book.pdf

by Fha User

  nose as a new wave of sorrow assailed him. It cast an invisible, steel band

  over him and tightened painfully around his chest. He felt tears sting the

  back of his eyes and willed them away, refusing to cry again. God, how

  many times had he done that today? Too many, he thought. Letting out a

  long sigh, he sat up and tried to get it together, vaguely thinking that she

  shouldn’t leave her garage door open like this. Anyone could walk right up

  and help themselves. He remembered Craig used to warn his mother about

  this. Every time he did, she would shrug and tell him “W e’ve known every

  person in this neighborhood for years and everybody does it. But, if someone

  walking by decides to steal something, let them. That’ll be one less thing to

  clean up or throw out come fall.”

  Clay was a police officer and he fully agreed with Craig on this particular

  subject, because he knew it was dangerous to leave unlocked doors, of any

  kind, on your property. What if someone tried to hide in there until

  nightfall? They might attack her when she tried to get in her car, or worse,

  hide inside her car if she happened to leave the car door unlocked. With

  Craig gone, who would look out for her now? Who would nag her about

  closing those garage doors? Who would change the oil in her car if she

  needed it done or repair all the little things that needed doing when you own

  a home?

  While these questions flitted through his mind, something flickered in his

  peripheral vision. To his right sat the broken mower Craig was supposed to

  look at. Among the rusty red paint, some of its newer parts stood out and a

  few silver bolts, nuts and rubber pieces lay near it, twinkling and shiny in the

  bright afternoon sunlight.

  Damn Craig, why didn’t you let me go with you this morning? Maybe, if

  I’d been there I might have been able to help.

  He didn’t finish that thought, realizing he could sit here all day and do the

  “What ifs.” What good did that do now? Clayton quickly brushed those

  thoughts aside, got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.

  The woman was too trusting by far. Her front door stood wide open and

  through the screen door he could see straight through the house. From this

  vantage point he could see down the dimly lit hallway, and beyond that he

  could see the kitchen. Sliding glass doors stood open to catch the afternoon

  breeze. His dark glasses warded off the blinding sunlight overhead as he

  23

  looked heavenward and took in a fortifying breath. Looking down again at

  his feet, what he was wearing suddenly dawned on him.

  “Damn, I should have changed. Changed to what? What does a person

  wear when delivering bad news like this? Certainly not worn out, beat-up

  sandals or bright orange and blue swim trucks.

  To make matters worse, he was bare-chested under an old denim shirt,

  which had lost its buttons in the laundry years ago. Well, he thought, it was

  too late to change any of that now, and pressed the doorbell. When he did

  this, his left arm brushed against the screen door by accident, and it swung

  open.

  It was open.

  Taking off his dark glasses, Clay placed them in his shirt pocket and peered

  into the darkened house for signs of life. He pressed the doorbell again and

  tried to push the screen door closed, but it popped open again. In addition to

  the mower, it appeared the screen door also needed repair. There were a

  number of small, but important, repairs to be made around this house.

  Standing there looking around, he wondered who would do them. He

  mashed the doorbell again, and this time he heard a feminine voice come

  from somewhere within the house.

  “Craig is that you?” he heard her call out. “Come on in honey, I’m just

  getting ready for work, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Clay didn’t respond. He slowly entered the front entry hall and pulled the

  screen closed behind him. There was a staircase on the right as you entered

  the house, leading upstairs. The sound of running water could be heard up

  there. The living room was directly to his left and beyond that the formal

  dining room. In front of him, and at the end of the hall, was the kitchen. A

  kitchen table sat in the middle of the floor and beyond the table, bright

  yellow curtains framed a window above the sink. The curtains billowed in

  and out on the afternoon breeze.

  As he waited, his body reacted to the unpleasant task he was about to face.

  A lump the size of a golf ball lodged itself in his throat and his hands shook.

  Thinking hard, Clayton realized he didn’t know how in the world he was

  going to do this.

  24

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Upstairs, Vivian Simpson ran her hands through curly, dark auburn locks.

  Her no-nonsense hairstyle was shoulder length and required very little

  attention, which was just the way she liked it. Although she was too busy to

  fuss with her own hair, Vi took pride in making sure everyone walking into

  her salon walked out with spectacular hair.

  She was an attractive woman with expressive light brown eyes. She also

  possessed a pretty good figure for having had three kids, working out and

  keeping fit because it made her feel good, not so much to attract any man.

  Besides, between work and the kids, she was way too busy to think about

  men. After applying a small amount of lipstick, Vi smooched her lips

  together and peered into the mirror. Satisfied with her reflection, she turned

  off the faucet and wiped her hands on a nearby towel. Blessed with flawless

  skin, she’d never worn makeup over her coffee with extra, extra cream

  complexion.

