Conduct unbecoming. Her scholarship. This was grounds for expulsion.
The edges of her world darkened. What else was out there? She stumbled to the couch. Her laptop sat on the low coffee table. On-screen, the raven picked at her carcass while the hellhound howled, though in victory or despair, she didn’t know. What she wouldn’t give to enter the portal. Magically transport to a new realm.
It had been a mistake to think she could start over. Atone for the shit she’d pulled. Karma wouldn’t find Stu. It was too busy fucking with her.
She shut down the game. Opened a browser.
Quinn wasn’t the first female gamer to have become the target of online trolls. Whole campaigns had been waged against women in the industry, or those who tried to defend them. Any disenfranchised idiot with a keyboard and a grudge could anonymously slander or threaten their target. Some took it to the next level and doxed their targets—posting addresses, phone numbers, social security numbers. That led to assholes landing on their target’s doorsteps or harassing them at work. SWATting ratcheted up the danger even more. Armed with the doxed information, any assclown could initiate a fake emergency that required a SWAT response. Adrenaline-jacked officers expecting an armed confrontation weren’t exactly known for their restraint. Bad things happened.
This was just the beginning. She drew a ragged breath.
Then she girded herself. Someone had sent an email to her professor. Someone had set her up with a dating profile with her contact information. There was going to be more. More sites. More damage. More danger.
She reminded herself to breathe and typed her name in the search bar.
Within a nanosecond, the returns poured in.
It was so much worse than she’d thought.
31
Curled up on the couch, Jo sipped her wine and stared into the flames. Aiden’s legs stretched toward the fire, the heels of his feet lost in the sheepskin rug that warmed the plank flooring between the couch and raised brick hearth. The embers beneath the hardwood glowed and pulsed with a life that would eventually become charred and cold.
The Teague living room had only subtly changed since his mother passed away four years ago. The doilies were gone, but the same oak bookcases flanked the fireplace, and the knockoff Remingtons still decorated the walls with their portrayal of cowboy life. The biggest difference was the smell. Mrs. Teague had baked fresh bread every day, and the scent of yeast had permeated the house. Now the room had a more masculine aroma, equal parts sweat and saddle soap. Each scent held its own appeal.
Jo’s entire life was entwined with this ranch, this family. Aiden.
Every year on the anniversary of her mother’s death, Jo hiked up to the ledge above the Teagues’ ranch. No matter how long she stayed up there overlooking the precipice, Aiden always waited for her until she came down, first next to her bike, and later leaning against her truck. He never hugged her, as if he knew she’d shatter into pieces too jagged to ever put back together. The year he left for college was the first time he hadn’t been there for her. She’d walked behind the barn where Mrs. Teague couldn’t see her through the kitchen screen door and sank against the wall, the splintered wood catching the thin cotton of her shirt. She’d sat in the dust, narrowly missing a rosette of Scotch thistle. Aiden’s German shepherd, Bjørn, had flopped next to her and nosed his graying muzzle against her hand until she stopped crying.
Tonight, Aiden said little. They’d spent so much time together over the years that they’d developed a sixth sense of when to push and when to let the other wrestle their thoughts alone. Early in her career, she’d learned to compartmentalize her emotions. But her ability to coordinate her thoughts with her actions had fallen out of step lately. The compartments she worked so hard to keep separate were collapsing into each other, leaving behind a mess that drove her crazy.
The last log broke apart, sending sparks spiraling upward.
He reached for her hand. “I heard the news.”
The past released its hold grudgingly, and she roused as if from a long sleep. “News?”
“The promotion.”
“Ah.” She took another sip. The heavy Malbec settled on her tongue, and the term sour grapes flitted through her mind.
“It should have been you,” he added.
“Yes.” She’d lie to anyone else, but not Aiden. “But it’s not.”
“Who’s next up for retirement?”
“Rumor mill puts Larson out in about three years.”
“A lot can happen in three years. Ever think about the Feds?”
“And grow a beard like yours?” She gave it a gentle tweak. “No thank you.”
“You’ve already got the start of a moustache.”
“You’re such an asshole.” But her voice was warm with affection.
“So choose something other than DEA. Although if they ever partnered us, we’d make a hell of an undercover team.”
His thumb absently stroked her knuckles, igniting little sparks that made her shiver.
She pulled away. “Maybe.” She’d never considered leaving the PD. Should she? Compartments opened and slammed. Broke down and rebuilt.
“You were so earnest the day you graduated from the academy. All spit-shined and chomping at the bit to hit the streets and save the world.”
She tipped her wineglass toward him. “Not true. Most of the world was out of my jurisdiction.”
“I was scared the job would change you. But all these years later, you’re still that idealistic cadet.”
“With no stripes to show for it. What am I doing wrong, Aiden?”
Her phone rang, saving him from answering her question—not that she’d expected one. She’d been trying to figure out that little gem ever since the promotion memo came out. Everett Cloud’s insinuations had further muddled the situation with possibilities she didn’t want to consider. She set her wineglass on the side table. Her backpack sat by the door, and by the time she dug out her phone, she’d missed the call. Quinn. She waited for the voice mail, but it never came.
