“That’s right,” Gilly said. “She’s based out of Dallas now, but her territory is changing, or maybe it’s expanding.” Gilly couldn’t quite remember how it was. “She may be relocating here.”
“Ken’ll like hearing that,” the captain said. “He was telling me he stopped her in town a week or so ago. Her taillight was out. Said he wanted to check up this morning and see if she got it fixed.” Mackie gave Gilly a look.
She ducked his gaze. She wasn’t going to speculate as to the sergeant’s interest in Liz. She wished him luck. For different reasons, Liz was no more ready to enter the dating scene than Gilly. It was one of the things they shared in common besides the fact that they were both new to the area. Gilly made change for another customer, and when Sergeant Carter handed her his travel mug, she refilled it.
“Don’t guess you could put in a word for me,” he said, giving a nod in Liz’s direction.
“Sure, for all the good it’ll do.”
The captain guffawed, and Gilly grinned. She liked the sergeant and Captain Mackie. She didn’t have much use for cops—detectives in particular—but these two officers seemed like good guys.
“Be careful out there,” she told them.
“Always,” the sergeant said.
“Pretty quiet these days,” Captain Mackie said, “which is exactly how I like it.”
Sergeant Carter rapped the counter with his knuckled fist. “We’ll be back around noon for lunch. I’m already thinking double cheeseburger and fries.”
“If I ate like you, I’d be as big as a house,” the captain said.
Gilly lost the rest of the conversation when the men went out the door, passing Jake on his way back in. There was some manly exchange of greetings, all of it silhouetted there in the doorway, and watching them, Gilly knew Jake hadn’t found his wallet.
“You left it at home,” she said when he came to the counter.
“Yeah, I must have.” He looked chagrined. “At least I hope that’s where I left it.”
“Daddy loses his head sometimes,” Zoe said, rolling her eyes.
Gilly smiled at her, and her mind was taken with how like a tiny adult Zoe was at times. Precocious was the word, Gilly guessed, and even as she was thinking this, she heard herself telling Jake where to find his wallet. “You left it in the garage,” she said. “On top of the old wooden tool chest. The one with the initials engraved on the lid, in the center—AJH, or maybe it’s JHA.”
Jake stared at her.
“She’s right, Dad. ’Member?” Zoe took his hand, getting his attention. “We got the spark for the lawn mower yesterday, then you fixed it in the garage. You had out your wallet. I saw it.”
“Spark plug,” Jake said absently, his eyes moving to Zoe. “It’s called a spark plug.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know where that came from.” Gilly said. It was the truth. She felt as astonished as Jake looked.
“Well, wouldn’t it be something if you were right,” he said, meeting her gaze.
She thought it was gracious of him to treat her prediction as if it were reasonable. I’m a nutcase. She wanted to say it. Of course she couldn’t know where his wallet was. If she were still drinking, she’d think she was hallucinating. But maybe she was. Maybe hallucinations—like the blank, dark places in her memory—were part of the package of side effects that had followed her out of addiction into sobriety. “You can bring the money by any time. After you find your wallet, that is.”
“Sure. Thanks. C’mon, squirt.” He lifted Zoe off the stool. “Let’s get you to school.”
“See you later, alligator,” Zoe said, waving at Gilly over her dad’s shoulder.
“After a while, crocodile,” Gilly said, waving back.
Even then, Zoe was squirming, asking Jake to put her down. “I’m not a baby, Dad.” She drew out the word, emphatically derisive, as if being a baaaby had potential as a featured occupation on the old TV show Dirty Jobs.
It made Gilly smile; it hurt her heart. She didn’t let herself think about why. It was part of the deal she’d made with herself after moving out of Houston. What had happened there was staying there. Or what was the point of leaving—of making a new start?
