“They like worrying about us!” Julia dug in her heels. “And I won’t get in the way, I promise.”
“Jules,” Mitch said in a quiet way that immediately silenced her. He knelt down, put his hands on her shoulders, looked directly in her eyes, and spoke in a low, emphatic voice. “We are not staying.” It was a tone he’d used since she was a baby, and it always got results. “Thank the Blunts for dinner.”
For half a second, he thought there was going to be a scuffle, but then she lowered her head. When she raised it back up, she was fighting tears. Mitch knew he was right, but being right didn’t mean he also didn’t feel like a heel.
“Thank you for dinner,” Julia said.
“You’re more than welcome.” Bitsy bent down and gave her a hug. “Come and visit whenever you want.”
Julia nodded and fled out the door.
Mitch shook hands with Tommy.
“You change your mind, we’ll be here,” Tommy said.
“Appreciate it,” Mitch said, and walked into the night.
Back in the truck, Mitch could breathe again. But Julia stared straight ahead, her little face set. Ordinarily, he’d drive a few hours, find a place to pull over, and camp outside. It was still warm enough with the sleeping bags. But he wanted to make things up to Julia, so he shelled out for a motel on the edge of town.
Normally, she would be bouncing up and down to stay in a motel. The height of luxury to her. Plus TV.
But tonight she was having none of it.
“I don’t see why this is so much better than a real house.”
“Because it’s only the two of us, like always.”
“And what’s so great about that?”
Instead of answering, Mitch took out their backpacks, found her pajamas, and handed them to her. She grabbed them wordlessly and disappeared into the bathroom to change. Marched out, got her toothbrush and toothpaste, marched back in. She brushed her teeth noisily, peed, flushed, then plopped into the bed by the window without turning on the TV.
If he didn’t know she was mad before, he knew now.
“Not going to watch TV?”
“That wasteland?” she said, mimicking him.
He fished in her backpack and came out with a book. “Read?”
She groaned loudly, then whipped away from him, burrowing low, and pulled the covers over her head.
He sighed. Hoped the sulk wouldn’t last past morning.
Mitch was up with the sun. He rolled over and stretched, saw Julia was already up, and felt relieved. He hadn’t been looking forward to a whole day in the truck with a pouty kid.
“Mornin’, Junebug!” he called through the closed bathroom door.
No answer.
Uh-oh. Maybe his optimism had been short-lived.
He waited ten minutes, needing to use the facilities himself, and when she didn’t come out, he got out of bed, slid on his jeans, and knocked. “Jules?”
Again, no answer.
“Come on, Junebug. You can’t stay mad at me all day.”
When she persisted in the silent treatment, he’d had enough. “Okay, Julia. That’s it. Stay mad, see what I care. But mad or not, here I come.” He flung open the door and stopped short.
Everything he’d been, everything he’d done, everything he’d left behind, coalesced into a single moment of pure terror.
Julia wasn’t there.
He’d been running away from this moment for eleven years, and now that it had come, he was as unprepared as though it had never occurred to him. His mind blanked; his heart shut down. He froze solid, a rabbit with a hawk circling.
How long it took to get the circulation going he had no idea. Somehow he managed to get his shirt and shoes on. When he came alive again, he found himself running to the alcove with the ice and vending machines, hoping, praying she’d taken some quarters from him and was buying a forbidden Coke.
But it, too, was empty. No one had seen her, either. Not in the motel lobby where he’d signed in and paid cash the night before. Not in the parking lot or the McDonald’s across the way.
The clerk behind the desk at the motel offered to call the police, but even now, with catastrophe staring Mitch in the face, he couldn’t take the chance. What if this was all a horrible misunderstanding, and five minutes from now she came waltzing in, saying she’d gone exploring?
No, he couldn’t risk the police. Not until he knew for certain what had happened. Bad enough he was drawing all this attention to himself. He forced a smile on his face, a shrug into his shoulders.
