Lois Richer - Secrets Of The Rose

“No.” The tears had stopped. Shelby was drained of everything. How long had it been since they’d abducted her daughter? “I’m not all right, Tim. I want my daughter back.”

“I know you do. But Aimee is fine, Shelby. We have to believe that.” Tim stared at her, his eyes filled with shadows. “The writing said she was safe.”

“I don’t believe that. And neither do you. She was safe here with me, Tim. Happy and healthy and loved. How can Aimee be safe away from the one who loves her most?”

“But, Shelby, you have to have faith. You have to.”

“It’s hard to keep hoping, Tim,” she whispered. “All the terrible things you hear that happen to kids. What if Aimee–”

“No!” Tim jumped to his feet. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it! Until we know differently, Aimee is fine. Do you hear me? She’s fine!”

Sneaking a flashlight under the blankets, hiding in a thicket of Caragana bushes where no one could see, pushing books into socks to take to camp—those are just some of the things Lois Richer freely admits to in her pursuit of the written word. “I’m a book-a-holic. I can’t do without stories,” she confesses. “It’s always been that way.”

Her love of language evolved into writing her own stories. Today her passion is to create tales of personal struggle that lead to triumph over life’s rocky road. For Lois, a happy ending is essential.

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Be still and know that I am God.

—Psalms 46:10

This book is dedicated to Cristopher, who keeps

digging until he gets the answers he needs.

Congratulations on reaching your goal.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Finders, Inc.—a place dedicated to finding the truth. The idea for this series grew after a return visit to a city I particularly love, Victoria, British Columbia. While I was sitting in the hotel lobby, a woman stopped in, tossed off a cryptic comment then disappeared. And my story wheels started turning.

Shelby Kincaid is my kind of heroine. She’s tough, strong and competent. But she’s also vulnerable in her love for her only child. As I imagined the pain and terror of a mother whose child is missing, I was drawn to thoughts of God and His suffering when we refuse to walk with Him, to obey His rules. Our human love pales against His. There is no greater love than the Father for His beloved creations, His precious children.

I hope you’ll return for another visit to Finders. Until then I wish you contentment with whatever state you’re in, courage to deal with the future and most of all love—without it we are nothing.

Blessings,

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

But he that dares not grasp the thorn,

should never crave the rose.

—Anne Brontë

Victoria, British Columbia

Monday, April 21

Perhaps it was the date—ten months to the day after Grant’s abrupt, tragic death.

Perhaps it was the hour—that no-man’s-land of black yawning silence in which all the world seemed to die.

Or perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t yet used to being alone.

Whatever the excuse, Shelby Kincaid was wide-awake. She lay on her bed, bathed in a puddle of moon shadows that washed through her balcony doors, and ordered her mind to shut down, to forget the past and focus on the future.

It might have worked—except for the creak of one tired floorboard in the hall.

Shelby sat up, glanced at the greenish-blue hands on the gilt clock Grant had presented on her last birthday: 3:13 a.m. Shadows danced over the walls as a shiver of wind tickled the blossoms of the apple tree outside her window.

Creak.

The hardwood’s protest came again, closer this time. Just outside her door.

The phone on the nightstand sat waiting. All she had to do was pick it up and dial 911. She reached out.

Reech!

Her hand froze. The second squeak was barely discernible over the thud of her heart, but Shelby knew exactly where it came from, had vowed to oil that same hinge a hundred nights before when she’d crept in to check on her baby.

Aimee’s door.

Someone was inside her house and now they were going into Aimee’s room!

Forget the phone.

She twisted toward the security panel on Grant’s empty side of the bed and stabbed the silent alarm. Soon the soundless summons would bring police from all directions of the city. But she couldn’t wait for them. She had to go to Aimee.

Her legs, rubbery with fear, barely held her upright. Shelby pushed away from the bed, tiptoed across the thick butter-cream broadloom and opened her door just a crack, enough so she could scan the hall, perhaps catch a glimpse of the invader.

No one lurked in the shadows. Which meant he must already be inside Aimee’s room.

Her entire body began to tremble. Her stomach squeezed into a knot imagining her five-year-old daughter’s terror waking to a stranger’s face. Shelby reminded herself of her past training with Grant: Assess, then act.

She couldn’t wait for the police, her daughter’s life might be at risk. All she wanted to do was get to Aimee, hold her, keep her safe. Shelby slipped into the hallway, then surged ahead, pausing only long enough to wrap her fingers around the brass candelabra from the hall table, the sole weapon in sight.

Something—a squeal—made her careless and the candles fell to the floor with a clatter. Though quickly hushed, the noise galvanized her into action. She raced to Aimee’s door, thrust it open, and breathed her daughter’s name.

But Aimee could not respond.

Aimee was gone.

The four-poster lay empty. Only the soft organdy curtains moved, billowing in through the window, carried by the night air.

Shelby rushed across the fuzzy white rug, stared down through the glass into the gloom. The cavernous darkness of the garden lay below, silent, brooding. She could see no one.

When she turned, Shelby noticed the red letters scrawled across her daughter’s mirror.

Aimee is safe.

Her brass weapon fell to the carpet.

“Not my baby, God. Please don’t let them take my baby!”

Once they arrived, the police questioned her for hours.

Was the alarm functioning properly? Who would know how to disable it? Was the front door securely locked? Had she heard a car? Did she have any enemies? Was this connected with Grant’s accident?

“I don’t know.” She recited the words over and over again. “I don’t know. Please, just find my daughter. Don’t you understand—they’ve taken my daughter!”