could prove fatal at this speed, in this weather. One wrong move and they’d die.

Nick continued gunning the big, heavy car, somehow knowing the next corner was near, though it was almost impossible to see past the white flurries. You could only see the road ahead in fleeting moments when the curtain of snow parted for only the briefest of instants. The Lexus was shooting ahead at an impossible speed, rounding the corner onto Wingate inside a couple of seconds. She clamped her lips shut against a scream. They were sliding wildly out of control….

No.

Not sliding out of control. The car straightened and remained steady on the road, traveling much too fast, but in a straight line.

Braced to die, Charity finally pulled in a deep breath, her first in what felt like forever. Nick was driving so fast it terrified her, but he seemed to be in total control. Just when she thought they’d crash into a van parked on the street or would climb onto the sidewalk and hit a tree, Nick somehow righted the car without braking. He seemed to have a sixth sense for what the car could do on the icy roads and pushed it to those limits and never an inch further.

“What’s in Ferrington and why are we going there?” Nick’s voice was utterly calm as he corrected for a skid the instant the wheels slid under them. Thank God there were no other lunatics on the road other than them, or they’d already be dead. Charity braced herself as they whizzed around another corner and Nick took what she recognized as a smart shortcut to Ferrington.

She had to remember to breathe, transfixed by the bright columns of the headlights creating two yellow tunnels in the white nightmare.

He’d asked something….

Charity had been staring at the road ahead, ready to shout useless instructions to Nick. At the sound of his calm voice, she turned and watched him for a second—steady, in complete control—and relaxed a tiny bit, just enough to gather her thoughts.

“My aunt and uncle live in Ferrington, or rather in the country outside town. They’re elderly. My uncle called to say that my aunt is missing. He can’t find her anywhere.”

“How elderly?”

“Uncle Franklin is eighty-seven and Aunt Vera is eighty-four.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “So you’re telling me that an eighty-four-year old woman might be out in this weather?”

Impossibly, the car picked up a little more speed while Charity’s heart leaped into her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Aunt Vera gets a little, um, confused at times.”

This was so hard. Uncle Franklin refused to accept even the idea that his beloved wife was deteriorating mentally. Each time something happened, he would put it down to her having the flu or to not having slept well or having accidentally forgotten something. He refused to acknowledge her failing mental health to the outside world, to her, and—perhaps most tragically—to himself.

It was why he called Charity instead of the police when his wife disappeared in a snowstorm. In this case, Charity understood. He was probably right. Ferrington’s police force consisted of an overweight county sheriff who drank and lived twenty miles away. His clueless, borderline retarded deputy would be of even less help. Sheriff Hodgkins could never find Aunt Vera, not in a million years. He could barely find his way home after a night on the town.

And by the time Uncle Franklin got through to the Highway Patrol or some law enforcement authority that could actually be effective, hours would have passed and Aunt Vera could die.

“Confused, how?” Nick didn’t look over at her but she could feel his attention on her like a hand touching her.

Confused, how? Very good question. Uncle Franklin would be devastated if she gave too much away. What was happening to his wife was eating him alive. He didn’t want Aunt Vera exposed to criticism or ridicule. “She, um, sleepwalks. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? How often?”

More and more lately. “Some. I think that’s what must have happened tonight. Uncle Franklin woke up and she wasn’t there. I’m really hoping that she didn’t go outside in this weather. Once we found her in the basement. Another time she’d, um, climbed up into the attic. He needs me to help look because his knees aren’t very good and the stairs down to the basement and up to the attic are very steep.”

He was frowning. “Doesn’t she trip the alarm when she leaves the house?”

“Um.” She took in a deep breath. “The house isn’t alarmed.”

“Jesus.” The frown was deeper, deep grooves between his eyebrows. Heavens, even his eyebrows were gorgeous—thick, black, finely arched. God, how could he be so impossibly good-looking even while frowning and driving a billion miles an hour over ice? And how could she even notice it when she was terrified for Aunt Vera and, frankly, for herself, whizzing at insane speeds on icy roads?

That was when Charity realized how badly sex messed with her head. She was worried sick about Aunt Vera and terrified she was going to die in a car crash. And yet those thoughts faded for a second as she watched Nick’s grim face in the space-age glow of the lights on the dashboard.