“Nah, that’s okay. You know kids. I’m sure she’ll turn up. Here”—he dug into his pocket, found a wad of bills, and handed some to the clerk—“for tonight.” He wanted to make sure she had a room to go to if by some miracle she was taking a walk. “And if she does show up, let her into the room, will you? And tell her to stay put.”
“Will do.” The clerk shook his head in sympathy. “Got two kids myself.”
Not knowing what else to do, Mitch got in his truck, inserted the key, and turned on the engine. Of course it would decide on this morning of all mornings not to turn over.
He pumped the gas, tried again, and cursed when the damn thing still wouldn’t start. Truth was, he should have had the truck looked at months ago. But he hadn’t wanted to take the time or be without wheels in case he needed to get out fast. Now he was paying for that caution.
“Come on, you nasty old road hag,” he muttered, and punched the steering wheel when he got no cooperation. If someone had gotten to Julia, where would they have gone? Even if he could get the truck moving, there were miles of country in every direction. Where to start? Nausea swirled in his stomach.
How could anyone have taken her with him in the room? He wasn’t a heavy sleeper. And knowing Jules, she wouldn’t have gone easily.
Then again, she’d been mad at him. Would she have let a stranger abduct her out of spite? Hardly.
But she was a kid. And kids did things.
He thought back to the day before. Wished to God someone else had been there to see Sara Jean go over that bridge. Then he could have avoided the crazy, impulsive rescue, the house, the meal, the “good” people with their gratitude and their handouts, the shell of normalcy Julia thought she wanted.
The shell of normalcy…
He gripped the wheel. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
He tried the ignition again. Desperate, he wanted to pound at the gas pedal, but he made himself pump gently. “Come on, baby,” he crooned this time. “You can do it. For Jules, not me. Come on…”
And like the damn thing heard him, the truck came to life.
He yanked the gears into reverse, squealed out of his parking space, and careened out of the motel lot.
Fifteen minutes later, he was hammering on Bitsy and Tommy Blunt’s front door. It took them a while to answer, and when they did, they were in robes and pajamas.
“Oh, my Lord.” Bitsy took one look at him and said, “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Mitch pushed past her. “Where is she?”
“Where is who?” Tommy asked.
“Who? My kid. Who else?” Mitch was already plowing through the downstairs, his chest tightening with each empty room.
“Julia left last night with you,” Bitsy said.
“She isn’t here,” Tommy said.
Mitch ran up the stairs.
“I assure you, she isn’t—”
Mitch wrenched open the door to the master bedroom, saw the covers strewn on the bed.
“Why don’t we go downstairs,” Bitsy said, “get some coffee, talk about—”
He flung open another room. A desk and a neatly made bed.
“Please, Mitch, we’d know if she was—wait, that’s Sara Jean’s room. I don’t think—”
But he’d already opened that door, too.
And snuggled under the covers next to Sara Jean’s red head was a smaller, black-haired one.
• • •
“
We were going to switch places!” Julia cried, while Mitch glared at her. “Like the prince and the pauper. But Sara Jean was asleep, and I was tired….”
“I’ll bet you were,” Mitch said. “What in the world were you thinking?”
Julia scuffed a toe against the floor. They were in the empty room with the desk and the bed. “I told you. I don’t want to go. And I don’t see why we have to.”
“Because I said so.”
The narrow look she gave him clearly said, “Not good enough, pal.”
“We can’t stay.”
She shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Silence.
“Jules…”
Another shrug. “I’ll just do it again.”
“Next time we’ll go too far to walk back.”
“Then I’ll hitch.”
“You damn well won’t!”
“I will if you make me.”
He wouldn’t put it past her, either.
“Come on,” she cajoled. “We’ll have our own house and everything.”
Mitch wanted to shout at her, shake her, force her to understand. But he couldn’t. Not without telling her everything, and that was information he’d take to his grave.
“A week,” he said.
“A month.”
