Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Read online

  I followed my uncle through the poorly lit parking structure. With his back to me, I couldn’t see his face. His words echoed when he spoke. “Well, if you want a job, I’ve been planning on hiring someone to help me in my bookstore. You can have that job if you want it.”

  Instantly wary, I began weighing his offer in my mind, wanting to make sure this was a genuine deal. “What kind of work would I do?” I climbed into his Oldsmobile and fished around for a seatbelt. I noticed a car freshener, the kind shaped like a pine tree, hanging from the rearview mirror, as well as a rosary.

  “A lot of different things,” my uncle said, easing the car out of its parking place. “But I’m warning you, the work can get tedious.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I buy and sell used books. There’s a lot of material to keep track of, boxes to sort through, books to shelve, customers to take care of . . . That sort of thing. The store is open six days a week, nine to five.”

  It sounded like an easy job—better than flipping greasy burgers—but I still had to consider the most important detail. I darted a glance at my uncle, who appeared to be intent on driving. “How much would you pay me?”

  “I’ll start you at five an hour.”

  Considering the type of work, that sounded reasonable. And considering five dollars was probably worth a lot more in Wisconsin than in California, I figured I wouldn’t get a better offer. This might be my only chance. Finding another job would take time, valuable time, and other teenagers were probably already staking out summer jobs—of which I didn’t expect there to be an abundance in Lorens.

  “You don’t have to work every day,” my uncle continued. “You can pick your own schedule. You’ll want some time to have fun, too.”

  I tuned his words out. Quickly calculating in my head, I realized that if I accepted the job and worked steadily, I could be back in California in less than a month.

  “I’ll take it,” I said. “I want to start as soon as possible and I want to work every day.”

  “Except Sundays,” my uncle added.

  Our conversation ended there. I settled back for the ride, not caring that my uncle was probably disappointed by my cold attitude. I closed my eyes and that made the silence more comfortable. The air freshener fragrance and the drone of the car soon put me to sleep, so that when we arrived in Lorens I had no idea how long it had taken us to get there.

  I shivered when I stepped out of the car, and I was still shivering two minutes later, inside the house. I was too groggy to see my surroundings. All I wanted to do was snuggle up in bed. My uncle, apparently concerned I might be hungry, offered me some cold leftover pizza.

  “Uh—no thanks. Not hungry.” And even if I was, it wouldn’t be for cold pizza, I thought with disgust. I asked where my room was, and he told me it was upstairs, first door on the right.

  “Let me take your luggage and I’ll show you to it.”

  “Don’t bother,” I told him. “I’ll find it.”

  Heaving two suitcases, I climbed the flight of creaky stairs alone. Somehow managing to trip on the edge of the carpet at the entrance to my room, I almost dropped the suitcases on my toes. But when I spotted the bed, I forgot to be annoyed. It stood against the wall, spread with a bright patchwork quilt and looking ridiculously cozy, like something out of Little House on the Prairie. I went over to it. Heat from a floor register wafted into the room, and I took my sandals off and let the warmth caress my feet. The rest of my body shivered as I got ready for bed.

  Moments later, I pulled the crisp sheets over my head and snuggled into a cocoon. As I drifted off to sleep, a clean, fresh scent filtered into my nostrils. The detergent . . . clean sheets, I thought, my mind relaxing. Mmmm . . . smells like flowers, like lilacs . . . lilacs . . . ?

  * * *

  I awoke the next morning to loud knocking on my door.

  “Go away,” I moaned. It couldn’t be morning already; I’d only just fallen asleep.

  “Robin? Are you awake? It’s seven-thirty. Birds are singing. Time to get up for work.”

  Suddenly I remembered where I was. I moaned again, and this time I smacked my pillow with my fist. I hadn’t realized I would have to work so soon. But then, I was the one who had insisted on starting right away.

  “Are you sure you want to work?” my uncle called through the door, apparently reading my thoughts. “There’s no reason you have to start today. You can sleep in if you want to.”

