July 1968
We picnicked at the beach today for the celebration. Clayton took our picture with his new Olympus. Then we walked the beach. Sometimes, when I look at Clayton, I’m amazed at my life, at the way it turned out. I don’t love him the same way I loved Hugh. I love him better. Stronger. He is the face of God’s grace to me. The face of mercy and compassion. Yes, I loved Hugh—loved the wildness, the freshness, the hope of it. But Clay took that hope and gave it depth and commitment. He nursed me through my grief; he helped me find my way back to Sunny, to myself. Clayton is my happy ending. Five years. I hope for fifty.
Connie pressed a Kleenex to her face and blew her nose.
“He helped me find my way back to myself.” PJ stared out the window to the blackness outside. Thankfully, Boris hadn’t covered the ceiling, and she looked through it to the stars. “He is the face of God’s grace to me.”
For a while, Jeremy had made her believe that he saw the real PJ Sugar, the woman she wanted to be. He’d been the face of mercy, of compassion. The face of hope.
With Boone, she’d never seen herself as anything but trouble.
But Jeremy had set her free from that. Jeremy believed she could be more . . . or at least she thought he did.
Princess.
“PJ?”
“I’m fine. Just realizing that some stories don’t have happy endings.” She wiped her eyes. “So Hugh never came back—”
“Oh no, that’s what I was trying to say. He did. His mother said that he’d returned to Kellogg in 1977, when the draft dodgers were pardoned by Jimmy Carter. But no one ever saw him or even mentioned him. Except . . .”
“Joy.”
“Yes. There’re a number of sketchy entries around that time, and then listen to this:
March 1978
If he wanted to destroy our lives, why did he choose now? Seventeen years—as if he knew how I would feel, remembering the night he kissed me, on the eve of my own seventeenth birthday. Poor Sunny didn’t even know him—of course she didn’t know him. I found him in the kitchen, at the door of her bedroom, watching her. He’d even brought her a gift—diamond earrings. Tears ran down his face, and he shook as I let him take me in his arms. We still had our daughter between us, and I couldn’t begrudge him that. He left on his terms, but if he must return, it will be on mine. Of course I will make room for him. Clayton disagrees, and we had a terrible argument after Hugh left. He is so angry. Not at me, but at Hugh. He doesn’t want Sunny to know. I don’t know what to do. Of course she should know Hugh is her real father, and I was wrong to hide her past from her. But I feared she’d never see the life she’d been given with Clayton. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I should have let her see her legacy. Hugh was such a good man, before . . . If only I knew how to help Hugh let go of his nightmares. If only I wasn’t the one who caused them.
“‘If only I wasn’t the one who caused them.’ Is that the last entry?”
Connie shut the book. “Yes.”
“And no one ever saw Hugh again?”
Connie rubbed her hand on the book. “Nope. He probably took off again for Canada or wherever he’d gone during those deserting years.”
“Is his mother still alive?”
“No, she passed about a year ago.”
Davy came down to the kitchen, his curly dark hair still dripping, his pajamas stuck to his wet skin. “Hey, Auntie PJ!” He bounced toward her, leaping onto her lap. “See my new lapa?”
He shoved a long-eared stuffed dog onto her lap.
“Lapa?”
“It’s Russian for teddy bear or something like that.” Connie said, closing the diary.
Sergei entered the room, looking half-soaked.
“Did you bathe too?” Connie asked, laughing.
He leaned down to kiss her, then lifted her legs and sat under them, replacing them on his lap. Connie ran her fingers into his dark hair. “You know, Davy could use a towel.”
“Ah, nyet. Khe vants his own vay.” Sergei glanced at Davy and gave him a wink.
“See, my lapa talks to me!” Davy pressed the dog’s floppy ear, and PJ heard the voice of Sergei emerge, in Russian, “Ya tebya lublu.”
I love you. “How’d you do that?”
“He went to Babies and Baubles. They let you make your own stuffed animals there and add your own recorded message.”
Davy hugged the dog to his chest.
