Dangerous Secrets

“What does that mean?” Sylvie asked, watching the way his strong hands folded into fists. This isn’t your fault, Ridge.

“She might have surprised someone going through the apartment and they might have hit her or knocked her down the stairs.”

“But what could anybody be looking for?” Sylvie asked, not bothering to ask why they would accidentally kill Ginger and then shut her eyes. None of this made any sense. “My aunt and uncle and Ginger aren’t wealthy or into drugs. So what else is there to find in their homes?”

Ridge made a sound of disgust. “Well, that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? What is there to commit murder for in Ginger’s apartment?”

Ridge always cared so much. He’d been away for years yet Ginger’s death was obviously infuriating him.

“I’ve been thinking and thinking. The only thing that I keep coming back to is that when I left her that night—” Sylvie strengthened her self-control, tightening her quivering lips “—Ginger said she was going to have a wow surprise for me in the morning.”

“She did?” Ridge shook his head and leaned forward. “What do you think she meant?”

“I asked her if it was going to be an engagement ring.” She studied his hands, so powerful-looking with blunt fingertips. Who had done this and unknowingly taken on this formidable man as an adversary?

“A ring? From whom?”

“I knew she’d been dating a young assistant professor in Alaska.” Sylvie sighed. Her conversation with Ginger just three days before felt like a million years ago. “But when I guessed that he’d popped the question, Ginger only giggled and said that I’d see tomorrow. Her surprise was going to knock my socks out of the park.” Sylvie couldn’t help half smiling over Ginger’s playing with words. That had been part of her.

“We didn’t find an engagement ring among Ginger’s belongings,” Ridge said. “And I don’t see anyone ransacking an apartment for an engagement ring that an assistant professor could afford.”

“And he didn’t come to the funeral,” Sylvie added, feeling doors slamming inside her, closing out her cousin’s young life. “The very next day after we found…after Ginger’s death, I called her professor, the one who was overseeing her research, and told him to pass the news around that Ginger had…had died. They sent flowers, but—” Sylvie lifted her eyes to Ridge’s dark somber ones “—the assistant prof didn’t show up here. If he’d proposed he would have come, wouldn’t he?”

“You would think so.” Ridge’s usually businesslike face twisted with evident dissatisfaction and he switched topics. “Tomorrow is Sunday. I’m going to take the day off and drive Ben south to his school.”

“No,” Sylvie objected before she could stop herself. “Ridge, I really think that military school for Ben right now is ill-advised. I know you didn’t ask my opinion, but this just doesn’t feel right.” Impetuously she reached over and laid her hand on his arm. Trying to sway him somehow.

He turned away and her hand fell. “Sylvie, I don’t know why Ben’s parents put me down as Ben’s guardian. They never asked me and if they had, I would have suggested they choose someone else. My lifestyle—”

Sylvie didn’t know Ben’s parents. Ben’s father and mother had been college friends of Ridge’s who had died in a boating accident the year before in Green Bay. “Then leave Ben here. Maybe he can do some good. Maybe his presence will goad your parents into starting to live again.” She hadn’t meant to say that. She looked down, not wanting to meet Ridge’s gaze. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“To shake my parents out of their apathy, it would take something more on the order of an atomic bomb.” Ridge’s voice was bitter. “I know you mean it out of goodness, Sylvie. But even after eighteen years, my parents are still just breathing, just existing. Ben has been with them for months. Do you honestly see any change?”

She couldn’t lie. “No. None.”

“They don’t want him in their house. They ignore the kid. If they can help it, they don’t even look at him. That can’t be good for him.”

Suddenly chilled, Sylvie folded her arms around herself. Maybe they didn’t want Ben because he was the same age as Dan had been when he died.

“Hey—” Ridge touched her shoulder but briefly “—this isn’t your fault. Thanks for befriending Ben. And I’ll consider letting Ben come to spend a few weeks in the summer with you. If you still want him.”

