Her First Mistake Carey Baldwin (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📖

What? After dinner she’d brushed her teeth and gargled and the very, very faint scent of Listerine still hung in the air from where she’d spilled some in the sink. He must have the nose of a bloodhound. She jumped up and closed the door to the en suite bath. “No. I think that’s my mouthwash.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that Isaiah, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, has a bit of a problem. He drinks too much, and then he tries to cover it up with mouthwash, so I’m conditioned to be suspicious. I love my son, but I hate that he’s weak.”

“My mother was an alcoholic.” She pulled her chin up.

“I just keep putting my foot in it, don’t I? Sorry again. I don’t judge you by your mother.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Mr. Cooper—”

He lifted a hand. “We agreed, Mia. Remember?”

“Baxter, then. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity to be here—to help out. The room is beautiful.” She stopped short of asking if there was something else he wanted. That would be rude. But she longed for sleep, and she’d promised Alma they’d get an early start on the thank you notes tomorrow.

“You’re probably tired. I just stopped in to make sure you had everything, and to say a proper thank you for helping out. In fact, I can’t help wondering if this is too much to ask. You shouldn’t feel obligated. I’m sure you have better options.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Do you mind my asking why you fought with your aunt? I don’t mean to intrude, but if I can help with anything, I’d be happy to.”

“It’s nothing. I’m sure we’ll get past it.” She wasn’t about to tell him that her aunt put a tracking device on her car. Especially when she didn’t know, with one hundred percent certainty, that her aunt was the culprit. “But thanks.”

“All right.” He got to his feet and went to the door, then turned and looked at her, his eyes glistening like he might cry.

“Is everything okay?” What a thing to say when his daughter was missing.

He looked down, as if to compose himself. “How old are you, Mia?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Same age as Celeste,” he said, his tone wistful.

“I thought we were similar in age.”

“Similar in other ways, too.” He sighed. “Good listeners. My wife likes you, Mia. She’s been so depressed, so overwhelmed, and the only time I’ve seen her laugh since Celeste… what I’m getting at is that you make Alma smile, and Alma makes me smile.” He reached his hand out and rested it on her shoulder. “Do you mind if I tell you something about Alma and me?”

“Please,” she said.

“The first time I met her, she was wearing a cream-colored blouse with a round collar and blue slacks. Her shoes were brown—they didn’t match her purse. It was red. Her hair was swept up on one side with a barrette. Ladies used to wear those back in the day. Anyway, I caught Alma’s eye from across a crowded room—don’t worry, I promise I’m not going to break into song—but the first time I saw her, I knew she’d be the love of my life.” His voice was shaking, and he paused a few beats. “I’ve traveled the world, Mia, and I’ve been lost a time or two, but Alma is my compass. She’s the one who makes my life worthwhile. Sometimes, in my business dealings, I can be ruthless, and I wonder if I even have a heart. But then I think of Alma, and I know that I do, because if I ever lost her, it would break into a million pieces. I want you to know I’ll do anything to protect my wife—give anything.”

Mia could hardly breathe from the way he’d just poured his heart out.

And then, his face flushed as if he thought he might have revealed too much. “You’re sure you don’t need Isaiah to help you move anything?”

“No…” She hesitated. All she had left of her mother was still at Aunt Misty’s. “There is one thing he could help me bring over. Not for the storage shed, though. If you really don’t mind, I think this room is large enough for my mother’s hope chest.”

Thirty-Two

Sunday

To Mia, Alma seemed like a different person. Unlike yesterday, she’d combed and coiffed and dressed herself in a neatly pressed blouse and slacks, the satin slippers on her feet the only indication she wasn’t headed for a luncheon with friends or a casual committee meeting. No more frenzied gestures. No more run-on sentences. The contrast was so great it made Mia consider that Alma’s agitated demeanor the day before might’ve been due to more than an absence of sleep, though she wasn’t sure what else it would’ve been.

Since 7 a.m., not bothering with breakfast, Mia and Alma had been cloistered in Alma’s study, going through mail. Baxter had been right to insist that Mia prescreen. Most of the letters were supportive, sending thoughts and prayers for Celeste’s safe return, offers of assistance, and in some cases, heart-wrenching tales of someone’s personal tragedy and how she’d coped. But scattered among these were horrible, horrible notes. Some speculated family members had done Celeste in—Isaiah was a favorite suspect, but all the Coopers, including Alma, had their accusers. Some contained graphic descriptions of what predators do to their victims, suggesting Celeste might have been dismembered, buried alive, or held as a sex slave in a moldy dungeon. These latter missives, Mia handled with gloves and set aside for Detective Samuels to examine, not knowing if they might become relevant at some point in the investigation.

As for the well-wishers, Mia was supposed to sort them into stacks for generic thank yous, which she would take care of, and those warranting personal replies, which Alma, herself, would compose. The problem was Alma refused to relinquish any of the notes for generic responses, and so, eventually, Mia relented and took over the task of addressing and stamping all the