by Sheri Leigh
"Sure." Buck gave up his casserole. Dusty set it on the counter—there was now officially no room on the table. "I'm so sorry about your brother. He was such a good boy. We're doing everything we can."
Boy. Everyone still thought of them as kids, she realized, as if time had stopped the moment they graduated and left town to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Buck still referred to her as missy, for pete’s sake.
"Do you have any idea yet what...what might have happened?" Dusty threw funereal etiquette out the window. Besides, Julia wasn't listening.
"Not any more than the paper’ll tell you in the morning." He shook his head sadly. "Probably an animal. Bobcat, we figure. Horrible thing. Horrible."
"But—"
"We're doing our best." Buck sounded defensive as he ran a hand through his hair. It was thinning and going gray at the temples, but Dusty remembered when it had once been thick and jet-black.
"Your best," Dusty breathed. "Your best. Right. Joe Wilson last month, my brother this month, and you and Deputy Dawg don’t have any more clues than ‘probably a bobcat’? What wonderful of leaps of logic and rules of deduction did that conclusion take between your trips to the Dunkin’ Donuts in West Lake?”
“Hey.” Buck straightened up, his jaw tight, but his eyes softened when he looked at her. “Listen, I know it’s hard to accept…”
Dusty wanted to scream at him. Instead, she took a deep breath and asked, as calmly as she could manage, “Sheriff, what evidence do you have about the animal that allegedly killed my brother?”
He sighed, shaking his head. “You know better than anyone that this stuff takes time. This isn’t Chicago, Dusty. You grew up here, you know that. I’ve done everything I can do. We’ve got some evidence over at the lab in West Lake that should help us identify the animal, and I’ve called in more help from the West Lake force for the night watch out at the cemetery.”
“If you’ve got a watch out there, how did my brother manage to get into the cemetery without you noticing?” Dusty’s voice shook with anger. She couldn’t help it.
“We…” Buck cleared his throat. “We actually just started it.”
“Joe’s death wasn’t enough?” Dusty snapped. "You had to wait for Nick to die before you decided a few guys with guns paying attention might be a good idea?”
“Well, Joe wasn’t actually in the cemetery…”
“Never mind.” Dusty held her hand up, shaking her head in disgust. “I want to come see what you have so far. I want to see the incident reports.”
He stood still for a moment, lips pursed, looking as if he were thinking of a response. “I can’t let you do that.”
“And why not?”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t have jurisdiction.”
“Oh come on…”
He drew himself up to his full, considerable height. “I don’t want a suspended officer poking around in my department.”
Dusty’s heart dropped and she glanced toward the family room, afraid someone had overheard. She hadn’t told Julia or her father yet.
Buck went on, “Your captain called me yesterday. Nice fella, name of Jack Fishburne. He called just to give me a head’s up.”
Damn Jack. Of course he’d called. He’d probably been on the phone the minute she hung up with him after telling him she was flying out to Detroit for her brother’s funeral. They had to have a physical contact number—not a cell—at the very least, Jack said, in case they had any questions for her during the investigation. Her face burned, from both the memory of the conversation—Jack insisting she come back to Chicago and finally relenting to Dusty’s refusal—and from the shame of Buck Thompson knowing she’d been suspended in the first place.
“There’s really nothing more to do, anyway.” Buck put his hand on her shoulder and she wanted to shake it off but didn’t. “Except watch and wait.”
“Yeah, you did such a bang-up job of the watching the first time…” she mumbled, her jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Dusty…”
“Okay, okay.” She sighed, shaking her head and looking at him. His eyes were still kind, concerned, and now she wanted to hug him and fought that urge, too. “I’m sorry. Forget it.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry.” He squeezed her shoulder and started toward the family room. He stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder to ask, “Oh, and Dusty…you said you talked to Nick that night?”
She nodded. “About seven o’clock. I’m sure it’s on my cell records.”
