“I’ll be right back,” J.D. assured him and ignored the No Trespassing sign posted on the gate. He climbed over the graying slats and hopped to the ground on the other side. His leg pained him a little, but he jogged around the side of the small house with grimy windows, overgrown garden and weed-choked lawn. Behind the house was a woodshed and farther back, a huge barn. A padlock kept the door in place, but one window was open a crack and J.D. looked into the gloomy interior to see four automobiles parked inside. The concrete floor was swept clean and the smell of oil filled his nostrils. Tarps had been thrown over the vehicles and from the accumulation of dust, he concluded that none of the cars had been moved in months.

The barn was surprisingly neat and tidy, as if Isaac had prided himself on the old car collection. Tools, all neatly placed on racks, covered one wall; shelves filled with books, wax, cleaning supplies and small replacement parts filled another. Hubcaps and old license plates were hung higher on the empty wall space, as if Isaac had spent a lot of time out here.

Odd.

Why would a man just up and leave?

Had he been forced? Had there been foul play? Or had he just left voluntarily for reasons known only to himself?

It just didn’t make any sense.

But Stephen had some idea of what was going on. J.D. was willing to bet on it. He just had to find out what the boy knew. J.D. owed it to the kid. To Philip. To Tiffany. His jaw clenched as he started back towards Max’s car.

Tiffany. How the devil was he going to erase her from his mind? He could leave Bittersweet; that part was easy. But he had a deep worry that he’d be taking her with him—in his head, and, dammit, in his heart.

He kicked at a dirt clod, sent it reeling against the barn and told himself it didn’t matter. He just had to get the hell out.

* * *

“That Dean boy was over here again,” Mrs. Ellingsworth said as Tiffany tossed her jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The scents of cinnamon, vanilla and nuts filled the room.

“Mommy!” Christina, standing on a chair near the sink, raised her flour-smudged hands.

“Hi, sweetie.” Tiffany dropped a kiss onto Christina’s crown and touched the tip of her daughter’s tiny nose with her finger. “What’re you up to?”

“Ellie and me is making cookies.”

“I see that,” Tiffany said, and held her tongue rather than correct her daughter’s grammar. “What kind?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”