LINKED (The Bening Files Book 1)

by Rachel Trautmiller

  “And, yet, here I am. I don’t miss the braces, though.”

  McKenna threw her banana peel at him. He caught it.

  The scraping of a chair caught his attention. Matthew stood and took his cup into the kitchen. Seconds later, he heard the telltale clink of the coffee pot leaving the warmer.

  “The press will be all over you in two seconds.” Jordan deposited the peel in the trash, then sat back down.

  “I’ve been interviewed on T.V. before. No comment is one of my favorite phrases.”

  “It will be different this time. They’ll ask you personal questions they believe they deserve answers to. Those questions won’t be about somebody else.”

  She shrugged.

  And he wanted to shake the nonchalance from her face and see the real feelings beneath, raw and exposed, so he could breathe again.

  A part of him still stood near that dumpster looking down at her unmoving body, believing she might be dead. Berating himself for not sticking with her twenty-four-seven. What if that part of him—that naïve portion of his soul that still believed in a sense of security—was lost forever?

  The scent of her flowery shampoo drifted over him, as she leaned toward him. She laid her soft hand over his, the once jagged nails now cut to nubs, and squeezed. “So?”

  He loved her with an intensity that often times didn’t make sense. He wanted her when she was happy, sad, reading him the riot act or boosting his ego. When she thought he couldn’t tell what she was thinking and when he literally couldn’t.

  “What if I asked you not to go?”

  She removed her hand and took her warmth with it. “What if I told you Ciamitaro was in Vegas when we were?”

  He shook his head. “When you disappeared, we started looking into anywhere he’d been recently. California, Florida, the Midwest are all on that list and work related. Balm Corp has offices in each locale. Vegas wasn’t on the list.”

  “He saw us at the chapel.”

  Everything inside him went still. “He told you that?”

  “Ciamitaro could have gotten that information, couldn’t he? Just to mess with me?”

  “It’s possible.” His gut didn’t agree. “Why else? Prior to this case, he didn’t know either one of us.”

  “That’s not necessarily true.” Matthew set his coffee on the table, then drew McKenna into a hug. “I know you don’t agree with what I did, but don’t worry about me, alright?” Then he set her away from him as if he were looking for something on her person. “I’m so glad my favorite niece is okay.” His voice was rough.

  McKenna smirked. “The only.”

  Matthew winked and sat in his previous spot, facing them both. “All the more reason for my ridiculously good mood.”

  “Couldn’t be all the coffee you’ve consumed.” Jordan shifted in his seat. “Tell us about Ciamitaro.”

  “We worked together ten years ago. I’m sure we shared the bare-bones details of our lives at some point. Let’s start with what we know. You two end up in Vegas at the same time. Prior to your reunion, Birmingham convinces Jordan to meet him for dinner, then when the visit doesn’t go as planned, he decides to pay me a visit. Preemptive strike or fluke?”

  “Ten years to the date of Mom’s death.” Jordan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “I don’t like it.”

  “That fact alone doesn’t prove anything other than what we already know.” Matthew folded his hands in front of him on the table. “He’s conniving and self-serving. Think about how long he knew you were his son.”

  “I prefer not to.”

  “As soon as she found out she was pregnant, your mother informed him. He didn’t show up until you were five.”

  Jordan had a vague recollection of confusion at that age, but not much else.

  “I think we need to go back farther than that,” McKenna said. “Everything that’s happened in the last few weeks is somehow linked.” She paused a moment a blank, faraway look covering her face. “Why did you and Cassidy get divorced in the first place?”

  Matthew rubbed his neck. “I don’t see how that relates.”

  “Who or what was in the picture at that time?”

  At that moment, Jordan could have kissed her.

  “Birmingham,” he and McKenna said in unison.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1975

  Matthew pulled his police cruiser into the driveway of the home he and Cassidy shared.

  Her family home. Three stories of plantation glory and wrap around porch filled with potted flowers and growing vegetation beckoned him.

  The black Ford Mustang sitting in his driveway, did not. Garrett Birmingham had been a constant sliver beneath his skin for almost a decade and the source of recent heated discussion—as he referred to them in front of Jordan—between himself and Cassidy.

  Didn’t the man have a nightclub to run? Or some bimbo to chase?