“I do.” She looked up into Ridge’s dark, dark eyes, seeing the regret, the uneasiness there. She smoothed her hand over her shoulder where he’d touched her.

“And don’t worry about Ben,” Ridge said gruffly. “He’ll be safe, well fed and they have a counselor on staff and he knows that Ben recently lost his parents. It’s really a good place for Ben to be right now.”

She nodded, unconvinced. But Ridge was Ben’s guardian. She wasn’t. I’m turning this over to You, God. If You have a better plan for Ben, You’ll have to put it into motion. I can’t do anything. And on top of everything else, she had Rae-Jean coming home on Monday.

March 6, Sunday

In the crisp morning light, Ridge raced up the steps to Milo and Sylvie’s apartment. He pounded on the door. His pulse throbbed at his temples.

Sylvie opened it, dressed in her Sunday best. “Ridge, what’s wrong—”

“Is Ben here?”

“Here? What’s happened?” she asked, stepping back.

Ridge came inside, shutting the door against the cold wind. “I got up to drive Ben to the military school and he wasn’t in his bed.”

She goggled at him. “What?”

“He’s run away. Did he come here?”

“Of course not,” Milo answered from the table where he sat with coffee and hot oatmeal. “We’d have called your parents’ house if he’d shown up here.”

“What about Sylvie’s store? Does he know how to get in there?”

“He knows where I keep an extra key behind a loose piece of siding to the right of the door,” Sylvie admitted.

Ridge turned immediately and headed out and down the steps.

“We’ll be at church if you need us,” Milo called after him.

Ridge didn’t bother to reply. This was all I needed.

THREE

March 7

Monday evening after work, Sylvie and her dad, Milo, reluctantly climbed up the steps to Ginger’s apartment over Sylvie’s store. The sheriff had said that he was done with this crime scene. Shirley and Tom were still dealing with too much—the loss of Ginger and the aftermath of the break-in at their house. So Sylvie and her father wanted to save Ginger’s parents the burden of cleaning up the mess and packing up their daughter’s things and putting them away. But Sylvie’s mind kept going back to Ben. Had he run away yesterday? Or had someone taken him away?

The studio apartment was in shambles, books on the floor and Ginger’s possessions strewn over the hardwood floor. “What should we do first?” It was all too much. She swallowed down her worry and sorrow, but the effort cost her. She felt like a rag doll minus her stuffing.

“Ginger didn’t have time to eat anything, did she?” Milo asked.

“I don’t think so. But I know right before we took off that evening, she dropped off a small plastic bag of groceries she’d picked up.” Sylvie’s throat tightened and she couldn’t say more. Just thinking about the last fun evening with Ginger was like shards of glass penetrating her heart.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you check the kitchen to see if anything needs washing up? I’ll start cleaning in here.” Her father’s voice lacked its usual exuberance.

Sylvie wandered into the small alcove kitchen and glanced around. Nothing was on the counter or in the sink. She opened the refrigerator. Inside, a plastic half gallon of milk was a third full. And a peanut butter jar’s lid was cockeyed. She lifted the jar and unscrewed the top. A generous dollop had been dug out and evidently eaten. A jar of strawberry jam had been similarly treated. A loaf of bread had been opened and not closed tightly.

She stared at the peanut butter jar in her hand, its nutty scent strong. That last night of her life, had Ginger had time to make and eat a peanut butter sandwich? Especially after all the Chinese food they’d consumed that evening? In view of Ginger’s love affair with peanut butter and strawberry jam—perhaps.

Sylvie’s mind felt mired, sluggish. Suddenly she didn’t have any strength in her legs. She sat down at the tiny table beside the kitchen window and buried her head in her hands. Ginger, I can’t believe you’re gone.

Sylvie lost track of time. Finally, she realized that her father was speaking to her. She looked up.

“Sylvie, what’s wrong?” Her dad made a face. “I mean besides the obvious.”