The dim glow highlighted his beautiful cheekbones, his strong jawline, the cords in his neck standing out from the tension of driving fast in impossible weather. He was so handsome her heart squeezed as she looked at him.

Even after rolling out of bed and into his clothes, he looked liked he could walk into a boardroom right now. Charity was sure she looked like she’d spent the night sleeping on the floor and that she had those fine worry lines only Uncle Franklin and Aunt Vera could call up.

“Two elderly people living alone in the middle of nowhere and they don’t even have an alarm system?” Nick took his eyes off the road for a second to shoot her a glance. “That’s not good, Charity.”

No, it wasn’t good. She’d asked Uncle Franklin a hundred times to put in burglar alarms, more for Aunt Vera than in anticipation of a nonexistent crime wave. Ferrington didn’t run to burglars, but an alarm would act as a tripwire if Aunt Vera wandered.

Charity sighed. “Uncle Franklin keeps promising he’ll put one in. But he doesn’t get out much and he doesn’t know much about alarm systems.”

“I do.” The muscles in Nick’s jaw jumped again. “I—uh—invested in a security company and when I invest I do my homework, so I know a lot about them. Tomorrow a security system is going in. I’ll order it and oversee the work myself.”

Wow. “That—that’s very kind of you.” Charity blinked. This was entirely new territory not covered by any sex etiquette she knew of.

Casual lovers didn’t take on this kind of responsibility. Certainly not for elderly relatives of a bedmate of three days’ standing. It was incredibly generous of him. Not so much from the monetary point of view—he could clearly afford it—but from the perspective of time spent.

She had no idea how much wealthy businessmen earned by the hour but surely buying a security system, then overseeing its installation, would eat up thousands of dollars’ worth of his time. If Uncle Franklin would accept, which he might not. “I’m not too sure, though, that Uncle Franklin would acce—turn left!” she said sharply.

Oh my God, she’d been so busy mooning over Nick and going over his offer she’d almost missed the turnoff. They would have lost precious time turning around.

Now that they were close to her aunt and uncle’s house, Charity’s heart started thumping. For the first time, she willed the car to go faster, even though it was impossible. Nick was making time as fast as any ambulance could. Faster.

She peered anxiously out the window. If anything, the snow had stepped up during the trip. Great white sheets fell out of the sky in increasingly fast waves. A sharp wind had risen, driving icy particles of sleet against the windshield.

Aunt Vera might well be somewhere in the huge house or outlying buildings. Or she might be out in this weather—alone and dazed.

Maybe dead.

Charity’s throat swelled shut with unshed tears. She opened her mouth to say—turn right—but no words emerged. Her hand waved to the right and Nick understood. They took the corner into the driveway of Hedgewood, her aunt and uncle’s home, Nick driving almost blind.

“Stop,” she whispered. Though she could barely see the house as a dark shape in the swirling night, the sudden dip of the tires where the runoff from the gutters had etched a depression in the ground told her they’d reached the entrance. She swallowed heavily. “We’re here.”

Nick killed the engine instantly. “Stay put,” he growled and before she could object, he’d opened his door and shot out. The door was only open a couple of seconds, but in that time, the warmth in the car dissipated in the icy wind. A second later, her door was opened and Nick was lifting her out bodily.

He had to because she froze the instant she was out of the car. It was instinctive—her body’s unwillingness to face the extreme temperature. Ice particles bit into her cheeks and eyes. She lifted her arm to cover her face. Confused, she tried to figure out where the path to the front door was. It was impossible to make out any directions. The only possible bearings were up and down.

Something strong against her back propelled her forward, a force so impelling she couldn’t resist. She was forced to scramble, her feet slipping on a patch of ice. Before she even had time to scream, she was picked up one-armed and rushed forward.

Nick practically carried her up the big marble steps to the entrance, her feet barely touching the steps.

Uncle Franklin must have been looking out for them because the big front door opened immediately.

“Charity! Oh my dear, you made it!” Uncle Franklin threw his arms around her, and she hugged him back, alarmed at how thin and fragile he felt. The fact that he wasn’t impeccably and elegantly dressed scared her even more. Growing up, she’d never seen him en dishabille. He was such a natty dresser, always immaculately turned out, freshly shaved and barbered, smelling of a special eau de cologne he had made for him in England.