“Work?”
“Can’t be too important. It wasn’t worth a message.” She slid the phone back in the front pocket of the bag. It was after ten o’clock, and she’d been up since when? Two thirty? A fresh wave of exhaustion washed over her.
The fire had burned down, and the night sky knocked against the living room’s picture window. The slivered moon offered little light, and vibrant stars speckled the sky in familiar patterns.
She leaned over the couch and draped her arms over Aiden’s shoulders and rested her hands on his chest. Through his soft wool Henley, his heart beat steady and true. She closed her eyes. His cologne had a base of sandalwood and something exotic she couldn’t identify. She breathed deeply. It was warmer, and far subtler than the English Leather, Old Spice, and Pinaud Clubman that typically scented Echo Valley.
Aiden covered her hand with his and pressed it closer to his heart.
She should go. Instead Jo asked the question she’d wanted to pose since calling him from her office. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
In answer, he leaned forward and moved the throw pillow from her side of the couch and placed it next to the one beside him. “Ready for another log?”
“Not yet. I’d rather look at the stars for a bit.”
He stretched sideways and made room for her.
A twinge of indecision kept her upright. “Are you sure?”
“You’re blocking my view.”
Dragging the crocheted blanket from the back of the couch, Jo lowered herself in front of him. His hand cupped her hip, his chin resting at the top of her head. The steady rise and fall of his chest soothed her, and soon her own breaths rose slower than his.
The fire smoldered, a soft glow that threw more heat than light. Beyond the glass, the stars shone like beacons. “Cassiopeia,” she whispered.
He lowered his voice to match hers. “Too easy. There, the five bright stars forming the W.” He paused. “And
romeda.”
“Talk about easy. There, below Triangulum.”
“You can’t even see Triangulum through the window.”
She burrowed her face into the throw pillow. “No, but it’s still there.”
He chuckled softly. “Are your eyes even open, or are you doing this by memory?”
“We can go outside if you’d like.”
“No need,” he said. “I’d rather stay here where it’s warm.”
“That was the right answer.” Stretched out, she was too tired to move, let alone slog through the snow. Perhaps the recent turmoil in her life had colored her perception of this season. She’d never been one to lament winter’s arrival and wish for spring. Echo Valley sparkled in the winter. A piping of snow collected along its red-rock ridges and frosted the pines, creating a vista that stole her breath no matter how many times she viewed it.
This season bore the smudge of something darker. Clouds smothered the sun and shadowed the ridges, isolating the valley and leaving it bereft of anything but a biting and relentless cold.
“Winter has just begun, and already I can’t wait for it to end.”
“You’re just tired.” He tucked the blanket around her shoulder.
Mrs. Teague had crocheted the blanket that covered them, the wool yarn softened by the years. Jo relaxed against him.
The heat from the fire warmed her face, and she slipped into that half sleep where she could hear her own snores but was too tired to care.
He gathered her close, and winter slipped further away.
32
The street parking around the church would already be taken, and Jo left her car at the station. She’d overslept, and for the first time since landing the Horton case, she felt rested. The cold air made her eyes water and she adjusted her scarf to cover her lower face, but it was the kind of winter day she loved: crystal-clear skies and ridges that looked close enough to touch. The walk—brief though it was—would do her good. Maybe she could retrieve her bike trainer on Tuesday. Next week’s docket listed Cameron’s name. She could swing by the house and pick up a couple of things while he was at court.
She rounded the corner and the church came into view. Two elm trees and a ragged hedge of blackbrush framed the facade and drew attention to the ornate west window centered above the portico.
All Saints in the Valley Episcopal Church had guarded the souls of Echo Valley with varying success since 1853. The original church had been a clapboard eyesore and met its demise in a fire of suspicious origin. The Broadmoor Avenue elite of the day, in their freshly constructed Victorians, had banded together and determined that the new All Saints should have the trappings of an English country church—resulting in a creamy sandstone exterior, sparkling stained glasswork, and a gated contemplation garden, complete with a labyrinth.
As a child, Jo had walked the labyrinth with her mother every Sunday the weather allowed. Her mother had explained how walking the path often helped make sense of life. Sometimes Jo would lead; other times she’d follow. The last time her mother navigated the labyrinth, she’d been in a wheelchair Jo pushed. The sun had been relentless. The wheels crunched the gravel, carving ruts in the path that would have to be raked out. Each turn became an ordeal that grew harder and harder the closer to the center they drew. They didn’t speak. When they arrived at the end, her mother reached over her shoulder and patted Jo’s hand. She died a week later.
It wasn’t until Jo worked graveyard shift that she had visited the gardens again. Before deciding to marry Cameron, she’d walked the path several times. She’d trod the path only once when she decided to leave him. If it weren’t for the two feet of snow obscuring the labyrinth today, she’d travel the path for Tye and Ronny and Quinn.
