What We Bury

by Carolyn Arnold

  She next drove to Dustin Phelps’s place. It was a gorgeous home in a pricey neighborhood, but it went with the showy display and pretense Dustin liked to exhibit. He had his kids in expensive private schools and his mother in a Club Med retirement home. He was crooked, of that she was sure, but apparently had no qualms about flashing his blood money.

  Dustin had a double-car garage and the driveway was empty. The pickup could have been in the garage. How was she supposed to—

  She growled as the idea went through her head. The accident must have inflicted some damage if she thought she could just trespass. It was the type of neighborhood where everyone was preoccupied with their neighbors—time of day probably didn’t matter—not out of concern but out of nosiness. They wanted to make sure everyone was following some list of imposed standards, such as how short to cut one’s grass, how often, whether the yard was raked or the snow cleared, and when to put up Christmas lights and take them down. Everyone probably knew their neighbors’ business.

  Regardless, she parked a street over and cut the engine. Every step shot pain through her, but she pushed it aside, focused on her goal.

  She reached Dustin’s house and slunk up the driveway, thankful she’d had another black hoodie in her dresser to wear tonight. And at that thought, she gasped. Her car was a total write-off, but had the items in her trunk, her black clothing and camera, been handed over to Troy? He hadn’t asked her about any of it, but she could have easily dismissed the clothing as being backup. The camera’s presence could be a little harder to explain, but if it had made it back to him, at least there’d be no images for him to find on the memory card.

  She made it to the garage. It had six rectangular windows across the top, but they were far too high for her to see through without a ladder.

  She walked the side of the garage and found a man door. She put her hand on the knob, about to twist, but a place like this was probably wired with an alarm.

  She should just leave. Hell, she could be on some surveillance video at this moment. Dustin Phelps could be inside watching her and laughing his ass off. But if he was, too late for her. She might as well keep going.

  She went around to the back of the garage, through an unlocked gate, and found a window.

  She leaned forward to peer inside, careful not to touch the window. She’d worked a case where a palm print on glass had factored into the investigation.

  It was darker inside than it was outside. Though what did she expect? For it to be lit up? Her mind really wasn’t working that great.

  The window appeared easy to breach, but if she did, again there was risk of setting off an alarm. Heck, for all she knew, a rent-a-cop was on his way already.

  How was she supposed to confirm whether he had the truck in the garage? She had to get inside.

  She touched the windowpane, and a light turned on in the house to her left.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Getting caught snooping was the last thing she wanted. She creeped around the side of the garage and hightailed it down the driveway and returned to the Expedition.

  She got behind the wheel. Her head was pounding, and she should be in bed, following the doctor’s orders to rest, but how could she let whoever hit her just get away with it? She had a third house she wanted to visit: the one belonging to Joel Phelps, Dustin’s brother.

  She headed to his address.

  She practically slammed the brakes when she saw a black pickup in his drive. Goose bumps crawled down her arms. Could this be the one that hit her?

  She parked a block away and walked, hoodie up, head down. Every step she took was more painful than the last, but she had to hurry and get this over with, preferably while not being spotted. She gripped her sides, her bruised ribs throbbing.

  Get this over with and get home, she coached herself.

  She went up Joel’s driveway and rounded the front of the truck. It had a chrome grille guard.

  She pulled out her phone and ran its flashlight over the nose of the vehicle. And there it was—a speck of blue, barely noticeable, embedded in a scratch mark on the grille guard. Could it be the paint from her Mazda?

  A sudden impact. A loud crunch. Dizziness and shock. A black smudge in the darkness. The familiar face… Her legs buckled beneath her, and she reached for the truck to keep upright. She was finally sure who had been behind the wheel. She had seen him. And this truck had been the one that hit her!

  Her hands shook as she snapped pictures of the damage and license plate as quickly as possible. Finished, she hurried out of there, wincing through gritted teeth at the blinding pain from her ribs.

  When she returned home, the house was silent. She changed in the second bedroom and tucked the clothing she’d worn out into a drawer of a nightstand and slipped into the master. She breathed with relief. It was quiet except for the sound of Troy’s deep breathing. He was still asleep.

  She got under the sheets and stared at the ceiling. No one was going to believe her when she told them who hit her vehicle and ran.

  -

  Forty

  At some point Madison must have drifted off, because when she next opened her eyes, the sun was streaming in around the bedroom curtains. Her body was also extremely sore, and it felt like she went rounds in a ring with a professional boxer. Her early-morning sleuthing probably hadn’t been the wisest decision, but it had paid off. It jogged her memory loose. She knew who the driver was and found the truck that hit her car.

  She looked over to Troy’s side of the bed, but he wasn’t there. She touched the sheets, and they were cool, so he would have left a while ago.

  She struggled out of bed. Every movement hurt, but staying put wasn’t going to make anything better. She staggered down the hall, making a brief stop at the bathroom, then carried on to the living room.

