Trace Evidence

“Two years before Riley Frazier’s mother went missing a woman in Sequoia Falls also disappeared under the same exact circumstances. The husband was hit over the head and killed, and she was gone, along with some of her personal belongings. She still hasn’t been found.”

“So, maybe she’s still alive. Just like it’s possible your mother is still alive.” Her voice rang with hope that he desperately wanted to grab on to.

“That’s the only thought that keeps me getting up in the morning.” He took another drink of the coffee, then continued, “I feel like I’m working against a bomb with a ticking clock, but the problem is I don’t know who set the timer, or how much time is left. I just feel so damned helpless.” Again, he felt a ball of emotion pressing tight against his chest.

She reached across the table and lightly touched one of his hands. “You’ll find her, Clay.”

He pulled his hand from her touch, finding it not only distracting, but disturbing as well. The touch had been too warm, too soft.

He took a drink of his coffee, his thoughts returning to his mother. Yes, eventually he’d find her, but would he find her in time? Would he find her dead or alive?

And what in the hell was he doing here sipping coffee and baring his soul to a woman he didn’t know at all?

Tamara could tell the exact moment he turned off. His black eyes went blank and his jaw muscles tightened and she knew their conversation had come to a halt. Sure enough, he downed the last drop of coffee from his mug and stood.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’ve got to get going.”

She followed him to the front door. Even his walk looked uptight despite the fact that she couldn’t help but notice that his jeans fit quite nicely on his long legs and rear end.

“One of the other officers will be in touch with you when they have anything on the vandalism.”

“Thank you, Clay, for all your help.”

“Just doing my job,” he replied as he stepped out of the door. “Good night, Tamara.”

“Good night, Clay.”

She stood on her front porch long after his van had disappeared from sight.

It had been a long time since she’d felt a spark of physical attraction toward a man. But the moment Clay had stepped into the classroom and introduced himself, she’d felt a definite spark of warmth deep in the pit of her stomach.

The last time she’d found herself physically attracted to a man she’d allowed herself to be swept into a relationship that had not only ended in heartache, but had also left her questioning her values and the very essence of who she was.

She looked up at the moon peeping through the branches of the ancient trees. Good old Maxwell Bishop. He’d been her agent for six months before they had become lovers. He’d done amazing things for her career as an artist, but in the four months they had been a couple, he’d nearly destroyed her self-identity.

According to everything she’d heard about Clay, he’d be a danger to her in much the same way. This was one particular spark she intended to ignore.

Not that it mattered. Clay had made it quite clear that others would handle her case from here on out. Cherokee Corners wasn’t that small a town. The odds of her and Clay running into each other again were minimal.

Reluctantly, she left the night air and went back inside the cabin. She had just finished washing the coffee mugs to put back in the cabinet when the phone rang.

She hurried from the kitchen to the sofa and picked up the cordless from the end table. “Hello?”

“Are you all right?” Alyssa Whitefeather’s voice filled the line.

“Bad news travels fast in this town,” Tamara replied. “How did you hear about it?”

“I heard between a hot fudge sundae and a banana split.” Alyssa owned the Redbud Bed and Breakfast. The top two floors of her establishment were guest rooms and the bottom floor was Alyssa’s living quarters and an ice cream parlor. “Burt Creighton stopped in for a cup of coffee and was talking about the mess in your classroom.”

“It was a mess,” Tamara agreed.

“You must have been terrified when you saw it.”

Tamara thought of that moment when she’d first viewed the vandalized room. “Actually, it didn’t scare me at all,” she said. “Mostly I just felt sad for whomever had done such a terrible thing.”

“Well, it frightened me when I heard about it,” Alyssa replied.

There was something in her friend’s voice that sent a flutter of disquiet through Tamara. “Why? Have you seen something, Alyssa?”

Alyssa laughed, the laughter sounding forced. “Oh, you know me. I’m the local nutcase in town. I’m always seeing things that aren’t there, having visions that don’t make sense. I should probably be on medication.”

“Having a pity party, are we?”

This time Alyssa’s laugh was genuine. “Maybe a little one,” she admitted. “It’s just been a bad week,” she added.

Tamara heard the weariness in her friend’s voice. Over the course of their friendship Alyssa had confided in Tamara that she’d always suffered visions. Since Rita James’s disappearance the visions had increased in frequency and intensity.

“I’ll tell you what I think you need,” Tamara said. “You need dinner tomorrow night with a friend.”

“I can’t do that,” Alyssa protested. “Friday nights are the busiest of the week in the ice cream parlor.”

Tamara frowned thoughtfully. She knew there was no way she could talk Alyssa into closing up shop on a Friday night. “Okay, then how about we meet at the café about four. You can get back to work by five or five-thirty when your Friday night rush usually begins.”

“That sounds good,” Alyssa replied after a moment of hesitation. “I could use a little break. So, I’ll see you tomorrow about four. And Tamara, do me a favor and be extra careful.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m fine.”

With a murmur of goodbyes, the two hung up. It was getting late enough Tamara knew she should go to bed, but her head was too filled with thoughts to allow sleep.

She got up from the sofa and went into the small bedroom. She took off the traditional tear dress and hung it in the closet next to half a dozen others. She usually only wore the dresses on Tuesday and Thursday evenings when she taught her adult Native American cultural classes, or for special occasions and ceremonies.

She pulled on her nightie, a short yellow silk sheath with spaghetti straps, then returned to the kitchen for a glass of ice water.

While she sat at the table, a nice light breeze breathed through the window to caress her. The cabin had no air-conditioning except a window unit in the bedroom. She rarely ran it, preferring her windows opened and the sweet, forest-scented night air coming inside.

But tonight, with Alyssa’s pressure for her to take care, she finished her ice water, then closed the window and locked it. She did the same with the other windows in the cabin, then went into her bedroom and turned the window unit air conditioner on low.

She got into bed, although thoughts still tumbled topsy-turvy through her head. She had no idea what to anticipate when she returned to school the next day. The only thing she knew for sure was that she would not be teaching classes in her own classroom.

She remembered Clay’s question about students she might have that might nurse a grudge against her. Nobody specific came to mind, but her class was filled with wise guys and underachievers.

There were also some gems in the class, students who were taking the summer classes in order to graduate early or to fill the long summer days.

It was the long summer nights that far too often lately filled Tamara with longing. She was thirty years old and more and more felt the desire for a family. But in order to have a family, she’d have to first find a good man and that had been a problem.

She’d become wary since her experience with Max. And in the two years since Max, she had mentally formed a picture of the kind of man she wanted in her life. Alyssa always told her no such man existed, that she was too picky and her expectations were too high.

She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, a vision of Clay James filling her mind. Physically, he was everything she’d ever hope to find in a man.