Steadfast (True North #2)

by Sarina Bowen

  Downstairs I heard someone stomping around. Then there was the clink of ice cubes into a glass.

  My heart thumped at the base of my throat as I texted the photo to Jude’s new phone. The progress line as it uploaded seemed to creep across the screen in slow motion. But eventually it read “delivered.” Then I sent a copy to Nelligan. Just in case.

  Jude’s reply was almost instantaneous, and it broke our no-texting rule. WTF? Call me.

  Can’t talk, I replied. Don’t call my phone.

  I jammed the phone into my pocket even as it vibrated again. I needed to get out of this house. There was no way I could speak calmly with my father over stuffed chicken breasts tonight.

  All I had to do was walk downstairs and outside, right? My father was probably heading into his den. If I were lucky he’d turn on the television.

  And was I ever coming back? Now that I could prove my father had squirreled away evidence of Jude’s innocence, everything had changed.

  I grabbed my book bag off the floor. The police report was still inside. If I left that behind my father would know exactly what I’d been up to. I slid my computer into the bag as well, then opened my dresser drawers and added a couple clean T-shirts and underwear.

  That would have to do for now.

  My father was still stomping around downstairs. I sat on the bed and worked to keep my breathing calm and regular. Minutes ticked by. It got quieter. Still I waited. The more engrossed he was in his den, the easier this would be.

  After I was sure that there had been no footsteps downstairs for several minutes, it was time to go.

  I slid my book bag onto my shoulder and took a deep breath. Look casual, Sophie. My car was right out in front of the house, the keys in the cupholder, because nobody stole a cop’s daughter’s car.

  Piece of cake, right?

  At the top of the stairs I listened again. My mother’s TV could be heard behind the closed door to her room. My father was probably in his den. Maybe he was even on the phone.

  Thank goodness for the carpet runner my mother had chosen for our stairs back when she used to care. The soft pile of the rug muted my footsteps. On the bottom stair I hesitated. Front door or back? The kitchen door was closest to me, but the car was in the other direction.

  Stillness beckoned me toward the living room, and I followed it, easing past the dining table toward our front hall.

  When a hand shot out, locking around my forearm, I opened my mouth to scream. The sound got stuck in my throat as my father whipped me around to face him. I got my first look at his stormy expression as a hand collided with my face, the impact of the slap ringing loudly through the air.

  There was no time for outrage. The momentum of his slap knocked me sideways. My hip and then my cheek both collided with the corner of wall. I stumbled and slid down the wall until my ass met the floor.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he shouted, his face as red as raw meat. “Was it you in my file drawer?” He kicked me in the thigh. Hard. “Meddling bitch.”

  A whimper escaped me as I grabbed my leg in two hands. I knew I needed to get up off the floor. I was way too vulnerable down here. But panic made me clumsy. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said shakily, pushing myself up off the floor.

  As soon as I was vertical, my father shoved me by the shoulders against the wall. “Don’t play me, you stupid slut,” he spat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  I’d spent my whole childhood trying to please him, or at least appease him. And every year it had gotten harder. Now I just snapped. “GET your hands off me!”

  “I’ll put ’em where I goddamn want ’em!” He wrenched me away from the wall and tossed me toward the piano bench.

  I half fell, half sat on the thing, bones jarring from the rough impact.

  My father stood over me, staring down, a vein in his forehead standing out. “Cut. The. Bullshit. Did you ask my officer to look at that file?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. Dad had a Grade-A bullshit meter, so it was better to stick as close to the truth as I could.

  “Why?” he fired at me.

  Time to bring out the social worker’s psychobabble. “Because we’re all stuck. The only person who’s moving on with his life is Jude, Daddy. In this house we just wallow.”

  The vein in his forehead throbbed. “You seeing him?”

  “No,” I said vehemently. “But he’s out, and I can’t believe it’s been three years and we’re still a wreck in this house. I just wanted to know what happened that night.” There was just enough truth in there to make me sound convincing.

  His teeth ground together. “What happened was you ran around with that junkie like the little whore you are. And your brother wound up dead.”

  As soon as he called me a whore, an eerie calm settled over me. “That is not how you speak to your daughter,” I said, my voice cool. I knew he wouldn’t listen, but I needed to say it. The words came out sounding tougher than I really felt.

  Or maybe that was exactly how I felt. There was no way for me to fake it anymore. The time had come to an end when I could pretend that things in this house weren’t irrevocably broken.

  My father continued to stare down at me. Then he did something I hadn’t anticipated. He reached down and plucked his Glock 22 from his ankle holster and fingered the safety. “What does Nelligan know?”

  The gun was pointed at the floor, but the threat was unmistakable. My gut loosened in my belly, and time slowed way down. “He knows I’m curious,” I said slowly. “I asked him to access the file and print a copy for me to read. He asked me why and I said I didn’t want you to feel badly seeing it. But I’ve never read it, and I was curious.”

  My father chewed his lip, thinking. The gun stayed pointing at the carpet, but I kept sneaking looks at it. My father had done many obnoxious things in our years together, but never once had he held a gun while arguing with me. Logically, I knew it was just one of his tricks. The man was a master at interrogation. That’s what he’d done during his years in the military—interrogation and intelligence.

