Jackie came down the steps after her. She slowed after seeing Becca at the bottom landing, leaning against the wall. She touched Becca’s arm, and it took all Becca had not to move away. She was angry at Jackie for asking her to come back here, for asking her to stay here with her father. Who the hell was she to make such a request? Why had her father summoned her home in the first place?
“It’s the morphine,” Jackie said. “It changes him. His personality. It causes anger and confusion, and you know how your father is. He likes to be in control. And right now he’s not. He doesn’t have control over anything. Not this disease or his body. Try not to take it personally.”
Becca folded her arms, aware of her defensive posture. But she couldn’t help it. If her father wanted her to feel guilty for not being with him sooner, for not coming when she’d first learned he was ill, he could forget it. On the surface she looked like a horrible daughter. But it wasn’t that easy. It was complicated between them, or at least it was complicated for her. The child in her refused to forgive him for what he’d done. If anyone should feel guilty, it should be him for what he’d done to her mother.
“I have to answer this.” She held up her phone and walked into the kitchen. Matt, the condo and its walls, her job at the clinic, all felt so far away and out of reach. She’d been gone for less than a day, but it felt so much longer. She started to type a reply to Matt, to anchor herself in her old life, and stopped. Romy pushed her warm body against Becca’s leg. She bent down, buried her face in Romy’s fur, having turned to animals for comfort ever since that day John had given her that scruffy old barn cat.
Jackie entered the kitchen. “Why don’t you get out of here for a while and pick up a few things for me in town?” She pulled a grocery list from underneath a magnet that was stuck to the side of the refrigerator and handed it to her.
Becca took the list, thankful for the chore to get her out of the house. “Want to go for a ride?” she asked Romy. The dog jumped and pranced around her legs. She grabbed the leash and headed for the door only to stop and turn back around. “How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you stay here with him?”
Jackie gave her a sympathetic smile. “You get used to it. It becomes the new normal,” she said. “Besides, believe it or not, I stay because I love him.”
Becca nodded. She believed it all right. She had never met a woman who didn’t love her father.
The day was cool but not unpleasant. The autumn sun shared its warmth through the Jeep’s windows as Becca drove the few miles to town. She passed mostly woods and the occasional cornfields that were ready for harvest. The woods continued on her right, and the river flowed somewhere to her left. The mountains squeezed in around her, the trees with their brightly colored leaves like a blanket around her shoulders. She wound her way along the back roads. A car full of teenagers blew by, music blaring from the speakers. Romy poked her head out the passenger-side window, tongue hanging out, curious at her new surroundings.
Becca stopped at the stop sign at the edge of town. To her right was the diner. She suddenly craved a vanilla milkshake. She wondered if Gloria was still behind the counter pouring coffee and root beer floats, talking about her youth and days gone by. Gloria had been considered ancient back when Becca had been a teenager, and the thought of someone replacing Gloria behind the counter wasn’t something she’d considered until now. She’d cut herself off from the people here, even the ones she’d cared about, including Parker.
She pulled into the parking space in front of the local grocery store that sold fresh produce and meat from local farms. Across the street, not far from where Becca had parked, there were several police cars along with the local news van. A few townspeople had gathered, but by the looks of it, most everyone had gone home. It was as though someone had held up a sign reading, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, FOLKS, or more likely, NOTHING YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED IN. If the people in Portland knew how to do one thing, it was to turn their backs, to look the other way, especially if it didn’t concern them, especially if it involved the Scions.
She spotted Parker. He was still standing next to the unmarked cruiser. She and Romy got out of the car, walked down the sidewalk, closer to where he was talking with a uniformed police officer. At six feet two, Parker was the second-tallest person she knew. Her father was the first. It made it easy to locate him in a crowd. She took a few more steps and stopped, unable to take her eyes off of him. He must’ve felt her stare, or maybe it was what she wanted to believe, because he looked her way. Romy stayed close to her side.
Parker touched the police officer’s arm as if to say, Give me a minute. He made his way across Route 611 to where Becca was standing, waiting, fiddling with the leash in her sweaty palms.
“Hey,” she said in a rush. “I can’t believe it’s you.” She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him, sensing hesitation on his part.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “Who’s this?” he asked about Romy and patted the dog’s head. Romy licked Parker’s hand, then sniffed his scuffed, muddy shoes.
“Her name is Romy,” she said. Romy was a good judge of character, and Becca was glad to see her take to Parker so easily. He continued to pet the dog in silence.
“So, it’s been like, what?” She quickly calculated the years since she’d last seen him. “Twelve? Thirteen years?” He looked the same, maybe a little older around the eyes, mouth. His hair was clipped shorter than she remembered, but it still maintained the hint of unruly waves. Stubble covered much of his face. He was the same old Parker, a little rough and unkempt, but in a good way.