As PJ watched him, Flora’s words rushed back to her. “A teddy bear. Just a cheap trinket he picked up in some airport, probably. But Tyler carries it everywhere.”
The last package Owen had ever sent home.
“How would the smuggler get the diamonds home?” PJ touched the lapa’s ear, heard the voice play again.
What if the diamonds were inside the teddy bear?
But had Max sent them . . . or someone else?
He’d been wounded, sent to Germany . . . recovering from a head injury.
One that probably necessitated shaving his head . . .
The Kellogg hobo had said that Max had arrived onshore naked as a baby. Had he also meant bald?
Which meant Max couldn’t have been the long-haired, tattooed soldier standing on the driveway yelling at Bekka. She’d been right—it had to be Ratchet. And when Bekka said to her mother that she “had to get back to him,” she must have meant Owen—wounded, hurt Owen.
Owen, who probably never even knew about the package since he was busy recovering from a head injury . . . one so damaging that a fall into the bay easily knocked the memory out of him.
Ratchet had been there that day . . . and maybe he’d come back that night, even dumped Owen.
But . . . it still didn’t feel right. They’d been POWs together in Iraq. If she spent time suffering with someone, they’d probably have a lifelong bond. They’d even brand it on their arms.
Her hand went to the tattoo on her shoulder, the one with Boone’s name. She too had a lifelong bond. With Boone, just like he had with her. And yes, like Owen’s, it was based in suffering, even if it wasn’t quite as deep as wartime pain. And despite their wounds, she and Boone would never really be enemies.
In fact, their friendship might even be the kind that went so deep he’d risk his life for her. And vice versa. At the very least, warn her of trouble.
Except, according to Windchill, Ratchet and Owen were enemies . . .
PJ sat up. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
Connie took her hand from Sergei’s hair. “What?”
“If Ratchet was planning on killing Owen, or even demanding the diamonds from him, he wouldn’t have had an argument with Bekka out in the street for the entire neighborhood to see. If he was any kind of special ops soldier—especially a black ops soldier—he’d know to stay under the radar. If anything, Jeremy’s taught me that. And they were fellow survivors. Not enemies like Windchill said. They had a lifelong bond to protect each other.” She wanted to scream or at least grab someone—Jeremy—by the lapels. “I’ll bet that Ratchet went to warn Bekka!”
Connie gave her a long look. “Should I take notes?”
She pressed her palms to her head. “I’ll bet Windchill showed up, and Max, being the hero he is, got into a fight with him—and Bekka maybe got in the way. So he had to make it look like Max killed his wife. But then why did Windchill go to the funeral?”
“Davy, go get Mommy a pen, please,” Connie said.
“Of course, he went to find Ratchet! But Ratchet probably knew Windchill was after him, so he went into hiding. And Windchill’s best option was to lie low and wait, hoping nothing surfaced to tie him to the smuggling or Owen’s murder. Then I put Max in the paper this week. Suddenly Windchill realized that Owen wasn’t dead.” She wanted to bang her head against something. “Windchill told me about Ratchet so that I would track him down. He needed to cut off any final threads to Max’s disappearance and Bekka’s murder. And when I showed up, he realized that I would eventually figure it out—wait! What if Windchill was the one w
ho rented the house? What if he’s another Lyle Fisher?”
“I feel like we need CliffsNotes of some sort.” Connie said.
She turned to them. “I think Windchill was the one who burned down the house, killed Bekka, dumped Owen’s body, and then killed Ratchet today.” She stood, hands up. “What if Windchill was the one who pushed me off the road?”
Had she seen the GT at the jump school? Oh, why couldn’t she remember?
“Why didn’t he just unhook me in the air?”
Sergei and Connie were staring at her as if they might be watching a teenage horror movie, mouths agape.
“Because if you’re gone, how would he find Max?” Connie asked, suddenly finding her lawyer face.
“Connie, you do have sleuthing genes! Good question.” PJ stared at her sister. “So maybe he wasn’t the driver—maybe he just wanted to use me to find Ratchet, then track me back to Max.”
