Secure Location - By Beverly Long Page 0,58
different.
She was pregnant with Cruz’s child.
It was everything that she’d ever wanted but thought she could never have. And it was too much to take in.
She was scared to death.
She pulled out her cell phone. When Charlotte’s voice mail came on, she realized the woman probably wasn’t back yet. “Something has come up, Charlotte. I won’t be coming back to the office today.”
She started walking, with no destination in mind. A half hour later, she stopped for a cup of coffee. She was the second person in line. By the time she stepped up to face the cashier, she’d changed her mind to soup and a turkey sandwich.
She needed to feed her baby.
She was responsible for another human being.
The thought of it made it difficult to move. Still, she forced herself to chew and swallow. She managed to eat most of her lunch before she pushed it away.
Terminating the pregnancy was not an option.
The idea of raising a child was terrifying.
Adoption? Could she?
She was going to have to tell Cruz. Oh, God. What would he think? Would he want the baby?
Could she stand by and let him raise their child?
How could she not? Their child deserved to have at least one parent. And he’d be a great dad. He’d been wonderful with Jana, so patient, so much fun.
He certainly wouldn’t be anxious to talk to her, not after the way things had ended. But they needed to talk. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled out her phone. The call went right to Cruz’s voice mail. With her free hand, she rubbed the sapphire necklace that she hadn’t taken off since Cruz had left. Every day, under her shirt, she wore it close to her heart.
She heard the click and knew it was time to leave a message. “Cruz,” she said, her throat feeling dry. “It’s Meg. I...uh...have something I’d like to talk with you about. It’s not an emergency or anything. But sometime, can you call me? Please.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cruz was finishing a report on the latest homicide when his phone rang. He picked it up. “Montoya,” he said.
“Myers here,” said the caller.
“Is Meg okay?” Cruz asked, his stomach cramping up. It couldn’t be good that the detective was calling him again so soon after their last conversation.
“As far as I know,” he said. “Look, I’ve got a situation here that I need your help with.”
Cruz picked up his coffee cup and took a drink. “I’m listening.”
“I got a call from Debi Moulin. She said that she and her husband, Frank, had heard that you were asking questions about Troy Blakely. They have some information that you might find helpful.”
“So what is it?” Cruz asked.
“That’s the problem. They won’t tell me. Said they would only talk to you. In person.”
“Unless they’re willing to get on a plane and come to Chicago, I don’t see how that’s going to happen.”
“I told them that. I told them that you had no official capacity in this case. They said that they’d prayed about it and you were the one they could talk to. If you can be at their house at ten in the morning on Friday, they’ll talk with you.”
Cruz said a word that people who were prayerful didn’t generally approve of. Myers laughed.
He could get the time off. That wasn’t the problem. But to see Meg and know that she loved someone else, that was asking too much.
But it could put the threat to Meg to bed. And then he’d be able to stop worrying about her night and day.
Stop thinking about her.
Right. He needed to be satisfied with what he could get.
“Okay,” Cruz said. “I’ll be there.” He hung up, not having any idea that the man on the other end of the line was smiling.
He realized that while he’d been talking to Myers another call had come in to his voice mail. He listened to the message, feeling his heart rate accelerate when he heard Meg’s voice. Something to talk to you about. Not an emergency.
He hung up, feeling worse than ever.
It could only be one thing. She and Slater were getting married.
He didn’t call her back. He just couldn’t.
* * *
LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR hours later, Cruz’s plane landed at the San Antonio airport. He rented a car and headed toward Haileyville. At five minutes before ten, he was knocking on the Moulins’ door.
Frank Moulin had salt-and-pepper hair and a belly. Cruz guessed him to be about sixty. Seconds later, when his wife joined him at the door,