  Just before leaving the bathroom, Vi pumped a dollop of hand crème into

  her palm, switched off the light and walked through her bedroom. As she

  zipped down the stairs, working the lotion into her hands, she was brought up

  short. Vi was expecting Craig to be downstairs. He’d promised to look at

  the lawnmower today, so she wouldn’t have to call the landscaper this

  weekend. When she saw it wasn’t Craig, but his roommate and partner,

  Clayton Marshall, standing in her living room, she was momentarily

  confused.

  “Hello, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “Oh, hello Clayton I wasn’t expecting Craig to drag you over here to help

  with this chore, but I guess he needed reinforcements. So, where is he

  anyway?” She inquired and gave him a bright smile. Not waiting for his

  answer, she turned away from him and picked up her purse from the desk in

  the hall.

  “I’m sorry to cut into your afternoon like this. I know you guys planned to

  go down to the shore today. I’m just on my way to work, but if Craig wants,

  he can take a look at it. If it looks like it will be too involved, it’ll keep till

  tomorrow.”

  Rummaging around in her purse for her car keys, she turned around to face

  him and continued to have a one-sided conversation. Glancing at him, she

  25

  noted his appearance. He wore bright floral swim trunks and an open,

  tattered denim shirt. Dark glasses hung from the front pocket of his shirt. He

&nbs
p; and Craig were about the same height, she noted, but Clayton was broader in

  the shoulders, more muscular and mature looking than her son’s tall, lanky

  swimmer’s physique. Also, much fairer than Craig, she supposed his clean-

  shaven head and equally clean-shaven jaw managed to turn many female

  heads. When Craig moved out and decided to be roommates with this man,

  who was seven years older than him, Vi thought surely it would not last.

  However, she’d been dead wrong. Over the past four years, Craig and

  Clayton had lived together, worked together and become very good friends.

  Clayton was so much a part of her son’s life that everyone knew him and

  treated him like part of the family at their gatherings.

  While all these thoughts ran swiftly through her mind, she glanced at her

  watch. Absently, she realized, she was probably going to be late for work.

  Not giving it too much thought, she continued to search for her keys. Her

  sister, Cynthia, normally got in early and could easily open up. Shortly after

  Vi opened the salon several years back, she had asked Cynthia to join her.

  Cynthia was good with figures and handled all the books and financial

  aspects of the business. Although, she’d gone to school and knew how to run

  the business end just as well as Cynthia, Vi enjoyed the people side of her

  business and stayed active ensuring her customers were totally satisfied with

  each visit. In addition to Cynthia, Vi considered her small staff, Andre,

  Nicole and Liana, some of the best stylists in the business.

  Finally locating the keys in her purse, Vi pulled them out and swung them

  triumphantly in the air. It wasn’t until she was ready to leave that she

  noticed for the first time that Clayton hadn’t spoken a word, since he greeted

  her and she’d come downstairs. Studying him closely now, she saw that his

  eyes were red and his mouth was pulled into a tight, grim line.

  “Clayton, what is it? Is Craig with you?” she inquired, looking past him

  now. When she took a step toward him, he swallowed hard, his Adams apple

  bobbing up and down in his throat.

  “Mrs. Simpson,” he started and then fell silent. The only noise came from

  a radio playing faintly somewhere at the back of the house. Vi became

  instantly concerned, she knew things about this young man that he didn’t

  know she knew. She knew about his awful childhood and how his parents

  treated him as if they wished he’d never been born. Craig was very quick to

  tell her Clay was very proud and refused to let his past color his future. It

  was why her son admired this man so much. His strength and conviction to

  turn his life around is what made him a good cop, one who was respected by

  all his fellow officers. Vi welcomed Clayton into her home and invited him

  to every family gathering they had because she knew he had no one. Just last

  week when she called Craig’s apartment, he was out and Clayton picked up.

  26

  Just before she hung up, she automatically invited him to the upcoming

  Fourth of July BBQ. He’d thanked her and said he’d be there if he didn’t

  have to work. Although, she really didn’t know him well, it was obvious

  something was bothering him. Tentatively, Vi reached out and touched his

  forearm in concern.

  “Clayton,” she said, “do you need to talk?”

  Clearing his throat twice, Clayton tried to dislodge the lump threatening to

  close his windpipe. Forcefully, he cleared it on the third try and reached out

  to capture both her hands within his own. The rose-scented lotion she rubbed

  on her hands only moments ago teased his nostrils. Instead of feeling

  slippery, he noted the hands he held were soft and small within his grip.

  “Mrs. Simpson, something terrible has happened,” he finally said.

  Searching her face, Clayton quickly decided the only way to get through this

  was to just say it.

