"This is your grandmother who's in the rest home?" she asked, feeling better about his plan.
"That's right. She has a small house in the Sunset District that no one is using. I have a key, as I occasionally go over there and make sure the cleaning service and gardeners are keeping up with everything."
"What happened to your grandmother's husband?"
"He died about three years ago."
"Are you close to her?"
"Somewhat. She's a good woman. Although it's hard to believe she and my father actually share the same blood. She's generous to a fault. He's a selfish bastard. Her one flaw was that she couldn't see my father for what he was, so I couldn't tell her what he did to me. I tried a few times, but she always turned it around. I guess she couldn't go down that road."
Catherine nodded. A lot of people looked away when it came to abuse. No one wanted to see it or admit that someone they knew could do something so horrible. And despite Dylan's casual manner now, it must have hurt him when he realized that no one was coming to his rescue. At least he'd had his brother.
Dylan stopped the car at a red light and glanced over at her. "On another note, are you hungry?"
Her stomach immediately rumbled in response.
"Now that you mention it, I'm starving. Breakfast was a long time ago."
"There's a very good Italian restaurant not far from my grandmother's house, Antonio's. We can pick something up on our way in."
"That sounds good. What are you going to do about your job, Dylan?"
"I don't have to be at work until Monday. If we haven't found Erica by then I'll take a sick day. I'm just hoping the newsroom doesn't pick up on this story."
"Lake Tahoe is a long way from here."
"Yes, but the prime suspect in the disappearance of a San Francisco woman in Tahoe is KTSF's lead reporter. How's that for a sound bite?"
"Very good. I'm just glad you kept me out of it."
He shot her a pointed look. "I'll try, Catherine, but I can't promise that you'll stay out of it. Before this is through you could very well be an accessory to murder—or worse."
"I don't want to know what 'worse' is," she said.
"But you already do, don't you?"
She hadn't seen a vision, but her gut told her that Erica might not be the only person who was supposed to end up dead.
* * *
A half hour later Catherine was distracted from her negative thoughts by their arrival at Dylan's grand-mother's house. Set on the corner, the light blue structure shared sidewalls with its neighbor. The house was located about a half mile from the beach, and Catherine could smell the salty sea air as they got out of the car.
There was an ominous feeling to the sky now. The sun had set, and a heavy mist thickened the air. Catherine felt as if the whole world were closing in on them, the trap tightening with each passing moment. She tried to tell herself that she was being paranoid, letting her imagination get away from her, but the shiver that raised the hairs on the back of her neck was almost never wrong. Something bad was going to happen. She just didn't know when.
Once they were inside the house, Dylan flipped on a small lamp on a table next to the door. "We'll eat in the kitchen," he said. "It's at the back of the house, and it won't be as obvious that anyone is here, although the neighbors are elderly and probably wouldn't notice if there was a party going on."
Dylan's grandmother's house smelled like potpourri, a little bit sweet and kind of sad, Catherine thought as she entered the kitchen. She set the bags of food they'd picked up from Antonio's on a rectangular oak table in the middle of the room. The kitchen was dated, the white cabinets scratched and yellowed, the tile worn, the appliances from a decade ago. The house seemed a little lonely without its owner. "How long has it been since your grandmother lived here?"
"Almost a year. I don't think she'll ever be back. Alzheimer's has her in its grip."
"I'm surprised you've kept the house going, the electricity, the water, the gardener. That must take some money."
"Not that much. My father has power of attorney, and quite frankly, I think he's too busy to care about this place. He's just going to leave things as they are until she dies. He rarely even visits her anymore." Dylan paused. "If you want to eat, go ahead. I'm going to put your car in the garage and move my grandmother's car out to the street."
"Do you want me to help?"
"No, I'll take care of it."
After Dylan left, Catherine set the two foil containers on the table, as well as the bread and butter and packets of Parmesan cheese and hot peppers, but she didn't bother to open them. She felt an intense desire to explore the house. Not sure where the need came from, she decided not to question her instincts but to just follow them.
Moving quietly through the first floor, she peeked into the living and dining rooms. Both were small but impeccably neat, with antique furniture, and lacy doilies on the end tables. A den on the first floor was filled with books and dark furniture: probably a room that had once belonged to the man of the house.
Heading upstairs she discovered two bedrooms and a bath. She entered the master bedroom and turned on the small lamp by the bed, inhaling the lingering scent of lavender that still hung in the air. Across the foot of the bed a floral quilt paid tribute to his grandmother's obvious love of flowers, which were featured in many of the wall hangings as well as the wallpaper trim.
