Unless his mother could remain strong and stay away from Dale. Then there might be a chance.
But Clay didn't have much hope of that. He'd spoken to Irene earlier. "I'm fifty-one years old, and my life is more than half over. What else do I have to look forward to?" she'd wailed.
"Why am I denying myself?"
He'd tried to remind her. He'd also invited her to the farm, so she'd have company, but she'd declined. He would've gone to her place and kept watch over her, except he didn't believe that, ultimately, it would make any difference. If Irene was going to see Dale, she'd just arrange a meeting after he left. He couldn't stand guard on her around the clock.
Besides, he was agitated and torn himself. He couldn't stop thinking about Allie up at that cabin alone, discovering that her father was sleeping with his mother.
He shook his head. Allie would hate him by association. She might even guess that he'd known all along and wonder if he'd been secretly laughing at her.
The possibility that she might feel he'd betrayed her bothered him. But he didn't owe her anything. He had to protect his family from the people of Stillwater, including the police, including Allie. She was a cop.
And yet--he blew out a long sigh and changed the channel--and yet he wanted to shield her from the hurt she'd suffer as a result of learning the truth.
Flipping off the television, he stood. If she was going to find proof of her father's affair she'd have it by now. He'd drive there, console her if necessary, see that she made it safely home.
But if she hadn't found anything, they'd be in the same situation as last weekend, alone together, with only a nineteen-year-old secret to keep them apart--a secret that was all too easy to forget when he felt her beside him.
Muttering a curse, he forced himself to sit back down. He wasn't going anywhere. Allie wasn't his concern. He couldn't care about her and his family, too. Loving one would only betray the other.
Allie pointed her flashlight under the bed, then lifted the mattress. She was looking for sex toys, cast-off lingerie or lipstick-smeared shirts. But she found nothing.
She went through the bookcase, searching for pictures or notes or p**n ography. Nothing there, either.
She pulled everything out of the cupboard, checking for champagne or the presence of foods her father didn't like or wouldn't eat. She looked everywhere else she could think of--but once again came up empty-handed.
Standing in the center of the room, she turned slowly around, wondering if she'd missed anything. But she couldn't imagine what. One room, without much furniture, didn't give her father a lot of hiding places. Besides, he wasn't even aware that she suspected him, so she doubted he'd get too creative.
And that meant she'd been wrong.
Feeling a tremendous surge of relief, she laughed out loud. So what if her father was drinking out of a teddy bear mug? So what if she'd found the number of a florist on his Rolodex or a tube of lipstick in his car? She didn't care--because it didn't mean anything. He wasn't having an affair, or there'd be proof of it here at the cabin. She felt certain of it. Where else would he find the privacy an affair required? He couldn't meet his lover anyplace in town. He'd be instantly recognized.
Hunger pangs reminded Allie that she hadn't had dinner yet. Throwing another log on the fire she'd built for light as much as heat, she left the kerosene lamp burning, grabbed a flashlight, some soap and a towel and went to the outhouse before heading down to the river to wash her hands. It was still raining outside, but she didn't mind getting wet. She wasn't going to stay at the cabin much longer. She'd eat, then drive home, where she'd give her father a heartfelt hug and revel in the knowledge that her mother's life wasn't about to be destroyed.
The sound of shattering glass brought Allie's head up. There were a few other cabins in the area, but she didn't know exactly where and they were pretty spread out. She was fairly sure the noise had originated from her own place.
Dropping the soap and towel, she ran up the bank to the cabin, careful to turn off her flashlight and hang back out of sight as she approached it. But the window wasn't even cracked.
She could see the glimmer of the fire through the glass. So...
A rustling in the woods not far away sent her pulse racing. Was it a small animal of some sort? "Is someone there?" she called, just in case.
No one answered.
She stepped out of the woods, her flashlight held low to the ground. But as she examined the clearing, she realized that someone had broken her car window. The rock that had been used to smash it was lying a few feet away.
Stunned, she crouched down for cover and searched the clearing again. But she could see no one, hear nothing except the soft beat of rain. Whoever had used that rock seemed to be gone, so she hurried over to check the damage. Why would anyone--
"Oh, God," she whispered. Slipping her hand gingerly through the jagged hole to unlock the car and open the door, she began to feel underneath the seat. Her gun was missing. Someone had stolen her Glock.
"Shit." Automatically, she reached for the portable radio she carried almost everywhere.
But whoever had stolen her gun had taken the radio, too.
How had someone stumbled upon her car in this remote location and in the middle of a storm? Where had that person come from? And, more important than anything--at least at this moment--where had he gone?
Using the door for protection, Allie moved her flashlight in a wide arc. Who'd done this?
She couldn't see anything but trees.
Too bad she hadn't brought her squad car. That might have discouraged the theft. But she never took it outside jurisdiction.
She needed to get her cell phone, alert her father, then get the hell out of the woods. She didn't want to be sitting here alone in the middle of a storm while some unknown person was running around with her gun.
Turning off the flashlight, she picked up the closest stick she could find and crept toward the cabin to peer through the open doorway. Empty. A more thorough check revealed that there was no one hiding under the bed or behind the door. But her purse, which she'd left on the table, was gone, too--and with it her cell phone and car keys. In its place, next to the plate of brownies she'd bought from Grace, was a rain-soaked note.
The paper nearly fell apart as she unfolded it, but she managed to make out the blurry words that appeared to have been typed on a computer.
Leave the past alone, or Barker won't be the only person missing.
Chapter 12
Rain pounded on the roof of the cabin as Allie huddled by the fire. She'd covered the window with a blanket so she couldn't be seen from outside and shoved the bookshelves in front of the door. It wasn't a perfect plan, but without a car or any way to call for assistance, she couldn't do much more. Except hope that the dry wood lasted until morning, and that the offender who'd paid her a visit was gone for good.