My Wildest Dream: Whisper Lake #2 Page 2

  She walked over to his desk, where he was slowly putting his artwork into his backpack, one piece of paper at a time. As one drawing slid off the desk, she picked it up from the floor, frowning at the picture. He'd once again drawn a house on fire. It was at least the tenth drawing she'd seen with that subject matter. Travis was clearly obsessed with the fire.

  But what surprised her with this one was the stick figure standing next to the house, a big smile on its face. The smile seemed out of place with the roaring orange and red flames, and it sent an uneasy feeling down her spine.

  "Is this a picture of the fire you saw last week?" she asked.

  Travis nodded.

  "I bet that was scary. Who's this?" She pointed to the figure.

  Travis shrugged and grabbed the paper out of her hand, shoving it into his pack. Then he ran out the classroom door, as if afraid he'd revealed something.

  She frowned at his speedy exit. Did Travis know something about the fire? Had he seen something? Maybe someone watching the fire?

  Hurrying out of the room, she caught up to Travis in the roundabout in front of the school. His grandfather was standing next to an old gray truck. George Walker was a tall, thin man, with gray hair and a square face, and the impatient expression on his face did not invite conversation, but she barreled ahead anyway.

  "Mr. Walker, can I have a word with you?" she asked.

  He didn't look happy about her request, but he urged Travis into the passenger seat of the truck and closed the door. "Something wrong?"

  "I'm concerned about Travis. He seems to be obsessed with the fire on your street last week. He's been drawing it every day."

  "Well, it scared him. The sirens woke us up in the middle of the night. He dove under the bed and wouldn't come out until morning."

  "So, he saw the fire?"

  "No. Like I said, he was hiding under the bed. Sirens always spook him. Doesn't matter how close they are. They could be miles away, and he still tries to hide. His parents told me it started happening when he was a toddler."

  "Well, today, he drew a person standing next to the house on fire. It's in his backpack if you want to take a look. I just wondered if he might have seen something before he went into hiding. I know the police are still looking for a suspect."

  "I'll talk to him about it, but you know his pictures are always kind of strange. I put them up on the fridge, because that's what his parents always did, but they don't ever make sense to me. Travis doesn't think the way most people do. And he barely talks, you know that."

  "I know." She could get the occasional word out of him, but only with much reluctance. "I just thought you should be aware that the fire is still bothering him."

  "I'm glad you told me. I don't know what I can do about it. Hopefully, he's working it out in his head. I'm just glad no one was hurt. The Abbotts had moved out two days earlier, and the new owners weren't coming in for another week. It was good timing. Although, I don't know what the new people will do now. Guess they'll have to rebuild before they move in. Damn shame."

  "It is."

  "Is that all? I have to go."

  "That's it. Thanks."

  George got into the truck. As they drove away, Travis turned his face toward the window, meeting her gaze for the first time in a long while. He was staring at her as if she'd somehow figured something out. But all she had was a bad feeling. It was possible she was making more out of Travis's drawings than she should. He could just be painting his imagination. But it might be worth talking to Adam about. Her brother was a detective, and he was no doubt looking into the fires. He might want to talk to Travis. Any small clue could be the breakthrough they were looking for.

  Brodie walked into the breakroom at the police station, nodding to Adam Cole, who was sitting at the communal table downing an energy drink and a protein bar. Adam was tall with dark hair and blue eyes that were usually serious and intense. Since he'd been promoted to detective a few months earlier, he'd ditched his police uniform for gray slacks and a maroon dress shirt, with sleeves that were currently rolled up to the elbows.

  "I need one of those drinks," Brodie said, opening the fridge and pulling out a can.

  "Rough day?"

  "Yeah. I thought I had to worry more about summer weekend nights, not summer weekdays, but not today."

  He popped open the can and chugged half the drink in a long swallow. He'd been on one call after another starting with a multi-vehicle car accident on the west shore just after nine, followed by a tense domestic dispute at a home with several minors present that had taken hours to resolve, and a brawl at the beach between drunken college students, who were now cooling down in separate holding cells. Thankfully, he only had thirty minutes left on his shift.

  "You do look beat," Adam said.

  He slid into the chair across from him. "That's mostly your sister's fault."

  Surprise flared in Adam's eyes, along with a gleam of suspicion. "Which sister? And what were you doing with her, or do I want to know?"

  "Relax," he said quickly. "It was nothing like that. I found Chelsea digging through the bushes on my property in the middle of the night, looking for a cat."

  Adam's tension eased as his lips parted in a smile. "Lady Jane. Chelsea has been trying to get her back in the house for three days. Did she catch her?"

  "With my help, yes. I don't believe Lady Jane will see daylight again until the Bakers come home. Your sister takes her cat-sitting responsibilities quite seriously."

  "She's changed. I don't remember her getting that worked up when she forgot to feed my goldfish, and he ended belly-up two days later."

  "Maybe that memory haunts her," he said with a grin.

  "Something haunts her," Adam murmured.

  There was an odd note in Adam's tone. "What do you mean?"

  Adam started. "Nothing. I'm glad you were able to help her. I didn't realize you live on her street."

