Fletcher shoved his carnitas plate aside. “Rush was drunk behind the wheel. I’d bet my badge. He was a risk. If there hadn’t been a sniper on the freeway, I’d have proven it.”
“And your sergeant would still have gotten that phone call.” Seth reached for his coffee cup. “Look, I believe you. Given the circumstances, I’d probably hand those keys to the nurse too. But our senator has been a big supporter of law enforcement.” He raised his hand. “I voted for him. And consumed more thank-you-for-your-service pastries than I care to admit. The man’s a good guy. Anyone asks me, I’ll say you are too. Bottom line: no formal complaint was lodged. As far as we know, Mr. Rush and the Sacramento Hope ER nurse got home safe and sound. Plus, no one died on that freeway last night. I’d call that a win.”
Fletcher thought of Macy, her stubborn defense of Elliot Rush. And her clear dismissal of him. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
Seth was quiet for a while, then met Fletcher’s gaze. “I would think, with your mother’s illness and the move from Texas to California, that you might feel like a fish out of water.”
Great. Just what I need today: shrink talk. If Fletcher hadn’t already decided that he liked this honest-to-his-core chaplain, he’d make an excuse to get out of here pronto. But the truth was, Seth Donovan was the calm in his storm right now.
“I’m doing okay,” Fletcher told him. “Meaning I’m not your next project, Seth. Find someone else.”
“Doing okay but living like a monk—never mind the very nice women I’ve offered to introduce you to.” His brow lifted slightly. “From everything you’ve told me, your girl back home is moving on.”
Jessica. He should never have mentioned anything about her.
“Maybe you should too,” Seth said gently. “Move on; consider this time in California a new start. Put yourself out there.”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” Fletcher pasted on a smile that he hoped would pass for honesty. “I’m getting out.” He shook his head at the laughable irony. “And tonight that’s going to require a tuxedo.”
“The Crisis Care fund-raiser. I’ll be there myself.” Seth dropped his napkin onto his plate with a sigh. “Mr. Rush will too, I expect.”
“What?”
Seth nodded. “Big donor.”
7
TAYLOR PICKED A GOOEY, walnut-studded morsel from her hospital-baked chocolate chip cookie and regarded it for a moment. “Even if it goes straight to my thighs, I deserve this. Really. It’s payback for this whole day.”
“Go for it.” Macy leaned back against the plastic visitors’ chair outside the doors to the ER, grateful for the filtered afternoon sun on her face. “You have my permission.”
“I don’t need to pull the widow card?” The teeniest wince said Taylor Cabot’s humor and plucky bravado hadn’t conquered her grief.
“No need. It’s been a lousy day,” Macy agreed, thinking of the ominous CT report on Darlene Harrell. Huge, inoperable bleed with brain stem herniation. Translation: no hope.
“But at least the follow-up phone call to Annie Sims’s foster mother sounded positive,” she added, remembering the child holding that hospital belongings bag. “Ronie said she even talked with Annie for a few minutes. Said she sounded upbeat, chatty. That was good to hear.”
“And you have good news too.” Taylor brightened. “I can only imagine how great it feels to finally find your sister after all these years, have her call you out of the blue like that.”
“Yes.” Macy felt the familiar mix of elation and pain. Leah was her foster sister, not a blood relative—but maybe no one else could understand that it didn’t matter one bit. Didn’t matter either that the surprise call was not so much “out of the blue” as out of a Narcotics Anonymous twelve-step requirement. Leah was in rehab. Again.
“It feels good,” Macy agreed, taking the piece of cookie Taylor offered and remembering that Fig Newtons were Leah’s favorite. She’d wrapped some in a napkin once, hid them in her pillowcase. Ants swarmed, but Leah brushed them off and ate the cookies anyway, saying, “Ant cooties are too small to count.” Macy smiled, grateful for a happy memory; they’d had too many bad ones together. “It’s the best thing that’s happened in a long time.”
“She’s younger, right?”
“Three years—turned twenty-four last month,” Macy confirmed. “When I saw her in Tucson, I couldn’t get over how much she’d changed.” The last time she’d seen her sister, ten years earlier, Leah had been fourteen years old. Barely a month after her innocence had been stolen with such cruelty. The familiar guilt prodded. “She’s trying hard to get things together now, build a future.”
