Dana Mentink - Dangerous Tidings

The officers trailed up the basement steps and departed, leaving Brent staring at a closed door, even more confused than he’d been twelve hours before. One thing was certain, Pauline was in trouble. Big-time.

* * *

In Pauline’s basement, Donna trailed her fingers through the pile of yarn, uncertain whether to stay or go. She itched to talk over the developments with Marco and her sisters, but Brent’s unnatural stillness kept her there. Ridley’s hateful accusations circled in her mind and left her angry. Whatever had happened in their past, Pauline’s safety should be the focus and Brent was right to ask for a new investigator to take charge. Unless...

The suspicion wormed its way to the surface. What if Brent was not as innocent as he seemed? The handsome face, the little-boy vulnerability—she’d been fooled before.

To cover her confusion, she made a pretense of examining the knitting supplies. The yarns were in hues of greens and blues, next to what appeared to be the beginnings of a crooked scarf. Donna’s mother, JeanBeth, was a skilled knitter and it was easy to see that Pauline was not. Brent remained locked in silence. The minutes ticked away. She’d just decided to go when he spoke.

“She makes me a scarf every year for Christmas. Sews me vests, too.”

She remained silent, willing him to continue. For some reason that she could not name, she wanted to know what was going on inside Brent Mitchell.

“I don’t wear scarves, living in Southern California, but I put them on to please her. I’ve got five hanging in my closet. Five scarves. Some of them have holes in them and she says those are ‘in the French style.’” He smiled. “I tell her I like them better that way because it allows for ventilation. The vests are even worse. It’s ironic because rescue swimmers sew their own gear, so I can handle a needle and thread better than she does. I never tell her that.”

“You’re a good brother.”

His eyes found hers. “I wish that was true. Since the plane crash...” He cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering about all that since Ridley dropped the bomb.”

“You were the only survivor?”

“Yes.” He looked away, eyes studying the ceiling. “For the last six years since it happened, I’ve immersed myself in work. I’ve been so busy that I didn’t make enough time for my sister.”

Donna sighed. “I’ve used that trick myself, hiding at work.”

He sank down on a wooden trunk. “Yeah? Seems like you have everything squared away with your family. Close with the sisters, Marco.”

“Let’s just say I had plenty of excuses not to hear the truth that my father and Marco were trying to deliver.” She sighed. “I’m working on getting rid of that guilt.”

“I didn’t think it was possible, letting go of guilt.”

She considered his troubled face. “It’s not easy, that’s for sure.”

He looked as though he wanted to ask a question. Instead, he stood up. “Getting late.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No need.”

“I know. Gonna do it, anyway.”

He put a hand on her shoulder to guide her to the steps and it made her pulse quicken. “Her work,” Donna blurted out. “That’s the next place to look.”

He fastened those rich brown eyes on hers, making something tingle inside. “I’m sure the police will check out the group home. It’s a place called Open Vistas. See if they can glean anything. That’s where I’m headed tomorrow, too. Ridley will be thrilled to see me again.”

She was sorry when his hand fell away.

They walked out into the front yard. The house looked peaceful in the moonlight, a picture of tranquility and comfort, the whole street bathed in Christmas cheer. Until Pauline was found, there would be no celebration in his life.

“I’m on your father’s list, aren’t I?” he said as he opened her car door for her and she climbed in.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. My sister went to your dad because she was afraid of someone. When she stopped coming around, your father started doing some informal checking and, being the thorough investigator type, he jotted me down there on the suspect list.”

She winced.

He thrummed his fingers on the roof of the car. “Why wouldn’t I be a suspect? I’m the beneficiary of her life insurance policy, I think. A natural conclusion. I could have been plotting to murder her or something.” He laughed, bitter and low. “Ridley would love to consider me a suspect in my own sister’s disappearance.”

His hands were on his hips now, jaw drawn tight.

“I don’t know what my father was investigating,” she said honestly. “I wish I did.”

“For what it’s worth, I love my sister. She’s the only person on this earth who knows what a jerk I can be and loves me, anyway. I did not hurt her. I never would.”

The far-off sound of the waves filled in the silence.

His eyes searched her face. “Do you believe me?”

Did she? She’d believed Nate so completely, surrendering her common sense, going along to parties, excusing his drinking and his job hopping, believing every lie he’d told her. But God had saved her and He and her father had never stopped loving her or trusting in her, even when she so richly had deserved it. Did she believe Brent? A man she hardly knew? A man Ridley blamed for a young woman’s death?

Mist beaded on his hair and she saw in the creases under his eyes, the tightening in his lips, that Brent Mitchell was a man in anguish. “Yes,” she found herself saying. “I do believe you.”

His mouth opened as if he meant to speak. Instead, he sighed, long and slow, a whoosh of air that mingled with the murmur of the waves against the sand. “Thank you for that,” he said.

The moonlight glimmered between them, painting dark streaks across his face.

“I’d better go,” she said. As she drove off, she sneaked a look in the rearview. He stayed there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching her depart.

She drove slowly along the darkened street. Everywhere, the shadows were thick, impenetrable. A million tiny movements, probably nothing more than the wind on the leaves, made her stomach tighten. Was someone watching her progress? The same man who had held a knife to her throat?

She double-checked that she’d locked the car doors.

“Your fear is running away with you. There’s no threat out there in the night,” she told herself, out loud for emphasis.

Still, she made sure she’d pulled the car in the garage and waited until the door closed before she unlocked the car and scurried into the house.

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