She went into the kitchen, where April Warner was cleaning the grill, and Nick, April’s twentysomething son, was washing dishes. April and Cricket did most of the cooking, and they were training Gilly. She was a reluctant cook—no kind of foodie. She’d been hired as a waitress. Zoe’s specially shaped pancakes were about the extent of her repertoire. But then most narcotized drunks couldn’t care less what they ate, and in her case, her eight months of sobriety hadn’t increased her desire for cuisine, haute or otherwise. But as the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention, or something like that.
She kept waking up mornings to find she was still breathing. Empty inside but alive. Beached on a strange shore but with a heartbeat. Still functional like a faulty circuit. She scratched at the margins, worked a job mainly to keep herself occupied and out of trouble. Her mom was appalled. You took a job as a waitress? Her incredulity had been almost funny. But even Gilly had her moments of doubt and confusion. She’d been trained as an architect. Sustainable residential design had been her focus, her passion. But passion had no part in her new life. It was much safer that way.
“Has it slowed down?” April asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Saw the last customer out the door a minute ago. You guys need any help?”
“I think we’re good.” Nick untied his apron. “I’m taking off, Ma. I’ve got class.” He was finishing his second year at the community college in Greeley and talking about enrolling at Texas A&M. Nick was whip smart, especially in math, but he’d gotten into some trouble in high school with crystal meth. April had confided in Gilly that she’d thought he’d kill himself overdosing before he straightened out.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Gilly said to him.
Nick grinned. “That leaves me wide open.”
It was their usual smart-ass exchange. She’d never told him or his mom she was an addict, too—albeit a different drug of choice—but she thought he knew. Addicts gave off a certain vibe, especially the newly recovering ones. There was something raw and careful in their demeanor. They had a way of navigating the world as if it were a small shop filled with priceless art objects, all made of glass. Gilly was scared every moment of backsliding, falling, breaking her fragile hold on sobriety into a million jagged pieces.
Her phone rang, and she pulled it from her apron pocket, studying the ID window.
Carl.
“You going to answer that?” April asked as she passed Gilly. She was carrying a tray stacked with freshly washed coffee mugs, and she paused, her backside to the swinging doors that divided the kitchen from the dining area.
Gilly looked up at her, and without answering, she turned away, swiping her phone’s face, holding it to her ear, saying, “Hello,” as if she weren’t acutely aware of who was calling and the disturbance it caused her.
There were heartbeats of silence. Behind her the swish of the doors, the gust of air April’s exit created. And then his voice.
“It’s business,” Carl said, “or I wouldn’t be calling.”
She’d asked him—begged him, actually—to stop it, stop the near daily check-ins. She’d said if there was a need to contact her, he should ask his partner, Houston detective Garrett Quinn, to do it. Carl had agreed it was probably best, and yet, here he was.
“Garrett’s out today, and I didn’t think this should wait.”
Gilly paced several steps, making a circle, eyeing the floor, the toes of her sneakers.
“We have a lead, a pretty good one, I think.”
She still didn’t answer. She wasn’t impressed. She’d heard it before—all about the good leads that never led anywhere.
“We got a call from one of the bartenders at Sully’s, said he overheard a couple guys talkin
g about the shooting.”
“C’mon, Carl, it’s been almost three years. What can two guys in a bar have to say about it now?”
“You know our theory, the reason we haven’t caught the shooter. He’s hiding in plain sight. Still in the neighborhood, still going about his business. Sully’s Pub is three doors down from the convenience store—”
“You mean the local stop and shoot,” Gilly said bitterly. “Convenience for robbers and killers.”
“You know leaving Houston doesn’t change what happened, right? The investigation doesn’t stop because you left town, and whether you like it or believe it, your life is still in jeopardy. There’s still a murderer on the loose, and it’s my job to find him and get him off the street. If it takes till my dying day—” Carl broke off.
Gilly imagined him, head down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had told her once he thought he was too sensitive to be a detective. The brutality, the heartlessness got to him. Worse, he thought, than it did other guys on the force.
“I know you’re scared,” he said.
Gilly closed her eyes. She was scared. Not so much of the killer but of her memory of that night. She would undergo a lobotomy to forget what had happened, if she could.