  "Just moved in. I was starting to feel like a third wheel at my grandfather's place. He and Janet Robbins are getting very friendly."

  "That's great. Good for him." Adam pushed back his chair and stood up. "I'm heading over to the Keltons' home. Glen is missing."

  "Again?" The eighty-seven-year-old man had slipped away from his caregiver twice before. Glen suffered from dementia and kept returning to places from his youth, including a childhood home that he hadn't lived in for sixty-plus years.

  "Yes. He's been gone four hours and he's not in any of his usual places. His daughter, Rachel, called me, since I tracked him down before, and I said I'd try to help."

  "Not exactly in your job description."

  Adam shrugged. "Rachel is a friend. I want to help."

  "Do you need me to go with you?"

  "No. We already have plenty of volunteers and family members driving around town. You're almost off work. I'll catch you tomorrow."

  After Adam left, Brodie finished his drink and checked his phone, frowning at the unexpected text from his father. They'd barely spoken the past two years. His father had not appreciated his decision to become a cop instead of going into the sports agency business with him.

  The text was simple and short: Call me.

  He stared at the phone, and then put it back in his pocket. His father Justin McGuire was used to people jumping when he said jump. But he wasn't one of his people; he was his son. Although, he hadn't felt like his son for a long, long time.

  Dammit! This wasn't the day for a trip down memory lane. He was too tired.

  As he got to his feet, the door to the breakroom opened, and he froze as Chelsea Cole came into the room.

  Chelsea wore a sleeveless floral dress that showed off a pair of tanned legs and feet encased in high wedge sandals. Her light-brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders and when he met her startled and beautiful blue eyes, his gut clenched. He'd thought she was attractive last night; today she was striking. But there were still shadows in her eyes. Were they from the short night of sleep or were they due to someth
ing else, something that Adam had hinted at?

  "Brodie, what are you doing here?" she asked.

  "I work here. A better question is what are you doing here?"

  "Oh, right. I'm looking for my brother."

  "Adam left a few minutes ago. Is everything okay?"

  "I just wanted to talk to him."

  "I'm sure you can catch up to him later. Is there anything I can help you with?"

  She hesitated, then said, "Maybe. This is kind of your fault."

  He raised a brow at her irritated tone. "What's my fault?"

  "You got me thinking about those fires."

  "So?"

  "I told you that a child in my class—Travis Walker—lives across the street from the house that burned down on Carlmont. Well, he's been drawing pictures of a house on fire ever since it happened. It's clearly become an obsession, and today he added a stick figure to the drawing. But what was really creepy about it was the smile on the figure's face, like an evil grin. I started wondering if Travis maybe saw the person who started the fire."

  "Walker, huh? I spoke to a George Walker the day after the fire. He said both he and his grandson were asleep when it broke out. I assume that was Travis. According to him, they didn't wake up until the trucks arrived and Travis hid under the bed because he doesn't like sirens."

  "He told me the same thing. I'm probably making more of a childish picture than I should. I just thought I should mention it to Adam, because I got an odd feeling from Travis's behavior. Did you speak to Travis when you spoke to George?"

  "No. His grandfather says he doesn't talk much, especially not to strangers."

  "That's true. I can occasionally get some words out of him when he and I are alone, but he never speaks in front of the class and rarely makes eye contact. The one thing that seems to connect him to the world is his art. He loves to draw. But ever since the fire, the only picture he creates over and over again is that fire scene. Anyway, that's all I have to say."

  "I'll let Adam know. But are you sure Travis's picture is the only reason you came down here?" he asked with a smile.

  "What other reason could there be?"

  "Maybe you want to take me up on my dinner invitation. You do owe me."

  "A favor, not a dinner."

  "What if I want my favor to be dinner?"

  "I don't date, Brodie. I'm not interested in that, so don't waste your time."

  He was more than a little intrigued by her very blunt declaration. "Why don't you date?"

  "Because I don't want to. I like being on my own. I'm happy. So that's that."

  There was clearly a lot more to her story, but she wasn't interested in sharing—at least not yet. He needed to find a way to get her to trust him. "Fine. You've made your feelings very clear. We will not have a dinner date. But we could have a meal together as friends."

  "I don't think you're the kind of guy who has women friends."

  "You would be wrong. I have lots of friends who are women."

  "And lots of women who want to sleep with you. You were on a magazine cover as the world's most attractive bachelor."

  "That was four years ago. And I see that you looked me up online." He was disappointed. It would be nice to talk to a woman who didn't think she knew everything about him.

  Guilt flashed through her eyes. "I might have read through a few articles. You are a neighbor, and you have a gun. I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were."

  "Which I am. And all you had to do was call your brother to find out if I was a cop, so I suspect you were interested in my more distant past."

  "Well, it's not every day someone goes from being an Olympic skier to a cop." She paused. "I'm sorry about your accident. It sounded horrific."

  "It was rough," he said, which was a huge understatement. "If you want to know more about me, you can just ask me. If you won't do dinner, how about a drink and some appetizers? You can grill me, and, frankly, I think it's the least you can do after I helped you out last night."

  "You're very pushy, Brodie."

