Raindrops slapped the small glass panes of the bedroom's
French doors, and lightning illuminated the room,
splashing against the plaster walls like an unexpected
searchlight.
Lindsey Tarlington pulled the quilt up over her ears, her
heart dancing against her ribs. The move was a futile
attempt to block the inevitable thunder — the thunder
she'd hated for the past seventeen years. Irrationally.
Childlike.
The loud rumbling followed. A series of booming, rolling
explosions that set her teeth on edge. The storm was
moving closer. Too close for her liking.
She rolled over onto her back and tossed off the quilt,
staring up at the lazy rotation of the rattan ceiling fan.
The smell of damp, spring rain eased around the windows
and doors, finding its way into the old house.
Another flash. Lindsey squeezed her eyes shut but then
snapped them open. She was twenty-nine years old. It was
long past time to get over her fear of storms.
Thunder crashed again, and she fisted the sheet tightly in
both hands. Longer. The time between the flash and the
boom had taken longer. Perhaps the core of the storm would
miss her — miss the house she'd lived in all her life.
Another bang sounded and she narrowed her eyes at the
ceiling. A car door?
Moments later, a familiar squeak filled her mind's eye
with the image of the screen door hinge she kept
forgetting to oil. A sliver of fear shimmied down her
spine, and her breath caught. Who could be at her front
door in the middle of the night? In the middle of a raging
storm?
Lindsey tossed off the covers and moved to the French
doors, trying to peer over the balcony. Rain sheeted the
old, thick glass, but even so, she could make out the
silhouette of a car, its headlights slashing through the
storm as it idled out front.
Flashes of another night seventeen years earlier played
through her mind. It had been a storm just like this one.
There had been a steady stream of people in and out of the
same screen door that night. Family. Friends. Police.
The sounds of running footsteps jarred her from the
unwanted memories, but the rain had intensified, obscuring
her view. A door slammed and the headlights eased away
from the curb.
What if someone had left information on one of her cases?
Lindsey plucked her robe from the back of the rocker and
shrugged it on as she headed for the hallway, the wide
pine planks cool and reassuring beneath her feet.
She stopped a few steps from the bottom of the staircase.
No light glowed through the leaded windows on either side
of the front door and her pulse kicked up a notch. Hadn't
she just changed that bulb?
A low, anxious trembling hummed to life in her belly, and
she concentrated for a moment. Concentrated on controlling
the irrational fear — the quickening breaths.
She drew air in through her nose, holding her breath for
several beats then releasing it slowly through tense lips.
"Get a grip, Tarlington."
Lightning flashed again as she reached for the doorknob.
Thunder crashed at the precise moment she snapped open the
inner door. She started, adrenaline zinging through her
body.
Lord, she hated storms.
A second flash of lightning caught the small, white
envelope tucked inside the storm door. She knelt quickly,
pulling it free before it got soaking wet.
She slipped a finger beneath the flap as she turned,
pushing the wooden door closed with her backside, glad to
have its heavy thickness between her and the elements.
A single sheet of paper lay folded inside. Lindsey reached
for the hall light switch, flipping it on with one hand as
she shook open the sheet of paper with the other.
Her focus dropped instantly to the face centered on the
paper. A face she hadn't seen in seventeen years and
thought she'd never see again.
Sudden panic filled her. She sank to her knees, her gaze
riveted to the photocopy.
The police had never found a purse — had never found
personal effects. No clothing. No jewelry. No
identification. Yet here Lindsey sat, staring into the
face on a photocopied driver's license. The driver's
license that had gone missing seventeen years before on a
stormy night just like this one.
Tears welled in her eyes as the pain, the shock, the
unfairness of it all came rushing back. The familiar crush
of grief wrapped its fingers around her heart and squeezed.
She stared into the photocopy of her mother's face and let
the tears fall. Blood evidence found in her mother's
abandoned car and at the floral shop where she'd worked
had been enough to prove her death and convict her killer.
Unfortunately, the clues hadn't been enough to locate her
mother's body, still missing after all these years.
She'd never doubted her mother had been murdered, but
she'd always feared the horror of her mother's final
moments might resurface someday.
Lindsey dropped the paper and hugged herself. It appeared
someday had just arrived.
MATT ALESSANDRO STARED AT the sign anchored to the cinder
block wall. Polaris Group. He remembered reading a
newspaper article that had spelled out the history behind
the organization. The group of friends had all experienced
some sort of loss in their lives. Each had vowed to help
others in similar situations find the truth — whatever
that might be.
He'd read news of Lindsey Tarlington's work countless
times, but the thought of seeing her in person had kicked
his state of alert to a frenzy. He usually experienced
this sort of hyperawareness during the first day of court,
not at the mere thought of meeting someone.
