Page 11 of My Fallen Saint

She looks like the kind of woman I’d want to know, but I’m completely clueless as to who she is.

I’m about to admit defeat, when everything suddenly snaps into place. “Mrs. Danvers?”

Her smile is like sunshine. “I was hoping you’d recognize me.” She holds out her arms, and I hurry to her, allowing myself to be folded into her embrace. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” I say truthfully, because she’s one of the people I missed when I left Laguna Cortez.

My father always said to never judge anyone on a first impression—but my first impression of Tamra Danvers had been of a scary stoic lady, thanks to my dad’s love of the movie Rebecca, which featured the crazy Mrs. Danvers. And it had taken me a while to warm to her, but once I had, I was in all the way.

“I remember when you were helping me write community bulletins. And now you’re writing for a magazine like The Spall. Is it too corny for me to say I’m proud of you?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. From you, that means a lot.” Tamra Danvers started working as the community liaison at the police station about the time I started my junior year. I was interning there during my off-period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, already thinking I wanted to be a cop like my father.

When she told me that her husband died in a military operation, I’d felt an unexpected jolt of connection. We’d both lost people we loved unexpectedly.

She quit about a month after Alex bolted. She didn’t leave without a trace, though. She’d moved to Phoenix to take care of an elderly parent. I’d missed her, but by then I had one foot out of town, too.

“It’s so great seeing you, but why are you here?” I wince, belatedly realizing the question is probably too blunt to be polite.

“To apologize to you for the scheduling snafu. I only noticed you on his schedule this morning—my intern booked the original interview. And when Mr. Saint’s schedule changed, I should have called you. But to be honest, I selfishly wanted to see you myself.”

“I’m glad you did,” I say. “But I meant why are you here.”

“Oh! I missed this town. I’ve been the publicity director for the foundation since Mr. Saint launched it.”

I nod. Roger had scheduled the interview for me. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have recognized her name.

“Let me check with Mr. Saint’s assistant about rescheduling your interview for next week,” she says now. “I assume you’re staying in town for a while?”

“I am. And I’d also like to book some time in the research room. Maybe I could do both tomorrow?” One of the major assets of the Devlin Saint Foundation is its library of research material about all aspects of the causes it supports and the horrors it fights. I’m eager to look at documentation regarding the Nevada human trafficking ring that will be at the heart of my article.

“I’m afraid not. We have a gala tomorrow, so we’re closed to the public to prepare.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Officially, we’re out of tickets. But…” She trails off, then opens her leather folio. “Contraband,” she says, handing me one. “We hold a few back for VIPs.”

“Ooh. I’ll take it. So long as you won’t get in trouble.”

“Not a chance,” she says. “But even if I did, it would be worth it.” Then she winks. And try as I might, I don’t understand the joke.

If I hadn’t seen Tamra, I’d be in a crappy mood for having the interview canceled. But I not only scored a ticket to the gala—which is an event I can easily work into the article—but I also connected with a friend. Someone who, like Brandy, is one of the few good things I associate with my years in Laguna Cortez.

Besides, this way I have all day tomorrow to focus on Peter instead of being camped out in front of my laptop working on the Saint story. And I have the rest of this afternoon to enjoy the crisp fall air. Summers in California are delicious, but fall here has always been my favorite time of year. The town is a little sleepier, the sunsets are incredible, and there are fewer tourists walking the beaches.

In fact…

I pause in the process of heading back to the parking lot and Shelby, then turn to follow a stone path toward the rear of the building. Though I’ve never been to the foundation before, I’ve done my research, and I’m following a map in my mind, filling in the small details so that in the end, I’ll know this place as intimately as anyone who works here.

The back of the foundation faces the Pacific, and that wall is made entirely from folding panels of glass that open onto a huge, covered flagstone patio, the focal point of which is a stunning fire pit. Beyond the patio is a landscaped garden filled with walking paths that meander down toward the beach.

I cross the patio, clearing the south side of the building. To my left, I now have a straight-on view of the SeaSide Inn, the small hotel on the other side of PCH that has been a fixture of Laguna Cortez for as long as I can remember.

At one point, my uncle actually owned it, along with a few others around town. I even helped decorate the office, in so much as going to Home Depot and looking at paint chips counts as helping. Or decorating.

I turn the other direction so that I’m facing the ocean. The tidal pools are only a short walk away, and I take a step that direction, then stop. The tidal pools had been our place, mine and Alex’s, and I’d cherished that time among the clusters of porous gray rocks that rose out of the long, empty stretches of sand. It was the place he’d first kissed me. A place I always felt safe.

More, it’s a place I haven’t been back to since he left.

I’m not sure if it’s in defiance of or protection for those memories, but I can’t bring myself to go back now. Instead, I turn once again toward the highway and start walking forward, the south wall of the foundation on my left.

From this perspective, I can see the fourth floor balcony, and I know from the article I read about the building’s architecture that I’m looking at Saint’s private office. Not that I can see much. From where I’m standing, my view is of the underside, a hint of the balcony’s glass barrier, and only the tiniest glimpse of the glass door leading inside. Even so, I pause for a moment, imagining that Saint’s standing at his window, and that he’s watching me, too.

I frown, wondering what came up that forced him to postpone our interview. Did he leave town? Or is he right now in his office? Hell, maybe he really is at his window looking down at me.

There’s no reason he would be, of course, and so I continue walking the length of the building so I can circle around and get back to Shelby.

But with each step, that tingling sensation becomes stronger, the uncanny sense of being watched. It’s not something I can ignore. Hell, I was raised by a cop and was on the job for two years myself before going back to school.

Mid-stride and without warning, I turn and look behind me. At the ocean. The path to the tidal pool. And the balcony off of Devlin Saint’s office.

That’s where he’s standing.

A man lost in the shadows cast by the building that shelters him.

It has to be Saint.

And he’s watching me.