“We can’t help them. Not with this.” Guy closed his eyes and slammed his head back against the wall. “The only thing that might help is if Theo suddenly ended up beaten to death, brutally, in the middle of his cell. If he suffered, that might give them some peace. But even that isn’t going to give them closure.”
Dean swore viciously. “I didn’t hear that.”
“I’m not going to go to jail over that son of a bitch. Relax.” He opened his eyes, stared at Dean. “There’s no easy answer for this. I know that. But he’s dying, Dean. Think about it. Is there any reason to even try moving this forward, wasting the money, when he’s already confessed and he’s likely to be dead in a few months anyway?”
* * *
“What do you mean, there’s not going to be an investigation?”
Chris stared at Jensen, the Diet Coke she’d just pulled from Dean’s refrigerator falling from her slack hand.
It hit the floor and bubbled over, spilling onto the warm, smooth glow of the polished hardwood floors.
Dean moved forward, a towel in hand. Dazed, Chris stared at the foaming pool of liquid puddling around her feet.
“Shit, Dean. I’m sorry. I made a mess.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said, his voice low and gentle. He swiped it up and dumped the can in the sink before turning to her. Both he and Jensen watched her with worried eyes. “Chris—”
“Why aren’t they pressing charges?” she demanded, looking from his face to her sister’s as they moved in to stand side by side. A unit. Dean, with his dark, elegant looks and Jensen with her breezy, easy beauty. They were a unit already and they’d only been together a month or so. Or had it been longer? Shorter? She couldn’t tell. Time was a jumble anymore and nothing made sense, not after they’d found Mom.
Mom.
She shoved the heel of her hand against her eye and turned around, looking out the window. “If they don’t investigate, how can they press charges?” Dean and Jensen shared a quiet look, and then Jensen sighed. “I don’t think they will.”
It felt like the ground crumbled under her feet. Desperate to stay upright, she reached out, clutched at the counter. “Why?”
“There are … extenuating circumstances,” Dean said after a moment.
“Extenuating? What? They decided they’d rather charge the dog and they are going to dig up his bones and put him on trial?” she asked, her voice breaking.
She spun around, glaring at them.
Jensen started toward her. “Baby, come on. Just … look. I know this sucks. Just … you have to trust me. We’ve got a confession and we can close the case, but—”
As Jensen reached up to put her arm around her, Chris knocked her hand aside. “I don’t want to be patted. I don’t want to be stroked or soothed. I want to know why nobody is going to investigate. I want know why they are just taking his fucking confession. He’s a liar, and a killer … why is his word good enough? And why isn’t he being tried for her death?” she shouted, her voice echoing through the quiet house, growing louder and louder with each word.
“Chris—”
She spun away, unable to hear another calming, soothing word. She was so tired of being calmed and soothed. She wanted somebody to yell back. She wanted somebody who hurt like she hurt, who wasn’t afraid to cry. Maybe if they cried, she could.
They’d never cried around her and it made her afraid to cry, too.
Now, even as the tears burned her throat, she knew they’d never fall, not here.
Grabbing her bag from the door, she slid the strap over her head, settled it between her breasts.
She had to get out of here.
Had to find Guy. If she found him, she could unload.
Then, maybe, she could make sense of this.
But he wasn’t home.
And when she drove out to the cabin, he wasn’t there, either.
She scrounged around in the rock garden until she found the fake rock that hid the key he’d put there because she’d nagged him to do it. Then, she unlocked the door, went inside, and curled up on the bed.
Tears burned, ached inside her.
But they still wouldn’t come.
Theo Miller wasn’t being investigated.
He wasn’t going to be charged.
He’d confessed …
What in the hell did that mean?
Chapter Seven
Guy had never shown up at his cabin.
Come nightfall, it had been too empty out there away from him, away from town, away from everything.
Because she couldn’t stand the thought of trying to call him and risk breaking down on the phone, she’d simply come back home. But the house was too big, too empty without him and she’d found herself in her workshop.
She had a few Internet orders—she saw those and thought about doing them, but if she did them now, she’d have nothing to keep her busy tomorrow. But she couldn’t let her hands be empty.
Instead of focusing on the work orders, she decided to make something for herself.
No.
Not herself. Something for Mom.
Time passed, quietly, save for the snip of her tools, the soft, steady sound of her breathing. Here, she had peace.
The lights shone down on the worktable, stark and unrelenting.
The floral display was as close to perfect as she could make it.
Chris’s hands were steady as she worked with the daisies, the baby’s breath, going with vivid colors because her mother had loved them so. Nothing dark, not for Mom. She’d spent all these years trapped in darkness. She’d never have anything dark or unwelcoming again.
Rage tried to work through the calm she’d wrapped around herself, but she shoved it back. He wouldn’t answer for what he’d done to Mom—
Stop it. She pushed it aside, reached out and selected one more sprig to add to the wreath.
She’d be angry later. She’d be furious later. She’d get answers later.
It was nearly one by the time she was finished and she stepped back, her spine aching, her arms stiff from being bent over the table for so long.
