Made to Be Broken

Chapter Fourteen

Rule one of breaking and entering: check the goddamned house for people.

The first tingle of alarm quickly evaporated. I wanted answers? Here was my source. I knew the Draytons had Destiny. What better proof than a confession? The toilet flush had come from downstairs. Either Lauren had returned, or she'd never left. As I crept to the hall doorway, I pulled out my gun. Then I concentrated on listening.

Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. I ran a quick mental inventory on my knapsack. None of my supplies could be used for binding, but I'd seen bandage rolls in the main bathroom. They'd do.

A squeak came from below. A chair being reclined. Perfect. Lauren was relaxing, probably with a book or magazine, enjoying her morning coffee. I could slip up behind, put the gun to her head, and she'd never see me. I'd take the bandages, but only as a last resort. With someone like Lauren, the cold steel of a gun pressing against the back of her neck would be enough.

I took three steps toward the main bathroom.

"Mom?"

My heart slammed into my throat and I stopped so fast my shoe squeaked on the wood.

"Mom!" A racking cough, then a muttered, "How long does it take her to pick up medicine?"

The younger son, home from school, sick. No problem. He'd still know what happened to Destiny. I'd just -

The image flashed in my mind. Pressing the gun to the head of a teenage boy.

My God, what was I thinking?

I took a deep breath.

Destiny wasn't here. If she was, I would have found something. She wasn't here and the Draytons probably didn't have anything to do with her disappearance, and I'd been ready to hold a teenage boy at gunpoint to prove it.

I crept back into the master bedroom and looked out the window, which overlooked the back of the house. There was a two-foot-wide overhang between floors, more architectural than structural, and I wasn't sure whether it would hold my weight.

I removed the screen then slid through the open window, grasped the window sill, and lowered myself until my feet touched wood. Still gripping the ledge, I tested my weight on the overhang. Next I maneuvered the screen back into place. An imperfect job, one I hoped would be blamed on the cleaning staff.

Footsteps stomped up the stairs. I ducked beneath the sill, listened. A door slammed as the boy retreated to his room.

I crouched on the overhang and looked at the ten-foot drop. If I broke my ankle, it'd serve me right. I hit the ground hard, but straight, then I hightailed it back to my truck.

An amateur's mistake. I'd been so busy laughing at the Draytons' lack of security I hadn't taken the most basic precautions.

Sure it had been a sound lead. But even if I could believe Frank Drayton would hire a hitman to kill his granddaughter's teenage mother, I had to consider the kind of hit it had been. Professional. That required someone like Jack or me, and to get us you needed top-notch, Mafia-grade criminal connections. When your average Joe hires someone to off a lover or business partner, he ends up with semicompetent drug-addled morons.

I remember a case from the eighties. Helmuth Buxbaum. I once went on a Sunday-school trip to his house, to swim in the indoor pool. A true pillar of the church. When his wife started interfering with his nightlife of cocaine and hookers, he decided to get rid of her. So, for twenty-five thousand dollars – a decent sum, I might add – he got himself the Beavis and Butt-Head of hired killers. They arranged for Buxbaum to be driving past with his wife while they feigned car trouble. He'd pull over and they'd shoot her. First time they tried it, Buxbaum pulled over right on schedule. So did a helpful OPP officer.

They tried it again. Using the exact same plan. Ten hours later. With the same car. On the same highway.

That time, they managed to kill Buxbaum's wife. And guess what? The OPP officer had called in the earlier stop, as per procedure. Didn't take much to put two and two together, and come up with three complete idiots. Buxbaum, the killer, and the getaway driver were caught and convicted, though the getaway driver admitted he recalled little of what happened that day because he'd been dead drunk. Yes, drunk. On a hit. These are the kind of criminal masterminds the average millionaire businessman can hire.

Who could have hired a pro to kill Sammi? Who would? That question put me right back at square one. Why would anyone who didn't have a direct interest in Destiny's welfare kidnap her and kill her mother?

I was in a motor sports shop getting parts for the ATVs – my alibi for the trip into the city. When I realized I needed the exact specs, I took out my cell phone, which I'd had switched to "answer only" during the break-and-enter, and saw I had four calls and two new messages from the lodge.

If Emma just wanted me to grab something, she'd call once. Last year, I'd been in town when we'd had a small fire, from a guest throwing his cigarette into a brush pile, and Emma had only called twice. Four times meant… Hell, I couldn't even imagine what it meant.

I hit speed-dial so fast my fingers punched the wrong button and I had to try again. Finally the call went through, straight to voice mail, meaning someone was on the line. I jammed the end and redial buttons in rapid succession. Too fast for the phone apparently. With a growl of frustration, I slowed down, only to get the busy signal again.

I disconnected and flew through the keys to retrieve my messages. The first began with at least five seconds of silence. My heart jammed in my throat, picturing Emma in the midst of a heart attack, struggling to speak. Then, "God-fucking-damn it."

A click as Jack hung up. The second message began right away, Jack again.

"Nadia? Where are you? Fuck." Click.

The last two calls had come after those. Jack, I was sure.

Shit.

Did I really expect him to buy the "I ran into town early to grab those parts" excuse?

To be honest, I hadn't even factored Jack into the equation. Like I hadn't factored in the possibility of someone being in the house.

Last night, I'd been furious at his suggestion that I was obsessing over Sammi, that in my determination to find her, I'd get sloppy, maybe do something stupid… like fly off chasing the first lead that came to mind, and break into a house mid-morning without checking for occupants.

I called the lodge again. Emma answered. I hesitantly inquired after "John."

