Kathleen Long - Christmas Confessions

Abby crossed a side street then hopped up onto the sidewalk running alongside her office building. The heels of her well-loved boots clicked against the cobblestone walkway as she headed for the entrance.

She glanced again at the stack of cards in her hand, but instead of flipping through them, she tucked them into her coat pocket. The cold had found its way beneath the heavy wool and under her skin. The only thing she cared about right now was finding the biggest, hottest, strongest cup of coffee she could.

“Good morning, Natalie,” she called out to the receptionist as she entered the building.

The young woman looked up with a grin, her blunt-cut hair swinging against her slender neck. “Cold enough for you?”

Abby faked a shudder as she headed for the office kitchen.

Theirs was a shared space. One receptionist and administrative assistant for several tenants, allowing each company to share basic expenses with several other start-ups. Perfect for the work she did.

A few moments later, she headed toward her office space, steaming cup of coffee in hand, just as she liked it, heavy on the cream, no sugar.

She reached into her pocket to pull out the mail, but stopped in her tracks when she realized someone had reached the office ahead of her.

A broad-shouldered man stood talking to Robert. Based on the look on Robert’s face, the call was anything but social. Robert’s typically laughing eyes were serious and intent, focused on the other man’s every word.

As she approached, Robert ran a hand over his closecropped blond hair and frowned. When he caught sight of Abby he nodded in her direction.

The visitor turned to face her and Abby blinked, stunned momentarily by the intensity of the man’s gaze. She’d never quite understood the term dark and smoldering until that moment. No matter, she wasn’t about to let the man intimidate her, and certainly not because of his looks.

“Abby—” Robert tipped his chin toward the visitor “—this is Jack Grant, a detective from Phoenix, Arizona.”

Detective?

She’d heard stories from other Web site owners such as herself about law enforcement trying to gain access to information on certain postcard senders, but Abby had made a promise to her blog visitors. A secret was a secret. Let the police do their own detective work.

“Detective,” she said as she lowered the coffee to her desk and reached to shake the man’s hand. “Welcome to Delaware.”

He said nothing as he gave her hand a quick shake, all business and confident as could be. The contact sent a tremor through her system.

Attraction? Apprehension?

Abby shook off the thought and shrugged out of her coat, then reached again for her coffee.

“Coffee?” she asked the man.

He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers.

She fought the urge to swallow, not wanting to provide the man with any clue as to how much he’d unnerved her simply by his appearance.

“I wanted to speak to you about your blog,” he said, his voice a deep rumble of raw masculinity.

“Detective Grant claims he knows the woman from last week’s blog.” Robert thinned his lips as he finished the sentence.

Abby could read Robert’s mind. He’d told her to toss the card in the trash, and when she’d chosen instead to feature the photograph and the caption, he’d been angry with her.

Robert and she had been friends since elementary school and they rarely argued. She supposed there was a first for everything.

“A friend of yours, Detective Grant?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, studying her, his brown eyes going even darker than they’d been a split second earlier. Then the detective shook his head.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting the young lady.”

“No?” Abby took another sip of coffee, trying to guess exactly why the detective had made the trip to Delaware from Arizona. “Old case?”

Grant nodded. “Old case.”

Robert dropped into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I told you to throw it out.”

“I wanted to make a point,” Abby said, her voice climbing.

“I’m glad you didn’t throw it out.” The detective spoke slowly, without emotion. “Matter of fact, I’d like to see it.”

Robert pushed away from his desk. “We keep every card archived. I’ll get the most recent box.”

Abby shook her head. “I never put it in the file.”

Robert turned to face her, a frown creasing his forehead. “Why not?”

She shrugged as she reached for her bag. “I don’t know.”

Abby pulled the card from an inside pocket and handed it to Detective Grant.

He touched the card as if it were a living, breathing thing as he studied the front, the back, the label, the print of the message.

“Anonymous,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“No postmark,” Abby added. “I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

“I don’t suppose the idea of contacting the authorities ever crossed your mind?”

The detective’s dark gaze lifted to hers, and for a brief moment Abby saw far more than an officer of the law out to solve a cold case. She saw the heat of emotion, the hint of…what?

The dark gaze shuttered and dropped before she had a chance to study the detective further.

Abby pulled herself taller. “As a matter of fact, I took the card to the local police, who said there’s no indication this woman is a victim of a violent crime.”

“And they knew this how?”

Abby opened her mouth to speak, then realized the detective was right. A chill slid down her spine.

“You’re here because you think differently?”

He nodded as he pulled a folder from his briefcase.

Abby held her breath as Jack Grant carefully extracted a single photograph from the thick file. A black-and-white portrait of a young, dark-haired woman.

The shot might be different, but the subject was the same.

The girl from Abby’s anonymous postcard.

“Her name was Melinda Simmons.” The detective placed the photograph on Abby’s desk and slid it toward her.

Her name was Melinda Simmons.

The implication of the detective’s phrasing sent Abby’s insides tumbling end over end.

“Was?” she asked.

“Missing and presumed dead,” he answered.

Abby thought about the card and its one-line message.

I didn’t mean to kill her.

“You’re going to tell me you honestly believe a murderer sent us that card?” Her heart rapped so loudly against her rib cage she was sure the detective could hear the sound, yet she concentrated on maintaining her composure.

“Someone did. And I want to know who and why.”

“Maybe you sent the card, Detective.” Abby knew she was out of line, but the detective’s holier-than-thou attitude had gotten under her skin. “How do we know you didn’t decide to get creative in drawing attention to one of your cold cases?”

Jack Grant smiled, the expression even more unnerving than his scowl. “You can think whatever you want, Ms. Conroy, as long as I have your word you’ll notify me when another card arrives.”

Abby blinked. “Another card?”

Detective Grant nodded, handing her a business card before he zipped up his leather jacket. “If this is the guy I think it is, he likes Christmas, and he likes attention. And apparently he’s picked you as his target for this year’s holiday cheer.”

Abby took the card, staring down at the contact information, complete with cell number. “How long will you be in town?”

“Long as it takes.” Grant moved quickly back toward the lobby.

“What if he doesn’t send a second card?” Abby winced at her suddenly tight voice.

“He will.” Detective Grant gave a curt wave over his shoulder. “He will.”