  Yeah, but you’ve already woken me up, I grumbled silently. I forced myself to sit up and open my eyes. “I’m up, I’m up,” I called, disentangling myself from the sheets and trying not to sound too nasty. “I’ll be ready.”

  How dreary these next few weeks are going to be, I thought, shivering as I pulled on my socks. But I was determined to stick it out so as soon as I turned eighteen I could go home.

  Ten o’clock that morning found me reminding myself of my resolution as I sat cross-legged among ragged cardboard boxes and piles of dusty books. Why had I assumed this would be an easy job? I’d been trying to sort through books, divide them into categorized piles for the last hour, and I wasn’t getting anywhere. Besides that, I felt as if I were coated in dust. Every so often, I let out a good sneeze just to let my uncle know how I felt about being stuck away in this dingy corner with tall dark shelves surrounding me. I felt like a prisoner.

  Well, I should be used to that feeling by now. Something squeezed at my heart, and I knew what was coming. Closing my eyes, I blew the dust off another book. Resentment came, overpowering me as I recalled times when my friends went places by themselves, and I couldn’t go because my mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight.

  “Robin can’t go anywhere without her mommy,” the other kids would jeer before heading off to a friend’s house, the park, or the mall.

  It got harder as I got older. It’s difficult to keep friends—let alone make new ones—when your mother is so protective, needing to know exactly where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with, every second. I’m sure she would have home-schooled me if she hadn’t had to work. At times I thought I would go crazy.

  When I turned thirteen, my mother had made “the rule”: no dating until I was eighteen. As much as I resented this rule, she needn’t have bothered making it. No one wanted to date me. I used to wonder if it was my looks. But my teeth were even and straight (and after enduring braces for three long years, they’d better be), so there was nothing wrong with my smile. My nose was sprinkled lightly with freckles, but you could hardly notice them unless I’d been out in the sun too long. And I’d heard my eyes called hazel, so that’s what I’ll say they are, even though they’re just brown.

  I knew I was nothing special to look at, but I’d seen plenty of guys going with girls no better looking than me. It didn’t take me long to figure out what the matter was, and I didn’t blame the guys. I blamed my mother. She scared them off. I wasn’t just tied to her apron strings, I was strangled by them. My mother was dead now, and I knew I should forgive her, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

  A jingling noise brought me back to the present, to my dreary corner, and it took me a moment to realize someone had entered the store. The first customer of the day. I crept out from my corner, curious as to what kind of person would bother to stop here. I figured it was probably an old lady with nothing better to do.

  Book still in hand, I settled myself in front of the shelves. From here I had a view of my uncle. He had been bent over the front desk doing paperwork—whatever that meant—but now he looked up as the customer entered.

  I couldn’t see the customer yet, so I watched my uncle’s face. At first I thought he was going to smile, but his lips didn’t follow through. Instead he stared, his eyes seeming to dilate into saucers behind his glasses. I heard the customer’s footsteps coming closer, making a deliberate slap, slap sound on the wooden floor.

  With surprise I saw the person was a man, not a woman; and he was young, not old (so my guess couldn’t have been more wrong). I wondered w
hy he was here. I could tell my uncle was wondering the same thing.

  The man stopped at my uncle’s desk and stood sideways to me. My uncle finally spoke. “Can I help you with something?” His voice was so low I could hardly make out his words.

  Reaching into his back pocket, the man drew out his wallet and produced some sort of card. When he spoke, I could easily hear his words. “I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Justin Landers, a reporter for the Lorens Daily Journal.”

  Feeling secure in the knowledge that neither of the men noticed me in the shadows, I continued listening. “I’m searching for a local interest story, and I wanted to know if you’d be willing to let me do a feature on your bookstore. Something on the history of the place and that sort of thing—”

  “No,” my uncle cut in.

  The reporter continued talking. “Folks are always interested in stories with a local flavor, and my job’s to give them what they want. But there’s something in it for you, too. It’ll bring your store to people’s attention. That means more customers and—”

  “I said no.” My uncle did not raise his voice, but though I hardly knew him, I detected a warning note. I sucked in my breath.