“Look, Garrett and I are going to get the bastard who shot Brian and lock him up. I promised you that on December sixteenth, three and a half years ago, when your husband was murdered, and I’m promising you now.” Carl’s kindness, the intensity of his commitment to do just as he said, almost undid her. “We’ll track these guys down and get their story. The way they were talking, one, or both of them, could know the shooter, know where he is.”
Gilly tucked her free hand beneath her elbow. Her palm was cold against her ribs.
“Until then I want you looking over your shoulder, you hear me? You can’t be too careful—”
“I know, Carl.”
“I don’t think you do, Gilly. If you did, you’d never have moved two hundred and fifty miles away.”
“We shouldn’t be talking. I’ve told you, it’s a mistake.”
“Our mistake was sleeping together,” he said, and she saw it again.
The night of her husband’s murder, when she’d clung to Carl, a total stranger, the one solid presence in all the horror. He’d held her, sobbing and shaking, against his chest, until, gradually, she’d become quiet. In the months that followed, he’d been her refuge—her go-to place on nights when she couldn’t sleep, days when she couldn’t work. He’d taught her to sail and to shoot. But they hadn’t been intimate until she’d gotten sober eight months ago, and then it had only been for a few weeks. But it had cost her.
Now he was calling it a mistake.
Good.
“How’s Bailey?” he asked, getting back on safer ground.
Bailey was her six-year-old terrier mix. Gilly and Brian had picked him up, a puppy not more than six months old, off the side of the road one rainy night in Houston. “He’s fine. He likes having a yard again.”
“So you’re still happy with your job?” Carl asked as if it weren’t possible, and it wasn’t, not in terms of who she’d once been. The year before Brian was shot they’d opened their own architecture firm, B&G Architects, in Houston. They’d been full of themselves, launching their mutual dream. They’d had such hopes, made so many plans. Brian had brought flowers to their office every week for her desk. The last time, he’d given her gerbera daisies. Soft red.
Carl said, “I told your mom I wouldn’t have believed it—you a waitress—if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
The lightness of amazement in Carl’s voice matched the look he’d had on his face the one time—that Gilly was aware of—he’d come to visit, a month ago. He’d wanted to spend time with her, to spend the night. She’d sent him back to Houston. “I have to go,” she said. “The salt shakers need filling.”
He didn’t answer right away, and she could tell he didn’t want to break their connection, that there were more things he’d like to ask her. Like, How’s the new probation officer? What about Twelve-Step? You find a meeting? A sponsor?
“Thanks for the heads up,” she said, cutting him off before he could speak. “Good luck with the lead.” She regretted sounding snarky but not enough to apologize.
“Be careful, Gilly, I mean it. This guy—Brian’s killer is dangerous—”
“It’s been over three years—”
“Yeah, he’s had three years to get even more desperate. He knows you saw him. Don’t think for a second that it’s not still on his mind, that he can’t track you down. Doesn’t matter how far you run.”
She started to object, but if she were to say she wasn’t running, they’d both know she was lying.
“Just promise me you’ll be vigilant. Lock your doors. Carry the Mace I gave you. I still wish you’d let me get you a gun. I know the answer is no,” he said before she could. “You don’t like them. Still . . .” He paused, regret deep in his voice.
He offered her his care with such sincerity, ignoring her rancor, refusing to take it personally. He wanted her to see it—the reflection of her bitterness, the loss of her faith—in the mirror of his gentle complaisance. He thought the contrast would get to her, and it did. Ending the call, some combination of resentment, loneliness, and longing knotted her heart.
“Everything okay?” April asked, coming into the kitchen.
“Fine,” Gilly said. She pushed through the swinging doors and crossed the café to the plate-glass window. Outside, the street was quiet at this midmorning hour. She could leave Wyatt and go farther north. She could go clear to Alaska, the North Pole, if she felt like it.
There was nothing and no one to stop her.
There was nothing holding her here.
2
Does Mommy know where I am?”
