Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,92

He forced himself to look left again, finding Tolliver’s face creased in concern. “Excuse me?”

“I said that she was crying. And I think she had been for a while. Her face was swollen and red. She just carried boxes to her car and cried, not even stopping to wipe her eyes.”

Oh my God. Fear gripped his heart. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“See that you do,” he said gruffly. “She’s a nice girl, that one. Brings me fresh-baked brownies once a week without fail. And she likes Sweetie-Pie.”

Which alone made Liza a saint. The man’s dog was an evil ankle biter. “Thank you,” he said once more and entered Liza’s house.

At first glance, it looked normal. Alarm system armed, all the furniture in the same place. But then he noticed all the things missing. The afghan that her mother had made was gone. The photos of her mother and sister that had lined the mantel. All gone.

Numbly he walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Her dishes were still there, but all the cookware that had been her mother’s was gone.

Slowly he climbed the stairs, knowing what he’d find. It still hurt to see.

Her bed was made with military precision, and not a single speck of dust was on the furniture she’d bought when they’d moved in. But the closet and drawers were empty, all the clothing gone. Her suitcases were gone. As was her gun safe.

Her bathroom was so clean that it sparkled, but every shelf was empty of toiletries. No shampoo that smelled like crisp apples. No makeup.

She had left a roll of toilet paper in the cabinet and a hand towel on the rack.

He swallowed hard.

She’s gone. She left me.

No, she left, period. Not you. There was no you to leave.

“Bullshit,” he hissed aloud. They were still friends. He still deserved a damn goodbye. But then he heard her voice, tentative and small.

You didn’t feel the same way.

No. I didn’t.

“Goddammit.” He pulled out his personal phone and dialed her number. It rang several times before going to voice mail. Swearing viciously, he called again. This time she answered.

“Hello, Tom.” The words were heavy and sad and he swallowed again.

I’m sorry. Come back. I’ll try.

But none of those words would come out. Instead he snarled. “Where the fuck are you?”

He could hear her indrawn breath. “At Irina’s.”

I’m sorry. Come back. Please come back.

But once again, his mouth betrayed him. “You were supposed to stay home,” he snapped. “What part of being in a sniper’s sights did you not understand?”

This time the breath she drew was even and measured. “I’m fine. I am not your worry.”

Anymore hung between them.

“I left a note on the fridge along with a check for next month’s rent,” she went on. “I’ll set up autopay through my bank for the future.”

“I don’t care about the fucking rent!” he shouted.

“I do.”

He opened his mouth to say . . . what, he had no idea, but just then his work phone pinged with an alert.

Dammit. Sunnyside Oaks’s patient database had just been updated. “I need to call you back.”

“No, you really don’t. It’s okay. Just find Eden so that Mercy will be safe.”

And then she hung up, leaving him staring at his personal phone while his work phone continued to ping.

Fucking hell. Backing out of her bedroom, he slowly trudged down the stairs, wondering what to do. Wishing . . . but for what he didn’t know.

He locked her door and, after checking to be sure his neighbor was gone, marched into his own house and up the stairs and sat down at his computer. Pulling up the window into Sunnyside’s database, he saw that a new patient had been registered: Timothy Alcalde, age seventy-two, Caucasian male.

Not DJ Belmont, then. It had to be Pastor.

On autopilot, Tom took a screenshot of the file and carefully backed out, making sure he left no trace that he’d broken in. Then he sent the file to his own secure e-mail. He could upload it to the Bureau’s servers when he got into the office.

He considered calling Raeburn, but had no energy for the conversation. So he texted instead. New patient, 72yo man, Timothy Alcalde. Right age for Pastor. He’d been forty-two when he’d fled to Eden thirty years ago.

And “Alcalde” meant “mayor” in Spanish. On another day, Tom might have appreciated the joke. The Eden assholes had already demonstrated that they put thought into names. He supposed “Timothy Pastora” would have been too obvious, even for