"There's the photo."

"It's more than thirty years old. And the father probably didn't even know about the child."

"But maybe he did. Maybe his family took it."

"Then your mother would have probably known about it."

"I thought you were on my side." She heard herself and cringed. She sounded like a tired, whiney child.

"I am," he said. "But let me handle it from now on. Let me investigate the Starnes case. I can't do that if you are going off on your own. Let it be known you've given up."

"And how do I do that?"

"Stop asking questions."

She looked up at him. "What about you?"

"I'll keep investigating. It's my case."

"You said you might be taken off it."

"Now that your father's death has been ruled a probable accidental hit-and-run, there's no reason to combine the cases."

"What if they come after you?"

"A cop? I doubt it. That's real trouble."

"My father should have been 'real trouble.'"

He didn't answer that observation. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"How can you investigate if you keep looking after me?" she persisted. She didn't like the direction of the conversation. She didn't like being sidelined. She didn't like trusting someone else. Particularly now when everyone she'd trusted before was turning out to be untrustworthy.

It would be a very long time before she believed anyone again. Even the man beside her. The man she had started to trust.

Now she wondered.

He had been nearby every time something had happened. He was part of a department that was trying to hide something. He'd encouraged her to find answers. Now he was steering her away.

She remembered that flicker of recognition she thought she saw as he'd looked at the photograph, yet he had not shared anything with her. From the beginning, she'd been the one giving information and he had been taking it.

And if he was not using her, then she was putting him in danger, just as she had put her father and Mrs. Starnes in jeopardy. How many more deaths could she have on her conscience?

Either way, she had to do what she had done in the past. Rely on herself.

She leaned against the car. "You can't do your job and mine, too."

He looked at her quizzically. "Is that a brush-off?"

"No. Someone is attacking people around me. Not me. They've tried to scare me, yes, but I'm alive."

"You don't think I can take care of myself?"

"I don't want you to be a target because of me."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Afraid?"

"Of course I'm afraid. I would be incredibly stupid not to be."

"I don't mean of what's happening around you. I mean what's happening between us."

She was silent.

He studied her face. "I'm not happy with it myself. I'm distracted when I should be sharp. I'm losing objectivity. That's not good for a detective."

"That's why we should separate."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way."

Darn those green eyes that always seem to see into her soul. She resented the invasion, even though she knew it was possible only because of the connection they had with each other. Had always had, though she'd tried to deny it.

"Ah, Meredith. Don't fight me," he said. He touched her chin with such gentleness and sweetness, she probably would have pledged him the moon and stars had he asked. Then he leaned down and kissed her, apparently oblivious to several pa.s.sersby.

When Gage finished his kiss, she was giddy with his taste, his scent. She caught a glimpse of people getting into a car, amused expressions on their faces.

She had just identified her father's body.

But perhaps that's why she needed the tenderness of his lips, the heat of his body. She'd been so cold since learning of her father's death.

She forced herself to step back. She had things she must do. "Please drive me home," she said. "I'm grateful but..."

"I don't want grat.i.tude, Meredith."

"What do you want?"

He looked her straight in the eyes. "d.a.m.ned if I know," he said with a smile. "Except I want to keep you in one piece."

"I like that priority."

"But you don't intend to let me do it?"

"I don't intend to let anyone else get hurt." She reached for the door handle. "And I have funeral arrangements to make and ..."

She closed her eyes at the prospect of the next few days.

He touched her cheek and she leaned her face against his palm for a fraction of a second.

She moved and broke the spell. "I have to go."

"I'll stay with you."

She shook her head. "I need some s.p.a.ce right now."

"I'll make other arrangements for your protection then," he said. His voice had lost the warm drawl and was clipped. She looked into his eyes and saw a flicker of something like hurt.

Better that, she told herself, than to have his death on her conscience as well as the others'.

Still, the chill had crawled back into her heart.

'BISBEE'.

Doug Menelo slammed down the phone in frustration. No record of an Elizabeth Baker.

She'd said she was from Chicago, but he had neither her address nor the name of her deceased husband. He hadn't realized until he started searching that she had never once mentioned the first name of her husband.

Still, he ran a check on her. There were any number of Elizabeth Bakers but none that fit what he knew about her. No traffic tickets in Illinois. No arrests.

He searched recent deaths in Illinois for a male with the last name of Baker. He found a number of them but none with a wife named Elizabeth.

He then turned to the driver's license bureau in Illinois. There were numerous Elizabeth Bakers, including ten in the Chicago area, and three with a birth date that would equate with hers. He found the addresses and called. All were at home.

He tried Arizona. She had not applied recently for an Arizona license, but she still had time to do that.

The lack of information only piqued his curiosity further.

He checked missing children bulletins, mainly custodial kidnappings again. Nothing in the past two months fit Liz and her son.

An overactive imagination on his part?

He looked at his watch. Four P.M.

He didn't usually force his company on women. He knew he was no matinee idol. But his gut was telling him something. He prided himself on being a good judge of character. And Elizabeth had a sweetness and shyness that couldn't be disguised or feigned. She was also afraid. He hadn't missed that, either.

He was a sucker for a damsel in distress. But he couldn't help unless he understood the reason for her fear.

He decided to try Marty and headed for Special Things.

Marty welcomed him. "Hi."

"Hi yourself."

This part was going to be more difficult. He had established a good relationship with most of the merchants. Marty was on the town council and one of his greatest supporters. She was also a firm believer in an individual's privacy. She had protected many of the town's more eccentric citizens when others wanted them invited to leave because they might annoy tourists.

She looked at him closely. "This isn't a social visit."

"Not exactly."

"And you're not happy about it."

"You didn't tell me you were psychic."

She grinned. "I don't tell you everything."

"What do you know about Liz?" he asked abruptly.

The smile left her face. "Not much. Only that I like her."

"I do, too."

"Then..."

"Has she said anything about her husband to you?"

"No."

"Would you tell me if she had?"

"No."

He smiled at that, but it didn't deter him. "She's afraid of something."

Marty didn't reply.

"She might need help."

"Then she'll ask for it."

"You're a hard woman, Marty."

"I'm an old softie and you know it."

He sighed. "I won't hurt her."

"You may not intend to."

"You're right."

"Have you been asking questions?"

He nodded. "But in such a way it shouldn't attract attention."

"Good."

"Keep an eye on her," he said.

"I will."

Frustrated, he went down the street to a restaurant, where he ordered two large pizzas. He looked at his watch. Hopefully, Liz and her son hadn't eaten yet.