“Why would he want that?”
“Oh no. I’ll bet he was going to unhook me—because I was a liability—until I opened my big mouth and told him about the teddy bear.”
“Why would he care about the teddy bear?”
“Because . . . Windchill never got the diamonds! Because the package hadn’t arrived yet, only maybe he didn’t know it. He tossed the house, and when he didn’t find them, he set it on fire—to cover his tracks. I knew it!”
“Diamonds?” Sergei asked.
“Maybe he thought they’d never surface, and he didn’t want to raise suspicions . . . until, of course, I told him that yes, the package did arrive. . . . Oh no! Windchill asked me if Max was going to get his memory back, and I said maybe! He’s going to finish what he started with Max and then find that teddy bear—”
Davy ran back into the room with the pen and handed it to Connie. “Ya tebya lublu,” she said, tousling his hair.
PJ patted Davy’s head. “I gotta go, little man.”
“Are you coming back?” Connie asked, a flare of panic in her eyes.
PJ grabbed her keys, tugged on her Chucky T’s. “Oh, I certainly hope so.”
Chapter Nineteen
It would really help a PI catch her villain if her cell phone weren’t waterlogged at the bottom of Maximilian Bay.
So, well, what was a girl to do? PJ drove to the Kellogg Police Department.
“Detective Buckam’s not here,” said the night clerk, a woman PJ didn’t know, but who knew her based on the way she looked her over with cool eyes.
Perfect. He was probably out on a date with . . . what’s her name. Thankfully, this time the thought didn’t plunge like a knife straight into the center of PJ’s chest.
Not that she was ready to do wild cartwheels or anything.
PJ stood outside the police department, smelling the crisp, loamy October air, and wondered where Max would go.
What did she know about Max? He was a survivor . . . he’d managed to live through Iraq and a head injury. He was a rescuer . . . he’d taken in Dog. And somewhere deep inside, he was loyal. With everything inside her, PJ knew that Max had gone looking for his child. She’d seen the look on his face when he thought Tyler might be his.
Longing.
So where did a loyal, rescuing, survivor-type go . . . a guy who wanted to make amends?
Was it too much to ask—the mushroom house? After the destruction he’d wrought, she’d bet he was still attempting a rescue of her plumbing, because he’d promised. Because he wanted to put things right.
PJ climbed into the Vic.
An eerie white moon dangled half-full over the lake, winking. Stars needled the cover of night, and the air breathed the watery scent of rain.
Please, God, let Max be at my house. With any providence, Jeremy wouldn’t have found him yet; it would give her space to explain the truth to Max. Convince him that he wasn’t a murderer, but a survivor.
She knew it, and that knowledge swelled inside her.
She almost rear-ended Boone’s Mustang, parked in her circle drive. Her headlights flashed across the fender and then scraped across Jeremy’s microbus in front of it.
And Max’s Cutlass in front of that.
Oh no. In her head, she saw the scenario—Jeremy had called Boone after tracking down Max. Boone had arrived, and who knows what sort of altercation had gone down behind her unassuming dark windows.
In fact, the house looked lifeless, the only movement her dead hanging plant, its spindly arms tangling in the breeze as she approached the house.
Dog barked, running to her, his voice carried away in the breeze. She knelt and rubbed her hands over his neck. “Hey there, Bruce.”
Dog gave her a lick, jumped on her, knocking her back, then bounded away. PJ pushed herself up, dusting off her hands, wet from . . . She held them up in the moonlight.
Something dark and sticky smeared them. She smelled it. Recoiled.
Blood?
She wiped her hands on her pants. “Dog?” He hadn’t appeared wounded.
The door creaked open, nudged by the breeze. PJ stilled, staring at it, a fist closing over her heart. Something felt . . . off.
She eased, whisper silent, to the door and edged it open. For once, it decided not to whine, and she slipped inside. She paused, listening to her heartbeat swish in her ears.
Then she heard it: cursing, a thump, people grunting.
“Why do you always have to be a hero, Owen?”
And then a roar, a sound that grabbed her insides and squeezed.
