Kathleen Long - When a Stranger Calls

He turned sharply on one heel, stepping toward the elevator, determined to have the last word. For once.

“My niece fell, Mr. Alessandro.” Bell’s words stopped Matt cold. “The shock of seeing her mother’s ID was too much for her. If I find out you’re behind any of this, you’ll pay.”

“How can you—” Matt spun to argue, but Bell had disappeared back into the treatment room.

Fell. Could the man honestly believe that? Lindsey Tarlington had been certain she’d been shoved when Matt found her, and he saw no reason to doubt her story.

So why did Frank Bell? Maybe believing his niece complicated Bell’s plans for the governor’s mansion.

Matt punched the elevator button, hot emotion rolling through his veins. He believed Lindsey’s story, and he planned to tell her so—in person.

Her attack might present just the opportunity he needed to begin earning the woman’s trust.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, LINDSEY stood in the middle of the attic studio, deserted since the night her mother had vanished. She closed her eyes, trying to sense her mother’s presence, wishing fervently for a sign or a clue as to what had happened all those years ago.

Lindsey had been discharged from the hospital just a few hours earlier, sent on her way with a mild concussion, nothing more. The doctor had agreed with the police that her pounding head was consistent with an accidental fall.

A disbelieving laugh burst from her lips. Fall, her foot. There was no way she’d confuse being shoved with falling.

Even more discouraging had been Uncle Frank’s phone call. The photocopy of her mother’s license had been made on paper found in any office supply store. There had been nothing distinguishing to provide a clue. Nothing. Not a single fingerprint or fiber.

The house below her creaked, and she flinched, even though she’d checked and double-checked every door and window before she’d pulled down the old attic steps and made the climb up to what had been her mother’s sanctuary.

Lindsey hadn’t been up here in recent years. Any time the urge had sneaked into her mind, she’d ignored it, choosing instead to pretend the space didn’t exist. Sometimes avoidance was easier to face than the truth.

She opened her eyes to take in the sight. The attic remained as it had always been, a small art studio, lovingly filled with her mother’s work and favorite things.

Lindsey stepped gingerly toward the easel that stood off to one corner. She fingered the wooden shape, draped in an old sheet, then stood back, watching dust particles dance in the beam of sunlight forcing its way through the streaked attic window.

One thing had never made sense to her, even as a child. If, as the prosecution had claimed, her mother had been in love with Tony Alessandro and her murder the result of a lover’s quarrel gone horribly wrong, wouldn’t there have been some trace of the affair here in her mother’s retreat? Wouldn’t there have been a letter? A photo? Something. Anything.

Lindsey sank to the plank wood flooring. She’d searched this space relentlessly as a teen, until her father had begged her to stop. The pain of her mother’s death and supposed infidelity had been more than the once-vibrant man could endure.

He’d never been the same after that stormy night.

When he died four years later in a one-car crash, during a late spring thunderstorm, the residents of Haddontowne had murmured suicide.

Emotional pain engulfed her, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs. How could her father have made that choice? How could he have left her alone?

The doorbell rang, and Lindsey swore softly under her breath. She stood quickly and her vision swam, an unwanted reminder of the blow she’d taken to her head. She glared at the attic steps.

Climbing up the unsteady staircase had been a challenge. Climbing down in time to catch the door would probably be the death of her. A chill tap-danced up her spine, and she shuddered.

She had to stop expecting the worst.

Carefully, she set one foot and then the other on the ancient rungs, the springs and hinges squeaking and groaning as she descended. When she hit the hallway floor, she hurried toward the downstairs, ignoring the pounding in her skull and leaving the attic stairs down behind her.

It would be easier to leave them unfolded than to wrestle them up and down each time she went searching. And she had every intention of searching her mother’s studio again.

Just as it had when she’d been younger, her gut told her something lay hidden in that space—something that would unlock the mystery of exactly how her mother had died.

“Who is it?” she called out as she hit the foyer.

“Matt Alessandro.”

Lindsey’s breath caught. She stopped in her tracks, unsure whether or not to open the door and unable to coax additional words from her mouth.

“I came to see how you were.” Matt’s deep voice rumbled through the heavy old wood. “I was worried about you.”

Disbelief fired in her belly as she reached for the knob. “You were worried about—” The sight of him froze her last word on her lips.

Genuine concern painted his features. His gaze bore through her, kicking an unwanted curiosity to life. Soft creases lined his forehead as he raked one strong hand through his too-long hair. He straightened from where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb.

“Took you a while to answer. You okay?”

The soft timbre of his question reached inside her, testing emotional walls that hadn’t been breached in years. The man seemed sincere. Was it possible?

“You could have called.” Lindsey stood in the doorway, unable to will her feet to step aside to let him in. Perhaps it was best to keep him outside on the step, where a stranger belonged.

