Back in the Blazer, Scott called a buddy of his at work and asked him to let Scott know if anyone reported Ms. Hamilton’s car abandoned. Then he backed up to Ms. Hamilton’s driveway again.
“I want to check around one more time,” he told Laurel. She followed him, wondering what he was looking for, but not wanting to ask while he was so focused.
Scott was a lot more aggressive in his search this time, checking windows, working around the security system—something he seemed quite adept at—so he could test for an unlocked window or loose door latch. He stopped just short of picking a lock or breaking the door down. Technically he should have waited to get a warrant, but without an official investigation, that wasn’t possible.
And lives might be at stake.
* * *
THEY LEARNED ONE thing more about Cecilia Hamilton: her house was very secure. The elaborate security system was only the beginning. She had dead bolts on all of her windows and doors, and, Scott told Laurel, probably sensors, as well. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to get inside, and he’d exhausted his search of the premises outdoors, they finally gave up and headed back to Cooper’s Corner. On the way, Scott tossed Laurel his notebook and had her read back to him everything that he’d written.
Laurel began reading his notes in a professional voice—until she reached the part where he’d written her name. More than once. With heavy lead.
She skipped that part, but she couldn’t ignore what she’d seen.
And the thought of Scott writing her name like that made it hard for her to breathe.
* * *
SCOTT MADE A few calls, including one to William’s publisher to see if they knew anything about the author’s whereabouts or whom he associated with. But the people he needed to speak to were out until the next morning, so all he could do was wait to hear back on the various calls he had out.
That was the part of his job Scott hated the most.
He should take Laurel back to Twin Oaks, but he knew he wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t bear to waste whatever hours or days he had left with her before she was gone from his life for good.
And because he didn’t trust himself, he figured it was probably time to tell her the truth about some things. Paul’s death—maybe. His own wrongful feelings—maybe. He couldn’t imagine confessing any of it. Yet he knew he was going to have to tell Laurel he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
That look in her eyes the previous night had really undone him. He’d spent more than half of his life wanting just a single glimpse of that look directed at him, and yet he knew that he could never, ever, pursue the desire he’d read there.
“Have you had a chance to spend any time out in the country since you’ve been here?” he asked, craving the peace and freedom of the Berkshire countryside.
“Just driving. I didn’t feel comfortable walking around alone....”
Scott grinned. “This is Cooper’s Corner, not New York City.”
“I know. I should’ve gone.”
“So let’s stop by Tubb’s Café for some sandwiches and drive down by the old sugar bush for a picnic,” he said as they reached the outskirts of town and she’d said nothing about seeing him at all the rest of the day.
“Okay.”
If she’d had any idea of even half the content of his thoughts, she wouldn’t have agreed so easily.
She wouldn’t have agreed at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN BUSINESS FOR ALMOST a hundred years, Smith’s Maple Sugar Bush was a family-owned sugarhouse that was pretty much a monument in that part of the Berkshires. The stand of old maples turned to a blaze of fiery colors in the fall, and in the summer provided welcome shade from the hot sun. During their high school years, the sugar bush and its surrounding meadow had been the site of more than one weekend party—parties that lasted from Saturday afternoon until Sunday morning. Kids would bring sleeping bags, build a bonfire, and tell scary stories, and as long as there was no alcohol and they cleaned up after they left, the Smith family didn’t mind.
Scott remembered those times with fondness. He hoped he’d still remember the sugar bush with such fondness after this afternoon.
“This is so good,” Laurel said, biting into a chicken salad sandwich. “Just like one your grandma might make.”
He wondered how Laurel could make such associations when she’d never had a grandma.
He wondered if she’d ever be one.
Scott ate silently, enjoying the sandwiches, chips and fruit as though this were going to be his last supper.