Catherine paused by the bedside table, perusing the family photographs on display. The one that made her heart skip a beat was of two boys and a man. It was Dylan, Jake, and their father, she realized. Dylan was thin and gangly, not really a boy, not yet a man. He was probably about thirteen in the photo. The man standing in the middle was dressed in a navy blue suit, his face austere, his hand on Jake's shoulder. Dylan stood a foot apart from Jake and his father, as if he didn't think he belonged in the photograph. His expression was somber, almost pleading.
Something inside of her wanted to touch that lonely little boy, take him into her arms, tell him he'd never stand alone again. But she couldn't go back in time, and the man Dylan had become would never admit to being that vulnerable child. She understood his need to be strong now, to take back his life from the bully who had stolen too many years already. But she suspected that his emotional barriers also prevented him from letting anyone in, even someone who might care about him. He wasn't a man who could trust anyone or anything. He certainly didn't trust her—another reason she should not open up her body or her heart to him. Unlike Dylan she'd never been able to lock the emotions away, and they still tormented her.
It had been four years since she'd let herself care about a man, and that man had left her—just like all the others. She was too different, too crazy, too hot, too cold. She'd heard her flaws recited over and over again, until she'd almost started to believe her bad press. But once he'd left she'd realized that she was happier without him. She had her animals for company, and it wasn't the worst thing to live alone in a beautiful cottage on the beach. She had her art, her classes, some friends, good neighbors, people who liked her from afar.
She smiled to herself at that thought. People always liked her from a distance. But when they got closer they realized she was just too much for them. No one could handle her visions or her nightmares or the screams she suddenly let loose in the middle of the night. The truth was that she'd been damaged a long time ago, and no one ever wanted someone who was broken. They wanted perfect, pretty, easy, uncomplicated, and she'd never been any of those things.
"What are you doing?" Dylan asked, startling her.
She set the photograph on the table. "Just looking around," she said, feeling suddenly guilty.
"It's okay. You can look," he said.
"I'm intruding on your grandmother's privacy," she said, knowing it wasn't really his grandmother's life she was interested in, but his.
"My grandmother doesn't know what's going on in the world, much less her own house. Even if she did, she wouldn't care. She didn't have anything to hide."
Catherine wondered if that was true. "Everyone has secrets, Dylan. Some people just hide them better than others."
He gave her a long look. "Are you picking up on something in particular?"
"Just the feeling that we're supposed to be here. That there's something we need to find."
"What could there possibly be in this house that has anything to do with Erica?"
She couldn't explain. "I don't know. Maybe it's something that has to do with you."
Dylan shook his head, letting out a sigh of exasperation. "I'm too tired and hungry to figure that out right now. Let's eat."
"I'll be down in a minute." She was reluctant to leave. She moved over to the desk by the window, aware that Dylan had not left the room. He was watching her. She put her hand on top of the desk, then trailed her fingers down to the second drawer. She opened it and pulled out a photo album.
"Stop," Dylan said abruptly. "You don't need to take a trip down my memory lane."
"I don't, but I think you do."
"Catherine—"
"Dylan, you said you were going to try to trust me." She set the album on the desk and opened it. Most of the early photos were probably of Dylan's grandmother, her generation of family, but as the pages turned the family aged. And suddenly she came to a wedding photograph of a young couple—the same man who was in the photo with Dylan, his father. The man's arm was around his beautiful, blushing bride, a woman who shared Dylan's features, had his brown hair, his golden brown eyes.
She turned to Dylan. She knew he could see the photograph from where he stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his features hard and unyielding, unforgiving. "This is your mother, isn't it?"
He didn't move a muscle, and for a moment she didn't think he would speak.
Finally he said, "I didn't realize a picture of her still existed. My father got rid of all the ones in our house the day she left."
"Do you want it?"
"No. I don't need a picture of a woman who left me behind." He put up a hand as she started to speak. "Leave it alone, Catherine. My mother is not part of this."
Catherine's hand grazed the photograph as she started to close the album. A surge of heat swept through her.
A woman cried, her heart breaking in two. Her tears fell in big drops on the sandy wood deck. A pair of child's sandals lay nearby, along with a red bucket and an orange shovel. The porch swing creaked with each sad, painful arc. In the distance the tide came in, bringing with it more regret.
Things would never be the same. She couldn't go back. She couldn't change what had happened. And no one would ever forgive her.