“Two weeks. And that’s it.”
She thought it over. “ ’Til Christmas.”
“Christmas! That’s over two months!”
She gave him that shrug again.
He growled at her. “You’re supposed to be meeting me in the middle, not escalating your position. Who taught you how to negotiate?”
She grinned. “You did.”
He lunged, pulled her under his arm like a football, and gave her a gentle head noogie. “You’re too good a learner.”
She giggled, and he released her. She was grinning widely, mischief and laughter in her eyes. His heart clenched, and for some unearthly reason, tears gathered at the back of his throat.
Abruptly, he turned away. DNA was a cruel master.
“Daddy?”
He swallowed. Cleared his throat. “Yeah, Junebug?”
“So, are we staying?”
“I guess so.”
“ ’Til Christmas?”
He had himself under control now, so he turned and wagged a finger at her. “But no promises after that.”
“And I go to school?”
He eyed her, partly in disbelief for her nerve, partly in horror. “Jesus, Jules. Most kids would do anything to stay out of school.”
“I’m different.”
“Tell me about it,” he said grimly.
“Unique.”
He grunted.
“That mean we have a deal?” She held out her hand to seal it.
He knew what he should do. Be tough. Resist. Disaster loomed if he didn’t.
But the dread of losing her again was still with him. It turned his constant paranoia into mere habit. After all, they’d been free for over a decade. How much would it hurt to give her what she wanted? At least for a little while.
So he slid his large hand around her smaller one and they shook once. And that evening, they moved into the Blunts’ carriage house.
5
Mitch set their backpacks at their customary place by the main exit, where they could be grabbed in a hurry if necessary. Bitsy had hired someone to clean the place from top to bottom, so all Mitch and Julia had to do was make themselves at home.
The carriage house was a square brick building tethered to the back of the Blunt home by an alley. The carriage that had once been lodged there was long gone, and the space had been divided into a series of rooms. He had known far bigger homes with many more rooms and many more floors, but Julia walked the space as though she were a farmer tramping a magical pasture somewhere over the rainbow. Every nook, every cabinet, every window ledge, was exclaimed upon and marveled over. He indulged her fascination and used it to dampen his own uneasiness.
That night they had dinner with the Blunts again, and this time, Sara Jean was there. She looked fully recovered from her ordeal, if a little withdrawn, especially around her parents.
Mitch volunteered himself and Julia to do the cleanup, and when Bitsy protested, Julia said, “Oh, no. He’s an expert at dishwashing. It’s just about the best thing he does.”
Mitch could have shaken her, though she was right. But in the midst of this comfortable house, with its professional owner and his family, dishwashing seemed shameful.
“That’s what you’re looking for?” Tommy asked. “Jobwise, I mean?”
“He fries stuff, too.”
Sara Jean added, “Maybe he can fry something for us.”
Mitch gave Julia a scolding look. “You’ve been talking about me?”
“Well,” she said, though she knew it was against the rules. “You do fry things.”
“I’m a fry cook,” Mitch explained to Tommy, who nodded thoughtfully. “But I can do whatever you got. Janitorial, light carpentry, lawn maintenance.”
“He makes patty melts,” Julia said. “And egg creams.”
Sara Jean looked horrified. “Yuck.”
Julia giggled.
“Don’t worry,” Mitch said, “there’s no egg and just a little cream in it.”
“But there is chocolate!” Julia cried.
“Then why’s it called an egg cream?” Sara Jean asked.
Mitch winked. “A mystery for the ages.”
The doorbell rang, and Bitsy disappeared to answer it. She came back with a short, stocky bulldog of a woman carrying a nylon bag over her shoulder. Bitsy didn’t look very happy, but the newcomer greeted Tommy effusively, then asked Sara Jean how she was.
“Fine,” Sara Jean murmured.
“And this must be our hero,” the woman said, looking at Mitch.