Now he was in his bathrobe, and white stubble marked his thin face. He smelled of fear and sour milk. As she hugged him, Charity could feel his thin limbs shaking.

She stepped back. “Uncle Franklin, this is a—a friend, Nick Ames. Nick, my uncle, Judge Franklin Prewitt.” She needn’t have bothered wondering how to explain showing up with a man after midnight. Uncle Franklin didn’t even notice.

“Judge Franklin.” Nick took his hand in a swift shake. “When did you last see your wife?”

Uncle Franklin blinked. For the first time in her life, Charity could see her uncle at a loss. He shook his head sharply, loose skin around his jowls flapping. Charity stepped in. “They usually go to bed around nine, nine thirty, don’t you, Uncle Franklin?”

He nodded his head gratefully. “Yes.” His voice was papery thin, shaky. “We went to bed a little after nine thirty. I woke up at eleven thirty. I was thirsty. I felt for Vera and she was—she was gone.” He looked up at Nick, the strong young male in the room, as if at a savior. “Gone,” he repeated.

“What was she wearing?”

The old man blinked at Nick’s urgent tone. “Ah, a pink nightgown. Pink slippers.”

“Okay.” Nick nodded. “Did you check all the doors?”

Uncle Franklin looked blank. “No. No, I didn’t think—”

Nick turned to her. “Charity,” he ordered. “Show me all the doors leading to the outside. Fast. If she’s gone out, she’s in trouble. If she hasn’t gone out, if she’s still in the house, she’ll be okay for a little while longer. So we have to eliminate the possibility that she’s left the house.”

Charity led him around the enormous house. He checked each door carefully, then they moved on. The French windows in Uncle Franklin’s study were slightly open, the wind making the thick burgundy curtains sway gently.

Nick turned to her, face grim. “This is where she’s gone out. Stay with your uncle. Make him drink some whiskey; he’s in a state of mild shock.”

Charity gasped with outrage. “I’m going with you! We have to search for her together. I know these grounds intimately and you don’t. And anyway two people are better than one.”

“No.” Nick shook his head sharply. “In this case, two people are worse than one. You’ll just slow me down. Trust me; I know what I’m doing. Your job is to look after your uncle. When I find your aunt, she’ll be suffering from hypothermia. Whether mild or severe depends on how long she’s been exposed. So I need you to make sure you have plenty of warm blankets on hand. Put a big pot of water on to boil. Make sure a cup of hot tea with sugar is ready.”

She opened her mouth to argue and he clasped her shoulders hard in his big hands and shook her. “Blankets. Big pot of boiling water. Tea with sugar. And don’t even think about coming with me. I don’t want to have to end up chasing your pretty tail out there.”

Before she could reply, he’d slipped out the door and was lost in the swirling storm.

Nick had learned to track from the best of the best. Colonel Lucius Merle had grown up in the Ozarks with a shotgun in his arms and five generations of Merle hunters behind him. Tracking was in his DNA. Oddly enough, the colonel had done most of his professional tracking in filthy urban streets and that was the lore he’d passed on to Nick, in Baghdad and in Basra, in Kabul and Kandahar, in Caracas and Cartagena.

Still, sign was sign.

Nick scanned the ground right outside the big French windows. They gave out onto a covered terrace, so the snow hadn’t accumulated much. There were clear prints in snow half an inch lower than the surrounding grounds. Nick followed them as they angled sharply off to the left.

He wished he knew the terrain better. Damn! It hadn’t occurred to him to scout out Charity’s elderly relatives’ home while he’d been studying her. He wished he had now. He wanted to find the old lady fast. Out of the house less than a minute, he was already cold and he was young, healthy, and conditioned. He didn’t want to think of what was happening to a frail, elderly woman.

His heart had clenched watching Charity’s uncle, shaking and defenseless, almost naked in his fear.

Got to him every time. Old people and kids. Adults can fend for themselves, life sucks, you embrace the suck and go on, but he had a real soft spot for geezers and ankle biters.

The wind bit at his heavy coat, icy fingers reaching inside. Jesus. It was fucking freezing.

For just an instant, Nick flashed back to the heat of being inside Charity. The soft, warm, wet feel of her. That warm back heating his entire front. And Jesus, his cock in her. Clamped tight, so hot it was like sticking his dick in a little oven. Just the memory sent a flash of heat over him and then it was gone.