  Judging from the fact that my knees were currently knocking together in fear, I guessed he’d been pretty good at his job.

  “What did Nelligan tell you tonight?”

  “Um…” Shit! “He called to say that he couldn’t print out the file because the network went down.”

  My father’s lip curled. “What else? Don’t you fucking lie.”

  He stroked the revolver with his thumb and I indulged in a fantasy of cold-cocking him with the damn thing. “He said some kind of log wasn’t properly done, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Do you have any idea?” My father’s voice was gruff.

  “What?” I whispered, unsure what he was asking.

  “What it’s like to investigate your own child’s death?” He was actually sweating now.

  “No,” I said slowly. “It must be awful.”

  “Were you in my den today?”

  “Uh…” The change of topic threw me. “No.” Fear was making me stuttery and stupid.

  “So what’s in the bag, Sophie?”

  “What?” My head spun from the rapid change of subject. “What bag?”

  He pointed with his free hand, and that’s when I discovered that the bag was still on my shoulder.

  “Oh.” Oh, shit. Oh. My. God. The police report was in there, and my whole story was about to fall apart. “Books, as usual,” I lied.

  His eyes narrowed. “Exams are done.”

  “Yes, and thank you for congratulating me.” The taunt was unwise, but the words just slipped out. As Gavin’s graduation had approached, my parents were practically preparing a ticker-tape parade. For me? Silence.

  With one strong yank, my father ripped the bag off my arm, grabbing it.

  “Hey!” I tried to grab it back.

  My father held it out of my grasp. He flipped the saf
ety on the gun and switched hands before unzipping the bag and plunging his hand inside.

  He must not have been expecting me to fight back, because when I dove for the bag I was able to get a grip on it.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  My father shoved me out of the way. Hard. I went down again, this time hitting my head on the corner of the piano. While I sat there, stunned, my father ripped the bag open and overturned it on the floor. The folder hit the floor with a slap, the words COLEBURY POLICE DEPT. stamped onto its exterior.

  “Lying little shit!” The vein throbbed in his forehead as he moved closer to me.

  Still moving too slowly, I cowered, pulling my arms over my head.

  There was a loud knock on the front door.

  “Who the fuck is that?” my father hissed.

  Having no idea, I said nothing.

  He nudged me with his foot. “Answer me. Who is that?”

  I pushed myself up feeling dazed. “No idea.”

  “Sophie!” a male voice called out. Not Jude’s. Not Nelligan’s. “Are you ready, Sophie? You said seven o’clock.”

  Was that Griffin Shipley? His face swam through my terrified brain.

  “Sophie, honey! It is Thursday, right?”

  Thursday. Jude went to dinner at Griff’s house on Thursdays. Jude must have been there when he got my strange texts.

  I opened my mouth to yell Griff’s name, but my father clapped a hand over it. “Quiet. Who is that?” he whispered. He showed me the gun just to make his point.

  “My date. Griffin Shipley. From church.”

  My father gave me a sneer. “I’ll get rid of him. Don’t you fucking move. We’re not done here.”

  “Sophie!” Griff called again. “Is it open?” I heard the doorknob rattle.

  Cursing, my father stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants. “Who’s there?” he snarled, making it to the door just as it opened.

  “Hi! You must be Sophie’s dad.” Griff’s voice had an odd, theatrical tone that wasn’t helping matters. “She and I are going to miss the movie if she doesn’t get downstairs. Hey, Soph!” he yelled.

  “Sophie isn’t feeling well,” my dad tried.

  “Oh, no!” he said with a cringe-worthy bellow. “Lemme just say hello to her, and we can plan it for another time.”

  “No, I don’t think so…”

  I wobbled to my feet and lurched around the corner so that Griff could see me. “I’m right here!” I croaked.

  “Hey there, honey!” Griff took a step into the house, which was really into my father’s personal space.

  “Step back!” my father said in his cop voice. “Sophie, sit the fuck down.”

  “I need to talk to her,” Griff said stubbornly.

  “Get out of my fucking house,” my father ordered him.

  “No can do!”

  Dad turned so quickly I wasn’t ready. He grabbed me around the waist with one arm while his free hand closed around my throat. “Get out,” he snarled at Griff.

  There was a sudden, earsplitting crash. I fell backward, and it was just like in a bad dream. My arms were confined so I couldn’t break my fall. I landed on my father, our heads knocking together.

  The pistol fired and somebody screamed.

  One second after that I was rising through the air again as Griff Shipley lifted me up off the ground, leaving my father on the floor.

  Behind him stood my mother, a broken lamp in her hands.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jude

  When I heard the gun go off, I couldn’t stay in Griff’s truck one second longer. I threw open the door and powered up the walkway to the house. In the open doorway, Griffin sort of passed Sophie to me. The moment my arms closed around her she sagged against my body. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “Shh, it’s okay.”

  And it was. Griff dropped down to the floor and actually sat on the Chief of Police, holding down his arms so he couldn’t start swinging.

  “Get the fuck off me,” the chief complained.

