Molly O'Keefe - Family at Stake

Rachel had to help. Or at least see if help was needed.

There were no ghostly remains of some kind of romantic relationship. They had been friends. Clumsy lovers and then they’d lost touch. End of story.

She checked her watch. Five-thirty, usually a good time to catch people at home. She’d learned early in her career that calling people to tell them she was coming just gave them the information they needed to not be home at the right time.

The gravel crunched under her feet. Somewhere a wind chime made careless music in the soft breeze that blew across the mountain, bringing with it the smell of white sage.

She stepped onto a flagstone path that led to the door, which appeared hidden underneath the eaves. A tomato plant grew like mad in a bucket next to a basil plant growing in a coffee can.

That’s the Mac I remember.

Rachel took a deep breath, cursed that extra-large coffee she’d drunk earlier that made her heart thunder in her chest. She ran a hand down the front of her white blouse, made sure she was all tucked in and presentable and knocked on the dark wood door, which, to her surprise, swung open under the light pressure from her fist.

Rachel found herself in front of a small staircase leading down into a huge room with a wall of windows opposite her that faced the valley and the mountains behind it.

She was taken aback by the beauty the small house hid.

Pale yellow wood floors and walls gleamed in the clear bright afternoon light that filled the long multipurpose room. On one end there was a fireplace made of fieldstone and two big red couches facing an entertainment unit.

A dining room table cluttered with a book bag, homework and a plate with crumbs on it stood in the middle of the room. A small kitchen occupied the far end with an island separating the kitchen from the dining room.

It was warm and cozy, with pictures on the walls and a plate of cookies on the counter. It seemed like the very last place that abuse would happen. But that was the first lesson she’d ever learned, from her own family—things are never what they seem. And homes could be the most dangerous places on Earth.

“Hello?” she called out, leaning into the foyer. She waited a moment but there was no response, no sound, even. She took one step in and looked around the door at a staircase leading up to a second floor. Since the ground floor wasn’t visible from the outside because of the way it was built into the mountain, the seemingly modest-size home was actually quite large.

Mac was obviously a successful farmer. That hadn’t been mentioned in the files.

“Anybody home?”

“Hey!” a man shouted from another part of the house, and Rachel’s breath stalled in her lungs. It was Mac. His deep, rough voice sent shock waves down her spine. “Be right there.”

Irritation flared at her sudden case of nerves and she forced herself to relax, to remember her job. Her skill and detachment.

“Sorry.” His voice was closer, somewhere to the right of her and low on the first floor. Her stomach leaped. She could hear his footsteps, approaching swiftly. “Have you been—”

Suddenly he was there, right in front of her, appearing from an unseen doorway in the corner of the kitchen. Her heartbeat stopped.

Mac. Oh, my God, look at you.

He was beautiful. His body had grown into the promise it had at seventeen. He looked lean but powerful. His shoulders filled the seams of his denim workshirt and the sleeves were rolled up to reveal wiry, nut-brown forearms. His khaki pants hung on lean hips. His hair, overlong and bleached from his days outside, fell over his forehead. She watched spellbound as he brushed it out of his eyes.

His eyes were the same. Blue as the palest part of the sky and growing confused.

“I’m sorry.” He flashed his lopsided grin with the dimple, and Rachel felt her heart start again with a painful double lurch. “Are you Amanda’s tutor?”

“No.” She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and stood revealed and naked in front of him.

Recognition and painful disbelief twisted his face.

“Rach?” he breathed.

She was going to cry. Her eyes burned and her nose became watery. She looked at her shoes, a habit she had spent the better part of her life trying to break.

“Rachel?” His voice was strong but sharp at the end, and she couldn’t bear to look at him. You have a job to do, Rachel. Get it together. She sniffed and glanced up, meeting Mac’s gaze.

“Hi, Mac.”

He put one foot on the stairs and his hand gripped the banister, as if he wanted it dead. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the wood. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice strangled.

She was hoping for a different beginning to this conversation. I suppose a hug is too much to ask for.

Sarcasm was her convenient crutch. She knew that about herself, but didn’t have the power to do this without a few crutches.

She opened her mouth to explain herself, but a blond girl appeared at the top of the second-floor stairs and electricity charged the air in the house.

The hair on Rachel’s arms stood on end.

“Sorry, Dad, just went to the bathroom.” The girl’s voice was quiet and thin. Amanda was so skinny, Rachel’s heart heaved.

Something is seriously wrong.

Amanda floated soundlessly down the stairs, carefully stepping on the edges of the steps.

She’s a ghost, Rachel thought, painfully mesmerized by the girl wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and a long-sleeved red T-shirt with the name of a local swim team on it.

Amanda caught sight of Rachel standing in the doorway and her passive face transformed into a hostile mask of suspicion. Her eyes turned hard and old. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Rachel.

Ah, there she is. That’s the girl from the picture.

“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Amanda.” Mac put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, a gesture of unity and warmth, but at the same time Rachel knew he was telling his daughter to relax. “This is—” Mac swallowed “—an old friend of mine, Rachel…” He trailed off, obviously waiting for her to supply her married name.

“Rachel Filmore,” Rachel said. She held out her hand, but Amanda hesitated until Mac elbowed her in the back, a little poke that said “Mind your manners.” Nothing serious.

“Hi.” Amanda barely touched Rachel’s hand. “Can I go up to my room until the tutor comes?” she asked Mac, but she didn’t take her narrowed eyes off Rachel.

“Sure,” he agreed, and Amanda took off like a shot back up the stairs, her long hair a banner behind her. Rachel watched her go, then turned to face Mac, whose tension she could feel like pinpricks along her skin.

He wasn’t happy to see her and it was only going to get worse.

“What are you doing here, Rachel?” he asked slowly in his low voice. He crossed his arms over his lean chest and tilted his head—familiar gestures that tugged at the lock on her memories.

“Mac, I am a counselor with Santa Barbara DCFS.” The words weren’t even out of her mouth before he turned around and paced away from her. His boots clunked heavily on the hardwood floor.

“Mac?”

“I’m listening,” he said, his voice cold and angry. He grabbed the plate with the crumbs on it and walked over to the kitchen sink. “I’m all ears, Rachel.”

Apparently she wasn’t the only one with a sarcastic crutch. She was surprised by how much it hurt to be on the receiving end of that scathing bitterness.

“Frank Monroe, who initially—”

“Oh, I remember Frank.” The plate clattered into the sink.

“He’s retired now and I am taking over the file for Amand—” Mac picked up the plate and threw it back into the sink where it shattered. Rachel flinched and Mac braced his hands against the counter. He swore under his breath.