She shook her head and turned back to Elizabeth, trying to explain. “Of course I came back for you, sweetheart. I came back to where I’d left you, but you weren’t there anymore. So I walked around looking for you, but I guess you’d already gone off with Detective Buchanan? I don’t know. Everything was chaos by then. There were so many people, and the police kept everyone back, and I couldn’t see what was happening. I came home because I knew that’s where you would come, too, eventually.”
“Someone was stabbed, attacked in broad daylight.” Elizabeth’s voice grew loud. “And you didn’t know where I was. And they arrested Dad. They took him away in handcuffs. And you just came home like it was no big deal? Like we would all be fine?”
“Well, we are fine,” Clara pointed out. “Aren’t we?”
“That’s not the point!” Elizabeth’s fists clenched at her side.
“Elizabeth.” Marshall stepped in, his voice low and firm. “It’s late, and everyone’s emotions are running a little high. I think we should all try and get some sleep. We can talk about this in the morning.”
He led Elizabeth to her bedroom, his soft voice a reassuring murmur through the walls.
Clara sank onto the end of her bed and buried her face in her hands. After a few minutes, the bedroom door clicked shut, and she lifted her head to find Marshall standing in front of her. He stared at her for a long time, a tempest of emotions passing over him. She was only now noticing how much he’d aged in the past year, every ache and worry forming a new line around his eyes, turning his hair gray. They had been through so much together, had survived so many things that would have crushed a lesser love.
“Clara,” he breathed her name. He crouched in front of her, placed his hands on her knees, leaned and pressed his forehead to hers. “If something happened, I need you to tell me.”
“What are you talking about? I told you what happened. Elizabeth was hurt. I went to go find a Band-Aid. Then everything got so chaotic, I lost her for a minute. It’s fine. She’s fine. You’re fine. We’re home now. Together. We’re home and safe. That’s what matters.”
“I can call Peter. He’ll come over. We can handle it, as long as we get out ahead of it first. I just need to know what you did.”
“Marshall, stop it.” She rose abruptly from the bed and pushed him away.
“He hurt our little girl, Clara.” Marshall rose to his feet. “People will understand. Especially if he came at you first. He threatened you? Or he threatened her? You were doing what any mother would do. Protecting your child from a predator.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “How could you even think that of me?”
“I won’t be upset with you, Clara.” He reached for her, but she stepped away.
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a child. You’re talking down to me. And I don’t know why you’re saying these things to me, anyway, how you could think I’d even be capable of doing something like that.”
“Maybe you didn’t mean to?” he suggested, taking another step toward her. “Maybe you wanted to threaten him? Get him to back off? But he came at you, and you had no other choice?”
She shook her head.
“Clara.” He cupped her face with his hand, stroked a thumb over her cheek. They were standing so close she could smell his shampoo, see the beginnings of a beard forming on his chin, the small freckle above his right eye that darkened in the sun every summer.
“No,” she said and repeated it with more force. “No. I didn’t.”
She crumpled forward and buried her face against his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her. She felt his chin move across the top of her head as he nodded. “Okay, Clara, it’s going to be okay.”
They stood another few minutes, breathing in unison, then Marshall guided her to the bed. They fell asleep on top of the covers.
* * *
A few hours later, the phone next to their bed rang.
Marshall startled awake, flinging his arms and knocking Clara in the shoulder. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “God’s sake, what time is it?”
Blurry-eyed, blinking, Clara squinted at the alarm clock. “A little past three.”
The room was dark, the house quiet. There were no cars on the road, no birds in the trees. No one was awake at this ungodly hour unless they were in trouble.
The phone rang a second time, and Marshall answered it. He spoke to someone in a gruff voice for a few minutes, then hung up, but instead of snuggling back in bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress with his shoulders slumped.
Clara brushed her fingers across the curve of his back. He shuddered and lifted his head. “That was Eli. Zach didn’t make it. He died at the hospital.”
