the urge to look over her shoulder. The feeling had intensified since her Gulfstream had landed last night.
Or, she thought pragmatically, maybe it was the questions that had surfaced and lingered since the hit-and-run. Neither a car nor a driver had been found. No one had confessed. No one had seen anything. Aside from the obvious horror of knowing her mother had died that way, something didn't feel right about it.
Janey had plucked a single red rose from her mother's funeral spray. Or maybe, she thought, inhaling the bud's subtle, clean fragrance, it was more of a sense of being out of sync, out of place. She was back in Mississippi. Back in Tupelo, one of the many Mississippi towns where she'd spent her childhood. And where she'd never wanted to return.
"I called her," she said quietly, then lifted her head when she felt Max's concerned gaze on her face. "The night before she died ... I... I don't know why I did it. She was just... on my mind, you know?"
Max squeezed her hand. "It's good. It's good you got to talk to her."
Yeah. Good to hear her mother grumble about being woken up and dress her down about her makeup and clothes.
And now she was gone. Janey lifted a hand to finger the Celtic cross she'd found among her mother's things that morning.
"I've never seen you wear that before," Max said.
Janey looked down at the cross. "I gave it to her. I was thirteen or something. Saw it in Wal-Mart or Kmart or someplace like that. Fell in love with it. Just a piece of cheap discount-store jewelry, but I thought it was beautiful. I bought it for her with my babysitting money one Christmas."
She let go of the necklace and stared without seeing out the window. "I never saw her wear it." The cross felt heavy and cool yet, for some reason she didn't understand, comforting lying against her skin. "Wouldn't have dreamed she'd kept it all these years."
"I'm sure it was special to her."
Tears stung Janey's eyes as guilt outdistanced both the sense of displacement and the paranoia. "I should have known her better."
Max covered her hand with his. "She didn't exactly make that easy for you now, did she?"
Janey roused herself from her thoughts, tuned into what Max was saying. Comfort. He was offering comfort... and absolution. No. Her mother hadn't made it easy to know her. Or to love her.
And no matter how many times Janey told herself that alcoholism was a disease, a warring faction in her mind and heart told her that her mother had had a choice.
She'd chosen the booze.
And that had left a fatherless little girl wanting for a mother, too.
Jase flanked Janey on one side, Max the other; allthree of them stared in stupefied silence as they stood in the middle of Alice Perkins's living room—or what was left of it.
"Jesus," Jase muttered, surveying the destruction, and watched for a sign that Janey Perkins, who had buried her mother not more than thirty minutes ago, was going down for the count.
The entire house had been ransacked. End tables and lamps lay drunkenly across the tile floor, smashed and broken. Chairs were overturned. Cushions slashed. House-plants had been upset; the fetid scent of damp potting soil permeated the air. Even her mother's clothes had been strewn all over the bedroom. Shards of pottery and shattered glass were scattered all over the kitchen floor.
Her face chalk-white against the black of her funeral dress, Janey reached out, unaware that she was doing it. Jase grabbed her hand to steady her. Her fingers were ice-cold. Shock. Against her throat, below the delicate strokes of her tattoo, he could see her heartbeat knocking out of control.
And as he had several times today, Jase resisted an unexpected urge to offer her more than a steadying hand.
"Why would anyone do this?" Her voice was as shaky as her hand.
"I'm afraid it's all too frequent an occurrence, Baby— pardon me. I mean, Ms.
Or, she thought pragmatically, maybe it was the questions that had surfaced and lingered since the hit-and-run. Neither a car nor a driver had been found. No one had confessed. No one had seen anything. Aside from the obvious horror of knowing her mother had died that way, something didn't feel right about it.
Janey had plucked a single red rose from her mother's funeral spray. Or maybe, she thought, inhaling the bud's subtle, clean fragrance, it was more of a sense of being out of sync, out of place. She was back in Mississippi. Back in Tupelo, one of the many Mississippi towns where she'd spent her childhood. And where she'd never wanted to return.
"I called her," she said quietly, then lifted her head when she felt Max's concerned gaze on her face. "The night before she died ... I... I don't know why I did it. She was just... on my mind, you know?"
Max squeezed her hand. "It's good. It's good you got to talk to her."
Yeah. Good to hear her mother grumble about being woken up and dress her down about her makeup and clothes.
And now she was gone. Janey lifted a hand to finger the Celtic cross she'd found among her mother's things that morning.
"I've never seen you wear that before," Max said.
Janey looked down at the cross. "I gave it to her. I was thirteen or something. Saw it in Wal-Mart or Kmart or someplace like that. Fell in love with it. Just a piece of cheap discount-store jewelry, but I thought it was beautiful. I bought it for her with my babysitting money one Christmas."
She let go of the necklace and stared without seeing out the window. "I never saw her wear it." The cross felt heavy and cool yet, for some reason she didn't understand, comforting lying against her skin. "Wouldn't have dreamed she'd kept it all these years."
"I'm sure it was special to her."
Tears stung Janey's eyes as guilt outdistanced both the sense of displacement and the paranoia. "I should have known her better."
Max covered her hand with his. "She didn't exactly make that easy for you now, did she?"
Janey roused herself from her thoughts, tuned into what Max was saying. Comfort. He was offering comfort... and absolution. No. Her mother hadn't made it easy to know her. Or to love her.
And no matter how many times Janey told herself that alcoholism was a disease, a warring faction in her mind and heart told her that her mother had had a choice.
She'd chosen the booze.
And that had left a fatherless little girl wanting for a mother, too.
Jase flanked Janey on one side, Max the other; allthree of them stared in stupefied silence as they stood in the middle of Alice Perkins's living room—or what was left of it.
"Jesus," Jase muttered, surveying the destruction, and watched for a sign that Janey Perkins, who had buried her mother not more than thirty minutes ago, was going down for the count.
The entire house had been ransacked. End tables and lamps lay drunkenly across the tile floor, smashed and broken. Chairs were overturned. Cushions slashed. House-plants had been upset; the fetid scent of damp potting soil permeated the air. Even her mother's clothes had been strewn all over the bedroom. Shards of pottery and shattered glass were scattered all over the kitchen floor.
Her face chalk-white against the black of her funeral dress, Janey reached out, unaware that she was doing it. Jase grabbed her hand to steady her. Her fingers were ice-cold. Shock. Against her throat, below the delicate strokes of her tattoo, he could see her heartbeat knocking out of control.
And as he had several times today, Jase resisted an unexpected urge to offer her more than a steadying hand.
"Why would anyone do this?" Her voice was as shaky as her hand.
"I'm afraid it's all too frequent an occurrence, Baby— pardon me. I mean, Ms.
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