"I think he's outside on the porch," she said. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"No, no. That's fine. If he asks, just tell him I'll be back in an hour. What I really called for was that part list. I forgot it in my room. Could you ask Owen what we need again?"

As I parked, there was no sign of Jack. I took the parts to Owen in the shop, talked to Emma, and learned that the first batch of guests had paid for early check-in and were expected for lunch. Still no Jack.

Half of the weekend's guests had specifically requested shooting lessons, which meant probably three-quarters would want them – others would hear their stories at meal times and decide they wanted to give it a shot… so to speak. So I could hide out at the range until lunch, checking equipment.

There are two paths to the range: a shortcut through the woods and a scenic route past Crescent Lake. I took the latter to run a quick inventory on the boathouse, this being our first full house since spring thaw. Two lifejack-ets had been chewed by mice, and replacements were already on order at Canadian Tire, but unless every guest decided to join the sunset canoe ride, we'd be fine.

When I reached the junction between the main path to the range and the lake route, there was Jack leaning on his crutch, blocking my way.

"Where were you?" he said.

I was tempted to say "the boathouse," but knew that wasn't what he meant, and he wouldn't appreciate having to expend more words to get the proper response.

"Following a lead," I said as I brushed past him.

"What lead?"

I considered speeding up. With his injury, I could easily outrun him. But speed wasn't Jack's style at the best of times. I could escape him all day, and I'd wake up tomorrow morning, sit down to breakfast, and have him plant himself across from me, asking the same question.

I eased back. "Whatever you're hiding out from, it's bigger than you're letting on, isn't it?"

His face screwed up in an unspoken "Huh?"

"I won't press for details. The point is that if you need me here, I'll stick around as much as possible. Yes, I am a little preoccupied, but I've got your back."

He stared at me, dark brows creasing over a deep furrow. "You think…?" His lips worked, as if he hadn't yet figured out how to finish the sentence. "No one's coming after me, Nadia. It's not…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not like that. You want to know? I'll explain later. But watching my back?" He shook his head. "I'm trying to watch yours. Only this – " He knocked his crutch against the cast. "Slows me down."

"I don't need your help, Jack. Let's – " I pulled my hands from my pockets and leaned against a maple tree, the bark cold under my fingers. "Let's cut through the bullshit, okay?"

"Bullshit?"

"The only reason you're here is because you needed a place to go, and I was the only one offering. So now you're stuck, and you feel obligated to at least pretend everything's the way it used to be. Maybe you think that'll make the situation more comfortable, but it doesn't. You're a paying guest; you don't need to make nice, okay?"

"Make nice?" The words rolled out awkwardly, as if he didn't recognize them. A soft sigh as he repositioned his crutch. "Been a while since I called. But – "

"You were going to. When, Jack? This week? Next?"

He rubbed his mouth. In the silence that followed, I inhaled through my mouth, the air suddenly too thin.

You stupid twit. You were still hoping, weren't you? Still praying it was all a big misunderstanding.

"I would've called," he said finally. "Wouldn't just… leave."

"You don't owe me anything, Jack, especially explanations. But don't insult me by pretending, okay? There was never any obligation, and I always knew that someday you'd stop coming around."

"Didn't – " He shifted his stance, moving the crutch in front again. "Didn't stop coming around. Just… Stuff came up. My stuff. Nothing to do with you. Didn't think you'd – " A roll of his shoulders. "Didn't think."

My face heated and I raked my hair back, trying to cover my blush without turning away. I sounded like a spurned lover.

In the first year, months had often passed without word from Jack. But after that, he'd called or stopped by at least once a month.

Jack lived a solitary life. Always had, as far as I could tell. If a job came up that demanded all his attention, he'd give it all his attention, never stopping to say, "Oh, I should check in with Nadia." Whatever hang-ups I had about rejection and abandonment, I'd better learn to keep them to myself, or I would scare him away.

"I should – " I straightened and brushed bark bits from my hands. "I was going to check the range before my guests arrive. I have a lot of sign-ups this weekend. You can go on back to the house or down to the lake, enjoy the peace and quiet while you can."

I made it three steps.

"What happened?" he asked.

I stopped.

"Today. Something went wrong."

I didn't turn, just gave a tight squeak of a laugh. "I screwed up. Big surprise, huh? I stayed up all night, thinking about Sammi, and about…"

"Amy"

I kept my voice even. "I decided I knew who'd taken Destiny, flew off half-cocked, and screwed up. Just like you expected."

A sharp intake of breath, cut off at the midpoint. "What'd you do?"

"It was like Wilkes in that alley. I saw my target and that was all that mattered."

His hand closed around my arm. "We'll fix it, Nadia. Just tell me – "

I shook my head as I turned. "There's nothing to fix. I broke into Destiny's dad's house, certain his parents had killed Sammi to get their granddaughter. I didn't take proper precautions. Their younger son was home from school. A stupid, amateur's mistake."

His fingers trembled against my arm as he exhaled and released me. "That's it, then?"

"What did you think -?" I stopped, pretty sure I didn't want an answer. "Yes, that's it."

"So this kid saw you – "

"I'm not that careless. I got out before he knew I was there."

"Before you could case the place."

"No, I did that. No sign of a baby in residence."

One brow lifted. "So your big mistake? Going into an occupied house? That's it?" A short laugh as he shook his head.

"Hey, that's embarrassing enough."

"Kinda like this." He waved at his foot. "Didn't fuck up the job. Still feel like an idiot."

"Can I ask what happened?"

"Rather you didn't."

"Ah…"

"I'm kidding. Tell you later. Right now? Got a range to get ready."