  “There was a robbery this morning. Craig was caught in the middle of it

  and got shot.”

  “Craig’s been shot? How bad is it? Please, Clayton, take me to him.” Her

  eyes registered instant alarm and she tried to dislodge her hands from his and

  move toward the front door. But, instead of releasing her hands, he gripped

  them tighter. She looked up at him and the confusion he saw in her eyes

  made him swear viciously.

  Dammit, she didn’t understand. After all the thought he put into this, he

  hadn’t explained himself properly!

  “Mrs. Simpson, I can’t take you to him. He…he’s dead.”

  Two seconds. Three seconds. Five seconds ticked by. She continued to

  stare at him as if he’d grown three heads.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  For the longest time she didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then, he felt the first

  tremor when it hit. Her small hands, still clasped in his, began to shake as

  the shock waves entered her body. Finally, she snatched both her hands out

  of his grasp and covered her mouth. She stared at him, her eyes filling up,

  glistening with unshed tears. He watched their light brown, gold-flecked

  color change to a dark burnished gold, as the tears began to fall.

  “Craig?” She uttered in a squeaky whisper of disbelief.

  Clay began to ramble, running through what happened as if the hounds of

  hell were nipping at his heels.

  “He was on his way over here, when he stopped off to take care of some

  errands. We think he walked in on a convenience store robbery. He was

  27

  off duty, so he didn’t have his gun on him, but he never would have had a

  chance to use it if he did. The gunman must have panicked when he came

  in.”

  “Ohmigod.”

  Her hands dropped slowly to her sides and clutched at the denim skirt she

  was wearing, bunching the material tightly in her fists. She stared at him

  wide eyed, before crying out.

  “No! Nooooooo! Not Craig! Oh, please not Craig!”

  Uncontrollable spasms replaced her normal breathing. Her right hand flew

  up and she splayed her fingers across her chest, as if that gesture could seal

  the hole that this mess was ripping through her heart. Suddenly, her body

  began to jerk and her mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.

  Clayton caught her in his arms just as her knees buckled. She fell hard

  against his chest and he felt his sunglasses scrape painfully across his chest

  on impact. Yanking them out of his pocket, he flung them across the room

  and his arms tightened around her, as she slid toward the floor. He held onto

  her as tightly as any human could hold another person, but her five-foot-five,

  hundred and thirty pound, slender frame was a dead weight in his arms and

  he cushioned her fall by dropping to the floor with her.

  Her cries were a pitiful sound, as they rose in crescendo along with her

  mounting grief and terror.

  “No! No!...Nooooo!” Squeaky, high keening moans emitted from lips

  close to Clay’s ear and although her eyes were shut tight, tears streamed

  freely from each corner. The moaning momentarily stopped as she took in a

  deep shuddering breath, expelled it in a long, rasping rush then burst into a

  desolate, full-scale weeping that violently racked her slender fr
ame. He held

  her firm within his arms, feeling her slight weight offer itself into his

  comfort.

  “Not again,” she cried. “Lord please, not again.” She stopped abruptly,

  then began again, “He was coming over to fix the mow…mow…” Unable to

  complete the word mower, she wept uncontrollably.

  “I know, I know,” he whispered to her softly. She began to tremble

  violently in his arms and Clayton moved his right hand from her shoulders to

  guide her head to his chest. Vi drooped against him with her forehead lying

  near his throat, against his exposed chest where a smattering of dark hair

  peeked out. Her hot tears flowed everywhere and Clay felt them trail down

  his chest and wet the front of his shirt. They dripped unchecked onto his

  fluorescent swimming trunks turning the vivid blue to a dark navy where her

  tears pooled in spots.

  28

  Clayton was aware of all this while he held her, giving her an anchor,

  something she could hold onto. He felt the cold floor against his bare calves,

  and the hardness of the paisley printed wall behind him. He sat holding her,

  not quite a stranger, but certainly not a close friend. He was merely a young

  man she knew through her son, her dead son. They’d met a handful of times

  during the course of a year, and talked briefly on the phone when she was

  trying to reach Craig. Nevertheless, he sat on the floor with this woman,

  trying his best to comfort her, not sure if he was doing it right. Unable to

  draw on anything in his past experience, he held on tight, hoping it was the

  right way for her sake.

  He was unsure how long they stayed this way. It was long enough that his

  entire shirt front was completely soaked, long enough that his back began to

  ache. She continued to cling to him, quietly weeping and rocking within his

  embrace. After a while he gently took her shoulders in his two hands and

  balanced her as best he could against the foyer wall.

  “Wait here,” he told her looking into her tear-reddened eyes. Her long,

  dark lashes, spiky from crying so long, clung together and looked like dark

  crowns over each eye. He got up slowly, every part of his body creaking