He went around the house to the steps leading to the kitchen screen door. Through the screen, he could see a woman at the stove with her back to him. He wanted to pound impatiently but instead knocked discreetly.

“Ms. Duncan. FBI. I rang the front doorbell, but no one answered. May I come in?”

She looked at him and turned back to the stove. “Yes, I suppose you may.”

He opened the door and entered the kitchen. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to answer the door. I hear the media has been harassing you. I’m Special Agent Joe Quinn. FBI. I wonder if I could have a few words with you.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Questions? I’ve answered millions of questions. It’s all in the ATLPD records. Go ask them.”

He stiffened as he gazed at her. She wasn’t what he had expected. Eve Duncan was tall and slim, with shoulder-length red-brown hair and hazel eyes. The high cheekbones of her face made it more fascinating than pretty. His report said she was only twenty-three, but she could have been any age. She was … extraordinary.

Usually when meeting a woman, his first impression was of beauty or ugliness, not intelligence and personality. That came later, along with an evaluation of whether he wanted to go to bed with her. But gazing at Eve Duncan, he couldn’t think of single aspects but the woman as a whole being. He was only aware of the tension, the painful restraint, the burning vitality of her. Why couldn’t he look away from her?

Get a grip. What had she said? ATLPD. “I have to make my own report.”

“Red tape. Procedures.” She scooped up the omelet and put it on a plate. “Why didn’t they send someone right after it happened?”

It had only been two weeks, but it had probably seemed a lifetime to her. “We had to wait for a request from the local police.”

“You should have been here. Everyone should have come right away.” Her hand was shaking as she picked up the plate and put it on a tray. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to you. But I have to take this omelet to my mother. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since Bonnie disappeared. I can’t get her to eat.”

“I’ll take it,” he said impulsively as he reached out and took the tray. “Which room?”

“First door at the top of the stairs.”

What was he doing? Joe wondered as he started up the stairs. So much for his philosophy of noninvolvement. He had practically jerked that tray out of her hands. Why?

To help her, ease her, make all that pain go away.

Crazy. He had seen Eve Duncan for only a few minutes. Sympathy, yes. That was natural and right. Not this urgent need to banish the torture she was experiencing in any way possible.

Okay, deliver the omelet to her mother and go back down and interrogate Eve Duncan. No doubt that temporary aberration concerning the woman would have vanished by that time.

He stopped short as he saw a framed sketch on the wall. It had to be a sketch of Bonnie Duncan, but it was extraordinary. The photograph he had in his file was good, but the little girl in this sketch was drawn with such love and skill that it made her come alive.

Who had drawn it? Eve Duncan?

Stop wondering about her and stick to his job.

He knocked, then opened the door. “Mrs. Duncan? I’m Agent Joe Quinn. Your daughter sent you breakfast. May I come in?”

“I suppose…” Sandra Duncan was lying propped up in bed, and her Southern accent was much heavier than her daughter’s. “But I’m not hungry, you know. I haven’t been hungry since Bonnie…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I miss her. Why can’t you find her?”

Eve Duncan’s mother was in her late thirties and prettier than her daughter, but she had none of her strength or that riveting vitality.

“That’s why I’m here.” He carried the tray over to her and put it on her lap. “That’s my job. But you have a job, too. You have to keep up your strength and help your daughter.”

“Eve’s so strong,” she whispered. “I’ve never been strong. Except for Bonnie. I took care of her when Eve worked, and I did a fine job. Eve told me that all the time. But then somebody took her away.”

“But your daughter is still here. She needs you.”

She frowned. “Does she?”

“Yes. I want you to eat that omelet and take a shower, then go downstairs and help her. Will you do that?”

“I’d rather go to sleep.”

“It doesn’t matter. She needs you.” He handed her the fork. “We all have our jobs.” He turned and headed for the door. “It’s time that you did yours, Mrs. Duncan.”

“Sandra. Everyone calls me Sandra.”

He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Pretty name for a pretty lady. My name is Joe. I hope to see you downstairs next time I visit here.”

Sandra smiled tentatively. “You’re strong. I like a strong man. But are you strong enough to help Eve to find our Bonnie?”

“If you’ll all help me.” He closed the door and paused a moment before he went downstairs. Involvement. He should have let Eve Duncan handle her own personal problems. His only duty was to find her daughter’s killer. Yet he hadn’t been able to resist pushing Sandra Duncan to help her. According to his report, Eve Duncan’s mother was a former drug addict who had been rehabilitated at the time of her grandchild’s birth. It wouldn’t take much for Sandra Duncan to slip back into addiction at a traumatic period like this, and that burden would be all Eve Duncan would need on her shoulders.

Protecting Eve Duncan again. What the hell? The woman hadn’t even said a kind word to him.

It didn’t matter.

And that was more disturbing than anything about this encounter.

Go down and face her, talk to her, and that weird fascination would probably disappear.

He paused in the kitchen doorway. She was standing at the sink, washing the pan. He inhaled sharply. Impact. Strong. Stronger than before.

Ignore it. It will go away.

“She started to eat,” he said as he came back into the room. “Maybe it was the shock of seeing a stranger.”

“Maybe.”

“And how are you eating, Ms. Duncan?”

“I eat enough. I know I can’t afford to lose strength.” She started drying the pan. “What do you want to know, Agent Quinn?”

Yes, she was strong. He could see it, feel it. Like a fragile tree that would bend but never break. It hurt him, somehow. He quickly looked down at his notes. “Your daughter, Bonnie, disappeared at the park over two weeks ago. She went to the refreshment stand to get an ice cream and didn’t return. She was wearing a Bugs Bunny T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t see anyone suspicious loitering anywhere nearby?”

“No one. It was crowded. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be—” She drew a deep breath. “No one suspicious. I told the police that I wondered if maybe someone had seen what a sweet kid my Bonnie was and taken her away.” She stared at his face. “And they only looked at me the way you’re doing and made soothing noises. It could have happened that way.”

“Yes, it could.” He paused. “But the odds are against it. I’m not going to lie to you.”

“I knew that. I’m not a fool. I grew up on the streets, and I know all about the scum who are out there.” She looked wonderingly up at him. “But I have to hope. She’s my baby. I have to bring her home. How can I live if I don’t hope?”

He felt as if he were breaking apart inside. He could feel her pain, and it was becoming his pain. “Then hope.” His voice was hoarse. “And I’ll hope with you. We’ll explore every way we can to find her safe and alive. There’s nothing I won’t do. Just stick with me and give me a little help.”

She hesitated, gazing up at him.

Believe me, he urged her silently. Put your hand in mine, trust me, let me guide you. Something strange is happening here, but it’s not anything bad. I won’t let it hurt you.

She moistened her lips. “Of course I’ll help.” She stood staring at him for a moment. She could feel it, sense what he couldn’t say, he realized. In her pain, she couldn’t define the nature of what she was sensing, but perhaps it would become clear to her later.