“I just wondered…” He paused, his eyes assessing. “Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”
Dusty looked at him, silent. He had asked her this before on the phone—she had answered his questions standing in the O’Hare terminal, still in her stocking feet, waiting for her plane to board—and she had told him no. The lie had come unbidden—at the time, she had no idea why she’d said such a thing.
Now she thought she knew why. She just didn’t trust him. And now, with him out of uniform, with his vague evasiveness, she trusted him even less. Besides, they had brought Shane in for questioning, she knew, and they obviously hadn’t found anything out. So what was the sense in telling him?
"I'm sure," Dusty said.
"Your parents said Nick didn’t tell them where he was going…"
She shrugged. “It’s not a big town, Sheriff. I don’t think they were worried.”
"You’re sure he didn’t mention anything?" Buck asked with a frown.
"No," Dusty told him, her eyes on the linoleum. "No, he didn't."
"I see." Buck stared at her and she felt uncomfortable, as if he could see through her lie.
"Well, Sheriff Thompson! How good of you to come!" Julia sailed into the kitchen with an empty tray.
"Nice to see you, Julia." Buck nodded toward her. "I'm very sorry about your boy."
"Yes, thank you." Julia paused a moment, her eyes downcast. "Well, everyone’s in the family room, so you can go right on in, Sheriff."
"Thanks." He glanced once at Dusty before heading in the direction of the voices.
"Nice man," Julia commented. "You should go in and say hello to everyone."
Dusty just watched her stepmother fill the tray up with small, stuffed something-or-others.
"Shane and Suzanne are in there. I’m sure they could use someone more their age to talk to.” Julia’s voice dropped a little then. “I really don't like that boy. I don't suppose we'll be seeing or hearing much of him now, do you?"
Get rid of a son, get rid of his friends—is that the way it works?
“Why don't you come pass these out? I could use the help." Julia turned to face her and frowned. "You don't look well. Are you all right?"
Yeah, I’m great. We buried my brother about two hours ago, you’re having a party and passing out hors d’oevres and you want me to play hostess with you. I’m just peachy.
"I'm okay." Dusty swallowed past something stuck in her throat. "I'll be there in a minute. This dress is a little uncomfortable. I'm going to change first."
"Okay." Julia picked the tray up. "Don't be too long."
"I won't."
Dusty climbed the stairs, her whole body aching. She turned right when she came to the top, as she always did, in the direction of her room—and Nick's. She realized she would have to pass it, and was suddenly, inexplicably afraid. She walked slowly, her breathing shallow, looking neither left nor right, focusing only on the door to her room at the end of the hall.
His door was open. Of course. He kept his door open all the time, and he would have left it open when he went out that night. She sped up when she reached his door, passing quickly, almost as if she thought she would be burned by the light spilling from his room into the hallway.
She sighed when she reached her old childhood room, closing the door behind her. It was just as she had left it before the funeral. Her bed was unmade, clothes tried on and discarded still scattered around the room. She peeled off the black dress and threw
it on the floor.
Hunting through her suitcase, she pulled out a University of Michigan sweatshirt, blue with gold letters. She dug through, looking for her sweat pants, but realized they were in her hamper in Chicago with the rest of the week's dirty clothes. She opened the closet and the drawers, but the clothes she’d left here were from high school—a size or two too small.
She sighed, sitting on the bed and pulling the sweatshirt over her head. She could borrow something from Julia maybe. But her stepmother was tiny, lacking Dusty’s curves, and anything she had probably wouldn’t fit either. Besides, Julia had been so busy making funeral arrangements for Nick, accepting condolences, and making sure Dusty wore and said the right things, who knew if the laundry had been done?
What’s the big deal? Just go get a pair of his sweats.
She didn’t want to go back down the hall to his room, but if she didn’t, Julia would come looking for her, and that would be worse. The only thing she could think of to do was to borrow a pair of Nick's sweats. They would be big, but that was okay. She used to borrow his clothes all the time. The thought of wearing something of his was both comforting and saddening.