“At least that many,” he said. His tone was cautious and not at all like how he used to talk with her. “What are you doing back in town? I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with your dad. I heard about the cancer.” He looked over his shoulder at the police officers milling around. The crime scene was farther down the riverbank. The news reporter was leaning against the back of the van, talking to her cameraman.
“He’s not doing great, so yeah, I’m staying with him for a while at the house,” she said, wanting him to know she was here and she would be, for a little while anyway.
He nodded. “I should get back.”
“So you’re a cop now?” she asked, pointing to the scene. She’d heard rumors off and on, tidbits of information about him online from former classmates that he’d gone to the police academy after graduating college and that he hadn’t married. But she rarely checked social media sites anymore; the gossip, the photos, the sharing of people’s daily lives all felt overwhelming, exhausting to keep track of.
“I’m a homicide investigator,” he said. “State police.”
Now that he said what he was, she was struck by how much he looked the part. She’d only ever met two detectives in her life, some twenty years ago, back when she’d been just ten years old. They’d worn the same dark suits with white shirts. She wondered if Parker had a gun strapped to his side underneath his jacket like the two men who had visited her house looking for her father.
“It was good seeing you.” He gave Romy one last pat. “Tell your dad I was asking about him.” He paused. “You look good,” he said and turned to walk away.
“Parker. Wait,” she called.
He turned back around.
“Meet me for a drink later? We can catch up?” she asked, hoping more than she should that he would say yes.
He didn’t answer right away, and she became uncomfortable in his silence. Please, she quietly begged. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, but he used to be her best friend and something more, at least to her, and it hadn’t been until she’d seen him that she’d realized just how much she’d missed him.
“Sure,” he said. “But I don’t drink. I’ll meet you at the diner for a milkshake.” He glanced back at the scene. “It might be late by the time I get off work.”
“I’ll wait,” she said and watched him walk away.
Becca walked through the grocery store feeli
ng as though time had stood still and she was back where she’d started, the girl known throughout town only as the police chief’s daughter. She’d lived and breathed an identity that had been wrapped around who her father had been rather than who she was—although back then she hadn’t always been sure who she was, questioning everything from her short hair, her choice of a boy for a best friend, her preference for the company of animals rather than people.
She passed the bins in aisle three where she’d shucked corn with her mother. She turned the corner and waved at Mr. Dave behind the meat counter. His apron was smeared with blood from the slab of chuck roast in front of him.
“Becca Kingsley,” Mr. Dave said. He peeled the nitrile gloves off his hands. It occurred to her that what she’d seen on John’s hand the other morning by the river had been a nitrile glove.
“It’s good to see you,” Mr. Dave said. “Say, how’s your dad?”
He wore the same expression she was coming to expect from the people around here, one of pleasant surprise at her sudden return and then concern that the reason for her visit had to do with her father and the possibility he’d taken a turn for the worse. It was kind of them to care about their old police chief. It was. But some small part of her wanted to know why no one had asked what she’d been doing since she’d left. Why hadn’t Parker asked?
“He’s doing okay,” she said, feeling bad that her reply was vague, but how was she supposed to tell him that her father was dying?
“You tell him I asked about him. And everyone in town is looking forward to seeing him again real soon.”
“I will,” she said, in a hurry to get away.
She picked up the items on Jackie’s list—medicated swabs, aspirin, soap, deodorant, milk, and bread. She was back in the Jeep in less than ten minutes. Romy barked in gratitude. Becca put the supplies on the floor behind the seat, taking another look across the street at the area marked with yellow tape. She’d been so excited to see Parker, she’d almost forgotten about the body they’d pulled from the river.
“Hello,” she called to Jackie after setting the bags on the kitchen countertop. Romy had stayed outside in the front yard with the new bone Becca had purchased at the last minute before she’d exited the grocery store.
She called another hello, and after not getting a response the second time, she slowly made her way upstairs. She was careful not to make a sound, creeping along the wooden floor, placing her feet on the less creaky boards. Every movement she made felt as though she were taking a step back in time, as though she were sixteen again, sneaking into her bedroom long after curfew.
Her father’s voice carried down the hall. “No,” he barked. He sounded gruff, stronger than any of the other times she’d heard him speak in the last two days. She paused, steadying herself against the wall.
“You have to calm down,” Jackie said. “She doesn’t understand. You need to give her a little time.”
“No,” he said.
Hearing his voice, the one she remembered from her childhood when he had been vigorous and full of life, made her feel young and weak and powerless, as though she were ten years old again.
She took two steps backward, inched her way back down the hall. When she reached the stairs, she raced down the steps and flew out the door that led to the garage. She passed her father’s old pickup truck and his beloved John Deere riding mower. She leaned against the outside wall of the garage like she used to do as a kid, catching her breath, gazing into the backyard where the woods met the overgrown grass and weeds.