She ran to the front room, stopped, crouched by the door. In the dim light cast by the night into the main room, she saw Max on the floor, Windchill on top, his hands wrapped around Max’s neck.
Squeezing.
“Why can’t you just stay dead!”
Max’s legs kicked up, wrapped around Windchill’s neck. Jerked him away.
Behind him—no, no! Boone lay on the floor, handcuffed, bleeding from his shoulder.
Max grabbed his throat, sucked a breath, then pounced on Windchill just as he found his feet. They slammed into a wall.
PJ averted her eyes as they pummeled each other. Do something.
She needed a weapon—if she dove into the fight, Max would only try to protect her and get hurt in the process. She’d learned that much about the heroes in her life.
And then she saw him—the dark form of Jeremy collapsed and unmoving beside the open doorway. And lying in the center of the room, what looked like a gun.
PJ pressed a hand to her stomach. Breathe. Just . . . breathe.
“You killed my wife!” Max’s fist slammed into Windchill’s chin.
“You killed her by trying to stop me!” Windchill grabbed Max around the waist, tackling him to the ground. They wrestled, and PJ winced at the grunts of pain.
Oh, see, someone should listen to her—and her instincts! She knew Max wasn’t a smuggler.
Windchill found Max’s neck again. Max’s face whitened as Windchill’s fingers dug into his throat.
Jeremy stirred.
Windchill turned at the movement. Max threw him off. Scrambled for the gun.
Windchill tackled him. The two slammed into the French doors. Glass shattered, littering the floor.
PJ scanned the room for a weapon. Soggy lath and plaster littered the floor, none of it weapon-worthy.
She spied Max’s toolbox across the room. His tool belt lay on the floor. But what was she going to do—throw a hammer? She’d hit Max or Boone or even Jeremy.
The two men hung on to each other’s throats, deadlocked.
Oh . . . oh . . . God, please! Help me think!
Max’s grip fell from Windchill’s neck. He fought Windchill’s stranglehold.
PJ launched herself to a spot behind the compressor still set up in the middle of the family room debris field. Gun—the nail gun! She snaked her hand down the hose, fumbled for the gun.
Please, let it still be loaded. Please . . .
She pointed at Windchill, hoping it worked like one of the weapons Boone had taugh
t her to use, and pulled the trigger.
A nail shot out, ricocheting off the fireplace.
She fought the recoil, pulled again.
This time, it might have chipped something—hopefully skin—off Windchill. He whirled around with a roar. Max lay on the floor, barely moving.
She ducked behind the compressor, hands over her head as he scooped up the gun and popped off a couple shots. The sound shook through the empty house.
Dog exploded through the front door, and Jeremy erupted from the floor. Crashing, grunts, roars of fury. Boone shouting. Glass shattering.
Two more shots.
She heard more scuffling, then a shout—
Jeremy skidded to his knees in front of her.
She dropped the gun and launched herself at him.
He grabbed her shoulders, stopping her. His gaze raked over her. “Are you okay?”
“Are you okay?” She caught his face in her hands.
“You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“I hope not. Oh, I hope not.”
Shots popped off, outside.
“Max!”
Jeremy put her away from him, met her eyes, and she nodded.
He scrambled out the back after Max. Outside, a motor kicked up in the wind.
Boone lay in the middle of the room, eyes closed, face a little white.
“Boone?”
“I’m okay,” he said in a voice that most definitely did not sound okay.
She sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed one of her new towels, returned, and pressed it to his wound. He turned his face away.
“Get a knife—you need to cut through the flexi-cuffs he put on me.” Boone grunted, rolling to his side, revealing plastic zip-tie handcuffs.
He was still breathing through his mouth, long, controlled breaths.
Outside, more shots popped off. One crashed through the window, splattering glass across her floor.
She crouched, zagging to the kitchen, yanking open drawers.
Another shot, and—
Boom! The wall exploded in, splinters flying, a fireball hurtling into the great room. The force rocketed PJ back. She slammed against the wall, hitting her head.
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