about the kids who’d lost their father? The woman who lost her husband? Every time he remembered that moment, her grief becoming horror when she realized who he was, the claws of guilt sank deeper into his flesh.
* * *
A MONTH LATER, Anna trotted down the sidewalk toward the nearest park. Wanting to stay aware of traffic, she hadn’t yet turned on her iPod. There was a time she’d exercised when Kyle was home with the kids. Now, she had to pay Mrs. Schaub to watch Jenna for even this brief escape. Today she was killing two birds with one stone—awful saying that it was—because a real estate agent was showing her house. She knew he actually was, because she hadn’t gone a block when she’d heard an engine and glanced back to see a gleaming silver sedan turning into her driveway.
If there wasn’t an offer soon, she’d have to go to the bank that held the mortgage and explain why she couldn’t make her payments. She prayed they’d give her some time although, of course, the unmade payments, and presumably a penalty, too, would then come out of the already too-skimpy proceeds when the house did sell.
Running was supposed to be a time when she could zone out, but no more.
At least the park lay just ahead. The trail was packed dirt, easier on her knees. Reaching the last crosswalk, she scanned automatically for traffic, seeing only parked cars.
She’d stepped off the curb when alarm zinged through her. There’d been an odd glint of light, as if... Was that a camera pointing at her? Continuing across the street, she looked.
A man sat in a black SUV, the driver’s side window rolled down, and, yes, he was still pointing a camera with a huge lens at her.
The camera disappeared fast when he realized she’d seen him. When she broke into a run diagonally across the street toward the SUV, his window slid up. With the glass tinted, she couldn’t make out his face.
Maneuvering out of the parking spot was taking him too long, though. Maybe this was stupid, but Anna harbored so much anger atop her fear these days, she didn’t care if this was dangerous. She flung herself at the driver’s door and hammered on the window, yelling “Stop!”
He edged forward. She leaped in front of his bumper, forcing him to brake or hit her. He braked. When she pulled her phone from the cuff on her upper arm, the window slid down.
She took a quick picture of the license plate before she confronted him. Taking courage from the presence of a couple across the street who’d started to get into their own car but were now gaping, instead, Anna glared. “Who are you, and why were you photographing me?”
Late thirties, early forties, the man was thin, pleasant-looking. Nondescript, really. “I’m a private investigator,” he admitted. “Ah, your insurance claim...”
“I made no insurance claim. I want to see your license.”
He produced it. His name was Darren Smith, and his employer was Moonrise Investigations.
“Smith? Really?” She handed it back.
Without a word, he tugged a wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open to show his driver’s license.
“Fine,” she snapped. And, crap, the couple were now getting into their car, believing the drama to be over. The busy playground was too far away for any of the parents to notice her. “I’m calling the police. You’ll have to run me over to get away.”
She tapped in 911. Before she could push Send, he swore and said, “Don’t do that. I’ll tell you.”
Anna let her thumb hover over her phone. “Talk.”
“I was hired by a Mr. Nathan Kendrick.”
The name hit her like a sledgehammer.
“He wanted to know what’s going on with you, that’s all. Be sure you and the kids are okay.”
Fury burned through her. “You’ve been taking pictures of my children without my permission?”
“Ah...”
“You son of a bitch,” she said bitingly. “I bet your employer won’t be thrilled when I file a lawsuit. With a little luck, you can kiss that license goodbye!”
Unable to look at him for another second, she ran up the street until she could easily dodge into the park. If she’d had the house to herself, she’d have gone straight home. Jogging held zero appeal, but she grimly started in on her laps through the park, anyway.
Once free to go home and shower, she would pay a visit to Nate Kendrick, the man whose own ex-wife blamed for Kyle’s death.
DESPITE A FRACTURED ability to focus, Nate was doing his best to work through email when his desk intercom buzzed.
His assistant, Kim Pualani, said apologetically, “A woman is here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment, but says you’ll know who she is.”
He braced himself. “Her name?”
“Ah...Ms. Grainger. Anna Grainger.”
Kim knew what had happened and must have guessed this visit had to do with the tragedy.
“Send her in,” he agreed, although talking to Kyle Grainger’s widow was the last thing he wanted to do after taking the call from the PI.
“She’s on the warpath,” Smith had warned.
But Nate didn’t see an alternative to letting her lay into him. He couldn’t guess whether she’d accept an apology or anything else from him, but he had to try.
The door swung open, allowing him a glimpse of the woman he’d seen so briefly that day in the hospital. He rose to his feet as she walked in and Kim closed the door behind her. At least now, past the shock, Mrs. Grainger was vitally alive, if also furious. The red spots on her cheeks would have told him that much, even without the PI’s warning.
Nate had the uncomfortable realization that he could be attracted to this woman, long and sleek, honey-blond hair captured smoothly in some arrangement he couldn’t see, her dark blue eyes snapping with the same anger that accented high, perfectly honed cheekbones.
He didn’t even want to imagine how she’d react if she guessed her effect on him.
“Mrs. Grainger,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’d intended to stop soon at your house to speak to you. Please, have a seat.”
She marched forward until his desk blocked her. Obviously, sitting down for a civil conversation wasn’t on her agenda. “Once you’d compiled your photographic record of every step I’ve taken? Every step my children have taken?”
“I didn’t ask—”
Anna Grainger talked right over him. “Do you have any idea how violated I feel? How enraged I am to discover someone has been spying on me? While he was at it, did your PI capture some suggestive pictures through a crack in my blinds? Or one of the kids undressing for bed? Which do you prefer, Mr. Kendrick, little girls or little boys?”
His own temper sparked, but with practiced calm he said, “You must guess why I hired a PI firm to monitor how you’re doing. I didn’t ask for photographs, and I haven’t seen any. All I’ve been given are verbal or written reports.”
Vibrating with fury, she snapped, “Then please explain why I caught that...that creep photographing me when I went for a run? Did you need to know I was getting my exercise? Should I reassure you I’m taking my vitamins?”
This wasn’t going anywhere good.
“Mrs. Grainger. All I wanted was to know how you and the kids were. Whether your husband had left you provided for.”
Unfortunately, part of the initial report provided the disturbing answer. Anna Grainger was close to