  The reporter glanced my way. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, just lifted his eyebrows in an amused sort of way. I attempted a smile, and he returned it. Then for some stupid reason, I looked down at the book in my hands.

  In my mind, I could still see his face. It wasn’t handsome—at least not like you would find in some teen magazine—but there was something about it—some quality that made my heart skip a beat—something about the angular profile, dark hair and eyebrows and bold eyes, that made me look again. I found myself wishing I could see what color his eyes were, but the lighting in the bookstore wasn’t bright enough. Besides, he was too far away. And no longer looking at me.

  The men continued talking, and I returned to the book in my hands, pretending to read it, though I was really listening to every word they said.

  “It’s my decision to make, correct?” my uncle asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, “I’ve decided I’m not interested.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, and I’m sorry to have bothered you.” I felt the reporter glance my way again, but I kept my eyes glued to the book. To this day, I don’t know what the book was about.

  “I should have called first, but I guess I was so sure you’d jump at a chance like this. Most people do.”

  “I’m not most people,” my uncle said calmly, tapping a pen against his desk, “and I’m quite happy with the business I have.”

  I frowned. What business? I knew it wasn’t my place to say anything, but I didn’t understand my uncle’s attitude. His store was about as desperate for business as I was for a ticket home.

  “I wish I knew why you’re so against the idea,” the reporter said.

  There was an uncomfortable pause, and I got the strange feeling that if I weren’t there listening, my uncle would have had a lot more to say. As it was, he only glanced at me before returning his attention to the reporter. “Odd that you should come here today. I’ve had this bookstore for ages.”

  “Well, the older the better,” the reporter replied, a lift to his voice. “More of a history to the place.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  The discussion sounded innocent enough on the surface, but I sensed an undercurrent of hostility. I was half hoping for an argument to break out when my uncle walked to the door. The reporter followed him, yet I got the impression he wasn’t admitting defeat. When he spoke, there was confidence—almost defiance—in his voice. “If you’re sure you won’t change your mind—”

  “Quite sure.” My uncle opened the door.

  “Here’s my card—”

  “Quite sure,” my uncle repeated, not taking the card.

  “Then I guess I’m going to have to search elsewhere for a story.” The reporter glanced at me again, and this time I met his eyes. They were asking me something. But I couldn’t reply. I didn’t understand what they were asking, or why a sense of urgency swept over me. “So long,” he said, and I wanted to call, “Wait!”—but he was already gone.

  My uncle remained by the closed door, a somber expression clouding his face. Eventually he turned, and his eyes met mine. I sensed a challenge.

  I don’t know what came over me. I leapt to my feet, dust flying and the book falling from my hands, and marched to the front of the store.

  “Why wouldn’t you let him do the story?” Something warned me I was using this outburst unfairly to take my accumulated anger and grief from the past stressful week out on someone—anyone—but I couldn’t stop myself. “I’d think if you cared anything at all about this stupid store you—you’d jump at the chance he just offered you!” I realized too late that I’d stumbled into the same trite phrase the reporter had used.

  “It’s not the story he’s after,” my uncle said quietly.

  I opened my mouth, ready to make a curt reply, then shut it. How could I reply to something I didn’t understand?

  My uncle didn’t offer to elaborate, however, and suddenly I didn’t care what he meant; I was sick of trying to understand people. No one ever gave me answers to anything. At that moment, I felt about as significant as an ant on the floor, and all I wanted was to get away, out from under people’s big trampling feet.

  The door was right in front of me. I took one glance at my uncle—now back at his desk, scratching away with pen on paper—then sent the bells jingling madly as I yanked open the door and made my escape.

  Chapter Two

  I took a deep breath of fresh air and, contrary to popular belief, this did not help to calm me. I spotted a diner across the street and found myself thinking how hungry I was. Thinking about food when I was angry made me feel ridiculous, but I couldn’t help myself—I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. And since that was airline food, I wasn’t sure it counted.