There was a time when Becca used to sit in this same spot with her old dog, Sheba, and watch her father mow. It was the only time she remembered ever seeing him relax, the lines on his face softening. He’d been at peace in the yard, comfortable in the yellow bucket seat. The motion of the ride had been soothing, the humming motor blocking the noise inside his head. He’d told her mother all of this at one time when Becca had been foolish enough to believe her parents’ marriage had been a good one.
She crossed her arms. The large oak tree at the edge of the yard dropped several acorns, the sound of which forced another memory, one that was more like a slap in the face, quick and sharp. She’d been standing in this same spot when she’d noticed Russell underneath the tree. Sheba had growled, a low belly growl, her way of sending a warning.
Becca’s father had been cutting grass but cut the mower when he’d spied Russell too. The two men had stared at each other. After a moment, her father had climbed out of his favorite yellow bucket seat and approached him.
Becca had been too far away to hear what they’d said, but she remembered the look on her father’s face when he’d turned around. His face had been drawn and pale. It was the only time Becca had ever seen her father scared. His stride back to the mower had been shaky at best. And still, he’d climbed back into the seat and finished cutting the grass as though nothing had happened.
Becca had never asked her father what had transpired between him and Russell. Her father wasn’t someone who answered other people’s questions, not her mother’s, and certainly not his daughter’s.
Two days after Becca had watched her father and Russell talking at the edge of their yard, her father walked into the kitchen holding a handgun. He laid it on the table next to her bowl of cereal. This wasn’t unusual. She was used to guns around the house, lying on the countertops, in the hall closet, on the nightstand by her parents’ bed. She’d never touched them. She’d never even been tempted to put one finger on the cold hard steel. Her father had explained to her at an early age the kind of power a gun wielded, how the weapon could be the difference between life and death. And hadn’t she seen it for herself firsthand? She was ten years old now, but she’d never forgotten the doe he’d shot in front of her, the helpless, injured, innocent doe.
He drank a large glass of water before putting the cup in the sink. He turned around. “Follow me,” he said and picked up the gun.
She lagged behind, silently begging, Please don’t shoot the groundhog; please don’t shoot the groundhog; please don’t shoot the groundhog. Her father hated animals digging in his yard. She had seen the rodent the other day burrowing in his manicured lawn. She’d run after it, chasing it away for its own safety. Then she’d quickly filled in its hole. She thought she’d saved its life, but it was possible it had come back to do more damage.
She stepped outside. A target had been set up in the backyard. He looked at her. She didn’t understand.
“You need to learn how to shoot.”
She shook her head and crossed her arms, her armpits damp.
He ignored her. “We’ll start with this.” He checked the small Ruger was loaded before he held it out to her. She wouldn’t take it.
“Go on,” he said. “You’re old enough to understand the responsibility of it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
“You need to learn how to protect yourself.”
“From what?”
He didn’t answer. She’d known he wouldn’t. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. He was wrong about so many things. But a young girl didn’t talk back to her father. At least not this young girl.
Finally, he said, “No country girl worth a spit doesn’t know how to fire a gun.”
He knew just what to say to get to her, to weaken her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to show him that she was worth so much more than spit.
“Take it,” he said, daring her to.
She lifted the gun from his hand. It was heavy and bent her wrist. He helped her by holding her arm straight until she got used to the weight of it, the feel.
For the next two hours, Becca learned about guns, their parts, how to aim, how to shoot. It became their routine that autumn. Every Sunday morning during the months of October and November, while the rest of her classmates slept in or attended church services, Becca and her father shot targets.
She’d never again feel as clo
se to him as she had on those Sunday mornings, standing next to him, smelling the smoke on his clothes, the soap on his skin, breathing in his father smell.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Parker hung his jacket on the back of his chair at the station. He’d canvassed the entire area by the river where the body had been found, walked up and down Delaware Drive, talked to business owners, locals. He’d handed out his card, hoping someone would come forward with any information about the homicide, who the victim was. They still hadn’t identified the body.
It was turning out to be a long day.
He turned on his computer. Bill dropped a box onto Parker’s desk.
“What’s this?” Parker asked.
“The file on that first case we talked about.” He rolled down his shirt sleeves, buttoned the cuffs. He reached for his sport coat.
“Where are you going?” Parker asked.
“Lieutenant Sayres requested me back at headquarters. They got a string of shootings in Easton he wants me to work.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.” He tapped the box full of files. “Good luck,” he said and left.
“Hey, Sarge,” Parker called to his sergeant, whose office door was open. “When am I going to get a permanent partner?” There were supposed to be two investigators assigned to the station. As of now, Parker was it.
Sarge didn’t even glance in Parker’s direction, continued looking at the computer screen when he said, “I’m working on it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Parker opened the box that Bill had dumped on his desk. He pulled out the top folder, the case name, River Body; the date, October 1994.
Parker had been just a kid when the body had been pulled from the river, but it wasn’t something he’d ever forgotten. In a small town like Portland, everyone remembered where they’d been, what they’d been doing when the discovery had been made. It had been something the locals had talked about behind closed doors for years.
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 8