The Incumbent Read Free Page A

here?”
    “Once. Lisa held a fund-raiser. I haven’t been back since.” My stomach knotted and my breath shortened. I had never been to a crime scene before. Worse, I’d never spoken to a young woman whose mother had been abducted—or worse.
    Webb directed the car down the narrow residential lane: Dove Street. All the streets in the Shadow Mountain subdivision bore bird names. It fit the quaint houses that lined the roads. Unlike many similar streets in other cities, these had very few trees. Tress block the ocean view, which lowers property value. In Santa Rita the sea is everything.
    Built in the mid-sixties, the houses were the developer’s idea of a tribute to Frank Lloyd Wright’s prairie style. Flat roofs topped every home, with overhangs that extended from the exterior walls farther than seemed right. Unlike Wright’s designs, these homes were small and were much less expensive to build. Still, any one of them would have sold for over half a million. A cottage with a view is worth as much as a mansion stuck at the end of an alley.
    The community was too pricey for most newcomers, so there was little turnover in the neighborhood. The Truccolis, Lisa had told me, were numbered among the newbies. Her husband, Christopher, had made a good salary on the rigs, and she brought home decent money as an accountant. Through disciplined saving and help from both sets of parents, they had managed to pull off the purchase. I imagine keeping up payments had been a chore, at least until his career took off.
    The car came to rest at the west curb. Lights, pushing past gossamer curtains, shone from the few street-side windows, but I could imagine the glow pouring from the much larger ocean-facing panes. A band of yellow tape surrounded the property like a gaudy belt, telling the world that here a peaceful life had been disrupted.
    The front door was open and warm light decanted from it, splashing like paint on the small concrete porch. A thin, shallow silhouette appeared between the jambs. Even from the street I could tell it was Celeste. As she walked from the house, raindrops showered her.
    I sprang from the car and started down the narrow concrete walk. “Celeste?”
    “Go away,” she shot back, continuing her march.
    “Celeste, it’s Maddy, Maddy Glenn. Where are you going?” I met her halfway down the walk. Rain fell in drops the size of raisins, cold raisins that stung the skin.
    “Go away.” She tried to walk around me. Her head was down; blond hair hung around her young face, shielding it from view.
    “No. Not until we talk.” I took her by the arms. “Look at me, Celeste. Look at me.” She did and I could see the pain. Water streaked her skin—water that had nothing to do with the rain. “Where are you going?”
    “I don’t know . . . Away.”
    “Away to where?” I tightened my grip, fearing she would bolt.
    “Away from here. I can’t stay here. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” The sobs came from the deepest place of sorrow, from the abyss of hopelessness. “She’s gone. She’s dead. I’m alone.” Her shoulders began to shake.
    I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her. Her weeping came in waves that pounded the shore of my resolve. The sky seemed to be grieving with the young woman. Water ran down my forehead and face. I could feel my hair sag under the weight of it, and I felt the cold of the wind, but I was determined not to move until Celeste was ready.

chapter 2
    I hadn’t gone into the house. There was no need. Chief Webb had told me what they found and that was good enough for me. My concern was Celeste. With her father in another state and her mother missing, she was alone. I had decided to take her to my place. I could make her comfortable and relay any information from the police. It was the least I could do.
    Celeste had protested at first but without conviction. She was emotionally beat down—a dry leaf in a hot August wind. Who wouldn’t be? There are few feelings worse