  “There she is.” Troy was eating a bowl of cereal in front of the TV.

  Have I fallen into the twilight zone? “Since when do you watch TV in the morning? And what time is it anyhow?”

  “Just after nine.” Troy muted the television and set his bowl on the coffee table; the spoon clattered against the ceramic. “And in answer to your other question... Since I have the day off work.”

  She didn’t know what to touch on first—his unusual behavior of parking on the couch even on a day off or the fact he didn’t have to go into work. “I thought you were scheduled for today?”

  “I was, but I put in a request to take the weekend off. And considering all we’ve been through, my sergeant approved it. Besides, I need to take care of my girl.” He got up and wrapped his arms around her, doing so gingerly, and kissed her.

  “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m fine.” She bit back the strong urge to wince as fire burned in her abdomen.

  He pressed his lips and angled his head. “Sure seems like it.”

  “I mean it, Troy.”

  He held eye contact with her, and his eyes darkened. The slight frown also told her he liked the thought of taking care of her and hated being dismissed. But she was injured, not an invalid.

  “What I really need is for the person who hit me to be held responsible,” she said. It felt like an impossible riddle to sort out, knowing who struck her and how to communicate that to Troy. He’d ask questions she wouldn’t want to answer, and she didn’t know how to say it had been Garrett Murphy without disclosing her side mission..

  “Don’t think I’m not working on that from the couch. I have the guys still going by body shops.”

  By guys she was aware he meant his friends and the officers who reported to him on his SWAT team.

  “And Terry came forward with some ideas too. People who surfaced in your murder investigation.”

  Right, she’d thought of that but must have failed to verbalize the list. The accident and medication were affecting her mind more than she’d like. “All cle
ared?”

  “Yep.” Troy grabbed his bowl and headed toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “I can get it myself.” Whether she should be drinking it was another matter.

  He spun. “As you keep telling me. Apparently, you don’t need me for anything.”

  “Troy, that’s not—”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “A coffee would be nice,” she consented, “but I shouldn’t.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you because I picked up some decaf after we found out about the baby.”

  He really was a keeper. “Thank you. That would be great.”

  “Just sit on the couch, and I’ll bring it to you. That is, if you want.”

  She acquiesced. Maybe it wasn’t so bad having someone take care of her.

  A short time later, he returned with a glass of water, a coffee, a couple pills, and an apple on a tray. He set it on the table in front of her and sat next to her on the couch.

  She pointed to the fruit and raised her eyebrows.

  “I know you’re not a fan of anything healthy, but you should start watching your diet.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  He held up a hand. “Not a comment about weight.”

  “Yeah, I thought you were smarter than that.” She smiled at him.

  “You just have to think about the baby now.”

  The baby… It wasn’t a decision she could reverse or a purchase she could return. She’d accepted the pregnancy but hadn’t yet embraced it. “You’re right, and it’s probably why I should tough out the pain.” She flicked a finger toward the pills.

  “The doctor said you’re safe to take what he prescribed.”

  She nodded but didn’t make a move for the medication.

  “So…” Troy rubbed his hands together. “I was thinking we could binge Netflix all day. There seems to be a lot of hype out there about doing that. Maybe we should give it a go?”

  “Not sure we’re the binging type.” Unless it was chocolate—that she could get behind.

  “We could be today.”

  She should probably just leave all talk of the accident alone. After all, they had moved on, but it was hard to let it go when all she wanted to do was walk up to Garrett Murphy and strangle him. “We’re not getting anywhere at all with finding the truck?”

  Troy sighed. “There are over three hundred black pickups in Stiles. A make or model could help narrow that down.” He watched her expectantly.

  Could she tell him it was a GMC Sierra? That it was currently sitting in Joel Phelps’s driveway? She could claim the memory resurfaced about make and model but giving its location would be impossible without coming clean about her actions that morning. But she couldn’t let Murphy get away with what he’d done. She grabbed the pills and downed them with a swig of water.

  “Maddy, if you know something you’re not telling me, or suspect someone, please talk to me.”

  She met his gaze. Maybe she should just come clean.

  “Maddy, I know you left the house.”

  “I…I… How?”

  “I woke up, and you weren’t in bed. I got up to check on you and noticed my Expedition was gone.”

  Just when she thought she got away with her little outing. “I did leave the house,” she admitted.

  “Where did you go?”

  “That part…” She took a few deep breaths. “That part’s a little tougher to explain.”

  “Seeing as we have all this newfound time on our hands…” He turned the TV off. After a few seconds of silence, he pushed out, “Tell me, Madison.”

  She bristled at the full expulsion of her name and his baritone. “I’m quite sure I remember the driver’s face.”

  “What?” He shifted on the couch. “Do you know who it was?”

  Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “You do.”