  As I moved to step off the sidewalk, I caught sight of a man leaning comfortably against the next building, looking as if he hadn’t a thing to do. It was the reporter.

  I bit my lip. Obviously, he’d been standing there ever since he left the bookstore. I paused with one foot on the sidewalk, one foot on the road. Could he have overheard my outburst? I hoped not, because suddenly I realized how childish it would have sounded.

  At that moment, he turned and caught my eyes on him. His eyes worked like a magnet, pulling me in his direction. When he smiled, I got the feeling he’d been expecting me.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  “Hi.” Attempting to avoid an awkward silence, I said the first thing that came to mind. “I thought you’d be after another story by now.”

  I wished I had kept my mouth shut. The statement sounded terribly lame, like a line out of a corny detective movie. Then I wondered if he’d even heard me. I waited for him to speak, but he just stood there looking at me. Strangely. I became conscious of my beating heart as I tried to avoid his eyes. Maybe he sensed my uneasiness, because he finally shifted his gaze and answered.

  “It’s difficult to find anything interesting going on in a small town like this.” He squinted across the street. “But it’s my job to dig something up. Something hot but local—you can probably see why I’ve got problems.” He turned to face me again. “But don’t get me wrong—I like a challenge.”

  I scanned the quiet streets. A few cars were parked beside a cumbersome row of mismatched apartments. Not many people were outside. Across the street, a mother pushed a stroller past The Perfect Petal Florist Shop. One car drove by. A bearded man stepped into a comic shop. I realized that all the kids would be at school this time of day. I thought of the high schoolers, who probably had a prom coming up. Back home, my high school prom would be in a few days, then graduation. I was going to miss them both. Sure, I’d finished school, but in a very rushed, informal way; there would be no commencement ceremony for me. I sighed.

  “Something wrong?”
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br />   I practically jumped. Then I wanted to disappear. I couldn’t believe I’d done that—drifted off into my thoughts, forgetting he was standing there. This time I didn’t blame him for looking at me strangely.

  It took all my composure to answer without tripping over my words. “No—” I took a deep breath, thinking, Change the subject—“I don’t know why my uncle is so set against letting you write your story.”

  The reporter wasn’t staring anymore. Relieved, I told myself to stop being paranoid, that it’s perfectly normal for people to look at each other when they talk. I moved a little closer to where he stood so that my uncle wouldn’t see me if he happened to look out the front window.

  “So he’s your uncle, huh?” As the reporter leaned against the brick wall in that relaxed way of his, I could almost imagine him with a cigarette between his lips. It would suit him somehow. But I was glad he wasn’t smoking. I didn’t like the smell.

  “That’s right,” I replied, wondering if he cared or if he was just trying to be polite. I darted a look over my shoulder at the bookstore, almost expecting my uncle to emerge and drag me back inside, as my mother surely would have done if she’d caught me talking to a stranger. “I just started working for him. I used to live with my mother, but she died . . . I’m new in Lorens. I just got here last night—” I stopped, shocked to see he had pulled out a pocket notebook and was recording my words. And why had I been flooding my life story out to him anyway?

  “What are you doing?” I cried. “Why are you writing down what I’m saying?”

  “Don’t get alarmed,” he said, glancing at me and almost laughing. “You sound like Eliza Doolittle—”

  “What?” I took a step backward, beginning to think my mother’s rule about talking to strangers was a good one.

  “You know—in Pygmalion? By Shaw?”

  “Who?”

  “George Bernard Shaw. He wrote Pygmalion. Doesn’t register, huh? You’ve never read the play? Not even in school?” He frowned. “I’m surprised. It’s a good story . . . My Fair Lady is based on it—surely you’ve seen that? Well, anyway, there’s this guy standing on a street corner recording what everyone’s saying and—” He stopped. “Heck, your uncle’s got a bookstore—go find a copy and read it.”