Deadly Deceptions by Linda Lael Miller Page B

weird.
    â€œI’m coming to your place tomorrow night,” Tucker said. “And we’re going to make love again. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
    Sitting there pantyless, I felt myself moisten at the prospect. “We can’t,” I said. “Because of the kids.”
    â€œKids?”
    â€œGillian and Justin.”
    Tucker’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Who is Justin?”
    â€œDidn’t I mention him?”
    Tucker shook his head.
    â€œHe was killed six years ago, waiting to cross the street after a concert. Drive-by shooting.”
    I saw Tucker go into cop mode, knew he was riffling through mental files. Before he’d worked for the DEA he’d been a homicide cop with Scottsdale PD. Although Justin had died in downtown Phoenix, the departments traded information all the time.
    â€œLast name?” he asked.
    â€œBraydaven,” I said.
    He nodded. “I remember that,” he said. “When the trial began, his mother tried to bring a pistol into the courtroom. Phoenix didn’t charge her, but a judge ordered therapy.”
    â€œI have a feeling it didn’t work,” I said sadly.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause Justin’s still here,” I answered. “If he wanted his killer found, like I think Gillian does, it would be more clear-cut. But the guy who shot him is in the pen.” A wave of sadness came over me, because there were lost children in the world, and between worlds, too. I wanted to hammer at the doors of heaven and demand to know who was in charge. “He told me he’s waiting for his dog,” I choked out. “Pepper’s old, and Justin’s afraid the poor thing will get lost between here and the afterlife, but I think that’s only part of it. His mother is holding him back somehow.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI don’t know—maybe it’s the intensity of her grief. I want to go and talk to her, but what do I say? ‘Stop mourning your son’?”
    Tucker reached over, pulled me onto his lap. Pressed my head against his shoulder. There was nothing sexual about it, but his tenderness overwhelmed me in ways his lovemaking never could have. I felt swamped with sorrow and consolation, clogged with tears, and not just in my sinus passages, either. In my whole body, and even my soul ached.
    â€œStay,” he said quietly. “I’ll call Allison, and the kids can get by without me for one night.”
    I shook my head. As much as I would have loved to lie in Tucker’s arms until morning, he had responsibilities, and so did I. My sister’s husband was dead. She was on the edge, between that and the blackmail, and I wanted to be nearby in case she needed me. “Greer,” I said, trying to explain.
    â€œJolie’s with her,” Tucker said.
    â€œJolie doesn’t understand,” I told him. I knew I should get off his lap, stop acting like a baby and make him take me home. But it felt too good, having his arms around me, strong and protective. Plus, I loved the smell of his T-shirt.
    â€œWhat doesn’t she understand?” Tucker persisted.
    â€œHow scared Greer is. She didn’t see her in that bus station….”
    Tucker eased me back a little way, so he could look into my eyes. “You’ve lost me,” he said. “What bus station, Moje?”
    I’d never told Tucker the complete story of my past. He knew I was really Mary Josephine Mayhugh, that I’d seen my parents murdered when I was only five years old and that I’d been kidnapped soon afterward by a neighbor, Doris Blanchard, who promptly changed her name to Lillian. And mine to Mojo, though I’d come up with the “Sheepshanks” part on my own.
    I explained how Lillian and I had met Greer in Boise. I didn’t say she’d been hooking, nor did I mention what I’d recently learned—that she borrowed an alias from an actress on the late