  “I know this is going to sound crazy.” To anyone other than her anyway. She’d already suspected this person was bad news before the hit-and-run. Maybe she should give Troy some credit. He knew of her suspicions about Dustin Phelps about a month ago; he’d even had a front-row seat to his bribing a witness to provide false testimony. He was there for her to correct the wrong.

  “Maddy?”

  “Garrett Murphy.”

  Troy remained quiet for several seconds, then, “He’s a cop.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Not that he deserves the badge!

  “Why would he hit you?”

  The question she feared he’d ask, but maybe she could just skirt around it. “I don’t know.”

  Troy’s forehead wrinkled up like he had a migraine and the light in the room was too bright. “And why hit you and run?”

  “Again, I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to ring his—” He went to get up, and she caught his arm and held him back. Her ribs bit, and she cried out in pain. He took her hand and stayed on the couch. “I’ll just question him.”

  With his statement, her mind raised another concern. Maybe Troy would be safer knowing what he was potentially getting involved in, but then again, ignorance could protect him. “What if I told you I also remember the plate now…well, part of it.” Technically the truth. The picture of the entire thing was on her phone, but she could recall the first few digits. She told him what they were, and he sprang from the couch.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “You’re all right here?”

  “I’m fine, but—”

  “I’m going to have a word with Murphy.”

  She got up and went to him. “But you’re going to verify the plate first, right? Do your thing and go in prepared?” She felt her cheeks flush at her last question.

  “Why? Do you think he was driving someone else’s truck?” Troy sounded skeptical, not that she blamed him given the information he was going on.

  “I mean, it’s possible, right?” It just occurred to her now, but plates could be fake or switched. She should have taken a picture of the vehicle identification number, but it’s not like she could have leaned over the truck’s hood and peeked through the windshield like she could if it were a car. It was too high up.

  “I guess so.” Troy went down the hall, got dressed, and returned five minutes later. He stopped in front of her on the couch. “You sure you’ll be—”

  “I’m fine. And don’t attack Murphy. I mean, I could have imagined it.” Though she had no doubt it was him.

  He scanned her eyes, and she hated what she saw in his. He was following the lead she’d provided but was fired more by emotion than conviction. “Okay.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

  “Just be safe,” she called out.

  He stopped and turned. “I just want to put this to rest.”

  She could tell he still wasn’t convinced Murphy was behind the hit-and-run. “Just keep in mind people can act out of character if it’s to protect themselves.” Or their secrets, she thought.

  “I’ll be fine.” With that, he left.

  Bless him for following up, even if he didn’t fully believe her. The truth was in his eyes. He was appeasing her, but at the same time, he couldn’t ignore what she was saying. If he had any clue that Murphy kept company with the mob and had run into her on purpose, he might kill the man. After all, Murphy could have not only killed her, but their baby.

  Anger welled up inside of her. This had become very personal, and if she was going to protect her unborn child, she had to bring the whole lot down—and the sooner the better.

  -

  Forty-One

  Madison grabbed the department laptop, ready to dig in. She needed to find out more about the numbered corporation connected to that Deer Glen neighborhood home and the Roman Petrov attached to it. She also wanted to get the mystery woman’s
identity once and for all. She’d just logged in, fingers poised over the keyboard ready to do some searches, when there was a knock on the door.

  She answered and, at the sight of Terry, wished she was wearing something other than yoga pants and a sweatshirt. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good morning to you, too.” He brushed past her, holding a tray with two Starbucks coffee cups and a brown paper bag.

  “I see you’re at work already.” He pointed to the laptop on the couch and backed out of his shoes.

  “I am, but what are you doing here? It’s Saturday.”

  “Ha-ha. Want to know the truth?” He handed her a cup, and she wished she could drink what he’d brought her. A caramel cappuccino—her favorite—and today it smelled divine. “I figured I’d catch you up before you harass me. More peaceful to be proactive,” he added.

  “Why start now?” She smiled at him and returned to the couch.

  “Here. This is also for you.” He gave her the bag.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and find out.” Before she got that far, he said, “A chocolate chip muffin.”

  “Ooh. Thank you.” She pulled it from the bag and bit off a chunk from the top. When she lowered the baked good, her eyes landed on the apple, all shiny and healthy, staring back at her from the tray on the table. Judging her.

  Terry sat on the couch beside her, unzipped his coat, and pulled out a folder. “I’ve got some big news.”

  “You put Carson’s killer behind bars?” She would have loved to have played more of a role, but if Terry had apprehended Carson’s murderer, she could focus on the mob and Murphy. Until the next murder case anyway.

  “Not yet, but…” He removed a sheet from the file. “Meet Jake Elliott.”

  “And who’s Jake—” She looked at the large photo of a man and recognized him instantly.

  Terry took a drink of his Starbucks. “Meet our con man, previously known as Saul Abbott.”

  “How did you…” She skimmed the page and flipped it over. Double-sided, but only a partial background. “There’s more that goes with this, right?”