Where the Blame Lies

Zach took a step into the room, his eyes drawn by the desk against a wall, bulletin boards above it hung with . . . articles and lists, pictures . . . He scanned it all, pulled by the vision. It looked like a tiny version of an incident room, one Zach was sure they’d be putting together today or tomorrow, a place to put the evidence from both crimes in one place so it could be visualized, compared, connections made if possible. It was what detectives did.

His eyes moved quickly from one thing to another, names of adoption agencies, hospitals, individuals. His gaze snagged on a sketched picture of an infant, the lines simple, unskilled. He stood in front of it, the awareness of what this was hitting him. God, his fucking heart. Josie Stratton was still looking for her son. She’d never stopped. This was her version of command central.

“I can’t draw worth . . . anything.” He turned and she was standing behind him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, her finger trailing along the baseboard of her bed. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She looked as though he’d caught her naked. In a sense, maybe he had.

“I’m sorry, I’m invading your privacy.”

She shook her head, her gaze darting to him and then away. “This probably looks . . .” She licked her lips, obviously searching for the right word, the proper description of what was in front of him. “Kind of insane.”

“It doesn’t look insane,” he said. He was actually somewhat blown away that she hadn’t stopped searching, though every professional assigned to help her had given up long ago.

. . . kid’s gotta be dead. A sick fuck like that? I can’t see him dropping the baby off on some nice old lady’s doorstep . . . Nah, he threw that kid in some garbage dump, treated him about as well as he treated his mother.

“It looks valiant.” He looked back to the photo she’d drawn from her own memory of the baby she’d held for such a short time. “Did you name him?” he asked.

Josie came up beside him, folding her arms under her breasts. She looked at him curiously, her cheeks still slightly flushed. “No one, in all these years, has ever asked me that,” she said quietly. She turned her head, gazing at the hand-drawn picture. “Caleb.”

He nodded. “Good name.”

He glanced at her and she gave him a small smile, looking shy, still a little embarrassed. “Thank you.” Their eyes held and he felt the weight of those words. She gestured toward the bathroom. “I’ll be real quick. Meet you downstairs in ten?”

“Yeah.” He moved toward the door, glancing back at the proof of Josie Stratton’s never-ending hope, despite the overwhelming likelihood that she’d never see her son again. The likelihood that he’d died at his father’s hand many, many years ago. Caleb. “I’ll be waiting.”

Zach did another check of the downstairs windows, though he’d done one only a few hours before. It was mostly to keep himself busy as he waited for her. His nerves felt strung tight for some reason he couldn’t exactly articulate to himself, but he knew was as much personal as it was about his job of keeping Josie Stratton safe. He stood at her kitchen window, linking his hands on top of his head. Fuck. He was developing feelings for her. And there was nothing he could do about it. It’d probably be best—the most professional

move—if he turned the job of protecting her over to another detective or officer, but the thought of doing so made him grit his teeth. No.

No, he would not abandon Josie right now. He knew she was beginning to trust him. And he wasn’t blind. He felt the simmering tension vibrating between them, the tension that always made her look slightly curious and slightly terrified. God damn, this situation was all kinds of sticky.

“Ready if you are.” He turned, dropping his arms, annoyed that he’d been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard her coming downstairs. Gotta be more on your game than that if you’re going to be a guardian worth his salt, Copeland.

“Yeah, ready.”

Josie’s mother lived in a rundown house in Addyston. Zach pulled up to the curb, his truck idling as he eyed the small home with peeling paint, one shutter hanging loose, and the other one missing entirely. The yard was overgrown with weeds and basically, whoever lived here was either real down on their luck, or just didn’t give a shit. He turned the key, shutting off the ignition.

“I won’t be long,” Josie said. “You’ll wait here?”

“Nope. I’ll come in with you.”

She reached across and put her hand on his arm. Her skin was cool and smooth and fuck, even that small contact sent a jolt to his system. “You really don’t have to. I’ll be fine, and I’ll be quick.”

“Josie, it’s my job. I’m sorry, but I have to keep you in my line of sight.” That wasn’t necessarily completely accurate. No one would have blamed him if he’d waited in his truck, eyes on the front of the house as Josie went inside and visited her mother, but there were some guys milling around outside the house next door, someone sitting in a car across the street staring at them, and his protective mode was notched up to its highest level.

Her shoulders lowered and she bit at her lip. “All right, but my mother . . . she’s . . . well, she can be very . . . abrasive.”

“I’ll stand aside. You won’t even know I’m there.”

That got a small smile from her. She turned and opened the car door and as she got out, he heard her mutter, “Trust me, this is not a place where you’ll blend.”

“Mom?” Josie called when they’d climbed the three rickety steps to the front door, and Josie had turned the knob, opening it a crack.

“Well, come in,” came one of the raspiest female voices Zach had ever heard. Josie glanced at him and then opened the door wider so they could both enter.

The living room they walked into was dank and drab. A fog of smoke hung in the air and it reeked of cigarettes, though the older woman sitting in the recliner in front of a TV set was not currently smoking. She looked up, her expression pinching when she saw Zach. “Who are you?”

Zach stepped around Josie, reaching out his hand. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Zach Copeland with the Cincinnati Police Department.”

She took his hand, her grip weak, skin soft and papery, eyes assessing. “Diana,” she muttered, looking at him suspiciously. “Police, eh? I don’t like the police.”