Taylor nodded, empathy in her eyes. “I can understand that.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to help—”
“Macy!” Elliot waved from the parking lot, then pointed to his loaner car with a melodramatic frown. “See you tonight, if not sooner.” He flashed a thumbs-up, continued on toward the hospital doors.
Macy lowered her hand, expecting the inquisitive look on Taylor’s face. But her friend was too polite to pry. A relief since Macy didn’t particularly want to talk about Elliot; the drive home from the freeway incident had been awkward at best.
“Employee benefits fair,” she explained to Taylor, ignoring his mention of seeing her tonight. “Open enrollment for the health and retirement plans. Elliot’s going to be here all month meeting with the staff.”
“Ah, that’s right. I should double-check to make sure my beneficiary changes were implemented.” Taylor toyed with her cookie. “You told me you’ve known Elliot for a long time because he manages some other personal investments? I’m only asking,” she added hastily, “because I was thinking about finding a new company to handle mine. He was recommended to you?”
“Yes. By a lawyer who was overseeing a financial trust. Sort of an inheritance from . . . an old family friend.” The lie tasted like bile.
“Like a godparent.”
“Uh . . .” Macy tried not to grimace. “Not exactly.”
There was no palatable way to explain the “inheritance.” Her biological father wasn’t dead. It was just that he wished Macy had never been born. The trust—her continuing link to Elliot—was the man’s humiliating payoff. A sum of money Macy never, ever planned to touch.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s just . . .” Macy gathered her long hair up in both hands, then let it fall against her shoulders. “Between the whole sniper thing and—” she stopped herself from mentioning Elliot’s near arrest—“and this ugly shift, I’m ready for some R & R.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“In a perfect world?”
“Of course.” Taylor lifted the last chunk of her cookie. “I have chocolate in my veins; only perfect will do now.”
Macy smiled. “Okay. In a perfect world, I’d toss these scrubs in the nearest Dumpster. Grab my workout clothes, punch mitts, and ankle wraps and head to the gym.” She raised her fists like a boxer. “I’d spend an hour with my kickboxing coach, do a little bag work. Sweat this day out of my pores, get those happy endorphins flowing. Then I’d snag some Mikuni sushi takeout, watch a Landmark Adventures video of the John Muir Trail—”
“Whoa, girl!” Taylor raised her palm. “Someone needs to seriously help you raise the bar on your concept of ‘perfect.’”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Macy said, surprised and then annoyed by a ridiculous memory of Fletcher Holt. “Perfect’s out. Tonight’s booked up.”
“What does that mean?”
“Strapless gown, heels, so-nice-to-meet-you chitchat. I’m going with Elliot and his wife to the California Crisis Care gala.” Macy sighed. “Not my kind of evening, but still better than a sniper attack.”
Fletcher took careful aim, starting high over his target and calculating by experience the perfect trajectory—he hadn’t achieved marksman status by his good looks. He slowly
lowered his arm, closer, closer, and . . .
“Rrroww!”
The cat sprang from her twitchy-eager crouch on the apartment’s hardwood floor in a flash of white fluff and leaped at the wall, paws batting at the red laser beam. She chased the light across the wall, head swiveling side to side, yellow eyes wide. Every gyration was heralded by agitated, stuttering chatter.
“There it goes. Grab it!” Fletcher bounced the laser beam over her gray ears, zigzagged it up the wall. “Look, it’s over there now.” He snorted with laughter at the ensuing antics: scramble, spring, thump, white with gray tabby stripes bouncing off the apartment’s pale-blue walls.
“Got away—too bad. That’s enough now. You wore me out.”
Fletcher clicked off the beam and laughed at the look on the animal’s face, perplexed but hopeful, though they’d probably played this game a hundred times before. He scooted backward across the small area rug until his back rested against the gray sleeper sofa. Across the room, the muted TV showed a seemingly endless loop of the darkened and indecipherable images of the freeway sniper. Still nowhere to be found.
“You’ll get it next time, Hunter. C’mere, girl.”
