Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,50

upstairs?”

“No, thank you. I don’t think I’m going to let go of her tonight.” Though she had to shift Clary to take his hand since getting out of the deep cushion without help wasn’t likely. He opened the kitchen door, then closed and locked it behind them and switched off the lights she pointed out as they made their way to the front door.

There he brushed Clary’s hair gently back from her face. “She’s beautiful. Though how could she not be, with you for a mother? You sure you don’t need help?”

“Sure.”

He fastened the leash to Scooter’s collar, then bent to kiss her. It wasn’t the kind of kiss they’d shared last night that had made her remember things in her very cells that she’d never felt before, not with Clary’s limp body between them, but maybe an even better kind of kiss.

A normal one. A routine one that was quickly becoming one of the best parts of her life.

“Good night,” he murmured, then opened the door and followed the newly energetic Scooter out.

“G’night,” Clary murmured unexpectedly before snuggling deeper against Macy.

Macy locked up and armed the alarm, balanced her daughter precariously while snagging the strap of the pink-and-purple backpack Anne had left hanging on the newel post, then headed up the stairs. She intended to have a good night. Her baby in her arms, Brent and Anne out back and sweet dreams of Stephen.

When she reached the landing, she ignored Clary’s room to the left and carried her into the master bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. She’d still been sleeping in a crib when she’d left a year and a half ago, a situation that certainly wouldn’t please her now. Only babies slept in cribs, and she was no baby. She was a big girl.

The backpack that carried her clothes was as big as she was, Macy noticed with a smile as she dumped it on the bed. Anne had covered every possibility: shorts, T-shirts, jeans, skirts, a dress and appropriate shoes, plus pajamas, swimsuits and hats. Macy stacked the clothes on a nearby chair, stripped her daughter and easily maneuvered her limp body into a pink nightgown with a picture of a smiling cat on the front.

After settling her baby, smelling distinctly of sweat and dog, on Mark’s side of the bed, she propped pillows along the edge as a barrier, tucked the covers around her, then carried her dirty clothes into the dressing room. They went into the laundry hamper along with Macy’s own clothes, and she changed into her own pajamas.

Pleasantly tired, face washed, teeth brushed, Macy returned to the bedroom and stopped so suddenly she stubbed her toe. She hadn’t heard anything out of place, didn’t see anything, but the hairs on her nape were rising as goose bumps popped up along her arms. She held her breath and listened but heard nothing. She breathed deeply to fill her starving lungs, and the difference registered so quickly that she choked on the air.

Mark’s cologne was drifting faintly on the air.

It was nothing unusual, she told herself. He’d lived in this room with that cologne for six years. It had probably permeated into the very structure of his dressing room, where he’d sprayed it at least twice a day. Tiny particles had drifted onto the carpet, absorbed into the walls and the furniture. And, look, the curtains were swaying slightly. The central air had come on, and the outrush of air was spreading the scent.

Shoulders relaxing, she crossed the room to the door. She might have an open-door policy during the day, but at night she wanted the security of closed doors, especially with Clary here. She didn’t want her little girl wandering around a strange house at night.

Her gaze skimmed across the box just outside the door that held bits of trash: crumpled paper, packing tape that had stuck to itself, other detritus. The box she’d thrown Mark’s cologne into just that morning.

There was no sign of it. She rifled through the contents, thinking the heavy glass must have sunk to the bottom, but no, it wasn’t there.

Arms hugged to her middle, Macy backed into the bedroom. Maybe Stephen, Brent or Anne had seen it there and thought it was in the trash by mistake. Maybe one of them had set it aside to ask her about and had forgotten. Maybe...

She closed the door, locked it, then dragged a heavy chair in front of it. Hands clenched to keep them from trembling too