another couple who had a son around your age. They took you both to the pool.”
Tara’s mother was breathing too hard. The sun was cruel, showing the tracks of her recent tears on her cheeks. Her brow pinched together, making her expression looked pained.
She was waiting to see if Tara believed her lie. Because it was a lie. Of that, Tara was almost positive.
She was also closer to believing she was that little girl who’d been taken from the Kentucky shopping mall.
She should ask her mother and be done with it. The wind kicked up, blowing sand that stung Tara’s ankles. Her mother positioned her body between the blowing sand and Tara. She squeezed Tara’s hand, love mixing with the pain.
The question died on Tara’s lips. She wouldn’t ask her mother about Hayley Cooper, not today on the darkest of anniversaries.
Not ever.
She wouldn’t allow Jack DiMarco to question her mother, either, even if he were only the brother of a private eye and not a P.I. himself.
“It was lucky I wasn’t on the beach that day.” Tara watched the relief pour over her mother’s face. “That memory would have stuck with me forever.”
Like the recurring nightmare Tara had of the woman who shook her and yelled at her to stop crying.
If Carrie Greer had kidnapped Tara, she very well could have done her a favor. It seemed more and more likely the nightmare woman, and not the one she loved with all her heart, was her biological mother.
* * *
T HE FITNESS CLUB WAS quiet when Jack arrived late that morning, a departure from Sunday night when music from Tara’s spinning class had spilled into the lobby.
The only sound came from a large-screen television, where an ESPN broadcaster was counting down yesterday’s top plays. The seating area in front of the TV was empty, and only a few men worked out in the nearby weight room.
The guy working the front desk had directed Jack to an office and advised him to wait there. Jack leaned with his back against the wall across from the TV instead. The personal trainer with whom he’d made the appointment would hardly have trouble finding him in a club this small.
On TV, a teammate of Jack’s from when he was a twenty-two-year-old minor league rookie smacked a ball that cleared the center-field wall. That year, the talk had been that Jack and the home run hitter were on the fast track to the major leagues. This was the three hundredth homer of the other player’s illustrious career. Jack was reminded again that he’d pitched in only three major league games.
“Are you Jack DiMarco?” The man asking the question strode toward him with a spring in his step. He was well into his sixties with gray islands of hair on either side of his balding head and an impressively fit body.
Jack straightened from the wall and held out a hand. “That’s me.”
The man grabbed his hand in a firm grip, pumping it vigorously. “Art Goodnight, personal trainer and fitness consultant. And yeah, you heard right. My last name really
is Goodnight. You can call me Art.”
“I’m just Jack,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah. The baseball pitcher.” He talked too fast. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though it was hard for him to keep still. Judging by his physique, maybe it was. He didn’t seem to have an inch of flab on him. His short-sleeved shirt hugged his muscular chest and showed off the definition in his biceps. He was wearing shorts, revealing legs that were as impressive as the rest of him. “What can I do you for?”
“I need some help rehabbing the torn labrum in my pitching shoulder,” Jack said.
“Did you have surgery?”
“Two surgeries,” Jack said. “Both on the same shoulder, both for my rotator cuff. I would have opted for surgery this time, too, but two doctors advised me rehab is a better option.”
“How long ago was this?”
“I broke my collarbone about a year ago in a collision at first base,” he said. “The collarbone healed but the soreness wouldn’t go
Tara’s mother was breathing too hard. The sun was cruel, showing the tracks of her recent tears on her cheeks. Her brow pinched together, making her expression looked pained.
She was waiting to see if Tara believed her lie. Because it was a lie. Of that, Tara was almost positive.
She was also closer to believing she was that little girl who’d been taken from the Kentucky shopping mall.
She should ask her mother and be done with it. The wind kicked up, blowing sand that stung Tara’s ankles. Her mother positioned her body between the blowing sand and Tara. She squeezed Tara’s hand, love mixing with the pain.
The question died on Tara’s lips. She wouldn’t ask her mother about Hayley Cooper, not today on the darkest of anniversaries.
Not ever.
She wouldn’t allow Jack DiMarco to question her mother, either, even if he were only the brother of a private eye and not a P.I. himself.
“It was lucky I wasn’t on the beach that day.” Tara watched the relief pour over her mother’s face. “That memory would have stuck with me forever.”
Like the recurring nightmare Tara had of the woman who shook her and yelled at her to stop crying.
If Carrie Greer had kidnapped Tara, she very well could have done her a favor. It seemed more and more likely the nightmare woman, and not the one she loved with all her heart, was her biological mother.
* * *
T HE FITNESS CLUB WAS quiet when Jack arrived late that morning, a departure from Sunday night when music from Tara’s spinning class had spilled into the lobby.
The only sound came from a large-screen television, where an ESPN broadcaster was counting down yesterday’s top plays. The seating area in front of the TV was empty, and only a few men worked out in the nearby weight room.
The guy working the front desk had directed Jack to an office and advised him to wait there. Jack leaned with his back against the wall across from the TV instead. The personal trainer with whom he’d made the appointment would hardly have trouble finding him in a club this small.
On TV, a teammate of Jack’s from when he was a twenty-two-year-old minor league rookie smacked a ball that cleared the center-field wall. That year, the talk had been that Jack and the home run hitter were on the fast track to the major leagues. This was the three hundredth homer of the other player’s illustrious career. Jack was reminded again that he’d pitched in only three major league games.
“Are you Jack DiMarco?” The man asking the question strode toward him with a spring in his step. He was well into his sixties with gray islands of hair on either side of his balding head and an impressively fit body.
Jack straightened from the wall and held out a hand. “That’s me.”
The man grabbed his hand in a firm grip, pumping it vigorously. “Art Goodnight, personal trainer and fitness consultant. And yeah, you heard right. My last name really
is Goodnight. You can call me Art.”
“I’m just Jack,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah. The baseball pitcher.” He talked too fast. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though it was hard for him to keep still. Judging by his physique, maybe it was. He didn’t seem to have an inch of flab on him. His short-sleeved shirt hugged his muscular chest and showed off the definition in his biceps. He was wearing shorts, revealing legs that were as impressive as the rest of him. “What can I do you for?”
“I need some help rehabbing the torn labrum in my pitching shoulder,” Jack said.
“Did you have surgery?”
“Two surgeries,” Jack said. “Both on the same shoulder, both for my rotator cuff. I would have opted for surgery this time, too, but two doctors advised me rehab is a better option.”
“How long ago was this?”
“I broke my collarbone about a year ago in a collision at first base,” he said. “The collarbone healed but the soreness wouldn’t go
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