“How’s your head?” He stepped toward her, and Lindsey instinctively backed up.

“They think I fell.”

His eyes narrowed, now appearing more brown than green. “I think you believe that as much as I do.”

Lindsey swallowed, forcing her focus away from the expression that made him appear human rather than a monster’s son.

“May I come in?” His tone dropped low, sending a ripple of trepidation across her shoulders.

She hesitated, zeroing in on the folder he hugged between his elbow and side. “What’s that?”

“Something you need to see.”

“Listen, if you still want to hire me—”

Alessandro shook his head. “I want to help you.”

Confusion swirled in the pit of Lindsey’s stomach. She raised her gaze to his, only to find herself pinned by the intensity of his stare. “Can I trust you, Mr. Alessandro?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation.

The protective lock deep inside her eased ever so slightly. She took a step backward, pulling the door wide and tipping her head toward the foyer. Alessandro followed the nonverbal invitation, stepping over the threshold.

“Thanks for your help yesterday.” The hesitant tone of Lindsey’s voice surprised her.

Yet, it wasn’t intimidation Matt’s presence had sparked to life, but rather alertness. The sounds and scents surrounding Lindsey had become more vibrant, more vital. Perhaps the sensation could be attributed to her defense mechanisms kicking into high gear. Surely that explained the way his nearness made her feel.

Matt held out the folder, the flap secured by a worn rubber band. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” He studied her then, as if memorizing each detail of her face. He lifted his hand toward the bruise that marred the side of her face. “You were lucky.”

Heat flushed Lindsey’s neck, and she pointed to the folder to deflect his focus. “What’s this?”

“Case file.” He dropped his hand. “Buddy of mine made copies for me a while back. Not exactly on the up-and-up, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to your uncle.”

Excitement swelled in her core. “My mother’s case file?”

Matt nodded, pressing the folder into her hands.

She let it sit on top of her palms momentarily, before curling her fingers around the edges. “I’ve asked for this, but my uncle told me it had disappeared.”

Matt’s tone softened. “He probably wanted to spare you, but I thought you deserved to see it.”

She lifted her focus to his, again jolted by the intensity of his scrutiny. “Why?”

“Because the clue to whatever really happened to your mother is somewhere in here. I’ve been over this too many times to count, but you…” He looked down at the folder then retrained his stare on Lindsey.

Her stomach somersaulted, dread and anticipation tangling. The documentation represented the thing she wanted—yet feared—the most. The full story behind that awful night.

“You may be able to spot something here that no one else has. And someone’s waited until now to pull you in.” Matt shrugged again. “Maybe together we can make some sense of this.”

Lindsey swallowed, battling her desire to trust him and the reality of his identity. She had no doubt Matt’s father had killed her mother, but she’d never understood why. She’d never believed her mother had been involved with Tony Alessandro as anything other than a coworker.

“A jury convicted your father, Mr. Alessandro. I can understand your interest in trying to find a way to prove him innocent, but I harbor no doubts. I know my mother’s killer went to prison and died there.”

Pain flashed across Matt’s features as he patted the folder. “Evaluate this. Then make your decision. That’s all I ask.” He turned toward the door, hesitating before he headed outside. “My family was destroyed unjustly, Ms. Tarlington. Someone out there knows something. You know it, and I know it. I intend to find out what that something is.”

Lindsey fought down the anguish clawing its way out from the recesses of her mind. “Your father murdered my mother.” She spoke the words softly, flatly, as if the slightest exertion might cause more pain than she could handle. She straightened, the strength of her certainty flooding through her. “I don’t lie awake at night worrying about how that might have affected your family.”

Matt pressed his lips tightly together before speaking. “I don’t expect you to believe me now, but I know your reputation. You like the whole story. You evaluate each of your cases from every possible angle. Am I right?”

Lindsey nodded, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Matt pointed toward the folder. “Your mother deserves that same attention. Her real killer’s still out there.”

Lindsey said nothing as he stepped from the brick steps to the center walk. His suit jacket fit trim across his broad shoulders, narrowing down to his slender hips. Confidence emanated from each solid footstep he took, shoulders squared, head held high. He looked nothing like she imagined the son of a murderer would.

She tightened her grip on the folder. Did she want to know what lay inside? A calm resignation whispered through her. She did, and Matt Alesssandro knew it.

She felt compelled to believe him when she wanted to do anything but. The reality was that his doubts and questions tapped into her own need to know the truth.

“Did you see the ring?” she called out suddenly, her voice contrasting sharply against the quiet of the neighborhood.

Matt stopped partway down the walk, turning to face her. The play of the late-day sun against the angles of his face momentarily stole her breath. His chestnut hair fluttered in the breeze. “What ring?”

“I found it before I was hit.” Hope coursed through her. “It was in a plain, white envelope. My mother’s ring.”