If she was talking to the police, she left him no choice. He was going to have to take care of the situation. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d never wanted to hurt her. Everything inside of him screamed he was supposed to protect her. He’d felt this in his core, in his bones, ever since she’d been a little girl.
John bent at the waist, his head between the handlebars. He was having trouble breathing. He’d never survive in jail. He smacked his fist on the leather seat between his legs, the pain in his knuckles flaring from an old wound, the arthritis forming around the damaged joints where he’d broken his hand pounding his fist into the face of the guy that had tried to touch her, tried to pick her up in Sweeney’s Bar when she’d been a teenager.
After he’d given her a ride home, he’d returned to the bar, a white-hot fury burning his insides. He’d found the guy with the skull rings sitting at the table, pawing another girl. He’d grabbed the collar of the guy’s cut and lifted him out of his seat, tossing him to the floor. Rage had taken control of him, had coiled around the muscles in his back and arms. He hadn’t been able to stop. He’d struck him over and over again, beating him until every bone in the guy’s face had cracked. If Beth hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t placed her tender hand on John’s shoulder, her voice cutting through the chaos in his mind, he’d have beaten the guy to death.
He rubbed his hand where the knuckles ached with the memory, where the rage moved below the surface of his skin, a constant flickering in his veins.
Russell’s voice exploded in John’s head. You no longer have a choice, it said. It’s time you take her out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After leaving Parker’s cabin, Becca had returned to her father’s house. She’d found Jackie in the kitchen, flustered, her father crying out upstairs. Becca had spent the rest of the night sitting with him, until the very early hours of the morning, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.
Now, she headed outside with Romy. The sun was bright, too harsh for her tired, bloodshot eyes. A cool breeze blew. She tossed a stick for Romy to chase.
She tried hard not to think about Parker, to push the thoughts away. But the events of last night played over and over again in her mind, as though they were stuck on rewind. If she were honest, she was scared to tell Parker the things she knew about John. Something inside of her held her tongue. She wasn’t imagining it; something was there in her past. She hadn’t realized it until John had pulled his motorcycle alongside her Jeep. The memory had surfaced, but it had been fleeting, an image that could only be seen out of the corner of her eye.
Becca picked up the stick, tossed it again for Romy. When Romy brought it back, Becca sat on the cold ground among the crabgrass and weeds, scratched behind the dog’s ears, buried her face in the dog’s fur. Eventually, Romy tired of the attention and trotted away to do her business.
Becca got up and walked to the Jeep to grab the plastic bags from the console. She glanced up at her father’s bedroom window, remembering the time when Sheba had done something much worse than going to the bathroom in his yard.
Becca was playing in the driveway with colored chalk, making a hopscotch only she would ever use. She took care to make the hopscotch challenging but not too difficult, so she wouldn’t become frustrated if the rock she’d tossed happened to miss a square. She hadn’t been paying attention to Sheba. The dog had wandered into the backyard with her rawhide bone.
“Becca, goddamn it,” her father hollered. “Get over here.”
She dropped the chalk; the green dust covered her fingers and palm. She walked around the back of the house, head down.
“Look at this,” her father said. His voice rose to a level of near hysteria. “Do you see what your dog did?” He pointed to a spot on the ground not far from his boots. The grass had been dug up, and nothing remained but a pile of dirt where Sheba had been digging.
She nodded her head once—a small movement, but one he acknowledged.
“This isn’t the first time either, you know. I’ve been filling in these holes all over the yard. She’s got to stop. Train her or something,” he said, lowering his voice to a more reasonable decibel. “I’m going to fix this.” He pointed to the dirt pile. “But it better not happen again. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, go on. And get that dog out of here. She’s got to learn she’s not allowed to dig up my yard.”
Becca worked with Sheba over the next few weeks, hiding Sheba’s favorite toys in the ground at the edge of the woods near the base of an oak tree. Over time, Sheba learned to dig in that one spot, thrilled to see which toy she would discover. And she didn’t dig up Becca’s father’s precious yard again.
Becca shook her head at the memory, wondering what in the world had made him so obsessed with his yard. “It’s about image,” her mother had told her. It had been during the spring of Becca’s junior year in high school. “And it’s about control. If he can keep his yard looking good, the sparkling image of happiness, then he believes everything else in his life is good and under control.”
“You know that sounds crazy, right?” Becca had said.
Her mother had smiled a wicked smile. “It does sound crazy, doesn’t it?”
It had been one year later, on the morning Becca had been packing, her senior year at the boarding school in Philadelphia ending, that she’d spied her mother’s suitcases in the trunk of the car.
“I got an apartment right here in Philly,” her mother had said. “Just someplace for me to stay for a little while.”
“I don’t understand.” Becca had rented a room on campus where she’d enrolled in a summer class before college officially started in the fall.
“I’m leaving your dad,” she’d said as a matter of fact, no emotion in her tone. “I finally reached a point where I had enough. A person can only take so much. And besides, you’re all grown up now, starting college. You have your own life. There’s no longer anything left for me there, not with you gone.”