Of course, it wasn't every day you met the daughter of the
woman your father had been convicted of murdering. Falsely
convicted — but convicted just the same.
Old bitterness welled from deep inside Matt's gut. He
swallowed it down, straightening as he jerked open the
entry door.
A petite blonde sat just inside, her desk facing the
door. "Can I help you?"
Matt's lips curved into a warm smile, the move belying the
cold determination he felt inside. "Lindsey Tarlington,
please." He forced his voice past the sudden tightness in
his throat. He had to handle this visit carefully. Lindsey
Tarlington might very well be the key to what had really
happened all those years ago. He hadn't been able to turn
up any additional information, hadn't uncovered a single
new clue, not until her late night delivery.
The blonde frowned, obviously picking up on his
hesitation. "Is she expecting you?"
Matt shook his head. "No. This will only take a minute."
Truth was, he hoped it would take far longer.
He hoped what he'd come to say would pique Lindsey
Tarlington's interest enough to talk. Perhaps enough to
share information.
Word of the photocopied license had buzzed quickly from
the local police precinct to the public defender's office.
After all, everyone knew he'd vowed to clear his dad's
name — even after his old man had been killed on the
inside.
His father might never have the chance to be set free, but
his name did. Matt had dreamed of little else since his
sixteenth birthday. The day they'd buried his father.
"May I tell her what it's about? She's on the phone." The
blonde's pale brows arched, her green eyes widening.
Matt flashed his ID so fast she'd never be able to catch
his name. "I'm with the Public Defender's office. It's in
reference to a client of mine." A half-truth...sort of. "I
thought she might be interested in the case."
Her expression morphed from suspicious to interested in
the blink of an eye.
"Why don't you have a seat over there." She jerked her
thumb toward the corner cubicle and a row of uncomfortable-
looking chairs. "You can wait outside her door."
Matt glanced in the direction she'd indicated. The space
consisted of three cubicles bordering a small central
area. Pale grays and pinks adorned the walls and
carpeting, no doubt chosen to soothe agency clients
searching for answers, loved ones, closure. Simplistic
artwork graced the outside of each cubicle.
Apparently the tenants were more focused on their work
than on presenting a stylish image. He had to give them
credit for that. He crossed the open area in four strides,
stopping short when his gaze landed on the woman inside
the corner office.
A lot had changed in seventeen years.
Her father may have kept her out of the courtroom, but
Matt remembered the newspaper articles and the photos.
Back then, Lindsey Tarlington had been a striking child.
She'd become a breathtaking woman.
Long, black hair draped loosely around her slender
shoulders, falling like a waterfall of night sky. Her
profile hinted at strong features, an aristocratic nose
and full lips.
She sat perpendicular to him, her gaze focused on an open
folder and a stack of photos. She fingered one as she
talked. When she crossed her legs, several inches of
creamy, smooth thigh peeked from beneath the hem of her
black skirt.
Matt swallowed, more than enjoying the view. Heat warmed
his neck, and he reached to loosen his tie, but caught
himself, lowering his hand to his side. When Lindsey's
slender fingers tugged at the hem of her skirt, he lifted
his gaze to hers.
Ice-blue daggers made it clear his appreciation hadn't
been welcomed. She hung up the phone and stood. Tall.
Slender. Mesmerizing.
"Was there something I could help you with?"
Her palpable annoyance snapped Matt's attention from his
inappropriate focus on Lindsey Tarlington, the woman, to
Lindsey Tarlington, the daughter.
"I'm Matt Alessandro. Tony's son."
With just those few words, all color drained from her
cheeks. She sank back onto her chair. "Did you send me the
copy?"
"No." Matt entered the cubicle, stepping so close he could
feel her body heat as she stared up at him, wide-
eyed. "But I'd like to help you find out who did."
THE MAN MAY AS WELL have sucked the air out of Lind-sey's
lungs.
He bore a shocking resemblance to his father — the unkempt
mahogany hair, the clean-shaven, angular jaw, the hazel
eyes more brown than green.
She blinked, willing him to disappear like an unwanted
apparition, but he remained. In the flesh. In her office.
"You have no business here." Anxious trembling built
inside her. She fought to remain still, to hide the raw
emotion that had threatened to smother her since her
discovery the night before.
"My father didn't kill your mother."
His words reignited the familiar, aching loss. Memories
assailed her. News vans covering every inch of the curb in
front of her home. Reporters stalking her at school. Her
father shoving her onto a plane to stay with family far
away.
Her mother. Missing. Vanished as if she'd never existed at
all.