Catherine shut the book and slipped it back into the desk drawer, her heart beating in double time. She must be so tuned in to Dylan that she could feel anyone connected to him, including his long-lost mother. She was almost positive that his mother was the woman she'd seen in her head—maybe not seen, but felt. There had been so much pain in her soul she'd barely been able to breathe. What on earth had happened to destroy what had begun so happily in the wedding photo?
Turning, she caught Dylan staring at her. There was a battle going on in his eyes. He wanted to know, and yet he didn't. In the end he left, shutting the door behind him, as if he could somehow put a solid barrier between himself and his past. But that was just an illusion. Someday the past would catch up to him, no matter how far he ran.
When she left the room she found Dylan standing in the middle of the hallway. She'd thought he'd be downstairs by now.
"Why did you look in the desk?" he demanded. "Why that drawer? That photo album? That page?"
"I just had a feeling I should."
"My mother is not connected to any of this."
"She's connected to you, and so am I."
He shook his head, anger in his eyes. "I'm not going down that road right now, Catherine. I have enough on my plate. Maybe I'll look for her someday, but not today. She's been gone for twenty-three years. She can stay gone a little longer. From now on my mother is off-limits."
The lingering sound of his mother's sobs filled Catherine's mind. She didn't know if the crying was from years ago or from a more recent period. But one thing she knew for sure was that Dylan's mother had not been happy. She'd suffered for something. Her heart had been broken.
"Damn you," Dylan swore. "Stop thinking about her. I can see it in your face."
"See what?" she challenged.
"That you want to tell me something about my mother. Well, I don't want to hear it. I'll let you know if I change my mind. Until then, keep your visions to yourself and your mouth shut. Got it?" He didn't wait for her answer. He jogged down the stairs, as if he couldn't get away fast enough, but Catherine knew that she wasn't the one he was running from.
Chapter 9
While he ate dinner Dylan tried to get his parents' wedding photograph out of his mind, but no matter what he'd told Catherine he couldn't stop thinking about it or his mother. Seeing his parents together, in love at the beginning of their lives, had rattled him. He couldn't remember those days. That past wasn't in his memory. And he wasn't sure he wanted it there now.
Why had Catherine been drawn to that particular photo? She'd flipped the pages as if she were seeking exactly that one. A very cynical part of him wondered if she was just part of the setup. Someone could have bought her off as well as Erica.
That plan could have been to have Erica disappear and Catherine torture him with secret visions about his past. Maybe she'd taken him to the Palace of Fine Arts because she knew that was where Erica would leave the cross. She could be working for his enemy while pretending to be his friend.
He picked up his beer and took a large gulp, studying her face in the soft light of the kitchen, and knew that while he didn't want to believe in her or her crazy visions, he did—against all reason, all logic, everything he knew about life and the world. There was something inside of him that told him to accept the fact that Catherine was tuned in to the world in a very special and unique way.
"Just eat," Catherine said. "Stop thinking so much."
"You're making me crazy," he told her. "I really wish you hadn't found that photo. My parents are not a part of this, especially my mother, who has been gone forever."
Catherine set down her fork as she finished her plate of pasta and vegetables. "You don't know who's a part of it. You should keep an open mind. Follow the trail wherever it goes."
"And your sixth sense is supposed to be my conductor?"
"You could say that," she told him with a smile.
"I need to rely on my own eyes, my own instincts," he protested.
"I get that, Dylan. But you might as well use me. I'm here."
She didn't want to know how badly he wanted to use her.
"I didn't mean it that way," she said quickly.
He frowned at how easily she'd read his expression, but then again, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep her out of his mind. "Stop getting into my head," he ordered.
"If you want me to do that, stop thinking all the time about you and me having sex. You're not that good at hiding your thoughts."
"I was before I met you," he complained. "I used to be the best poker player in the neighborhood. When I was sixteen I'd clean up with Jake's friends. No one had a better bluff than me."
"We're not playing cards." She put up a hand. "And if you're thinking about suggesting a quick game of strip poker to test your poker face, think again."
He laughed. "Okay, you are good. Have you ever played strip poker?"
"No, but I'm fairly sure I'd win."
"Why is that?"
"Because I can read people's expressions. And everyone has a tell, something that reveals what they're thinking. My friend Andy, he was a great con artist. He taught me how to look for signs that show someone is nervous or confident or extremely happy about the cards they were dealt. You, for instance, get a little spark in your eyes when you're turned on."
"Really? I must be shooting out fireworks right about now, then," he drawled, enjoying the flush that reddened her cheeks. "And your tell is that your face turns red every time you get excited or scared. Which is it now?"