Fletcher drummed his fingers against the rug, smiling at the cat’s wary-but-interested regard. For some reason it made him think of that ER nurse. Stupid, because the only interest Macy Wynn had shown was in escaping Fletcher as fast as possible.
“Ah, you got me,” he told the animal as she dove at his hand. He waggled his fingers again, and Hunter rolled onto her back, sparring, with her fuzzy face buried in Fletcher’s palm and hind legs kickboxing his forearm.
“Good job. Hey, easy on the teeth! No deadly force. There, that’s better.” He stroked the cat’s silky fur with a finger and felt an immediate rumbling purr. Her warm tongue snagged across his skin like a damp washrag. In mere moments, she’d stretched out next to his cell phone and the TV remote, eyes closed and oversize front paws alternately kneading as she slumbered.
A cat. Fletcher shook his head—it was still embarrassing.
He’d never imagined himself a cat owner. Ever. A dog for sure. It had been on his list of plans. A Lab or a German shorthair—something comfortable with a pheasant in its mouth, gunfire, and bumping over a Texas hunting lease in his Jeep. But now . . . Here she was, a six-toed Maine coon mix. Whatever that was. A once-scrawny rescue animal that was, six months later, growing like a 4-H pig project. And confidently—with attitude—taking over his new living space. He’d been guilted into adopting her, she’d been forced to accept him, and neither had a clue they’d soon be traveling across the country. It was one of too many detours lately. His mother’s leukemia, the move to California, and the shift to reverse in his relationship with Jessica. If Fletcher hadn’t committed to trusting God a long time ago, he’d wonder if the man upstairs didn’t have him chasing some sort of cosmic laser beam for pure amusement.
Even this new job felt that way. He’d chosen the sheriff’s department because the opportunities in the larger organization were better if he had to stay awhile. But it felt too much like a demotion, having to start off with a stint in the jail, watching over inmates after completing his patrol training with a field training officer. They’d shortened it some because of Fletcher’s experience with Houston PD. But even though he was solo for these two weeks, sheriff’s department policy would put him back on jail duty after that. . . .
He frowned at a new bleeding scratch in a continuing series of small scabs on his forearm. Maybe he was being toyed with or “tested,” as his mother would say. It sure seemed like it. Because right now, nothing was going according to—
Brrrr-ing.
Fletcher grabbed his phone. Jessica. A request for FaceTime. He’d left a half dozen of her texts unanswered today.
He took a breath, activated the screen. “Hey.”
“Finally. I haven’t heard a word from you in days.” Jessica’s head tipped, her pale-blonde hair swaying as she peered at him. The dark-lashed gray eyes blinked as her teasing smile spread. The same smile she’d tossed his way since she was six years old. Face like an angel, sass and brass from the get-go. Some things never changed. “You had me thinking I’d done something to get on your you-know-what list.”
Like break my heart?
Fletcher erased the thought. That was going too far. Right now he felt mostly . . . cheated. Like all his plans had been stomped with steel-toed boots. “Busy, that’s all.”
“Houston news covered the freeway sniper. Of course I didn’t know you were out there.” Jessica’s brows puckered. “Charly filled me in. She’s right—you should have called us.”
Us. Because the two of them had always been the women in Fletcher’s life. It occurred to him in a merciless jab that . . . I could be losing them both. “So you called to read me the riot act too?”
“No.” Her expression softened in a way he’d never seen before, in all the years he’d known her. “I called to tell you that I met someone.”
Fletcher’s gut twisted. He wanted to hang up. No, he wanted reach through the phone, grab her by the shoulders, finally tell her that—
“It’s only been a few months, and I know it sounds so beyond corny,” Jessica continued, “but I think he’s good for me.” Her fingers touched her lips. “And I know it shouldn’t be possible, but I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m good for him too. Can you believe it?”
Was he supposed to answer that?
“The strangest part is that he isn’t like anybody I’ve dated before—please don’t feel obliged to remind me about all those monumental mistakes. His name’s Ben, and . . .” Jessica shook her head, that goofy smile still on her face. “Are you sitting down?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a youth pastor.”
With no criminal record. Not even a misdemeanor. Fletcher had checked the guy out the moment he showed up on Jessica’s Facebook page. He wasn’t proud of his disappointment that the former TCU running back wasn’t wanted in three states. “Wow.”