She hadn’t had to ask why or what her mother had been waiting for. It had been clear she’d been waiting for Becca to grow up, to leave home for good and start her own life, so she could be free.
“What about Dad?” she’d asked, for the first time worrying about what might happen to him.
“He has his yard,” her mother had said.
Becca grabbed one of the plastic bags from the Jeep. She closed the door, walked around to the side of the house, picked up Romy’s poop. By the time she returned to the garage in search of the garbage can, a car had pulled into the driveway. It wasn’t just any car but a spotless black luxury sedan. She froze, unable to move, watching as Matt parked and got out of his BMW.
“Becca,” he said in a breathless way.
She’d almost forgotten how beautiful he was—his shiny black hair, his perfect teeth, his eyes the color of the bluest sky, his perfectly sculpted shoulders and chest. Romy darted from the backyard, barking and jumping around Matt’s feet.
“Hello, girl,” he said, bending down and petting the dog. “Did you miss me? I missed you.” When his reunion with Romy was over, he stood and stared at Becca. He slowly made his way over to her.
She allowed him to envelop her. He held her close, tight, the smell of his cologne familiar and oh, so good. And still she kept her arms by her sides, the bag full of dog poop in her hand.
“I missed you so much,” he said.
They separated.
She looked into his blue eyes. She could lose herself in those eyes. “How did you find me?” She was sure she hadn’t mentioned her father’s address.
“It wasn’t that hard. There’s only one Clint Kingsley in Portland.” He stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his ironed jeans. “I didn’t realize he lived so close. It only took me fifteen minutes to get here.”
“How’s Lucky?” she asked. “You’re taking good care of her, right?”
For a moment he had a blank expression on his face as though he
had no idea who she was talking about. “Oh, yeah,” he said finally.
“Matt,” she said, alarmed. “You are feeding her, aren’t you? And changing her litter?”
“Of course.”
She didn’t know if she believed him.
“I am,” he said more convincingly.
“Becca,” Jackie called from inside the garage.
“Out here,” she said.
“I thought I heard a car pull up.” Jackie looked at Matt.
Becca introduced them. When she didn’t try to explain to Jackie who Matt was or how she knew him, Matt jumped in.
“Becca and I live together.” He faltered. “We’re together. She didn’t mention me?” He gave Becca a strange look.
“Yes, of course she did. Please come in,” Jackie said and glanced at Becca, giving her a look that said, Why didn’t you tell me? She took Matt’s arm and led him inside the house.
Reluctantly, Becca followed behind, tossing the bag of shit she was holding into the garbage can. Romy raced past, almost knocking her over, rushing to get through the door first, taking her place on the floor in the kitchen by Matt’s side.
“What can I get you? Coffee? Tea?” Jackie asked.
“Coffee would be great,” Matt said, smiling at Becca as she sat across from him at the table.
Jackie busied herself with the coffeemaker, looking over her shoulder first at Becca and then at Matt, pausing to stare at him a beat too long. When Matt bent down to scratch behind Romy’s ear, Jackie fanned herself and mouthed to Becca, He’s gorgeous.
Becca shrugged as if to say, I know.
The coffee brewed, and Jackie leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. An awkward silence followed. It wasn’t until Becca’s father started coughing that Jackie excused herself and left them alone.
“How’s he doing?” Matt asked of her father.
“Not good,” she said. “What are you doing here? I said I’d be in touch. I needed time.”
“I know you did. But I couldn’t stay away. I wanted to be here for you. I wanted to help you through this.”
“I know, and I do appreciate it, but . . .”
Before she could finish, Matt got up, started pacing. It was a habit he had whenever he was preparing for an argument, to plead his case. “No buts, Bec. Let’s not fight. I hate it when we fight. Besides, I’m here now.” He stopped and stood in front of her. “I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately. We’ve been together a long time. And it’s only right for me to be here with you when you’re going through something like this.”
“Matt,” she started to say, but Jackie walked back into the kitchen. Then someone behind Matt cleared his throat. Matt swung around. Becca looked up. Parker stood in the doorway. He was wearing his detective suit. Romy greeted Parker by sniffing his shoes, licking his hand at his side.
“You must be Parker,” Jackie said and shot Becca a look. “He called this morning while you were outside. He has some questions for Clint.”
“Parker.” Becca’s voice was strained. Her mind jumped first to an image of him lying naked in his bed, then switched to John standing by the river, how he’d pulled his motorcycle alongside of her last night only minutes after she’d left Parker’s place. And now Parker was here to ask her father questions.
Matt stepped forward, arm outstretched. “Hi. I’m Matt.”
The two shook hands, sized each other up.
“Becca’s boyfriend,” Matt added, winked at her.
Parker nodded, turned to Jackie. “Can you tell Clint that I’m here?” he asked and made a point of putting his hand on his hip, pulling his jacket back, revealing his sidearm. There’d been a second the detective mask on Parker’s face had dropped, a second for Becca to see the surprise register in his eyes when Matt had said he was her boyfriend. But it was more than just surprise. Underneath the stoicism, she saw how hurt he was, how angry and embarrassed he felt.
