Lullabies and Lies - By Mallory Kane Page 0,59

watching her.

Sunny leaned in, studying the photo, trying to get a better look at the people. Something about it was odd.

The photograph began to fade. She touched the mouse, hoping to stop the photo from disappearing.

Immediately, she realized her mistake. She’d been watching the screen saver. The picture was gone.

Now she was staring at the last file Griff had been working on. It was his database of missing children.

But it wasn’t open to page one, where his newest cases were listed. It was on the last page. Her heart beating with anticipation, she scanned the earliest entries.

In the bathroom, the shower cut off. She glanced briefly toward the closed bathroom door and pushed the chair back. He’d asked her not to look at his files.

But her eyes were drawn to the screen. To the oldest entry.

It was June 30, 1991. Fifteen years ago. The date was familiar.

Her eyes scanned the fields. Date of disappearance, city, state, abductee’s name and age—

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, Griff…”

He’d told her this was just a job to him. But she’d known from the first day that he was lying.

Now, five days later, she knew why. It had never been just a job.

I can’t do this anymore, he’d told his boss. The pain in those words had cut her. He’d told her he was an expert in missing children cases. He cared deeply about the people he helped, but he was quitting.

He was giving up.

The bathroom door opened and he emerged, bringing a puff of hot, humid air with him. He wore nothing but jeans. His bare chest and arms were sprinkled with crystalline water droplets, and he’d slung his towel around his neck.

But not even his sexy, half-naked presence could keep her attention away from what she’d just read. She dragged her eyes away from his lean waist, his taut, muscled abs, his broad shoulders, and stared at the name written next to the oldest date in his database.

Marianne Stone. Eighteen months old. Unsolved.

“What are you doing?” He stalked over to the desk and slammed the laptop closed.

He loomed over her, close enough that she could feel the damp heat that wafted from his skin, smell the faintly perfumed soap he’d showered with, and the herbal scent of his shampoo.

Close enough that she could feel his agitation.

“I told you not to look at my files.”

Sunny looked up at him. “Marianne was your sister?”

His head jerked, his gaze met hers, and for an instant, Sunny saw how deep his pain went. She saw all the way down to his soul.

He whipped the towel off his neck and threw it as hard as he could toward the bathroom, cursing under his breath. Then he rounded on her.

“Why couldn’t you leave it alone?” His voice was choked with emotion. “It has nothing to do with your case.”

Sunny stood, a little frightened by his vehemence, her heart breaking at the grief etched on his face. “That’s her in the pictures, isn’t it? She was beautiful.” Her eyes filled with tears.

He turned pale, started to say something, then stopped. He sent her a slight negative shake of his head.

“What happened to her?”

“You read the entry.” His voice was brittle.

She nodded. “Unsolved.” She put her hand over her mouth to muffle a quiet sob.

“What’s the matter, Sunny? Afraid I’m not capable of finding Emily?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“You asked about the Senator’s son the first day we met. My guess is suddenly you’re having serious doubts about my ability.”

Each word was a dagger, piercing her heart. His back was straight, his head held high, but Sunny saw through his indignation. She saw for the first time what he was afraid of.

He doubted his ability.

She shook her head. “I believe you can find Emily. I have to.”

“Then what the hell difference does it make what happened fifteen years ago? Or last month? Why is it so important to you?”

Tears clogged her throat. “It’s important to me because it’s important to you. Because it’s part of you. Please tell me about her.”

He stood, still as a stone, and spoke in a quiet, even voice. “She was a year and a half old. I was fourteen—old enough to be responsible for my little sister. But I was more interested in my new camera. I was taking pictures, and when I turned around, her stroller was empty.”

Sunny gasped. “The pictures on your screen saver—they’re from the day she disappeared.”

He nodded, his shoulders bowed.

“Fifteen years.” Her imagination jumped fifteen years into the future, to a