Shirlee McCoy - Little Girl Lost

“Let me help.” The masculine voice sounded so close to her ear that Portia jumped, turning to face the detective who stood just inches away. His eyes were even bluer than she’d thought, his hair a short, spiky golden-brown that looked as if it would be soft to the touch.

That she would even think such a thing had Portia stepping back, dropping her eyes away from his knowing gaze. “I thought you’d gone on ahead.”

“And leave you out here by yourself?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been out here alone.”

“But it may be the first time you’ve been out here alone while a murderer wanders free.” He leaned forward and peered at her skirt. “Why don’t you let me do that for you?”

“Thanks, Detective, but I think I can handle it. And I really am okay out here alone.” At least she always had been before. As a child, she’d often wandered the grounds of Blanchard Manor long after the sun had set, but the deepening twilight and dark woods suddenly seemed sinister and foreign.

“Everyone around here calls me Mick.” As he spoke, he brushed her hands away from the material and worked it free.

“Mick, then. Thanks for the help. Again.”

“No problem. Again. Come on. Let’s catch up to your sisters.” He offered his hand, his eyes hard to read in the fading light.

She hesitated and then linked her wool-covered fingers with his leather-covered ones. It was a bad idea. Holding hands with a man was high on her list of things she shouldn’t ever do again. Hadn’t that been how her relationship with Tad had started—a brush of his fingers against hers as they’d chatted about Jasmine’s progress in the art class Portia was teaching? The next thing she knew, they were strolling through her arts-and-crafts store laughing about something she couldn’t even recall.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” His voice broke into her thoughts, the hint of laughter in it a surprise.

“Maybe not, but you are investigating my family and that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why? Do you have something to hide?” The laughter was still there, though Portia sensed an intensity to the words, a stillness to the man that let her know he was weighing her comments and responses.

“No.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides, I’m investigating a murder, not your family.”

“Yet, you’re here. You must think there’s some connection.”

“Not yet. That’s what I’m trying to determine.” He ushered her onto the path that led through the trees.

“I can tell you the answer to that right now. Investigating my family is a waste of time. No one in it would commit murder.”

“And I can tell you that half the people I interview say the same thing. A good majority of them are wrong.”

What could she say to that? That she trusted her sisters, her aunt? Her father? That she’d never been betrayed, or lied to, or discovered that someone she believed in didn’t deserve her confidence? She had. It was a lesson she’d learned hard and well and had no intention of repeating, but that wasn’t something Mick needed to know.

The sound of branches breaking up ahead saved Portia from saying anything at all. Mick’s hand tightened on hers and he pulled her off the path and into the deep shadows of the trees.

“What—?”

“Shhh. Let’s see who it is before we make our presence known.” He whispered the words, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength. Another branch snapped and Portia jerked, bumping against Mick, her heart thrumming a rapid beat. His arm came around her, pulling her close against his chest. She allowed it, her mind filled with visions of masked murderers stalking through the trees.

“Portia?” Rissa’s voice carried through the trees, and Portia sagged with relief.

“Right here.” She pulled her hand from Mick’s and stepped back onto the path. Twilight filtered through the trees coloring them in purplish light. The effect was eerie, the hazy glow shifting around the shadowy figure that stood a few yards away. Rissa? It had to be, yet a trick of light warped her figure, making her seem taller, bulkier. More sinister.

“There you are.” Her twin stepped closer, her stylish wool coat and bright knit hat now visible. “Everyone else is already at the house warming up. What’s taking so long?”

“I got tangled up with the bench.” Portia strode forward, breathless, still nervous for reasons she couldn’t name. “Mick was kind enough to help me out.”

“It wasn’t a problem.”

“That’s good to know. Portia tends to get tangled up with things, so having an extra set of hands around to free her is great news for me.” Rissa’s words were light and teasing, but Portia could sense the anxiety that radiated from her twin. As laid-back and low-key as Mick seemed, he was there for a reason. They both knew it, and Portia was sure, were both worried about what he might find. Until recently, they’d believed their family story to be mundane. The tragedy of their mother’s death was so far removed from their lives they felt it in only the most indirect ways. Now, what had seemed mundane had become a mystery and everything they’d believed to be true was a lie.

How that related to Mick’s murder investigation, Portia didn’t know, but she had a sick, horrible feeling a connection was there. And when Mick found it, there might be very little she could do to save her family.

Blanchard Manor stood like a stone sentinel guarding the cliffs that jutted above the Maine coastline. Over a hundred years old, the house had become an icon in Stoneley, symbolizing the strength and fortitude of the people who’d carved lives from the harsh ocean and craggy earth. To Portia, it symbolized something else entirely—a way of life she refused to be part of, a cold formality that stifled warmth and emotion. As a child, she’d dreamed of leaving the Manor, of making a name for herself in the community of artisans that lived in Stoneley. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her father’s influence extended into the town and beyond and that if she ever wanted to become her own person, an artist in her own right, she’d have to go much farther than the town she’d loved.

New York had seemed the perfect place to find herself. And she had for a while, enjoying the novelty of opening her arts-and-crafts store, of teaching art to young students, of being Portia the artist rather than Portia, Ronald’s daughter. Still, each time she returned to the Manor, she was reminded of old dreams and even older wounds, of an emptiness that she’d never quite been able to fill, a longing to be accepted for who and what she was instead of being judged for what she wasn’t—the perfect daughter willing to take her place in the family business.

“We’re in the drawing room.” Aunt Winnie called out from the room to the right of the front door as Portia stepped into the house, and Portia felt a twinge of guilt. Winnie had been so good to her, so good to all of them. Who was she to complain about what she hadn’t had when what she had received from her aunt had been so rich in affection?

“We’re coming.” She pasted on a smile and followed Rissa across the foyer, hoping no one inside the drawing room would sense her melancholy mood.

“You okay?” Mick pulled her to a stop outside the door, his words just for her.

“I’m great.” She met his gaze, keeping the smile in place even as his light blue eyes speared into hers. Could he see what she was hiding? The part of herself that wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now? “We’d better go in before Father comes looking.”

‘“Father?”’ He cocked his head, letting his gaze travel from her fluffy pink earmuffs to the mukluks that covered her feet.