This morning, a few stalwart folks milled outside with their heads close together, and Jo recognized her high school history teacher at the center of one group of women. As she neared, she heard someone mention the newspaper. The teacher responded, “Smart as a whip, but she’s always been a bit full of herself, even as a student.” One of the other women saw Jo and touched the teacher’s arm. They all stopped talking and nodded at Jo but quickly broke eye contact and tightened ranks. Not wanting to intrude, Jo veered around them and climbed the sandstone steps. The normally bubbly greeter stoically pressed a program into Jo’s hand.
Inside the nave, piano music and chatter roosted in the wooden trusses that spanned the vaulted ceilings. A center aisle divided two rows of polished wooden pews. The Walsenbergs had already claimed their seats in the front pew. There were no reserved seats, of course, yet Jo had spent most of her Sunday mornings in this church—at first wedged between her mother and father, then beside her father, and finally by herself—and at no point had anyone dared encroach upon that pew. Mrs. Baxter sat ramrod straight in her equally exclusive pew across the aisle. The thought of having an entire congregation stare at her back week after week made Jo twitch. She slid into the rear pew, and the heavy weight of the gun in her purse clunked loudly against the wood. Several people craned around and nudged their neighbors. Conversations quieted, then resumed with whispered ferocity until Reverend Morris entered and everyone opened their hymnal.
The pianist struck a new chord. The congregation rose, and with a collective inhale launched into the first hymn. The constant shift between kneeling and standing, with an occasional perch on the pew, kept Jo’s thoughts from wandering during the service. It was like tai chi with a Book of Common Prayer.
Her phone vibrated against her waist with an incoming text during the Eucharist. With her head still bowed, she peeked around the nave. Two rows to go before it was her turn to step forward and receive communion. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been paged out of church to respond to a call, but she hoped it wasn’t so urgent that she couldn’t finish the service. She held her phone low and tapped the message from Dakota.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t think he was going to run it.
The row ahead of her stood and moved toward the aisle. The message was too cryptic. Jo responded with a question mark.
It took an eternity for Dakota to respond.
Everett Cloud—the reporter.
“Oh God.” A prickly feeling started at the top of her head and spread across her face, down to her chest. Dakota wasn’t in dispatch. It was her day off. They had planned to go snowshoeing before Jo’s caseload had exploded.
The man next to her stood for communion, and Jo staggered to her feet, her head still bowed.
What the hell?
* * *
The moment the service ended, Jo bolted from the church and rushed home. The smell of burnt coffee greeted her when she arrived, and she found the newspaper on the counter where her father had abandoned it next to the coffeemaker. She pulled the pot off the burner and reached for the paper.
The lead photo depicted a stunning Alice Walsenberg in deep conversation with Mrs. Baxter at the Alliance for Life shindig. She scanned the article. Nothing.
“Keep reading.”
Jo jumped.
Her father used his coffee cup to point at the paper. “Below the fold.”
She flipped over the paper and stared at an image of herself holding a sergeant’s badge above two columns of text. The photographer had cropped out Cameron, but it was obvious she was pinning the badge on someone else. The byline belonged to Everett Cloud. He used a lot of words, but the story boiled down to a systemic problem in the police department that discriminated against women. It was nothing like the fluff story that had announced Cameron’s promotion the day before.
The story continued on A5, and she ripped the page in her impatience to continue reading.
Cloud had done his homework and unearthed historical data from the Echo Valley Historical Museum to substantiate information he’d gleaned from the Courier’s own archives.
“Oh no.” Reading her name left her gasping like the time she’d jumped into a springtime river. The frigid water had rushed over her head, filled her ears,
and snatched her breath. The cold wrung every bit of warmth from her body, leaving behind a numbness so complete it took hours for feeling to return.
She hurled the paper into the recycling bin.
“Trashing it doesn’t make it go away. What were you thinking, girl?”
“I had nothing to do with this.”
His face twisted as if he’d eaten a lemon, rind and all. “Don’t lie to me. You were seen talking to that reporter at Finnegan’s.” He pulled the paper out of the bin and smoothed it on the counter. “Dragging down the entire department because you got your feelings hurt. The department I dedicated my life to. I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.”
Jo stood rigid. Afraid to move. Afraid if she did, she’d unleash something she wouldn’t be able to control. “I don’t deserve that.”
“Where were you last night?”
Ignoring his question, she grabbed the pot and plunged it under the faucet. “You can’t tell me you think Cameron is more qualified than I am.”
“Dammit, girl.” He slammed his mug against the counter. “Policing’s a man’s job.”
“You can’t be serious.” She turned off the water. “All you’ve ever wanted was someone to follow in your footsteps.”
“I didn’t plan on it being my daughter.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before naming me Jo.”
He pointed his finger at her. “Don’t pull that sass on me. I never wanted you to be a cop.”
“Funny, that’s not how I remember it.”
“I couldn’t very well tell you not to. You’d be hell-bent just to spite me.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, and she saw herself in the habit. “I never thought you’d make it through the academy. Hoped you’d wash out in field training, but Squint said from the beginning you had guts. I could have told him that.” He scraped a kitchen chair away from the dinette and sat down heavily. He suddenly looked old. “You know the worst night of my career?”
She didn’t even need to think twice. “The night you blew out your knee and had to retire.”
Shadow Ridge Page 18