She got up and opened her door, peeking out. What are you afraid of? she chided herself. Ghosts? But she was afraid. She was afraid he was in there, that she would see him there, and he would tell her that it was her fault for letting him go that night, her fault for not being more insistent that he stay and talk, her fault for letting Shane take him away.
"Don't be stupid," she whispered, and the sound of her own voice was comforting. "Just run in there and get a pair of sweats."
She edged her way down the hall and stopped just short of the slant of light spilling onto the floor from his open door. Dusty took a deep breath and stepped into the warmth of the sunlight, and then into his room.
She wasn’t expecting the pain. That came as a shock. He really was there—oh, god, he was everywhere. The entire space was filled with him. There wasn’t a thing in the room that wasn’t Nick. And she couldn’t believe how much that hurt.
"Oh, god," she said, looking at his dresser, where a hair dryer and Bedhead gel still sat on the top. His bed was rumpled, the pillow retaining the slight indentation from his head.
Her breath caught and held, and she closed her eyes, fighting the tears. If they started, they’d never stop. The pain would come with sharp, razor-like teeth and eat her alive. Once she thought she had it under control, she opened her eyes again, and headed for his dresser. He’d unpacked his clothes into his drawers—how long had he been living here, she wondered, before he broke down and told her? She found a pair of yellow sweats in the second drawer.
Walking toward his bed, she saw a picture of Nick and Shane on the night table, taken on a hay ride out at the cider mill back when they were in high school. Dusty had taken it herself, and Nick had liked it so much he’d asked her to blow it up to an eight-by-ten, so she had. At the time, Dusty had thought it was the image of he and Suzanne that he wanted to keep—her arm was around his waist on his other side—but it was Shane who filled the frame with her brother, his arm draped around Nick’s shoulder, a smug smile spread across his face. Suzanne had been folded under, hidden from view.
Nick smiled at her out of the gold frame, and the bitterness filled her throat as she picked up the picture, hugging it to her chest for a moment, cuddling it, her insides burning, as if she had swallowed dry ice.
In her grief, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, and when the hand fell on her shoulder, she screamed, dropping the picture onto the bed and whirling around.
"What are you doing in here?" Julia. Jesus, god, it was just Julia, coming up to check on her as Dusty had known she would. "And what are you wearing?"
Dusty's heart rate was going back to normal, and she managed to answer her. "I... I came in here for a pair of sweats. I forgot to pack mine."
"You were going to wear sweats?" Julia's voice was full of disapproval.
"Well, they're all of Nick's that I could wear without them falling off. Suzanne's wearing sweats," she added, hating herself for the explanation and the excuses, but unable to stop them with Julia's eyes on her. She felt reduced to eight-years-old, vulnerable and exposed standing there in just her sweatshirt and a pair of black panties. Julia hadn’t seen her in her underwear since she was twelve.
"Well, you can't wear those. I'll have to lend you something."
Dusty felt a lump rise to her throat for no apparent reason, and she fought it, holding back tears.
"Shane asked after you, and then he left, and good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say. Do you realize you've been up here for twenty minutes? I asked you not to be too long." Talking all the while, Julia walked toward the door, and like the eight-year-old she felt reduced to, Dusty followed, obedient.
"Come on, you can change in my room," Julia said as they entered the hallway. "You'd better put those on for the moment, until we get downstairs to the bedroom." Dusty watched as Julia shut Nick's door behind them. It was the first time she had seen that door shut in years.
"Well?" she asked when Dusty didn’t move. Dusty just looked at her.
Her stepmother’s eyebrows drew together and her lips pursed. "Dusty, come on, I'm not in the mood for this ridiculous behavior. Don't you think I've had enough to deal with in the past few days? Now, don't be difficult."
"Difficult?” Dusty’s jaw tightened. “What am I, six?”
Julia crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re acting like it.”
“I'm not going to let you make me feel guilty," Dusty snapped. "I've had just as much to deal with as you have."
"Dustine Victoria Chandler, don’t you go ruining this day," Julia said in a harsh whisper. “Now come get changed.”