  He exited his car and tucked the keys into the front pocket of his blue uniform. Not for the first time in five years, he wished Cassidy had never told Birmingham about Jordan’s paternity. Maybe their lives would be different and he wouldn’t feel as if their marriage was slipping between his fingers, the fix out of reach.

  He neared the white picket fence and walked through the opening, leading to the front door. Jordan came flying around the corner on his new red bike, his legs flying as he pedaled the thing as fast as his training wheels would allow him go. Just last week, he’d begged to have the wheels removed, but Matthew hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  Something told him Cassidy was relieved. Jordan was ready. She was not.

  Jordan skidded to a stop, the gravel around him fluffing up in a cloud of dust. He grinned and hopped down, leaving his bike five feet from the gate. “Heya, Pops.” He ran the remaining distance as fast as his five-year-old legs could carry him, then jumped into Matthew’s arms.

  Jordan smelled like grass, sand and sunshine all rolled into a stained and dirt smudged little boy wearing his favorite blue shirt and matching shorts. Half the time, Cassidy couldn’t get the boy to relinquish the clothing to the washing machine.

  Matthew couldn’t love this kid more, if he tried.

  “I think you’re getting too heavy for this.” He shifted Jordan away from his holster, to his left side. “What have you been up to today?”

  He stuck a dirty finger in his mouth.

  Matthew pulled it out.

  “Mom took some pictures of old people. We had ta watch Kenna for a while. She threw sand at me and I threw some back, but it got in her eye. She cried.”

  “Really? That’s not very nice.”

  The dirty finger inched its way back toward Jordan’s mouth. “Mom made me say sorry. But she didn’t stop crying.” The boy’s face scrunched up like he smelled something bad.

  “Well, sometimes sorry isn’t enough. Sometimes we have to fix whatever we did.”

  Jordan shrugged. “Mom made us take naps.”

  Laughter erupted from Matthew’s chest. “Sounds like you had a busy day.”

  The little boy nodded and then wiggled out of his arms. “Wanna see what I made?”

  Before he could answer, Jordan tucked his small hand into Matthew’s and tugged him toward the sandbox at the back of the house. Jordan kicked up a few grass clippings as he climbed over the wooden edge and sat. He pointed to an ill-shaped structure that looked like three disproportionate mountains. Every beach toy they owned surrounded the fortress, creating a gate of sorts.

  A small round picture hung over what Matthew assumed was supposed to be a doorway. He leaned closer to get a better look. Baby Hannah stared back at him from her NICU cubicle, barely three days old and holding on to life. Her tiny fingers grasped one of Cassidy’s in a death grip. Her button nose was a little pink, her mouth open in a little O, the rest of her body filled with tubes and cords.

  Something heavy lodged in his throat. “Your mom know you took that picture?”

  “She gave it to me.” Jorda
n’s sneakers dug holes into the soft surface at his feet. “I thought if I made a place here for Hanna.” He said, referring to his baby sister, whom he’d not had the chance to meet. “We could see her and Mom wouldn’t cry. And you wouldn’t be sad.” Those blue eyes met Matthew’s, pleading and understanding in them a five-year-old shouldn’t have to deal with.

  The weight hanging on his shoulders since Hannah’s death, got a little heavier. The grief hit him at the weirdest intervals, like now, when he should have been so proud that Jordan could be this thoughtful. All he could think of was what he could have done differently for his little girl. For his wife, who couldn’t speak her name without a tear and Jordan. The boy who still asked where his baby sister was and when she was coming home.

  “Do you think Mom will like it?”

  As of late, he didn’t know what Cassidy would or wouldn’t like. Only that she wasn’t happy and nothing he did fixed it. “You bet, kiddo,” he managed.

  Right after Hannah died, Cassidy had leaned on him. He’d leaned on her. They tried working through their grief together. They didn’t talk about more children, the time wasn’t right. Hannah hadn’t been in the ground more than six months. He didn’t think he could take another heart break and he didn’t want to put Cassidy through that.

  At first, not discussing those things was okay, but then it led to not discussing other things. He’d woken up one day last month and realized they hadn’t said more than the perfunctory words to each other in a few months. And the last time they’d made love was longer than that. She wasn’t in the mood.

  He wasn’t in the mood.

