Secrets of the Rose

Perhaps it was the hour—that no-man’s-land of black yawning silence in which all the world seemed to die.

Or perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t yet used to being alone.

Whatever the excuse, Shelby Kincaid was wide-awake. She lay on her bed, bathed in a puddle of moon shadows that washed through her balcony doors, and ordered her mind to shut down, to forget the past and focus on the future.

It might have worked—except for the creak of one tired floorboard in the hall.

Shelby sat up, glanced at the greenish-blue hands on the gilt clock Grant had presented on her last birthday: 3:13 a.m. Shadows danced over the walls as a shiver of wind tickled the blossoms of the apple tree outside her window.

Creak.

The hardwood’s protest came again, closer this time. Just outside her door.

The phone on the nightstand sat waiting. All she had to do was pick it up and dial 911. She reached out.

Reech!

Her hand froze. The second squeak was barely discernible over the thud of her heart, but Shelby knew exactly where it came from, had vowed to oil that same hinge a hundred nights before when she’d crept in to check on her baby.

Aimee’s door.

Someone was inside her house and now they were going into Aimee’s room!

Forget the phone.

She twisted toward the security panel on Grant’s empty side of the bed and stabbed the silent alarm. Soon the soundless summons would bring police from all directions of the city. But she couldn’t wait for them. She had to go to Aimee.

Her legs, rubbery with fear, barely held her upright. Shelby pushed away from the bed, tiptoed across the thick butter-cream broadloom and opened her door just a crack, enough so she could scan the hall, perhaps catch a glimpse of the invader.

No one lurked in the shadows. Which meant he must already be inside Aimee’s room.

Her entire body began to tremble. Her stomach squeezed into a knot imagining her five-year-old daughter’s terror waking to a stranger’s face. Shelby reminded herself of her past training with Grant: Assess, then act.

She couldn’t wait for the police, her daughter’s life might be at risk. All she wanted to do was get to Aimee, hold her, keep her safe. Shelby slipped into the hallway, then surged ahead, pausing only long enough to wrap her fingers around the brass candelabra from the hall table, the sole weapon in sight.

Something—a squeal—made her careless and the candles fell to the floor with a clatter. Though quickly hushed, the noise galvanized her into action. She raced to Aimee’s door, thrust it open, and breathed her daughter’s name.

But Aimee could not respond.

Aimee was gone.

The four-poster lay empty. Only the soft organdy curtains moved, billowing in through the window, carried by the night air.

Shelby rushed across the fuzzy white rug, stared down through the glass into the gloom. The cavernous darkness of the garden lay below, silent, brooding. She could see no one.

When she turned, Shelby noticed the red letters scrawled across her daughter’s mirror.

Aimee is safe.

Her brass weapon fell to the carpet.

“Not my baby, God. Please don’t let them take my baby!”

Once they arrived, the police questioned her for hours.

Was the alarm functioning properly? Who would know how to disable it? Was the front door securely locked? Had she heard a car? Did she have any enemies? Was this connected with Grant’s accident?

“I don’t know.” She recited the words over and over again. “I don’t know. Please, just find my daughter. Don’t you understand—they’ve taken my daughter!”

And she hadn’t been able to stop them. The guilt burned through her like acid.

Within two hours the house was brimming with crime scene investigators, their gray-white powder covering every surface in sight. Esmeralda Peabody, who had been the housekeeper first for Shelby’s grandmother and then Shelby, would be furious at having to repolish the intricately carved antiques. But Aimee would have a field day mucking through all that powder. If she ever came home again.

“Mrs. Kincaid? We really need you to concentrate. You’re sure you didn’t hear anything else but the footsteps?”

Shelby closed her eyes, forced herself to replay the scene in her mind, to relive the moment when she saw the bed, knew her child was gone. The moment her stomach hit her toes and her world stopped.

How could this have happened?

“Nothing else.” Shelby gulped down the pain. She couldn’t break down now. She had to help them find answers. “Just the footsteps in the hall, the door creaking. A muffled sound. That’s all.”

She looked up suddenly, her mind honing in on the last memory.

“Do you think they hurt her?” she whispered. “Is that what I heard?”

“No, we don’t think that. Not at all.”

The rush to reassure did nothing to ease Shelby’s anxiety.

“We found a bit of material stuck in the frame. We think it was torn off something—pants, perhaps. You probably heard the thief muttering when he caught them, Shelby. May I call you that?” The lead investigator, a woman, taller than Shelby and about seven years older, kindly wrapped a blanket around her shivering shoulders, then sank down beside her.

“Call me anything.” Shelby huddled into the warmth, wishing it would penetrate to her heart. “Ask whatever you need to. I don’t care. I just want my daughter back. Please, can’t you find her?”

Why didn’t they do something, call someone? Why did they keep asking the same thing over and over?

Shelby felt her world spinning and knew she needed to reach for the focus that had kept her centered during key investigations she’d handled in the past. But she’d been out of the workplace too long, her training gone rusty with disuse these last ten months. Besides, those had been other people’s loved ones.

This was Aimee, and Aimee was all she had left. All Shelby could do was silently implore God, the police, anyone who would listen—beg them to bring Aimee back where she belonged.

“Please, Detective. We need to find my daughter. She’ll be afraid. She’s only five.”

“We’ll find her. We’ve already started searching.” The smile was grim, but it promised results. “Please call me Natalie. Natalie Brazier,” she repeated, as if unsure whether Shelby had heard her say the same thing five minutes earlier. “I haven’t lived in Victoria very long, so I’m not familiar with your history. I’d like to learn a little more about you, Shelby.”

Detective Brazier resembled a starlet more than a policewoman. She arranged her long, lean body on the sofa beside Shelby with a natural grace and elegance, her black silk suit molding itself to every curve. Shelby recognized the designer—and it wasn’t a knockoff. Whatever her job, this woman had expensive taste.

Shelby found it odd how her brain had never stopped storing details, even though she hadn’t returned to work after Grant’s death. Height, weight, hair color, body language. Once that had been vitally important to her job. But that was before Grant—

“I understand you lost your husband a short time ago.”