He turned and looked at her, but there was no sorrow in his gaze, no fear, only relief.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he whispered, and she nodded, agreeing, then opened her arms to him.
Chapter 24
Brett interviewed over a hundred people on Saturday afternoon, and all of them said some version of the same thing. Zach came stumbling out from the alleyway between Pip’s Consignment Store and the laundromat, clutching his chest with one hand and holding a knife in the other. He was already stabbed and bleeding profusely by the time he crashed into Marshall waiting in line to buy a caramel apple.
Several other people confirmed that, yes, Marshall had been in line for at least fifteen minutes before Zach showed up. And too many more had seen him on Main Street before that, talking, glad-handing, passing out his business card. There was no possible way Marshall Trudeau could have stabbed Zachary Danforth.
More than exonerating Marshall, several witnesses called him a hero, saying that he stepped in to help as soon as Zach appeared. He got the boy down on the ground and put pressure on the wound right away, shouting for someone to call an ambulance. Certainly not the behavior of a murderer. Still, it had pained Brett to release Marshall last night. Even though it was the right thing to do, and it made sense, she had wanted it to be simple—an angry father exacting his revenge on his daughter’s tormentor. But clearly, that’s not what happened, and so she was back at square one.
She finished running a comb through her hair, dressed comfortably in loose-fitting slacks and a pastel blouse beneath a fitted blazer, then sat on the bed to lace her boots.
At yesterday’s emergency briefing, the detective sergeant had officially put her in charge of the Danforth case. Not that Stan Harcourt had any faith in her abilities to do the job right. In front of the entire room, he’d said that he was watching her closely. If she so much as hiccupped wrong during an interview, he’d reassign the case to someone else.
When they’d released Marshall a little before midnight, Zach had still been alive. The hospital had called an hour later to tell her Zach had died in surgery. He’d suffered too much blood loss from over a dozen stab wounds to his chest and abdomen. Her assault with a deadly weapon case was now a murder investigation. Stan might very well use that as an excuse to pull her off the case. Until then, she had work to do. She’d assigned a few other detectives to help out with interviewing witnesses, but she wanted to be the one to talk to Zach’s mother and search his room.
She slipped on her holster and buckled the gun inside. Then clipped her badge to her belt, smoothed the lapels of her blazer, and dabbed on a bit of lipstick.
Voices murmured downstairs. At first, Brett thought it was the television. The longer she listened, the more she realized it carried the cadence of conversation and that one of the voices belonged to Amma. The other was low and distinctly male.
Brett grabbed the rest of her things off the bed and made her way down to the kitchen.
A tri-colored beagle rushed her. Tongue lolling, tail wagging her whole body, Trixie barked once in delight and jumped on Brett’s legs. Brett bent to pet the dog, then shifted her gaze to where Jimmy Eagan sat at the center island
with his elbows propped on the counter. He grinned when he saw her and then rushed her with as much exuberance as Trixie had. He swept her up in a tight hug that felt so good, she almost started crying. Eventually, she pulled away from him.
“What are you doing here?”
She was genuinely baffled as to how her friend had found his way into her grandmother’s kitchen. She hadn’t spoken to him in a week, since last Sunday, and yet, as if he could read her mind, he had shown up right when she needed him most. Except, she knew Jimmy better than that. The only time he ever showed up somewhere unexpectedly was when he was chasing a good story.
“Seriously, Jimmy,” she repeated. “Why are you here?”
He smiled and pointed at a pastry box sitting in front of him. “I brought croissants.”
“He brought croissants,” Amma repeated, clearly delighted by the gift.
Brett had been so busy over the past twenty-four hours working the Danforth case that she hadn’t had a chance to check in with Amma about how she was feeling after yesterday’s festival. She seemed like herself again, smiling at Jimmy as she poured a cup of coffee for Brett.
“You do know the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you?” Amma reached and patted Jimmy’s cheek.
Jimmy winked at her. “Pastries have never let me down before. I didn’t know which kind you liked best, Brett, so I brought a mix of chocolate and plain.”
