92 Pacific Boulevard

“I just took some bran muffins out of the oven. Would you like one?” Faith asked.

It’d been a long time since Troy had tasted anything home-baked. He wondered if she offered because she’d heard his stomach growl or if she’d noticed that he’d nearly swooned when he entered the house. Or maybe she was simply being polite. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t about to turn her down. “That’d be great,” he said, hoping he sounded casual.

“I have coffee on, too. Can I get you a cup?”

“Please.” He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poured the coffee and took a muffin out of the pan, setting it on a small plate. He waited until she was seated before he pulled out the chair across from her. It seemed to take her an inordinate amount of time to look at him. One quick glance in his direction, and then she lowered her eyes again.

“What did you find out?” she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Troy wished he had something positive to share with her. “Unfortunately, the news is … inconclusive.”

“What do you mean? Your people were here for hours, dusting for fingerprints. They wouldn’t let me straighten a thing until they’d finished. The deputy said they managed to lift a number of solid prints.” Her eyes pleaded with him to explain this nightmare. Troy wished he could; he wanted to prove to Faith that he was her hero … and that she could trust him.

“You’re right. The crime-scene technician was able to lift a number of fingerprints.”

“But they were all mine?”

“No,” he said. “Not all of them. But the clear ones weren’t out of the ordinary. That’s why we took the elimination prints.” He shrugged. “We suspect the intruder wore rubber gloves.”

She looked confused. “A professional, then.”

“At this point, we can’t say. My guess is this isn’t the first home this person has broken into.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I’d hoped—I was sure with so many prints … there’d be at least one that would identify whoever did this.”

“We checked each and every fingerprint and they were all ones we could identify.”

“Oh.” She didn’t disguise her disappointment.

“Have you made a list of what’s missing for Detective Hildebrand?”

Faith nodded. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“In what way?”

“The items taken. They’re mostly things of sentimental value. Like you said earlier, this break-in seemed … personal.”

“Give me an example.”

She unfolded her hands and gestured helplessly. “They took a picture album I made when the grandchildren were born. You saw what they did to Carl’s photograph. I had—oh, it’s too silly to mention.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Her lower lip trembled before she regained her composure. “A toy train … It was from Carl’s boyhood. I had it sitting on the bedroom dresser. Scottie’s son likes to play with it when they visit and—”

“That was stolen?”

Faith nodded again. “I never thought of it as a valuable antique, but perhaps it is.”

“What about jewelry, cash?”

“I don’t keep anything of real value lying around.”

“That’s smart.” Thinking over what she’d told him, Troy peeled away the paper from his muffin. It was still warm enough to burn his fingers, and he left it to cool a moment while he doctored his coffee.

“I can’t believe this happened to me!” Faith cried, then inhaled a deep, calming breath. When she spoke again, her voice shook slightly. “I just don’t understand it.”

He sympathized with her and knew how she felt—angry, violated, afraid. “I want to assure you the department’s doing everything within our power to find whoever is responsible,” he told her.

“Why me?” she asked, her eyes wide and imploring.

Troy longed to reach across the table to take her hand. “I wish I could answer that, but as you said, none of this makes sense. I’d like to think it was a random act of violence, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Regardless of who did this and why, you were an easy target. From this point forward you won’t be again.”

“No, I won’t.” Faith straightened, tensing her shoulders as if to say she’d dare anyone to try breaking into her home again. Troy had encountered that determination of hers more than once and almost felt sorry for anyone who earned her wrath.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Troy asked. “You never know where a small piece of information can lead, no matter how insignificant it seems.” He remembered a case years ago, when he was still a deputy. A break-in had occurred, and Troy had stopped to talk to some kids at a bus stop, asking if they’d seen anything unusual. A kid, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, mentioned a white Jeep. The man who drove it wore a Mariners’ baseball cap and had long, blond hair. The boy had claimed the man looked “mean.”

A couple of days later, Troy had passed a white Jeep parked at a gas station. When the driver came out, he had on a Mariners’ baseball cap, covering long, stringy blond hair. Suspecting this might be the same person, Troy ran the license plate number—and discovered that the Jeep had been reported stolen. He followed the man and arrested him without incident. It later turned out that this man was responsible for a series of break-ins all around Cedar Cove. The best part of the story was that the majority of valuables had been recovered.

At his question, Faith hesitated. “I’m not sure this means anything,” she said.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Okay.” A vulnerable look came over her. “I have a feeling that the person who broke into the house has been back.”

Without revealing any outward sign of alarm, Troy asked, “What makes you say that?”

Faith stood and walked over to the kitchen sink and pointed out the window. “There was graffiti on the back of the garage.”

“Show me,” he said abruptly.

“I painted over it the next day… . The words were ugly and I didn’t want my grandchildren to see them… . Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Show me, anyway.”

Faith grabbed a coat from the peg by the back door and led him outside. He shivered in the January cold as he followed Faith to the far side of the garage. He could see the fresh layer of white paint. “Although it might be embarrassing, tell me exactly what the message said.”

Faith stared down at her feet and told him. She was right; they were ugly words. He wished she’d told him about this earlier, since it might have yielded evidence. Now, however, it was too late.

Troy frowned. “You think whoever was responsible for the break-in came back and did this?” It was definitely a reasonable assumption.

Faith nodded. “The other night … I woke up and heard noises. At first I was too terrified to move. I was afraid they were inside the house. It took me a few minutes to realize the sound came from the garage.” She was obviously making an effort to control her voice, but despite that it started to tremble.

“You should’ve called 9-1-1,” he said urgently.

“I know … I wish I had. Oh, Troy, I’ve been so scared.”

Troy couldn’t bear to see Faith upset. Instinctively he slipped his arms around her—and she willingly moved into his embrace. He felt her shudder and his hold tightened. He wanted to reassure her that he’d do whatever he could to prevent anything like this from happening again.