Get your head out of your dick, Ireland, he told himself. Now.

The snow was easing up, thank God. Where before it had been almost a complete whiteout, now he could discern big dark shapes all around, punctuated by the feeble glow of lamps. At least the old geezer kept outdoor lights on. Local scumbags would simply assume that rich old folks would have an airtight security system to go with the security lights. Otherwise they would long since have broken in.

Nick didn’t buy for a minute Charity’s nonsense that this was a crime-free zone. There was no such thing as a crime-free zone. Where there were humans, there was robbery and murder and rape. That ancient couple living alone with no security was a burglary just waiting to happen. If not worse.

Nick had only spent a few minutes inside the house, talking to Charity and her uncle, but he could multitask and he was a good observer.

The Prewitts were loaded. Old money. With lots of expensive stuff, just begging to be carted away by dickwads who’d rather steal than work. Thick antique Persian carpets, real artwork on the walls, loads of antique silver. They were lucky to still be alive.

Nick followed the footsteps down from the terrace to the gardens below and for a second lost the trail. Fuck! She’d been out in this cold for at least an hour, probably more. With each passing minute her chances of surviving went way down.

Nick crouched, taking out the powerful Maglite he always kept in the car. It had a narrow intense beam, which he focused on the surface of the snow.

There! A slit in the snow, like a little valley. His jaws clenched. He knew what that long depression meant. It meant that a few steps outside the house, she was already shuffling. Probably already losing sensation in her feet.

This was not good.

Still crouching, holding the light at an oblique angle, he followed the depressions, the ground dipping beneath his feet. A big oak was ten feet to his right, a building that looked like a garage to his left. Another building was visible just beyond it.

For a horrifying moment, Nick lost her track, then noticed a pink puff of material hanging from a laurel shrub and next to it, another long depression. The tracks paralleled the thick shrubs that ended abruptly next to another large building. This one was made of glass, dimly lit from within. Nick could make out rows and rows of plants in terra-cotta vases.

A greenhouse. The orangery, Judge Prewitt’s generation would have called it.

He followed the shallow depressions around the building, hoping they were going to lead to the greenhouse. Greenhouses were often heated. It was the one place an old lady could have a hope of surviving a snowstorm.

Nick opened the side door of the greenhouse, trying to make out shapes in the gloom. The temperature inside was at least thirty degrees warmer than the icy hell outside but it was still cold. He had to check this place out fast. If she wasn’t here, her time would be running out.

Nick walked fast down the aisles, exactly as if clearing a room during combat, checking in a grid. Five minutes later, he was back at the door, teeth clenched. The old lady wasn’t here. It was entirely possible she was already dead. Charity would be devastated.

He stood with his hand on the door, still and silent. He had to move fast but something stopped him. A hunch. He trusted his hunches. They’d saved his life more than once.

Something…

He stopped breathing for almost a full minute. The sound of air in his lungs was distracting him.

There was something…again! A—a snuffling sound. At two o’clock.

Nick headed for the sound at a run, heavy boots pounding, the echoes loud in the large space. And there she was, curled up behind some gunnysacks. He saw one long, bony white foot attached to a pink slipper.

The animal in her had found the one place she could survive outside her home. In the northeastern corner was a pile of fertilizer sacks and empty gunnysacks. She’d nestled in them, and they had saved her life.

Nick lifted a sack. There she was, huddled in on herself, rail thin and bony. Once beautiful, now ravaged, shaking with cold, lost and forlorn. But for all that, alive.

She turned her head, pale blue eyes blank and rheumy.

“Frank-lin?” She blinked rapidly, mouth trembling. “Franklin, I want to go home. Take me home. I’m cold.”

Nick crouched next to her. She reached out a hand and touched his face. Her hand was thin, long-fingered, the skin crepey and mottled. She was shaking as she laid the flat of her hand against his cheek.

“Franklin,” she sighed, a tear falling down her wrinkled cheek. “Home.”

Nick’s chest felt tight. “Yes, Franklin,” he said softly, sliding his arms out of his coat and wrapping it around her. “I’ve got you now.” He lifted her as easily as if she were a child and strode to the door. “I’ve come to take you home.”