“I just wanted to see how she was doing. I’m so sorry for what I put all of you through.”

“I know you are,” Kathy said. “We’ll be fine. You just take care of yourself.”

I put away the phone and blew my nose.

“Everything okay?” Marco asked as he pulled up in front of Bloomers to let me out.

I blinked a few times to clear away the tears. “It will be. I’ve got a strong family.”

I slid from the car and hurried inside Bloomers, where a welcoming party had gathered: Lottie, Grace, my mom and dad, and Sergeant Reilly. Starting with my mom, each woman hugged, then inspected, and finally admonished me about being extra vigilant, paying attention to my surroundings, not taking candy from strangers-okay, not the last one, but they were treating me as though I were five.

Marco rapped on the door, and Lottie let him in. He accepted Mom’s hug-she was a kindergarten teacher; hugs were built-in-shook hands with my dad, then stepped to one side to talk to Reilly.

When the women hustled off to the parlor to set out coffee and scones, I knelt down beside my dad’s wheelchair, knowing he’d been waiting his turn to talk to me. “How are you doing, Dad?”

“Never mind about me. How’s my girl? Are you really all right?”

It had been nearly four years since Dad had taken to a wheelchair, yet I still found it difficult to accept. He’d been such an active, vibrant man-a graceful dancer, nimble bowler, strong swimmer-before a drug dealer shot him in the leg during a drug bust. A subsequent operation to remove the bullet had caused a major stroke that paralyzed Dad completely in one leg and left him with limited use of the other.

My mother, brothers, and I were devastated, yet Dad refused to let his handicap prevent him from enjoying life. In true Irish spirit, he made the most of what he still had and joked about what he didn’t. Although his courage inspired me, the senselessness of the crime, and the fact that the drug dealer was back on the street nine months after his conviction while my dad was sentenced to a lifetime in his chair, gave me a deep hatred of injustice.

Now Dad put his hands on either side of my face, gazing at me as though memorizing my features. We shared not only the genes for red hair and freckles, but also a deep bond of understanding, making words often unnecessary. His thoughts were all there in his expression: He was extremely relieved the kidnapping had been unsuccessful, both for my sake and for Tara’s, and worried that next time the kidnappers might get it right.

“I’ll be okay,” I assured him. “Marco has promised to keep me safe. Yep, he’ll be guarding me pretty much twenty-four /seven now.”

Saying it that way sounded so-infinite.

“That’s a lot of time to spend with one person,” Dad said. “Are you up to it?”

I knew what he was really asking. He was aware that Marco and I were close to making a commitment, but he also knew that I had qualms about taking that step. “I guess this will be a good test… except I was never a great test taker in school.”

He tugged my earlobe. “Listen up, Abracadabra. This isn’t about memorizing facts and spewing them back. It’s about finding a person you trust and enjoy doing things with.”

It had been a long time since Dad had used my old nickname. He’d given it to me when I was a kid because whenever there was work to be done, I’d disappear. “And Marco is that person. It’s just that-I don’t know-I’m still nervous about taking such a big step.”

“It’s understandable that you’d be gun-shy. But don’t overthink this, okay? You have a tendency to do that, you know.”

“I can’t help it, Dad. I get that from Mom. And I think we’d better can this discussion because she keeps looking our way like she wants to know what we’re talking about.”

“Gotcha. Once this case has been solved and you have some free time, drop by the house so we can have a real talk.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” I glanced over at Marco, and he gave me that little half grin that always made my heart beat faster. Why was I so skittish? Marco had so many positive qualities, having him in my life all the time should be a piece of cake.

Since the shop wouldn’t open for another forty-five minutes, the seven of us sat around a table in the parlor sampling Grace’s freshly baked cranberry scones and gourmet coffee, while Marco and I recounted the evening’s events. Mom and Dad had already been to Jordan’s house that morning to see Tara and hear Kathy’s version. Now they needed mine.

After I finished, we turned to Reilly to update us. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to tell. All they knew about the dead woman, Charlotte Bebe, was what had been in the newspapers. An autopsy was scheduled for later that morning, and her boyfriend, Dwayne Hudge, was believed to be in South Bend, Indiana, where he had family. Police expected to have him in custody shortly, and Nils Raand had been brought in for questioning.

“That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you,” Reilly concluded, leaning back in his chair.

“Come on, Reilly,” I urged. “Tell us something that might be in the newspapers tomorrow.”

Reilly eyed me, as though weighing his options. “Can I have more coffee, please, Grace?” He waited until Grace had refilled his cup, then, after a moment’s consideration, said, “Two items came to light that tie Nils Raand to the kidnappers. The first is public knowledge, so there’s no harm in telling you. Charlotte Bebe worked at Uniworld until two weeks before her death.”

“I knew we’d find a connection!” I said.

“It was a big factor in the decision to bring Raand in,” Reilly said.

Marco frowned in thought. “I’m surprised Raand would hire someone to kidnap Abby who had such an obvious connection to Uniworld.”

“Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought,” Lottie said.

“What other item came to light?” I asked Reilly.

“It’s evidence,” he said. “I can’t say anything about it.”

“But it’s my case,” I argued. “Why shouldn’t I be privy to the evidence?”

“Because it relates to the crime committed last night,” Reilly said, “and that’s not your case. It’s Tara’s.”

“Does that mean they’ll share it with my brother and sister-in-law?”

“When the time comes,” he said cryptically.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means forget it,” Dad said. “I know how the prosecutor’s office works.”

“Look,” Reilly said to me, “all I can tell you is that if and when the evidence affects the investigation on your matter, they’ll share it with you.”

What if if and when was never? Didn’t I have the right to know who was trying to kidnap me? Gearing up for further argument, I opened my mouth, but the look on Reilly’s face said, Don’t even think about it.

I glanced at Marco for support, but he gave a quick shake of his head, as though to say, Don’t press the issue.

Fine. I knew someone who could clue me in-Deputy Prosecutor Gregory Morgan, aka Nikki’s boyfriend. I glanced at my watch. Morgan would be in his office. Maybe I could slip into the workroom and give him a call to catch him before any hearings dragged him away.

I stuffed the last bite of scone in my mouth and wiped my fingers on my napkin, my mind busily turning over various ways to get Morgan to give up the info. He’d grown more reluctant to share with me of late, fearing the constant information leak would be traced back to him. Morgan wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he did catch on eventually, so I had to keep my tactics fresh.

“Abigail,” Mom said, snapping me out of my thoughts, “I think you should stay with us until the police have the culprits in custody.”

I nearly choked on a cranberry. Had she really just suggested I live in the same house with her? Had she forgotten my law school days, when we fought over whether a plate had to be rinsed before being placed in the dishwasher? How to wrap the hair dryer cord? How many times a pair of jeans could be worn before they absolutely had to be laundered? And those were just a few of our thousands of points of disagreement.