“Semiformal, but Mick—”
“No more buts, Dee.”
He bends down to take my mouth, stealing a moan from me as he licks across my parted lips, both pleasing and tormenting me in equal measure.
He pulls back and presses his forehead against mine. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “After the party, I’m going to spend the rest of the night loving your sweet, sexy body until you have no doubts as to what you do to me. Until you don’t have even a whisper of a doubt about what I feel for you.”
“TIME PASSES. THE WORLD TURNS, AND WE TURN WITH IT, AND THOUGH WE CAN NEVER GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING, SOMETIMES, WE CAN START AGAIN.”
MEGAN HART, BROKEN
“GOOD MORNING.” I GREET LENA with a wide smile and a Pumpkin Spiced Latte. “Thanks for holding down the fort yesterday.”
“No problem.” She’s dyed her Mohawk a vibrant pink. “You’re in a great mood,” she says, looking me over curiously.
What a difference a day makes.I feel happy. Giddy, sappy happy. I have my family back…and Mick.
Unbelievable. This incredible man who’s protective and strong, loving and kind, who could have any woman he wanted.
Wants me.
Still.
“Earth to Dee…” Lena says, waving her hand.
“Sorry.” I give my head a shake. “Fill me in on what I missed.”
Turning to business, Lena goes through my rescheduled meetings, noting my first conference call is in less than half an hour.
“Any messages from Jackson?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“The weekend’s coming up. I was certain we’d hear from the Franklins by now about visitation.”
“Maybe they’re letting it go and waiting for trial.”
“I doubt that. Anything to report from your research?”
“Some interesting stuff. But so far nothing that helps the case.”
Sometimes it’s the nonobvious things that end up shedding the most light. “Just give me an overview for now,” I ask, resting a hip on the corner of her desk and taking a sip of my skinny latte.
“Sure.” Lena opens a folder that contains her typed notes, along with several old newspaper articles and photos of Joyce Franklin. I begin flipping through the pictures of a young Joyce. In many of them, she’s holding a trophy or a ribbon. She’s cute, with the huge Franklin eyes, and has a shy, hesitant quality to her smile. It’s hard to envision that this same girl would later turn to drugs and hurt her child.
“Seems Joyce Franklin was often featured in the local news for her horseback riding,” Lena says, explaining the photos. “She was apparently very good and won or at least placed in the top three for many notable competitions until she dropped out at age fifteen.”
That catches my attention and I look up. “Why did she drop out?”
“Get this…” she whispers theatrically, even though it’s only the two of us. “Her horse was killed…poisoned.”
“No kidding!”
“Yep. Franklin Farms is high security, so the police investigated the staff and a former disgruntled employee, assuming it was someone who knew the system and had access to the place. But they hit a dead end. From what I read, the horse’s death left Joyce in a bad way. She never competed again.”
My mind racing, I voice my thoughts out loud. “And then she has a baby a year later.”
“Eleven months to be exact,” Lena confirms, referring to her notes. “The poisoning happened in May, and Dwayde was born the following April. And look at this.” She pulls out two pictures from the sheets I’m holding. “These are six months apart—one before the death of her horse, one after.”
