Page 32 of Crossing Lines

The static stopped.

“I don’t understand why she needs to summon us on that thing to see if we are reachable. Why can’t she just call or message us/ Seems like an extra step,” Sam said. “I might have to disable this thing. It’s annoying.”

“I think she just likes using it.”

Jo’s phone rang with Reese’s call, and she put her on speaker.

“What have you got?” Jo asked.

“Wyatt managed to get something on the boyfriend. Ricky Webster. He was a person of interest in a missing persons case a few years back.”

Jo glanced at Sam. “Sounds like we better check him out.”

“I’ve got an address. He lives in a house owned by Hazel Webster, eighty-six Mountainside Road.”

“That’s only about ten minutes away. We’re heading over there right now.”

Chapter Twenty

Beryl took one of her grandmother’s green Depression glass plates from the cabinet and arranged the cream horns on it. As a kid, she’d loved these plates with their fanciful etched designs. Things had changed a lot since then. These days, she had too many things on her mind to care about fond childhood memories or what plates she used for pastries.

She brought the plate over to the table where Robert was sitting, his gaze fixated on the birds at the feeder.

He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world as he watched the birds flit around the three feeders that sat in the large yard of her parents’ estate. She followed his gaze. A bright-yellow goldfinch flew from the tall oak to the feeder. A tufted titmouse clung to a bag of suet, the gray tuft on top of his head bobbing as he pecked for seeds. A ruby-throated hummingbird hovered around a nectar feeder, its iridescent feathers gleaming in the sun. The scene was peaceful. She should probably watch birds more. She could use some peace right now.

Robert didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes had a blank look, as if outwardly he was looking at the birds, but inside, something else was going on.

She hadn’t lied to Sam about her bother getting better. He was. But in spurts. He seemed to fog up and then come alert. He’d been coming alert more and more, and she knew this was a good sign. She’d been down this path with him before. As the medication for his mental disorder got adjusted, he would eventually get back to his old self.

Prior to this recent breakdown, he’d been fine for years, but when their father had died last year, the grief had been too much. He’d gone off his medication and had a setback. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he came back and could take the reins at Mervale again. She needed all her time to run Thorne Enterprises now that Lucas was in jail.

The thought made her stomach clench. She couldn’t risk Lucas getting out. That would ruin everything she’d worked so hard for. Why was her uncle trying to get the murder charges dropped? Maybe Robert knew. He’d been close to Uncle Charlie and had even idolized him at one time.

Forcing a smile, she slid the plate right in front of Robert. “I got your favorite cream horns from the Black Cat Café.”

Robert turned from the window, his eyes clearing as they focused on her. He smiled that same old smile she remembered from better times.

“Thanks. I do love these things.” He reached for one and took a bite off the end.

“Are you feeling better?” Beryl couldn’t keep the hopeful tone out of her voice.

“Much. A little tired but getting back to my old self.”

“That’s great.” She cut her cream horn in half and started from the middle.

After he chewed in silence for a few beats, she nodded toward the outdoors. “It’s a nice day. Good day for golf.”

Robert smiled. “Yeah, it would be. I haven’t played in ages.”

Beryl knew that because he used to play with Lucas, and Lucas hadn’t played in years, either. “I know Lucas got too busy with Thorne Enterprises, but you used to play with Uncle Charlie, too, didn’t you?”

“A few times. But not for years. He never stays in town long enough.”

Beryl took another bite, savoring the cream filling. “Has he been over lately asking about golf?”

Robert frowned. “Golf? No.”

“Has he been here recently?” Beryl asked.

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