Jake looked at Zoe in the rearview, then back at the SUV he was tailing up the U-shaped drive that led to Zoe’s preschool, the Little Acorn Academy. “Why are you asking?”
“’Cause I wonder,” Zoe said, as if he were dense.
But why now—out of the blue? It had been months since she’d mentioned her mom—since Christmas, he thought. Long enough that he’d begun to hope her heartbreak over Stephanie’s absence was finally fading from her mind. He glanced in the rearview again, meeting his daughter’s chocolate-brown eyes. They were his eyes, same shape and color. In everything except the dainty uptilt of her freckled nose and her build—Zoe was small-boned and delicate—she favored Jake. She was a brown-eyed blonde, too. She had his dimples and squarish chin. He’d wondered sometimes if the resemblance was why Stephanie had never really bonded with Zoe. Maybe every time Steph had looked at their daughter she’d been reminded of Jake, the bad guy who’d dragged her out of New York City. From day one Steph had acted as if Texas were a third world country and living in Wyatt was punishment.
“Your mom knows where you are,” Jake said to Zoe. He could only thank whatever gods there were that she hadn’t asked if her mom cared about her. He didn’t know how he’d answer that one. He wouldn’t lie even though it might make life easier. Like when Zoe had watched Finding Nemo for the first time and decided that, like Nemo’s mom, her mom had been eaten by a shark, too. He’d wanted badly to say yes, that was exactly what had happened. It was a concept Zoe seemed able to grasp, and it was much simpler than the truth. But he’d gently dissuaded her of that notion. While her mom did live elsewhere, she wasn’t in the ocean. She wasn’t at risk of being eaten, at least not by a shark.
“Can we watch a movie and have pizza tonight?” Zoe asked. “We could ask Miss Gilly to come, and I could paint her fingernails.”
Jake met Zoe’s gaze. “You like her, huh?”
Zoe nodded. “She’s funny, and she tells funny stories.”
Jake liked Gilly, too. More than that, he felt drawn to her, and it wasn’t a good thing. He didn’t have much luck when it came to his relationships with the opposite sex. The only one that had worked so far was with Zo
e.
“Can we, Daddy?”
“Friday is movie night,” Jake answered. “This is only Wednesday.”
“Can we invite her on Friday then?”
“I don’t know, ZooRoo. I kind of like having you all to myself.”
“Daaaddy . . .”
He pulled to a stop at the school entrance doors, and turning to look at her, he asked, “Do you know how much I love you?” It was a daily ritual, one he’d started around the time he’d accepted that Zoe’s mom was gone, possibly for good.
Steph had always been a drinker, but it wasn’t until she and Jake were married that he realized it was a problem, one that had only gotten worse. After Zoe was born Steph began leaving home to do her drinking. She might stay away overnight or as long as a couple of days; once she’d left for a week. He started finding pills, random colors and shapes, where she’d leave them in the bathroom or on her night table. If he questioned her, she’d swear she’d gotten them from a doctor, that she was depressed, couldn’t sleep. It got bad enough that she’d gone into rehab more than once. The thing was that no matter what provoked her absences, in the end she’d always come back. So when she’d taken off almost two years ago, he had figured it was the same song, different verse. Until she called and told him she was done with it. She wasn’t cut out for family life. Being domestic, living in the sticks—it just wasn’t in her DNA.
Zoe had cried off and on for weeks, and Jake had comforted her with the only story that held a grain of truth: her mommy was sick and had to go away to get better. He doubted that would happen. Stephanie had no desire to get better, and it almost killed him, the loss of her, the hole it left in his life and Zoe’s. He did all he could to fill Zoe up with his love of her, asking her multiple times throughout the day: Do you know how much I love you?
“My borned day was the best day of your life.” Zoe’s answer was the one he’d given her, tossed off now with disheartening nonchalance. Clearly he needed a new question, a new routine.
Kenna Sweet opened the back door of his truck, calling out a cheerful, “Good morning, Halsteads,” leaning into the cab, helping Zoe unsnap her car seat restraints.
What Lies Below: A Novel Page 2