The wreath was deceptively simple, delicate. It would be dead in a matter of days, but it would put a bright spot of color on Mom’s grave.
“I miss you,” she whispered. Reaching up, she touched a finger to one of the soft, almost velvetlike petals. Then she turned, reaching behind her to untie the apron she’d pulled on hours ago. She shut the little shop down, locked up.
A bath. Long and hot to soothe the ache from her bones. She had the next few days off from Shakers but the orders from the floral business would keep her busy. Maybe not as busy as she’d be if she’d actually open a real place.
She’d work. She’d brood. She’d try to understand. And she’d hide from the rest of the world while she figured this out.
If she could be calm enough to do it, she might call Guy. No. It was too late. The thought didn’t even settle before she turned and saw him.
Standing there, right there, in the doorway, his eyes locked on her, stark, dark, intent.
“Guy…”
She rushed to him.
As his arms came around her, she fought to keep the storm inside her from tearing out.
It trembled there, just barely under control.
“Have you heard?” she demanded, curling her fingers into the worn material of his workshirt. She tipped her head back, glaring up at him as everything inside her threatened to rebel. “I know you’re still on personal time, but this … fuck. This is crazy. Have you heard?”
“Why don’t we go inside?”
She nodded, dropping her head to rest against the warm, welcoming wall of his chest. Inside. That sounded good. She could fall apart there. Get a drink. Get a good cry on. And he’d be there with her. Best of all.
* * *
Two tumblers, whiskey glinting in them, sat in front of them.
He opened his mouth to start talking but Chris beat him to it.
“They
aren’t investigating him.”
He closed his eyes as she erupted off the couch, pacing the floor with long, angry strides. Her jeans, torn and frayed in ways that drew his eyes to the most interesting spots on her body—hell, every part of her body interested him—clung to her legs as she moved, her movements erratic and short, like the energy trapped inside was trying to come out.
“They aren’t going to investigate,” she said again, shoving her hands through her hair and spinning around to stare at him. In the dim light, her eyes were broken and bitter, her mouth trembling. “They aren’t charging him. Jensen and I were at Dean’s house and he said he heard something about extenuating circumstances. What the hell does that mean? That monster is the reason my mom is dead.”
Inside his pocket, he carried a copy of the signed confession, detailing what had happened all those years ago.
He had a copy for each of the siblings, and a copy for Doug as well. He’d meant to call them all, talk to them, but Jensen had been calling, pushing for answers—so the sheriff had volunteered to handle this. It fell to him, technically, but Guy didn’t give a fuck about technicalities. He’d asked to be the one to tell them.
But somebody had let it slip. He didn’t think it was Dean. If it was, he was going to kick that man’s ass, but he didn’t think the lawyer would have done that. So somebody else. Once he found out who had up and let the news break like that, he was going to raise hell over it.
As he shifted to lean forward, the folded-up sheets of paper were like a ten-ton weight, dragging him down.
“Tink,” he said quietly.
She slanted a look at him, then went to turn her head.
But something in his voice, something on his face must have alerted her. She looked back and he saw the way the blood drained from her already pale face. The tattoos on her neck seemed to grow even darker, angry stains against her ivory flesh.
“Come sit down,” he said softly.
She blinked, her lashes hiding her gaze from him.
“You … you know, don’t you?” she whispered. “How long have you known?”
From the beginning. He fought the need to go to her, to reach for her. He needed to get this out. Once it was done, she wasn’t going to want him touching her, wasn’t going to want him near her.
She was going to need space—
She’s going to hate me.
His gut knotted and he looked away.
“Sit down, Chris,” he said again, nodding at the chair as he reached for the whiskey.
A sour laugh escaped her. “I’m getting fucking tired of people telling me what to do.”
“Fine.” Weary, he pressed the glass to his temple, wishing the cool surface could calm the torment inside him, but it did nothing. The burn of Jack Daniel’s didn’t even help calm the turmoil inside him. “Just stay there. If that’s what you want.”
He tossed back half the amber liquid in the glass and then put it down with a thunk before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the folded-up document. There wasn’t much there. Three pages, typed, detailing the final hours of Nichole Bell’s life. He hadn’t wanted to do it this way, he had wanted her family to be here with her.
But nothing ever went the way it should, it seemed.
Slowly, he looked up at her, staring at her over the expanse of scarred, scuffed wood and a battered coffee table, watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, like she was bracing for a blow.
In a way, he guessed that was exactly what she was doing.
“Theo Miller is dying,” he said bluntly. “He has pancreatic cancer and it’s terminal. He’s going to be dead in a matter of months. Possibly by Christmas. The doctor is looking at four to six months at the max. If he opted to get treatment, he could maybe get a little more time, but he doesn’t want treatment. Since he’s already got a death sentence, the DA doesn’t see the point in wasting the taxpayers’ time or money.”
For a long moment, only silence reigned.
Then, she sucked a harsh, uneven breath before spinning away.