"You're not turning the tables on me."
"I think I am." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You try to be blunt, in my face, but then you back off, as if it's not really your true nature to be so direct. But it is mine."
"It's also your nature to redirect the conversation away from yourself to whoever is sitting across from you."
"Touché."
"And the only reason you're flirting with me is so you won't have to think about that photo that's in the drawer upstairs."
"That's not the only reason. And you know it."
She met his gaze and gave a reluctant nod. "I do know it, but I don't want to get hurt again."
"Again?" he queried, realizing it was the first time she'd volunteered anything about her past romantic life.
"There you go, trying to get into my life when yours is the one we're supposed to be figuring out."
"I wouldn't hurt you, Catherine." Even as he said the words, he wondered if they were true.
"I'm not talking about a physical hurt, Dylan. But I like you, and if I have sex with you I might fall in love with you, and you wouldn't want that. You'd leave. And I've been left many times in my life. I don't want it to happen again. How's that for direct?"
His gut clenched at the image of them together. Catherine wasn't the only one who could envision them in bed together. But he could also see himself leaving, because he didn't do love. He didn't do commitment. He couldn't afford to give up any of his power to another person, especially not a woman who claimed to be able to see into his head.
"So, back to Erica," Catherine said.
He wasn't quite ready to move on, but he could see by the resolve in her eyes that she was. "Back to Erica," he echoed. But his mind wasn't really on the missing brunette. It was still on Catherine, on what she hadn't told him, and what he knew he needed to ask, even though his every instinct said not to go there. "When you touched the photo album before, you jerked as if you'd seen something."
"I thought you didn't want to talk about your mother."
"Just tell me before I change my mind."
"She was sitting on a porch swing looking out at the ocean. She was crying. She felt tremendous regret, but also a weary resignation that she couldn't change what had happened."
His chest squeezed so tight he could barely catch his breath. "Are you sure it was my mother?" he asked, struggling to get the words out.
"Yes."
He looked away from Catherine's penetrating gaze, trying to absorb what she'd just told him. He couldn't compute what she'd said and what he knew about the past. And a part of him didn't want to let go of the anger he held toward his mother. He didn't want to soften his attitude. He didn't want to think of her as being sad. Maybe she deserved to be unhappy, to have regrets. She'd left her children behind.
"She probably should be crying," he said harshly. "She wasn't exactly mother of the year."
"But you don't really know her story, do you?" Catherine asked, compassion in her eyes.
He wished he could say that he did, but he remembered little about his mother or his life before she left. "I
know enough. The facts speak for themselves."
"The facts don't always tell the whole story."
"Why are you defending her? I thought you, of all people, would understand what it's like to grow up without a mother, although you haven't told me what happened to yours. Did she leave you? Did she die? What's her story? What about your father? What happened to him? How did you end up in foster care without anyone?"
Catherine shrank back in her seat with each pounding question. Her face paled under the attack. "Dylan, stop."
"You want to dig into my life, then I'll dig into yours." He felt a twinge of regret as pain fluttered through her eyes. He knew he was taking out his frustration and fear on her, but he couldn't stop himself. She'd brought him to a place he didn't want to be, and he didn't know how to get out.
After a moment Catherine straightened in her chair. She lifted her chin, her eyes refocusing on his. "Nice try. You do know how to go for the jugular, don't you? But I'm not going to stand in as a punching bag for your mother. So stop attacking me. I didn't hurt you. She did."
He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry."
"You should be." She stood up and took her empty food container to the counter. "Do you know where the trash bags are?"
It was such a mundane question and an abrupt change of subject, it took him a moment to catch up. "Under the sink, if there are any."
She pulled out a white plastic bag and opened it, then dumped her container. Crossing the room, she cleared off the rest of the table and set the bag on the floor. "We should remember to take this out before we leave, since no one may come here for a while."
"Good idea." He paused. "I am sorry. You're right. I jumped on you, and I shouldn't have, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm very curious about your background."
Something wavered in her eyes. "I never talk about my past, not with anyone."
"I'm not just anyone," he told her.
"I know," she admitted. "But right now we have to think about Erica and how to find her." Catherine sat down at the table. "What about Erica's friends? She might have told one of them something."
"I've been thinking about that. One of the other Metro Club hostesses, Joanna, lived next door to Erica. She was probably the closest to her. Although I'm not sure what happened to their relationship after Erica ratted out Ravino. I know the club kicked Erica out. She may have lost her girlfriends there as well. No one likes a snitch."