“Follow me,” Jackie said to Parker.
Parker nodded again at Matt, ignored Becca, and followed Jackie upstairs.
Becca stood, wanting to chase after him, to say she was sorry and she had every intention of telling him about Matt but there never seemed to be a right time. But Matt caught her by the elbow.
“What’s going on?” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Do you know that guy?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering how she could ever explain it to him, where she would even start. “He’s an old friend.”
“Just an old friend, huh? Are you sure he knows that?”
“Yes.” No. She hesitated, thinking of the right words. “Matt, listen, please. There’s something . . . I’m not . . . I mean . . . I can’t.”
“Shh.” He put his finger on her lips. “It’s okay. I know you weren’t expecting me to show up at your dad’s house. But I had to come, Bec. You leaving and me not knowing when you were coming back, well, it opened my eyes. It showed me how much I need you in my life, how much I want you in my life.”
“But,” she said, and he put his finger back on her lips.
He continued. “Let me stay and help you through this. Please,” he said and lifted her chin so she would look at him. “That’s all I’m asking.”
No, she wanted to say, that’s not all you’re asking. You’re asking for so much more. You’re asking me to look the other way, to forget about why I left for my father’s house in the first place, to forget you never came home that night because you were with another woman.
“There’s something we have to talk about,” she said. “There’s something you need to know.” She had to tell him the truth about Parker. It was only fair.
But Jackie returned again, interrupting them a second time. “They wanted to be alone to talk,” she said of Parker and Becca’s father. Then she pulled a mug from the cabinet. “Do you take your coffee with cream and sugar?” she asked Matt.
“Black is fine,” Matt said, eying Becca.
Everything was moving too fast, spinning around her like a whirlpool, a river current threatening to pull her under. And in the background, behind Jackie’s chatter and Matt’s words, were the murmur of her father’s and Parker’s voices and the rumble of a motorcycle racing by.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Parker stood at the foot of the bed, his face neutral, void of the burning anger in his stomach, the ache in his heart. Clint was struggling to pull himself up against the pillows that were meant to support his back even though the hospital bed was raised so he could sit and confront his visitor. Parker watched, unsure whether he should help, barely recognizing the man in front of him. He hadn’t seen Clint in the last ten years, not since the last time he’d knocked on his door looking for Becca. What a fool he’d been then. What a fool he was now.
When Parker had been a kid, the fact that Clint had not only been chief of police but also Becca’s father had been more than intimidating. Clint had had a formidable presence, standing at six feet three and weighing 215 pounds. Parker would watch Clint walk through doorways just to see if his shoulders would fit through the open space or whether he’d get stuck, wedged in the door’s frame.
Now, Clint was nothing but bones covered in dull, translucent skin, a shell of the man he’d once been. He gave up his struggle to sit up and slumped back on the pillows. His eyes were glassy. Pain hung on his face like a bad picture. He grimaced and waved his hand at Parker, signaling him to speak.
“I was hoping you could help me on a case.” Parker took a small step closer to the bed, ignoring the scratchy lump caught in his throat. “I’m not sure if you heard about a body we pulled from the river a couple of days ago.”
Clint stared at him.
“There are a lot of similarities in this case to an older case you had handled originally.”
Clint continued staring hard and long at Parker. He could see in Clint’s eyes that he understood what Parker was telling him.
“I thought you were here for my daughter.” Clint talked through labored breaths, every
word filled with pain and effort.
“No, sir,” he said. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Clint looked confused. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of the pretty boy downstairs.
Parker tried to stand a little taller after feeling his shoulders slouch. “I’d like for you to tell me what you remember about the river body case.” He stopped when Clint waved his hand at him again, this time telling him to go away.
Parker held his ground. “It’s important to my case.”
“Becca.” Clint’s voice cracked.
“Sir, with all due respect, my being here has nothing to do with your daughter. This is about the river body case.”
Clint’s crooked fingers balled into a fist. He started to cough. His entire body shook from the force of it. When he stopped, he looked Parker straight in the eye. He was very clear when he said, “I have nothing to say to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Clint waved his bent fingers at him for a third time, dismissing him again as another round of coughing rattled his insides.
Jackie rushed into the room, shooting Parker a look that asked what he’d said to Clint to upset him so much.
Parker didn’t know what he was supposed to do, but it was clear Clint wasn’t going to answer any of his questions. “If you change your mind,” he said, “you know how to reach me.”
He strode out of the bedroom, sailed down the stairs and out the front door, avoiding the kitchen and Becca. He passed by the pretty boy’s BMW. It took all he had not to pound his fist on the hood, shoot out the tires. He hopped into his patrol car and slammed the driver’s-side door. Becca came rushing out of the house, calling his name. He threw the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway, tires squealing as he raced down the road. He’d allowed her to distract him from doing his job, and for what? She had a boyfriend, apparently. Parker felt as though he’d been played. And then her father’s refusal to talk with him had made him feel all the more humiliated.
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