The Legend of Smuggler's Cave by Paula Graves

forced himself to step back from her. One step, then another, until his back flattened against the opposite wall. “I was worried.”
    Slowly, she slid down the wall and ended up sitting on the hallway floor, her knees tucked up to her chest. He lowered himself to the floor across from her, grimacing a little as his knees creaked, reminding him he wasn’t getting any younger.
    “I didn’t find Johnny’s body when he died.” Her gaze settled somewhere around the middle of his chest. “But I made them let me see him afterward. In the morgue.”
    He knew. He’d read the case file already. More than once. He’d read transcripts of interviews, the autopsy report, the detective’s report, the coroner’s inquest. “Did tonight bring it back?”
    She rubbed her chin with her thumb, her gaze slowly lifting to his. “I won’t be surprised if they prove the same knife that killed Johnny killed Tommy, as well.”
    He wouldn’t be, either.
    “Why did they kill Tommy, though? Did he surprise them in the middle of something?”
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “I don’t know. I think maybe I’m afraid to know.”
    A thought occurred to him suddenly. “You don’t blame yourself for this, do you?”
    She looked down at her feet.
    “Don’t. You’re not to blame here.”
    She looked up slowly. “They want something they think I have. But I don’t know what it is. Or why it’s worth killing for.”
    Dalton wasn’t sure, either. “It would have to be big. Dangerous to more than just one person.”
    “Why dangerous to more than just one person?”
    “You’ve already told us that you don’t think the two men who tried to take Logan were the same men who broke into your house the night before, right?”
    She nodded thoughtfully.
    “And none of them was your cousin Blake.”
    “Definitely not.”
    “But tonight your neighbor mentioned Blake by name, right?’
    “Yes.” She looked down at her feet again, as if studying those brightly painted toenails. “So either Blake was there or he sent more people in his stead. Maybe the same people as before. Maybe not.”
    Dalton watched the play of emotions across her downcast face. “That’s at least five people involved, right? The four we know about for sure plus Blake. Maybe more.”
    “That’s a lot of people.”
    “They’re protecting something corporate. Not private.”
    “But what?” She looked up at him suddenly, her gaze so intense it sent a little rattle skittering down his spine.
    “Something they fear enough to take big chances,” he answered after a moment of thought. “Something that’s worth walking into the home of a cop and taking a look around.”
    “Something worth trying to steal a child from the arms of that same cop. A cop they knew would be armed.” Her eyes narrowed. “Something they think I have or know how to get.”
    “Any ideas?” he asked.
    “Only theories,” she answered.
    “Care to share?”
    She moved suddenly, sliding back up the wall almost as quickly as she’d sat. He levered himself to his feet with much less grace, the twinges in his limbs an unmistakable reminder that he was on the downhill slide to forty these days. Almost a decade older than his nimble hallway companion.
    With a slight nod of her head the only invitation to follow, she started down the stairs to the first floor.
    He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she picked up one of the cups of hot chocolate, took a sip and grimaced.
    “Cold,” she said. She put both mugs in the microwave, set the timer and turned to face him, leaning back against the counter. Her eyes followed his movements with an almost feral wariness, and he wondered if she was remembering their electric encounter in the hallway.
    To ease her tension—and his own—he took a seat at the breakfast bar, putting a layer of granite countertop and polished oak between them. “You have theories?” he prompted.
    “I’ve been thinking about what you’ve