“This is Mitch Turner,” Tommy said. “And that’s his daughter, Julia. Mitch, this is Shelby Townsend. She owns the Crossroads Sentinel.”
Mitch froze. He was allergic to reporters the way some people were allergic to shellfish—even small-town ones were deadly. But there he was in the Blunt kitchen in front of the whole family and Julia. He couldn’t exactly take off. So when Shelby stuck out a pudgy hand, Mitch took it. Her grip was tight and the handshake firm, an indication of how she handled the world, which only increased his apprehension.
Bitsy said, “Shelby, I’m not sure we want everyone in town knowing—”
But Shelby overrode her concern. “How’s about we get you over here, Mr. Turner.” Before he could protest, she had her camera out and was taking his picture. He put up a hand to cover his face and tried ducking his head, but she just kept taking pictures until she got one she liked.
When she tried to question him about the rescue, he said, “I really don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“A modest hero, too.” Shelby beamed.
“Really,” Mitch protested. “I’m not a—”
“You’re a hero to Sara Jean,” Julia said.
“Butt out, Junebug.”
“I’m just saying—”
“How about you, Sara Jean?” Shelby asked. “No more playing near the river?”
Sara Jean flashed a quick look at Mitch and her parents, then answered Shelby with downcast eyes. “No, ma’am,” she said.
“Bet you were scared,” Shelby said, fishing.
The normal answer would have been yes. The more likely answer, given the situation at the time, was no. Sara Jean seemed caught between the two, so Mitch threw an arm around her, shielding her from the nosy reporter. “Of course she was. And now I think it’s time for Sara Jean to get those… uh… those pajamas for Julia.”
Sara Jean looked at him blankly. “Pajamas?”
Thank God for Julia. “You remember,” she broke in quickly. “The pajamas you were going to lend me.” She grabbed Sara Jean’s hand and dragged her away.
Bitsy bit her lip. “How did you hear about the… uh, accident?
” she asked Shelby.
Shelby winked. “Can’t reveal my sources, now, can I?”
Bitsy frowned and threw Tommy a baleful look. “That Emmalyn Mosley has a big mouth.”
Tommy’s face reddened. “My secretary did not…”
Shelby found something interesting in her camera bag to look at, and the rest of Tommy’s words died out. Struggling for what to do or say, he blurted out, “Shelby, join us for banana pudding?”
Bitsy looked like she wanted to clap her husband over the head with a frying pan, but she quickly recovered. “Of course, we’d love to have you. Mitch, would you call the girls down for me?”
But he didn’t want either Julia or Sara Jean around while the reporter was still there. “How about we let them have some girl time. They can have dessert later.”
“Later?” Shelby asked. “Are you staying with the Blunts, Mr. Turner?”
“Mitch and Julia are in the carriage house,” Tommy said as Bitsy began serving out the custard.
“Nice of you.” But she looked at Mitch thoughtfully, as though wondering if Sara Jean’s rescue had been a clever way to insinuate himself on the Blunts and the town.
“He’s looking for work, too,” Tommy added. “Maybe you know something?” Without prompting, Tommy ran down the list of things Mitch had said he’d done.
Mitch tensed. The Blunts meant well, but he felt spread-eagled and staked to the ground.
Thankfully, Shelby shook her head. “Can’t think of anything at the moment.” She dug into dessert. “Don’t suppose you know much about computers?”
“Sorry,” Mitch said, not sorry at all. “Bit of a Luddite.”
Shelby looked as if she never expected him to know, let alone use, that word.
“That’s okay,” Bitsy said. “I’m sure something will turn up.”
That’s what Mitch was worried about.
Mitch’s picture ran in the Crossroads Sentinel along with the story of his rescue of Sara Jean. Both Bitsy and Tommy made sure he had a copy. Julia was thrilled and wouldn’t stop talking about it. The chatter was nerve-racking, but it was too late to do anything more than hope the small-town paper didn’t have much circulation outside of Crossroads.
Two Lethal Lies Page 3