“There’s jam in the fridge,” Amma added.
“Sit.” Jimmy patted the barstool next to his. “Indulge. Tell me what you’re working on.”
Brett shook her head. “I don’t have time. This case—”
“Yes, this case,” he interrupted her. “This case is why I’m here, actually. The croissants are too obviously a bribe,” he said it like a confession. Then he smiled, so casually, with such charm. That smile was how he disarmed people and got them to talk even when they didn’t want to. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me all the gory details about what happened at this Halloween festival yesterday, so I can have a story on my editor’s desk before we go to print tonight.”
“Tragic,” Amma muttered with a quick shake of her head.
“Come on, Bretty, help out an old friend?”
But Jimmy’s smile rarely worked on her. Especially not when it involved her cases.
“No comment,” she said tersely. She sipped the coffee Amma had made, then poured the rest into a thermos. “I’m glad you’re here, though, even if under false pretenses. You and Trixie can hang out with Amma while I go work on this case. My case.”
“I never lied.” He pretended to look hurt. “The croissants are real. And I am here to see you.”
“You’re here because you want my help with this story.”
“It’s one reason.” He gave her a meaningful look that made her cheeks flame.
She turned away from him and focused on Amma. “Do you need anything before I go? Will you be all right if I leave you here with Jimmy for a few hours?”
Amma reached down and gave Trixie a nibble of the croissant she’d been eating. “Don’t make such a fuss over me, Brett. I’ll be fine.”
Thermos in hand, Brett hurried out the front door.
“Brett, wait.” Jimmy caught her on the steps. He held out a croissant wrapped in a napkin. “At least take something for the road. Sounds like it’s going to be a long day.”
She took the croissant. “It’s good to see you, Jimmy. Really, I’m glad you’re here. And not just because you can babysit Amma for me. I’m sorry I’m rushing out on you like this.”
His smile was real this time around. Not Jimmy the charmer and storyteller, but Jimmy the man she’d come to care deeply about since they first met seven years ago. Jimmy the man who worried about her and brought her croissants and said things like, “You know I’m happy to help. And, come on, Bretty. There’s no need to apologize. I get it. Evidence goes cold fast. People start to forget.” He tilted his head, studying her a moment. “Go catch your bad guy, Detective.”
Quickly, before she had a chance to second guess herself, Brett leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t stick around to see his reaction. She turned and hurried to her car.
Jimmy called after her, “Whenever you’re ready for a break, drinks are on me!”
* * *
Zachary Danforth lived with his mother in a trailer park on the outskirts of town. Tall fir trees ringed the park, shading the single and double wides, littering the roads and roofs with brown needles, turning everything sticky with sap. Brett picked her way around garden gnomes and overturned lawn chairs to knock on the single wide’s front door. Wind chimes clattered in a light breeze. Inside, a dog yapped, and a woman shouted at it to shut the hell up. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a scarecrow blinked out at her from smoke-filled shadows.
Lindy Danforth was obviously drunk. Possibly even high. Her gaze was unfocused, the whites of her eyes streaked with red. In a creaking voice, she asked, “You here about my boy?”
She pushed the door open and invited Brett inside.
A Chihuahua rushed from the kitchen, yapping ferociously, nipping at Brett’s heels. Lindy shouted and kicked at the dog. The Chihuahua whimpered and, with its tail tucked, scampered to hide behind a recliner.
“That piece of shit belonged to Zach,” Lindy muttered. “Now, what am I supposed to do with it? I can’t take care of a dog.” She narrowed her gaze on Brett. “You going to find someone to take care of his dog?”
Lindy sank into the recliner. She was so skinny, she barely took up half the cushion. She folded her legs underneath her and wrapped a jade-colored afghan around her shoulders. A shiver ran through her. “It’s too damn cold in here. All these blasted cracks in the windows. Zach promised he’d get ‘em replaced next month. You gonna find someone to do that for me, too? Jesus Christ Almighty in Heaven.” She fumbled her hand over the side table next to the chair until she found a half-smoked joint and a lighter. She lit up and asked, “Do you mind?”