The worn heels of her boots clattered on the wooden floor as she stormed over to the bar. She slammed her fists down on it and braced her weight, staring at nothing. “They don’t want to waste the taxpayers’ time,” she echoed, her voice faint.
Abruptly, she drove her fist into the cabinet and then spun around, glaring at him. “What about my mother?” she shouted. “We deserve to know what happened. He should answer for it.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “He should. And you deserve to know. But justice is going to have to happen after that son of a bitch leaves this planet.”
She opened her mouth.
“Chris…” He climbed to his feet, watched as she tensed, unconsciously pulling back from him. “Look, I know how this would play out. The sheriff’s department would be investigating this since she lived outside the city limits. We handled her initial disappearance, and we would handle this as well. But there is nothing to go on. The river wiped away almost all the evidence.”
“You’ve got the fucking dog.” She stopped, clenched her jaw as she worked to calm her breathing. “You’ve got him. There are bite marks on my mother’s body.”
“Yeah. And maybe, if we had time, and I mean months to build a case, we could. But that evil son of a bitch isn’t going to give us months.”
“So he just gets away?” A laugh, bordering on a scream, erupted from her. “He cheats the system by dying. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“He’s not getting out of jail.” He lifted a hand.
She shied away, wrapping her arms around her middle, like she couldn’t stand to have him touch her, like she was freezing and aching for comfort, but the only comfort she could take was from herself.
It shattered him.
“Not getting out of jail.” Tears brimmed in her eyes and as he watched, she blinked them back. Now she wouldn’t even let herself weep around him. “You think that’s enough? We won’t ever know now, will we?”
He lifted the paper, the creases already worn from how much he’d handled it during the day. “He agreed to tell what had happened,” he said haltingly, lifting the page for her to see.
For a moment, she looked confused, shaking her head. Then, slowly, she crumpled, her legs folding beneath her as she went to the floor. “He agreed to tell,” she said, the words cold, lifeless. Flat.
She looked at him like he was a stranger.
“He told you,” she said, staring at him. Through him.
Clenching one hand into a fist, Guy held her gaze, that flat, lifeless gaze. “He told me. When he told me about the cancer. He…” The words trailed off, reluctant to come.
Too late now, you stupid idiot.
Shifting his gaze away, he stared out the window. “He wanted out. I told him that wasn’t going to happen. So instead he asked for a few privileges, on account of his condition. In exchange, he signed a full confession, detailing what happened that night. It’s enough to close the case. That’s why they aren’t investigating. There is no need. They already know he’s guilty.”
“They know he’s guilty.” She drew her knees to her chest and turned her face away. “But instead of charging him, he got special privileges. Yeah. That makes sense, Guy.”
She was quiet for a moment and then she said, “Please leave me alone.”
* * *
The door closed behind him and Chris felt like that quiet little click echoed throughout her entire being, rippling and spreading until it managed to break something deep inside.
She could almost feel the pieces falling to the pit of her soul.
Her throat ached, but the tears she felt burning inside just wouldn’t come.
Not without him.
She curled one hand into a fist as the agony swung to anger and back again.
She wanted to howl, but then a few seconds passed and she thought of what he’d told her, and she almost wanted to laugh.
Theo Miller was dying.
Would be d
ead in a few months.
He had cancer.
Chris had always thought herself a relatively decent person who wouldn’t wish cancer on her worst enemy, but here he was. Theo Miller, the monster who’d stolen her mother from her and he had cancer.
A bad one.
She knew about pancreatic cancer, but only vaguely. Mostly because it had killed a celebrity a few years back—one of the few movies she remembered watching with her mother had been The Outsiders. Patrick Swayze. He had been one of her mother’s favorite actors and because of that, Chris had liked him too. Her mother was why she liked flowers, why she liked Tinker Bell, why she liked a lot of things, although she didn’t always admit it.
So when she’d heard the actor had pancreatic cancer, she’d actually read a few of the articles about it. A rather aggressive, hard-to-cure cancer.
Now it was going to kill the man who’d killed her mother.
But she’d wanted to see him held responsible.
Her back started to ache from sitting curled up on the floor and she shivered, pressing her brow to her knees as the ache spread upward and through her. Her entire body hurt. Her heart hurt. Her soul hurt. As the minutes ticked away, she stayed where she was, afraid to think too much about what she’d been told.
Guilty.
He was guilty.
He’d even admitted it.
But it wasn’t enough.
Rising to her feet, she moved to the window. Across from her, she could see the golden glow coming from Guy’s apartment, but she turned her back to it, refused to look.
No. It wasn’t enough that Theo had admitted his guilt.
But honestly, she didn’t know what would be enough.
Chapter Eight
Morning came streaming in, too bright.
Too early.
Her alarm jangled out, Yoda’s voice far more obnoxious in the a.m. than it had seemed when she downloaded the Star Wars voice pack off Google Play. “Do or do not. There is no try.” His wise, wizened little voice was the first thing she heard in the morning, the familiar old saying the tone she’d programmed in place of an alarm.
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