02_The Hero Next Door by Irene Hannon

with the teacups.
    But after forty-five minutes, she’d given up. Even her garden hadn’t been able to soothe her. Nothing, she suspected, was going to restore order to her world except Brian’s departure. And that was still two and a half weeks away.
    Since coming back inside, she’d focused on the only thing she seemed to control at the present—her kitchen. She’d reorganized her tea rack. Folded linen napkins into precisesquares. Shaved milk chocolate into curls to garnish the white-chocolate cheesecake squares that were on tomorrow’s menu. She hadn’t heard a peep out of Brian.
    Now, at ten-thirty, he might be in bed. But she wouldn’t sleep a wink until she addressed the missing-money situation. Although she had no idea what she was supposed to do if he denied taking it.
    Hoping inspiration would strike once she confronted him, Heather ascended the stairs and headed down the hall toward his closed door. She took a deep breath, lifted her hand and rapped on the wood.
    “Brian…I need to talk to you.”
    No response.
    She wasn’t surprised.
    Straightening her shoulders, she rapped again. “Brian, I’m coming in. We need to talk.”
    Without waiting for permission, she opened the door and stepped into the room.
    On a peripheral level, she was aware he’d cleaned things up. The bed had been made, the floors swept, the area rug vacuumed.
    The problem was, it was too clean.
    And Brian was nowhere in sight.
    The bottom fell out of her stomach.
    “Brian?”
    Her raised voice echoed in the empty room. And reechoed in the hall, when she stepped out and tried again.
    Returning to his room, she opened the closet.
    His clothes had vanished.
    And his suitcase and backpack were gone, too.
    Her heart hammering, she ran down the steps and tried calling him again on the first floor, with the same results.
    A quick tour of the yard produced nothing, either.
    Doing her best to tamp down her rising panic, Heather tried to hold on to rational thought as she reached into the pocketof her jeans for her car keys, already in a search mode. Where could he be? What should she do? Who should she call?
    Her fingers encountered a slip of paper, and she pulled it out. A grocery receipt. J.C.’s—from the night he’d helped her fix her gate.
    Turning it over, she found his cell number scribbled on the other side.
    He’d said to phone him if anything came up with Brian, she recalled. Anytime.
    Although his offer had touched her, she’d never intended to take him up on it. Each encounter with him exposed her heart to too much risk.
    But he was a cop. And cops were good in emergencies.
    Perhaps he wouldn’t apply that term to a runaway teen on quiet Nantucket Island.
    But as far as Heather was concerned, it fit.
     
     
    At the jarring ring of his cell phone, J.C. froze with his arm halfway into the sleeve of his uniform shirt. He was used to late calls in Chicago; being a detective was a 24/7 job. But since beginning his leave, there had been no reason for anyone to call him after ten.
    Unless it was a family emergency.
    Maybe Marci was in trouble.
    Grabbing the phone, he punched the talk button. “Yes?”
    “J.C.?”
    It wasn’t Marci.
    “Heather?” He thought it was her, but the voice was so tentative and shaky, he wasn’t certain.
    “Yes. Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you this late. But Brian is missing.”
    He pushed his arm through the sleeve. “What do you mean by missing?”
    “He’s not in the house. His clothes are gone. And themoney I got out of the ATM this morning isn’t where I left it on the counter.” Her voice hitched on the last word.
    J.C. put the phone on speaker and set it on the dresser as he shrugged his shirt into position and rapidly buttoned it. “Okay, we’ll get this figured out. Do you have any idea why he left?”
    “Yes. I tried the tough-love approach this morning. It didn’t go over well.”
    As she went on to describe what had happened—including the dropped-tray incident—the