"Erica risked a lot to talk to you," Catherine commented.
"Because she feared for her life. She thought Ravino could come after her, but in the end I guess she did give up a lot." He was surprised he'd never considered that before. He'd been so intent on getting the story he hadn't really thought about Erica's involvement beyond what she could do for him. He'd used her to get to the truth, and the realization left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe there was more of his father in him than he'd realized. That disturbing revelation made him pick up his beer and drain it to the last drop.
"You didn't make her talk," Catherine said.
"Trying to let me off the hook?" he drawled. "Why don't you say I'm a ruthless, selfish bastard?"
Catherine smiled. "I don't have to, because you just did. But whatever the reason, Erica did the right thing by telling the truth. If Senator Ravino killed his wife, then he deserves to pay. And you should be glad you got involved. I'm just wondering if the fallout affected Erica in such a way that she had to go along with this plan to set you up. Someone has to know what she's been up to the last two months. I think we should talk to Joanna."
"I agree. We'll go to Erica's apartment and kill two birds with one stone."
Catherine frowned. "It's a risk, don't you think? What if the police are watching her place?"
"Doubtful. Even if they did a drive-by to check on her, they wouldn't have cause to break in, especially since she's been gone less than twenty-four hours. I think we have some time. But if you want to stay here, I understand."
"Are you kidding me? I'm not staying behind. Where you go, I go. Besides, if you're thinking of knocking on Erica's neighbor's door, I might get farther than you. If Erica suffered repercussions from her snitching, I can't imagine that you would receive a warm reception from
anyone who worked for the Metro Club."
"Good point."
"Thank you," she said with a smile. "And I have another idea. I think you should wear a disguise. You're on television. You're very recognizable, and right now that's the last thing we want. Do you think your grand-mother's husband left any clothes behind?"
"I can certainly check," he said, smiling back at her. Catherine was definitely pulling her weight as a partner. He was beginning to wonder why he'd ever liked working alone. "I'll look in the hall closet. You might want to put a hat over that gorgeous hair of yours. It's not exactly forgettable." He saw the glitter of surprise in her eyes. "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?"
"I'm not . . . not beautiful," she said, stumbling over the words. "I have freckles and pale skin."
"And beautiful breasts and gorgeous eyes and a very nice pair of hips." As he'd expected and hoped, a delicious flush spread across her cheeks. He wondered if the rest of her body would show such heat.
"Stop that," she told him. "You are very bad, Dylan."
"I'd like to be." He laughed at her expression, a mix of curiosity and dismay.
"You're good with the lines, aren't you?"
"I'm good with a lot of things."
She rolled her eyes. "And quite full of yourself—not your most attractive quality. I'm going to look for a disguise. We'll need to find a big hat to fit that enormous head of yours." She got up from her chair and headed into the hallway. She was already rifling through the clothes when he got there.
Dylan wasn't surprised to see that his grandmother had kept not one but a half dozen of her deceased hus-band's jackets, as well as some baseball caps and fishing hats. She'd always been a pack rat.
Catherine handed him a tan fishing cap and a bulky brown corduroy jacket. She put on one of his grand-mother's black peacoats and covered her hair with a blue floral scarf.
"Sexy," he said with a sarcastic grin, as her outfit added twenty pounds to her frame and twenty years to her age. "You're going to look hot when you're old."
"Stop flirting with me, Gramps," she chided.
He laughed, and for a moment the weight he'd been carrying for the past twenty-four hours eased. "At least with these outfits we'll look right at home in my grand-mother's fifteen-year-old Ford Taurus."
"Just don't speed. It will ruin the illusion," she told him as they left the house.
"Hey, when I'm old I still plan to be driving in the fast lane," he said as they got into the car. "I'm not going to let anything slow me down." Catherine gave him a thoughtful look. "What did I say now?" he asked, wishing he could read her mind as well as she seemed to read his.
"I was just thinking how I slowed myself down years ago, and how I've been living like a hermit for way too long," she said.
He was surprised by her revelation, and by the fact that she'd actually given him the opening to ask a per
sonal question. "Why have you been doing that?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Come on; tell me."
"I guess I thought that if I hid myself away, the dreams wouldn't be able to find me, but they always do. And I'm tired of living in the shadows, afraid to go into the light, afraid to be myself. I haven't been in the fast lane for a very long time. I want to get back there, I think. Well, maybe not all the way to the fast lane, but the second to the slow lane would be a start," she amended.