  "Pushy? Look who's talking—you ordered me into helping you trap a cat."

  "Fine. I'll have a drink with you."

  "And maybe some hot wings?"

  "If we're going to Micky's, I suppose so."

  He glanced at his watch. "I'm off in a few minutes, then I need to change. Do you want to wait for me?"

  "Why don't I meet you at the bar in about an hour? I need to stop by my friend Chloe's house."

  "Chloe Morgan? How's she doing? Any word on her husband?"

  "Kevin is still missing in action," she said heavily. "It's been four weeks, but Chloe is trying not to lose hope. Her baby son keeps her going. And her friends have rallied around her, offering food and babysitting and whatever else they can. I need to drop off some diapers tonight."

  He nodded, feeling tremendous compassion for the very sweet Chloe, who ran the Big Sky Café and always threw in an extra scone or pastry with his coffee order. She'd gone into labor the night she'd found out her husband was missing. Thankfully, with the help of some close friends, she'd delivered a healthy baby. But the entire town was still waiting for Chloe's husband to come home, praying that he'd be found and rescued, and the family would be reunited. As the days passed, that hope was starting to dim.

  "I'll meet you at Micky's," Chelsea continued.

  "Take your time. I'll be waiting."

  As Chelsea preceded him out of the breakroom and headed toward the lobby door, he couldn't help thinking that it had been a long while since he'd worked so hard to have a drink with a beautiful woman. Hopefully, she wouldn't change her mind between now and then, and that those haunting shadows in her eyes wouldn't make her run for cover.

  Moving into the locker room, it occurred to him that he could pay her back with some online searching of his own. On the other hand, he preferred to form his opinions without the help of social media. There was a story in Chelsea's beautiful blue eyes, and he wanted to know what it was, but one step at a time.

  It was how he'd gotten down every mountain. He focused on the obstacles right in front of him. It was only on that last run that he'd thought too far ahead and ruined his entire career. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.

  Chapter Three

  Chelsea couldn't believe she'd just made a date with Brodie McGuire. As she drove to Chloe's house, she was kicking herself for not having said no. But she hadn't expected him to be so determined, so persuasive, so…attractive. He'd been hotter than hot last night in boxers and a T-shirt, but she'd been distracted by the damn cat and then later she'd tried to convince herself that she'd just imagined how good-looking he was. That's why she'd looked him up online during her lunch break.

  Unfortunately, what she'd found had only made him more appealing. He'd been one of the best American skiers in decades. His reckless speed, his devilish smile, and his charismatic appeal had made him a household name. He'd been featured on dozens of magazine covers and late-night talk shows. He'd been paired with models and actresses. He'd been in pictures from all over the world, not just the mountain ski resorts but also beaches in Bali, Fiji, and Australia. He'd met the royals and skied with some of the most famous people in the world.

  But four years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, that life had ended with a tragic accident on his last training run at the Olympics, destroying a lifetime of work, a storied career of skiing victories. The hopes of an Olympic gold medal had crashed along with him. He'd disappeared from public life after that, rehabilitating and apparently changing his life to become a police officer.

  Today, in uniform, he had been impressive in an entirely different way. He was strong and protective—someone you could count on, someone solid. But it was difficult to equate the small-town cop with the former celebrity, the man who had pushed every boundary and sped down every mountain with a complete disregard for his own safety. She supposed being a cop could also be an adrenaline rush, but Whisper Lake wasn't exactly a hotbed of crime.
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  She wondered how he'd ended up here, doing what he was doing. Apparently, she was going to have the opportunity to ask him. But that was it. One drink. A brief conversation to thank him for his help and appease her curiosity and then she'd go home—back to safety, back to her life in the shadows, where she felt the most comfortable.

  But first, she would be a good friend. After parking in front of Chloe's house, she grabbed two large shopping bags out of her trunk and walked up to the porch. The door was partly ajar, and she heard several female voices, so she pushed it open, calling out, "Hello?"

  Gianna Campbell came down the hall with a smile. Gianna was an attractive blonde with a warm smile that had grown in vibrancy since she'd fallen in love several weeks earlier.

  "Hi, Chelsea," Gianna said. "Chloe and Hannah are in the kitchen. Can I help carry something?"

  "Sure." She handed Gianna one of the bags. "Is there any news on Kevin?"

  Gianna's smile faded as she shook her head. "No, nothing."

  She nodded, as she followed Gianna into the kitchen. Chloe and Hannah were sitting at the kitchen island, munching on a seven-layer dip.

  Chloe slid off her stool and came over to give her a hug. "Thanks for checking in on me and for bringing supplies."

  "I figured you can never have too many diapers or burp cloths."

  Chloe laughed, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's true. Leo is a messy little boy."

  "Is he sleeping?"

  "Yes, thank goodness. Sit down. Have some of Hannah's famous dip."

  She took a seat at the island, smiling at the three women who had been friends since childhood. They were very different in both appearance and personality. Hannah, a fair-skinned redhead, was a nurse at the medical center. She was very comfortable being a leader, giving her opinions, and barking out orders whether they were wanted or not, but she was also the kind of person you'd want by your side in a crisis.