He was leading her up the stairs and when they were out of sight, Cal turned to Maggie. He showed her a half smile and lifted brow.

“A shared passion for home renovation,” Maggie said with a grin.

“They probably sound like us in bed,” Cal said. “Oh, oh, oh, how about travertine on the front walk...”

She put her arms around his neck, pressing up against him. “Oh baby, show me that marble with the waterfall edge...”

He got kicked by the baby. “You’re carrying a wild woman,” he said. “Have I told you how terrified I am?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she reassured him. “Little girls always love their daddy best. Should we go upstairs and help Tom show Lola all his handiwork?”

“Give him a break,” Cal said. “Did he seem awkward to you?”

“Not at all.”

Cal’s phone rang and he picked it up off the kitchen counter. He looked at the screen and said, “This is work, babe. Make my apologies?”

“Sure,” she said.

Cal went into their bedroom, which would become his office in just a few weeks. For the time being it was a bedroom that sometimes doubled as an office if he needed a room with a door that closed. This particular caller was a woman Cal had worked with when he was with the law firm in Detroit. Cal had reached out to her for help with Sierra’s situation.

Alison started off as a paralegal before Cal met her. By the time he joined the Detroit firm, she was doing a lot of their investigating, which turned out to be her niche and her passion. Being in criminal defense, he had relied on her quite a bit. She was young, sharp, energetic and resourceful.

“Hey, Alison,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Quite a lot more than you might expect,” she said. He scribbled on a notepad while she ran down a list of the information she’d gathered, ending with, “Finally, this Derek Cox, I can’t locate him. Let me rephrase—I’ve located several, none in the Detroit area, none in the age range we discussed. If his name is Derek Cox and if he exists, he’s in the wind. The police have listed Sierra as a person of interest in their investigation into a hit–and-run but she isn’t a suspect, at least not at this time. They haven’t issued a warrant. Frankly, they suspect foul play in the disappearance of Sierra and the abandonment of her car, the car notably involved in the accident.”

“As I told you before, that’s one of the many reasons I’m looking into this. She saw a man here who looked like him. She couldn’t confirm that it was him. But it shook her up enough to come to me with her story. She’s afraid of him. How did you get this information?”

“An accident report and a brief conversation with the sergeant in traffic. I don’t get the feeling the case is getting a lot of attention. I hope I didn’t stir things up by inquiring.”

“How did you inquire?” he asked, not entirely sure he wanted the answer.

“Insurance companies always want a few clarifications about accident details. Is there anything else I can do?”

“You can keep looking for this Cox,” he said. “It would help to know where he is. It would help to know where he isn’t, for that matter.”

“I’ll need a little more information, Cal. If your sister could answer a few questions—where he worked, where he lived, where he’s originally from. I need a little more to go on than he was driving her car that night.”

“I’ll talk to her,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.”

He just sat for a moment after they disconnected. He was going to have to talk to Sierra. She had to know what he found out and if he was to help her, he would have to probe. He didn’t look forward to it. He left a message on Sierra’s cell phone. “We have to talk, whenever you’re free. I have some information for you. Important stuff. Let me know when you have time. Time alone.”

He tried to slap on the professional lawyer face rather than the worried brother. Not only did he have to face Maggie, there was company in the house. He gave himself a few extra minutes. When he walked into the great room, Maggie, Tom and Lola were all engrossed in studying the fireplace, something that had been installed before they’d moved in.

“This was one of the first things we added,” Tom was saying. “Barns don’t usually have fireplaces. Or so many windows...”

Cal wasn’t listening.

* * *

Sierra worked at the diner in the morning and then hurried back to the Crossing for lunch and to meet Cal. When she’d returned his call last night she had asked him if it was about her car and Michigan, and he had said, “Yes.”

“Is it all coming to a head now?” she had asked.

“All I have right now is information about the incident. The rest is still unknown to me.”

She was sure then.

