avocado, sour cream. You can even put in beans, if you insist on breaking my heart. But we eat in reverent silence in appreciation of my cooking. Okay?"
"Okay!" She picked up her spoon, then hesitated. "How do I know you didn't, um, put drugs…?"
"Did you see me dish out the bowls?"
"Yes."
"Out of the same pot? And carry them to the table?"
"Sorry," she mumbled.
He looked at her.
She looked at him. She looked at the wall of pictures. She struggled out of her coat, shoveled beans and cheese and chips into her bowl of steaming chili and dug in.
He wondered where she came from. She had no Texas accent. Which meant nothing; Houston, San Antonio, Dallas … they were all international cities, and a good part of their populations spoke pure Hollywood.
She could have been a Yankee, of course, but he didn't think so. Coming from the north would have taken her some time. She would have had some rough experiences. And Arabella acted like a kid, and not one that had seen action on the streets. Any street kid would have known he could have drugged her chili between the stove and the table.
He let her get a few bites in, figuring food would put her in a better mood, before he asked, "I saw the photo of you and your mother. Did she die?'
Arabella kept shoveling in huge spoonfuls of chili. "No, she's alive."
"She went to jail and you're a foster child?"
"No! My mom isn't in jail! She…" Arabella caught herself. "It doesn't matter."
"I was just asking, because I was a foster child and it pretty much sucked."
Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. "You were?"
"Did you see the picture of me and my sisters?" He pointed at the photo, taken last year in Idaho on the Fourth of July: Hope, Pepper, Kate and him in rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Pepper's house. "Do I look like them?"
Arabella looked, too. The women were slim, attractive and Caucasian. He was part Latino, darkly tanned with black hair and green eyes. "No."
"I came to live with the Prescotts when I was twelve years old, and I lived with them until Mr. and Mrs. Prescott — our parents — were murdered and we were separated. It's a miracle we managed to find each other again."
Arabella's mouth hung open as she listened. "Your parents — your foster parents — were murdered?"
"It's true. If you don't believe me, you can look it up on your phone. Solving the crime a few years ago made quite a splash in the news."
Arabella put bread slathered with butter into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. In a nasty, sing-song voice, she said, "I left my phone on the floor and stepped on it. So I don't have a phone. We can't afford to get me a new phone. I should have taken better care of that one." She paused, then in her normal voice, she burst out, "It was an accident!"
Okay. He was starting to put together a picture. Arabella's mother was alive and held custody of her child, and her child was angry because they didn't have enough money to get her a replacement for something she had mistreated and now badly wanted. She and her mom were poor. They had had a fight. Arabella ran away…
His phone buzzed on the table beside him. "Excuse me," he said to Arabella. "It's my brother-in-law."
Arabella looked at the wall. "Which one?"
"Teague."
"Kate's husband," Arabella said.
She must have really studied the family photos.
"That's right." Gabriel read the text.
You want me to use a picture of a picture to find out who this missing kid is? One day before Christmas?
Teague was a private investigator, a good one, and yes, he was probably justifiably annoyed at being put on the job now, while he was getting ready to drive Kate and the kids to Hobart.
Gabriel texted, Help me, Obi-wan-Kenobi. You're my only hope. He hated to tell Teague the bad stuff, but he had to fill him in. She's older than in the photo, about 12, Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes.
Height?
5'-5"+.
Send me a current picture.
Can't. She's ready to bolt.
Figure out a way. She's local?
Don't
"Okay!" She picked up her spoon, then hesitated. "How do I know you didn't, um, put drugs…?"
"Did you see me dish out the bowls?"
"Yes."
"Out of the same pot? And carry them to the table?"
"Sorry," she mumbled.
He looked at her.
She looked at him. She looked at the wall of pictures. She struggled out of her coat, shoveled beans and cheese and chips into her bowl of steaming chili and dug in.
He wondered where she came from. She had no Texas accent. Which meant nothing; Houston, San Antonio, Dallas … they were all international cities, and a good part of their populations spoke pure Hollywood.
She could have been a Yankee, of course, but he didn't think so. Coming from the north would have taken her some time. She would have had some rough experiences. And Arabella acted like a kid, and not one that had seen action on the streets. Any street kid would have known he could have drugged her chili between the stove and the table.
He let her get a few bites in, figuring food would put her in a better mood, before he asked, "I saw the photo of you and your mother. Did she die?'
Arabella kept shoveling in huge spoonfuls of chili. "No, she's alive."
"She went to jail and you're a foster child?"
"No! My mom isn't in jail! She…" Arabella caught herself. "It doesn't matter."
"I was just asking, because I was a foster child and it pretty much sucked."
Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. "You were?"
"Did you see the picture of me and my sisters?" He pointed at the photo, taken last year in Idaho on the Fourth of July: Hope, Pepper, Kate and him in rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Pepper's house. "Do I look like them?"
Arabella looked, too. The women were slim, attractive and Caucasian. He was part Latino, darkly tanned with black hair and green eyes. "No."
"I came to live with the Prescotts when I was twelve years old, and I lived with them until Mr. and Mrs. Prescott — our parents — were murdered and we were separated. It's a miracle we managed to find each other again."
Arabella's mouth hung open as she listened. "Your parents — your foster parents — were murdered?"
"It's true. If you don't believe me, you can look it up on your phone. Solving the crime a few years ago made quite a splash in the news."
Arabella put bread slathered with butter into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. In a nasty, sing-song voice, she said, "I left my phone on the floor and stepped on it. So I don't have a phone. We can't afford to get me a new phone. I should have taken better care of that one." She paused, then in her normal voice, she burst out, "It was an accident!"
Okay. He was starting to put together a picture. Arabella's mother was alive and held custody of her child, and her child was angry because they didn't have enough money to get her a replacement for something she had mistreated and now badly wanted. She and her mom were poor. They had had a fight. Arabella ran away…
His phone buzzed on the table beside him. "Excuse me," he said to Arabella. "It's my brother-in-law."
Arabella looked at the wall. "Which one?"
"Teague."
"Kate's husband," Arabella said.
She must have really studied the family photos.
"That's right." Gabriel read the text.
You want me to use a picture of a picture to find out who this missing kid is? One day before Christmas?
Teague was a private investigator, a good one, and yes, he was probably justifiably annoyed at being put on the job now, while he was getting ready to drive Kate and the kids to Hobart.
Gabriel texted, Help me, Obi-wan-Kenobi. You're my only hope. He hated to tell Teague the bad stuff, but he had to fill him in. She's older than in the photo, about 12, Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes.
Height?
5'-5"+.
Send me a current picture.
Can't. She's ready to bolt.
Figure out a way. She's local?
Don't
Similar Books
Dark Challenge
Christine Feehan
Heroes (Hollywood Heartthrobs #1)
Kate Rivers
Love Falls
Esther Freud
The Hunter
Rose Estes
Horse Fever
Bonnie Bryant
Wrong Man, Right Kiss
Red Garnier
Franklin and the Thunderstorm
Brenda Clark
The Lawman Meets His Bride
Meagan McKinney