Holding Out For A Hero. Pamela TracyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      “IF YOU HAVE enough money for your son to be in the only private preschool in Sarasota Falls, you have enough money to pay me back. You owe me.” The anger behind the words was palpable. Shelley Brubaker disconnected the call.

      Sarasota Falls, New Mexico, was a small town, and while Shelley didn’t know everyone by name or voice, she knew almost all by face.

      They all—thanks to social media—knew her face.

      So many people hurting, and her ex-husband was to blame.

      In a few minutes, she would take her son to preschool—late, because the baby kicked most of the night and Abigail Simms’s dog kept barking, keeping Shelley awake. And echoes of the unpleasant phone call would follow her.

      Shelley was never late. It bothered her.

      Ryan could attend preschool only because she’d been awarded one of their benevolence tuitions. Mostly because of all the years her father had donated fund-raiser items from the grocery store he managed.

      “Phone!” Ryan had the endearing habit of announcing a phone call well after all conversation ended. His words jarred her from her reverie.

      “Thanks for letting me know.” She scooped the three-year-old up and did a half twirl. She used to do five of them, quickly, making Ryan scream with delight.

      As she gave Ryan a quick sponge bath and dressed him, she figured it was time to change her number again. She couldn’t count how many people had demanded she pay them back these past six months, since Larry Wagner, aka lousy ex-husband, disappeared into thin air the first week in December. Most calls were local, but some were from as far away as Maine. Never mind that her ex-husband had robbed her of every penny she had.

      At first, she’d attempted to explain. The callers weren’t interested. After explanations, she’d tried apologies, especially to the people she’d recommended her husband to. When the dust settled and she realized the extent of her ex-husband’s crimes, she’d almost had a breakdown—which she neither had the time nor the money for.

      “Mommy, play.” Ryan, the spitting image of Larry with slightly curling golden hair and dimples, collapsed against her knee, all clean and dressed for fun, and looked up at her with a brown-eyed expression of glee.

      There’d been a time when Ryan’s requests to play were met with enthusiasm. Shelley really wanted to say, “Yes! You can jump on my bed, and I’ll throw a ball to you.” But now her bed pulled out from the sofa, and at eight months pregnant, it was all she could do to play his second-favorite game of chasing him around the one-room apartment while he wore a mask and pretended to be a monster.

      Shelley tried not to analyze why he was a monster being chased by a nonscary but very pregnant woman.

      Right now, though, the caller’s raspy voice kept playing over and over in her head—you owe me, you owe me, you owe me—until Shelley couldn’t breathe.

      Ryan took matters into his own hands by heading to his toy box, grabbing his Thomas the Train hat and saying, “Let’s walk.”

      He mimicked her tone exactly. At least three times a day, she suggested, “Let’s walk.” Anything to get out of the tiny garage apartment, out into the air. This part of Sarasota Falls, on the edge of town, was a mixture of old and new. If she looked to the right, from the large picture window she could see a block of fairly new homes with a bed-and-breakfast—one of the oldest buildings in town—on the cul-de-sac. To her left, an established subdivision that led to the center of town.

      “Okay, let me use the restroom first and then we’ll eat and head to your preschool.” This, her first pregnancy—as Ryan was her stepson—was a study in “Always go to the bathroom first,” and “Eat or you’ll soon feel nauseated,” as well as, “You will feel nauseated no matter what you do.”

      Ryan was patient. He’d learned to be during the course of the investigation after his father disappeared. He’d done a lot of waiting for her, sitting on hard chairs in strange rooms with authority figures as Shelley’d been questioned. It had felt weird because some of the people asking her questions, especially the local chief of police, knew her well. Tom Riley knew the answers to the questions he was asking, but still he asked them.

      It had been the other agencies, though, state and federal, that truly scared her. They tried to press her into admitting she knew where Larry was.

      She didn’t know, didn’t even care where he was. She never wanted to see the man again.

      Finally she and Ryan were ready. She opened the front door and went ahead of him. He could go down the stairs by himself, but if he tripped, she wanted him to fall into her instead of down to the ground.

      Their new place was over the garage of Robert Tellmaster’s house. He’d been hesitant to rent to her. After all, most of the town had fallen victim to her husband’s crimes, but in the end, because he knew her mother, he’d relented. He was a computer geek who rarely left his house and had been alone since his mother died many years ago. He never so much as smiled at Ryan or offered a kind word to her.

      There was no traffic on the street. At nine in the morning, most people had already left for work. Shelley had lived in the apartment only two weeks, and during that time the parking lot at Bianca’s Bed-and-Breakfast had been pretty much empty except for an oversize motorcycle. So far, Shelley hadn’t figured out who the motorcycle’s owner was, just that he worked strange hours. Bianca was one of the few in town who still nodded to Shelley when they passed each other. She’d even brought over some diapers and a crocheted blanket for the “little one.”

      Speaking of little ones. “We’re going to be a tad late.” Shelley awkwardly bent to tie Ryan’s shoe. “But you’ll be there in time for play.”

      Ryan didn’t seem to care. He was watching a bird fly across the street and land in a tree in front of the house belonging to the newlyweds.

      They had to be newlyweds; they seemed so happy.

      Shelley turned to the left. She’d pass the cul-de-sac that Bianca shared with Abigail Simms. Abigail was in her fifties and gardened but always much earlier than nine. Her son was unemployed and in and out, but he’d never be up this early. She also had a tiny white poodle that barked constantly.

      Shelley knew most of her neighbors, thanks to her mother and all the years Shelley had helped deliver baked goods to parties and such. The only family in the neighborhood—besides the newlyweds—who weren’t Sarasota Falls natives were the Duponts, living farther down from Bianca. They had a special-needs son who kept Mrs. Dupont busy.

      Shelley didn’t think too much of Mr. Dupont. The first week she’d been in the garage apartment, he’d approached her, and she’d gotten the idea he was trying—in a smarmy way—to figure out how desperate for company she was.

      Not that desperate.