  “No can do.”

  “My weapon discharged. I’m hit.”

  “You grazed your ass, I think,” Griff said. “Your wife is calling 9-1-1.”

  Mrs. Haines had the phone pressed to her ear. “The chief was involved in a domestic disturbance,” she said to the dispatcher. “Send an ambulance and a county sheriff. Not one of his police officers. There’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Go, Mom,” I whispered into Sophie’s ear, and she turned to me wide-eyed.

  Sophie had temporarily lost the ability to speak, and she was actually shaking. So I steered her out the door and toward Griff’s truck. Lifting her gently, I set her on the passenger seat and then climbed in beside her, pulling her into my arms.

  “Dad was… I got caught snooping,” she stammered.

  “Okay. It’s okay now.” I rocked her.

  “My mother broke a lamp over his head.”

  “Your mom is a badass.”

  Sentence fragments were still pouring out of her. “He pulled his gun on me! I just can’t even… What an asshole!”

  “Shh, shh, shh,” I said, stroking her arm. “It’s over now.”

  “Griff came to the door? I was so confused.”

  “I know.” I pushed the hair off her forehead. “He wouldn’t let me do the knocking.”

  “Because my father would have shot you.”

  “No he wouldn’t,” I tried, just so she could calm down.

  “Tonight he would’ve.” She gave a big shudder in my arms.

  “Didn’t happen, though,” I whispered.

  We heard a siren, and a few seconds later an ambulance pulled up behind Griff’s truck. The driver hopped out and approached us. “What’s the scenario inside?”

  “The police chief’s gun discharged accidentally,” I said with a calmer voice than should have been possible. “He’s bleeding. But my friend is restraining him because he threatened his daughter with a gun earlier. And then his wife broke a lamp over his head.”

  The paramedic’s eyes widened. “Should I wait for the sheriff?”

  But the front door opened and Mrs. Haines waved him in.

  I stayed put in the truck, holding Sophie as the other paramedic carried a stretcher inside.

  Then the sheriff’s car pulled up. Two men got out and approached us. One of them greeted Sophie by name. “Are either of you hurt?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Just shaken up,” I answered for both of us.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” they told me.

  “We’ll wait right here.”

  They went inside, and the sound of Sophie’s father shouting emerged from the open door.

  Sophie took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll have to talk to the sheriff.”

  “I know, baby. But there’s no rush.”

  “Did you see the seatbelt in the picture I sent you? Do you know what it means?”

  My stomach did a swerve. “I think I do.”

  The door of Sophie’s house opened again, and the EMTs emerged with their stretcher. The chief was strapped onto it, cursing. When they reached the end of the walkway they turned, and that’s when the chief saw me in the truck with Sophie.

  “FUCK!” The man actually tried to roll off the stretcher in my direction, and the two EMTs staggered as the balance of gravity shifted. But they kept him on it.

  “Calm down, Chief,” the sheriff said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I already read you your rights. If you don’t stay put I’m going to add resisting arrest.”

  “And you’re getting your ass sued,” Chief Haines hissed. But it’s hard to look threatening when you’re bleeding from an ass cheek on a stretcher.

  One of the deputy sheriffs went with the ambulance, and the other one came to take our statement.

  “What happened?” the man asked, his pad and pencil ready.

  “It’s a long story,” Sophie said, sitting up straighter.

  “I’ve got the time. Shal
l we talk inside the house?”

  Sophie turned to take my hand. “He goes where I go.”

  “That’s fine.”

  We went inside together. Sophie’s mom looked shaken, but she didn’t freak out about my presence. She just watched me with wide eyes as I took a seat in her living room for the first time ever.

  “I need to get something from my father’s den,” Sophie said. “The reason he freaked out today is because I found some photographs he’s been hiding.”

  “All right,” the sheriff agreed. “Let’s see them.”

  During the next few days, things happened fast for me.

  The sheriff’s office called in the Vermont Office of Internal Affairs. Those policemen interviewed Officer Nelligan and then Sophie. We learned that Nelligan had been fired by Chief Haines before the chief had his violent outburst at home.

  Sophie’s father was charged with a long list of things, including tampering with evidence and hampering an investigation. He was deemed a flight risk and denied bail.

  The criminal case against me was reopened with the help of May’s lawyer friend, though now he had to play catch-up in order to represent me.

  Another surprise was that I liked my lawyer immediately. I’d expected a stuffy guy in a blue blazer. But this counselor was not cut from the prepster mold. He had eyebrow piercings and Celtic tats peeking out from his rolled-up shirtsleeves. In addition to the usual diplomas, his office wall was hung with framed photographs of vintage airplanes.

  Best of all, he didn’t talk to me like I was a loser.

  I met him two days after the chief’s arrest. He opened with: “So, I really want to throat-punch the public defender who represented you in court.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded, his piercings glinting in the light. “I can tell this case had a real stench from the first minute. But he didn’t seem to smell it.”

  “I heard he was disbarred.”

  My lawyer tapped his pen on the desk. “Maybe they gave you the town clown intentionally. It’s something to consider. I’m hiring an investigator so we can look into it.”