Dusty cringed at the sound of her full name. "I don’t know if this day could get any more ruined than it already is.”
“You can’t wear that.” Julia’s voice was both horror-filled and pleading. “Now come on…”
“Why? Because these aren't proper?" She held up Nick's sweats. "Don’t you get it? Those people down there aren't going to care if I wear the right thing or say the right thing." Dusty tried to keep her lower lip from trembling and failed. “He was my brother, and I loved him—even if you didn’t.”
"That was a very un-Christian thing to say.” Julia’s face paled and she took a step back, her hand going to her throat. “You…you’re obviously not yourself today. Maybe you should get some rest."
"Can't let the cover drop for a minute, can you?" Dusty sighed. "Forget it. You're right, as always. I'm just tired. Go back to your party. I hope it makes you feel better."
Dusty left her there standing outside of Nick's room, and when she shut the door to her own room, Julia had gone.
Chapter Three
The sun, streaming through wispy, white curtains, crept across the rose-colored carpet. It touched a faded brown bureau carved with initials and more—Dusty "hearts" Tommy. She had no recollection of how they all got there, but by the time Julia had discovered the carvings, it was too late to save the dresser.
The sun slid across her old stereo and a collection of her high school and college CDs. It edged across her desk, still covered in the college booklets that buried a Princess telephone, and inched past her closed closet door, falling on a mauve bedspread. It stole up that wall, resting on a poster of Orlando Bloom.
The light, hot and uncomfortable, was what forced her to open her eyes. She stretched, pulling the covers back over her and rolling on her side, away from the sun. She yawned and then smiled, enjoying the warmth of her bed in the quiet time before she was really awake.
She had been dreaming, a dream about Nick and swimming in the pond. The sun had been shining, and it was ninety in the shade. Everyone had been there: Suzanne, Sarah, Annie, Josh Walker, who lived on East Cass and had to walk a mile, Shane—everybody.
They were playing Marco Polo and Nick was IT. The way he splashed around in the water, eyes c
losed, made it hard not to laugh, but she knew she couldn’t laugh or he would catch her and then she would have to be IT. When he yelled "Marco," she was supposed to say "Polo," but sometimes, if he was too close, she wouldn’t, and sometimes she would turn and yell it in the other direction to confuse him. But sometimes he would get her anyway.
In her dream, he had grabbed her from behind and she had to be IT. She remembered closing her eyes, how warm the sun felt on her skin, the sound of splashing water as they all tried to glide past her. She started yelling "Marco!" but the "Polo's" sounded very far away, like echoes.
She had heard Nick say "Polo," though—he was close, as if he had whispered it into her ear. She had turned in a circle, groping for him. She remembered her fingertips brushing his hair, his sun-warmed back beaded with water, and she opened her eyes, ready to yell that he was IT, she had touched him, but when she opened her eyes—Nick, where are you?—she was staring at her ceiling and the dream—Nick’s gone, he’s gone—was gone.
Dusty got up and found a pair of jeans and a sweater at the bottom of her suitcase. She pulled her clothes on, plaited her hair into one long braid, and went downstairs. The deep roughness of her father's voice was as unmistakable as the familiar smell of bacon. Dusty walked into the kitchen and sat at her usual spot at the table, as if she’d never left home.
"Morning." Her father looked over the sports section of the West Lake Journal at her. Steve Thomas, James’ younger brother, delivered it now. Nick used to do it until he had moved on to a job working at the Farmer Jack’s over in West Lake, she remembered. God, that was all a million years ago.
"Morning, Dad." She picked up the comics, more out of habit than interest.
"What would you like for breakfast?" Julia got up from the table. She was wearing the pink silk robe Nick had given her last Christmas. Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun.
"Nothing, thanks," Dusty said. "I don't have much of an appetite."
"Are you sure? It's no problem." Julia sat back down and Dusty watched her go back to writing thank you notes. Then she looked at her father, who was reading the business section.