Blind Pursuit by Michael Prescott Page B

other people’s problems all day can get pretty grim. Erin simply may have needed some time off.”
    Annie looked at him, and he saw stripes of wetness on her cheeks. “I talked to her on the phone yesterday. We made a lunch date. She didn’t sound depressed or overworked or stressed out. She was fine.”
    “You don’t know what she might have been hiding.”
    “We don’t hide stuff from each other.”
    “Everybody hides something.”
    “Not us.” Anger flashed in her eyes. He thought of gemstones catching the light. “We’re close. We’ve always been. Ever since ...”
    The spark died then, and her eyes were glassy and cold.
    “Since ...?” Walker prompted.
    She gazed at her restless hands. “Since we were seven years old. We lost our parents, you see. We were orphaned together.”
    Gently he touched her arm. “How did that happen?”
    “Fire.” The word a whisper.
    He didn’t know what to say. The question that came out of his mouth was safely factual and meaningless. “Was this in Tucson?”
    “No, in California. Small town called Sierra Springs, where we were born. We moved to Tucson after the fire. Our aunt adopted us. Aunt Lydia.”
    “Your mother’s sister?”
    “Yes. She lived here in town.”
    He picked up on the singular pronoun. “Alone? No husband?”
    Her gaze ticked toward him, then away. “Lydia’s husband ... died.” Peculiar hesitation there. “Years before. So Lydia had to raise us on her own. She worked two jobs. It was rough on her.”
    On her. Walker almost smiled at the way she put it. “I’d say you and Erin were the ones who really had it rough.”
    “Yeah, well ... it was a long time ago.”
    The unnatural pause in her statement about Lydia’s husband intrigued him. Lydia, he thought. Lydia what?
    “Did you take your aunt’s last name?” he asked casually.
    “No. Reilly was our father’s name. Albert Reilly. We wanted to keep it. Even though ... I mean ...” She swallowed. “We just wanted to keep his name, that’s all.”
    Defensiveness in her tone, which he didn’t understand.
    “Our aunt was Lydia Connor,” she added. “You might have heard of her.”
    He frowned. “I don’t think so. What makes you say that?”
    “Just because ... Well, she was local, you know. Lots of people knew her.” Evasiveness now. Strange.
    “I take it your aunt is no longer living.”
    Annie blinked. “She passed away six years ago. Cancer. How did you know?”
    “You told me on the phone that you had no family.”
    “Oh. That’s right. No family ... except Erin. She’s all I’ve got left.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and fixed him with her green gaze. “You’re not going to help me, are you, Detective?”
    “Michael.”
    She would not be charmed. “You haven’t answered my question ... Michael.”
    Here was the bad part. The words he hated having to say.
    “Let me explain the situation,” he began slowly. “In order for Tucson P.D. to initiate an investigation of a missing adult, certain requirements have to be met.” He disliked talking this way, as if quoting from the rules-and-procedures manual. “If the person is believed to be mentally unstable, or is elderly and easily confused, then we have a basis for pursuing the matter. Or if there’s some evidence of foul play or suicide or accident.” He showed her his hands, palms out. “In other words, there has to be a justification for the use of police resources.”
    Frustration smoldered in her face, rising slowly to a white heat of fury. “And in this case there isn’t?”
    “I don’t see any reason to suspect that a crime has been committed or is likely to be. It’s not illegal for an adult to pack up and leave town. It may be irresponsible, inexplicable, but it’s not a crime.”
    “Damn it, she’s disappeared! ”
    Abruptly she was on her feet, glaring down at him from a sudden advantage of height. Her small hands were balled into fists at her sides, the knuckles squeezed