The stench of marijuana filled the trailer.
“I get these terrible migraines. I know I should go see a doctor, but I can’t afford it, so…home remedies.” She lifted the joint to her lips and inhaled. “You ain’t going to get me in trouble for this, are you? I mean, not after my son’s been killed and all.”
Brett waved smoke from her face. She could arrest Lindy for the drugs, but it would be a waste of her and everyone else’s time. She made a mental note to send a social worker out as soon as possible, see about getting her some medical attention, maybe some rehab. For today, Brett’s focus was on Zach and getting some damn answers. “Mrs. Danforth…”
“Please, I ain’t been a missus since that good for nothing son-of-a-bitch up and left us when Zach was a boy. Lindy’s what most people call me. That or hey, you.” She chuckled to herself, then her eyelids drooped, and her head nodded to her chest as if she was having trouble staying awake.
“Lindy, I’d like you to tell me what you know about Zach’s relationship with Danny Cyrus. Did you know he was working for Danny? That he was involved in illegal activity like gambling and organized fight clubs? Were you aware he brought a knife to school?”
“Zach was a good boy.” Lindy jabbed the air with her finger. “Everyone’s always trying to get him in trouble, trying to back him into a corner, saying he don’t study hard enough, that he’s always skipping classes, but you know that’s just because he’s bored. He’s a smart kid, and they don’t challenge him enough at that damn public school, but I can’t afford private, so we’re stuck with those idiots, and they don’t know the first thing about what to do with a boy like Zach.” She picked a fleck of something off her tongue and cooed to the dog behind the chair, coaxing the poor thing out from hiding, scooping it, and setting it in her lap. The dog trembled as she scratched its ears. “Danny took him under his wing, sure. He’s been like a big brother, only ever been good to Zach. But Danny would never hurt him if that’s wh
at you’re thinking. Zach made him too much money.”
“And you were okay with that? With your son breaking the law?”
Lindy shrugged and stubbed out the joint in an ashtray. Her eyes drooped lower, her head sagged.
“Lindy,” Brett said loudly.
The woman’s head snapped up. She had dark hair like Zach’s, but it was tangled and unwashed. She wore a ragged T-shirt with some kind of obscure rock band album cover printed on the front. Burn marks pocked the fabric where embers had fallen and smoldered. She squinted at Brett, a look of confusion on her face like she couldn’t remember letting her into the house.
“Lindy, how did Zach act around girls at school? Did he ever bring home girlfriends?”
“Oh, all the girls loved Zach. He’s so handsome, my boy, a real charmer.” She smiled, and her eyes closed again, her voice turning lethargic. “They couldn’t keep their hands off of him, but he’s smart. My boy. Looks out for his future. Knows not to get any of those bitches pregnant, knows how that will ruin his future opportunities. My boy’s smart. He’s going to be a businessman someday. Going to own a boat. Going to sail us right on out of here. He’s got his smarts from his momma, his looks from that no good son-of-a-bitch, but he knows how to use it. That’s the difference. He knows that life’s more than sleeping around and chasing pussy. It’s about making something of yourself. That’s what Zach’s doing. He’s making something of himself.”
Brett sat quietly as the woman’s head fell to her chest, and she started to softly snore. After a few minutes, Brett got up and walked around the trailer’s living room and kitchen. The Chihuahua hopped off Lindy’s lap and started yapping again. Brett gave the dog a piece of bacon she found stuck to a plate in the kitchen, and he stopped barking.
Zach’s bedroom was easy to find. There were two to choose from, and she guessed correctly that his door was the one with a poster of The Clash taped to it. More posters of other rock and punk bands covered the walls inside his room. His bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. An electric guitar sat on a stand in one corner, an amp plugged in next to it. Model airplanes dangled on invisible wires from the ceiling.
On a Dark Tide Page 20