“I know, I know,” Jessica laughed. “But so many things have changed this past year. Because of the counseling, getting back to church, and the medication too, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose. “I still have my issues with that vile stuff. But things are so much better now. It’s more than just being ‘chemically balanced.’ I mean, yeah, I’m not bouncing off the walls or hiding in my bedroom anymore. But it’s so much better than that: I’m happy, Fletcher. Way down deep inside, really happy. I never knew what that felt like before.” Her smile made his heart ache. “And you’re a big part of it. You helped make it all happen. Now, with Ben . . . I don’t know how to explain it. But I needed to tell someone or I’ll explode. Because he makes me feel so—”
“Shouldn’t you be talking to your sister about this? Or your mother?”
“Mom?” Jessica laughed. “You know her. She’d have it in the next community newsletter. Lauren’s up to her eyeballs with wedding prep. Besides . . .” She feigned a pout. “Nobody knows me like you, Fletcher. All my life, I barely have any memories without you in them.”
It was the same for him. The truth made his throat tighten.
“You were my neighbor, forever,” she continued. “You’re the person I’ve always counted on. Even at my bratty, snotty worst, you were always there. You’re my best friend, Fletcher.”
I’m the fool who never admitted he was in love with you.
“Jessica . . .” Fletcher’s pulse quickened. He had to do this. She was better now. There was no more need to worry that he’d be pressuring, confusing her. If he was ever going to admit the truth, it should be now, before she added brother to that growing list of platonic labels she had for him. “It’s a long time since we were neighbors. We’re not those kids anymore. You’ve changed. I have too. And . . .”
“And what?”
Fletcher jabbed the button to disconnect the video.
“I can’t see you. Fletcher? Can you see me?”
“Looks lik
e we lost the video.” He turned the phone facedown. If she was going to laugh at him, he didn’t have to see it. “What I was trying to say before was that . . .” Fletcher leaned sideways to get a better glimpse of the muted TV screen. “Hang on a minute. Something’s going on.” He reached over the cat for the remote and hit the button to restore the sound, taking in the breaking news scene: an FBI spokesman . . .
“Fletcher? What’s happening?”
“I’ll call you back. Looks like they’ve recovered a rifle bullet and casing from the shooting scene.”
8
“YOU’RE TWITCHY. Can’t fool a mother.” Charly pointed a manicured finger at Fletcher’s tuxedo jacket. “Pull out the cell phone you’re hiding in that beautiful pocket and check the news. See if they’ve found out anything on that shooter.” She scoffed at his attempt to assure her it could wait. “Go ahead,” she insisted. “A woman who steps out with a man packin’ a gun learns to graciously accept these things. Just don’t confuse those two objects—cell phone and revolver. I’m not up to that kind of excitement.”
“Not going to happen,” Fletcher laughed. He slid an arm around his mother’s shoulders, draped in a shawl that matched her long blue gown. “Tonight is about you.”
Despite his earlier misgivings—and the necessity to rent a tux—Fletcher was glad he was here tonight after all. For his mother and because it was a welcome diversion. He wasn’t so sure that the TV news flash about the new evidence hadn’t served the same purpose by delaying his declaration of love to Jessica Barclay. Whether or not he’d dodged a bullet there, he didn’t know. He only knew that he didn’t want to think about her right now. He was here, and he intended to enjoy it as best he could. A world apart from his everyday life . . .
Fletcher glanced around the luxurious lobby of the Sheraton Grand Sacramento, decorated for the event with huge summer bouquets, brightly colored fabric butterflies, white branches, and strings of lights overhead and wound around the stair railings. His mother had pointed it all out in detail; he just hoped the food would be as impressive. On the floor above, a string quartet played something Fletcher doubted anyone could dance to. Definitely not in cowboy boots. Music selected more to stir memories, touch hearts, and—when combined with the countless glasses of complimentary champagne—open generous checkbooks. There was every opportunity for it; the place was teeming with dressed-to-the-gills people, and the air buzzed with conversation and polite laughter. Fletcher had already spotted the capital city’s mayor, as well as one of the Sacramento Kings and his wife.
By Your Side Page 4