Sierra hadn’t slept well. Her mind had been a little too busy. She’d spent years running away from things but sobriety made her see the folly of that. She’d learned many useful things, but high on the list were the benefits in facing your mistakes, taking responsibility and making amends. That was freedom. You couldn’t run away to get free, you had to face the truth to be free.

When Cal arrived at the Crossing, he spent a few minutes visiting with Sully, then put his arm around Sierra’s shoulders and walked her over to the front porch on Sully’s house. Until the barn was finished, Cal met some clients at the Crossing, either at Sully’s kitchen table or on the front porch where they’d have a measure of privacy.

“You have circles under your eyes,” Cal said.

“I had a little trouble sleeping,” she said. “Just lay it on me. What do you know?”

“There was an accident, just as you suspected and feared. A cyclist was critically injured, but he did make a full recovery. It’s still a felony hit-and-run but they know it was a man driving. Sierra, I can only think of one way they could know that. There must be a witness. The witness could be the victim. I hired the detective I worked with at my old firm—she knows how to surf the public record documents, arrests and accidents, that sort of thing. She also knows how to finesse information by pretending to be an insurance agent, a banker, a lawyer—she’s very good. And very sneaky. The police know it was your car, a man at the wheel, that your car was abandoned. And that you disappeared. There’s even been some conjecture of foul play in your disappearance or the greater possibility that you and the driver ran off to avoid arrest. They want to talk to you. You’re a person of interest in the case. Not a suspect, but a person of interest.”

“Who could become a suspect,” she said.

“If they have evidence to support that. They’ve been looking for the identity of a man. I suppose they’re looking for this Derek Cox. My investigator couldn’t find him. She needs more information like where he worked, lived, where he grew up, where his family is, anything at all to heat up his trail, provide a map of sorts. I hate to put you through this but can you tell me everything again? We need to have as many details as possible.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “He said so many things. He said he’d made money in real estate but I knew tons of people who were licensed Realtors and even busting their butts, it was hard to make money. He said he ran a messenger service for a couple of years and that’s how he made all his connections. He also said he had owned a small valet parking service and made a bundle that way but before all that, he said he had been in the military and gone to Afghanistan. You know what I think? I think he was lying about everything. I think he was dealing. He always had something, usually pot. Sometimes he had ecstasy and oxy. He said he was from Maine, he said he was from California. I never went to his apartment. He said he lived three blocks from me but who knows if that’s true. I didn’t even date him. I hung out with him and other people, mostly—a bar crowd—and he came by work to take me to lunch. I’ll give you the names of some of my so-called friends, but they weren’t close friends. It’s not like we knew each other’s families; they weren’t friends from school or anything. I just hung out with him at the bar a couple of times, talked to him on the phone, then we had one official date. I let him come home with me once. Just once. And that’s when things got weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I didn’t get it until much later. He couldn’t get it up. He had trouble. I told him it was all right and to just forget it but he was so angry. He wanted to keep trying. It was when I pushed at him and told him I was done, boing! Then he couldn’t complete. He can’t get it up in a normal situation. He liked that I wasn’t into it. Then he didn’t want to leave. He was rough. I couldn’t get rid of him until morning, and then he showed up at the office where I worked with flowers. Flowers like we’d had a lovely, romantic evening, which we hadn’t. He called and called. He said he was sorry and that’s never happened to him before, which now I know is bullshit. I told him to settle down, we weren’t engaged, just casual friends, and he got worse. Calling, showing up where I was, parking out in front of my house, hanging out in parking lots waiting for me. I finally got mad and told him I didn’t want to see him or talk to him again but he didn’t back off. Everytime I turned around, there he was. When I talked to the police and asked them if they could do anything they were perfectly nice, they told me to be careful, to stop answering my phone if it was him and to call the police if he became threatening. I blocked his number, I dropped Facebook, I deleted his emails and he couldn’t get a text through. Then came that night.”

“How long did this go on?” Cal asked, making notes.

“Only a couple of weeks, that’s all. I talked to him at a bar, I gave him my number, I talked to him on the phone about three times. I saw him for lunch, at the bar after work a few times and there were lots of people around—people I saw after work all the time.”