  Life was hectic, there wasn’t time. They were both tired. Jordan had a nightmare. She needed time. The excuses could have fit the length of a movie, the conclusion unhappy for everybody.

  Every day, he lost her a little more.

  “Why does he have to come over?” Jordan’s question, filled with annoyance, brought Matthew back to the present. The little boy still sat at the edge of the sandbox, digging a hole with one sneaker, his chin in his hands.

  After retrieving a nearby beach bucket, Matthew flipped it upside down and sat on it, then pulled Jordan into his lap. “Your mom and I talked to you about this, remember?”

  Jordan picked at a scab on his knee, a recent injury from climbing the tree in the backyard. “Yeah, but I don’t like him. He smells funny.”

  Outwardly, he kept his face neutral, but inside he was hugging the life out of this boy. Don’t like him. “Everybody smells different. That’s not a good reason to dislike someone, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “He asks a lot of questions.”

  “About what?” He hoped his voice sounded interested, instead of filled with gut-churning misery. Birmingham wasn’t a nice guy. Had no real interest in kids. He didn’t know why Cassidy had suddenly agreed to his involvement in Jordan’s life. And without Matthew’s approval. She hadn’t even talked to him about it, just announced the verdict one day before he left for work.

  He deserves to get to know his biological father.

  Like Matthew wasn’t good enough.

  Jordan shrugged. “Stuff I like.”

  “Don’t you think that’s nice? He’s trying to get to know you.”

  “I don’t like him and you can’t make me.” He glared up at Matthew, putting all the bravado he could muster into that stare.

  “No, I can’t, son. But it’s easier to get along with people than be rude to them. And maybe you’ll discover he’s not so bad after all.” No other words had ever tasted as bitter. “Let’s head inside and see what your mom’s up to. Maybe she needs us to rescue her from too many questions.”

  A mischievous grin covered the boy’s face. “Okay. Race you!” Before Matthew could agree to the challenge, Jordan was up the steps and inside. His voice echoed out on the porch. “Pops is home.”

  Matthew grinned at the nickname bestowed upon him when Jordan was old enough to talk. As he walked inside, he noted the smell of spices, tomato and a hint of flour. Homemade spaghetti—one of their favorites. His stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d cooked from scratch, something she used to love doing.

  If Birmingham weren’t sitting at his table, he might have breathed a sigh of relief.

  After removing his shoes, he discharged his weapon and stored both it and his duty belt in a safe near the entryway. Cassidy hated guns and didn’t want them anywhere near the living areas. Because of Jordan, he didn’t mind the stipulations.

  “Hey, Jordo,” Birmingham said.

  “My name’s Jor-dan,” he accentuated. “Not Jord-o.”

  “Jordan,” Cassidy said. “Be nice.”

  “I was.” Jordan looked between Matthew and his mom, his little eyes begging for help. “That’s not my name.”

  Cassidy pressed her lips together. “Stop.”

  Matthew could see her working in the kitchen from where he stood in the entry, out of her line of sight. Jordan was tugging at her pants, trying to get her attention. Birmingham got up from the table and moved to stand in front of the island behind her.

  “What do you think about staying with me a night every now and then?” Birmingham asked Jordan.

  The little boy’s face scrunched up in a tight frown etched with worry.

  Every cell in Matthew’s body froze. Please, Cass, don’t agree to that. He wanted to step in and take charge, but he doubted that would help the situation. The thought that she’d cut him out of the process so quickly was a wound that still hurt. As if he didn’t deserve to make decisions about a boy he considered his son.

  Where was Birmingham when Jordan had nightmares, when he scraped his knee, when he played little league? Not in sight.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Garrett.” Her voice lowered. “You live above the nightclub.”

  Now that he could breathe a little easier, he stepped into view. “Hey, Cass.” He nodded toward Birmingham and walked up to her. He gave her a quick, side hug. “Smells good.”

  The small smile covering her face didn’t reassure him. Dark circles lined the space beneath her brilliant blue eyes. Because she didn’t sleep and she refused his help. She continued to chop some green herb on a cutting board.

  His stomach soured, the pleasant smells turning putrid in his nostrils. No more beating around the bush. They needed to talk. Tonight. Before he lost his wife to something beyond his control.

  “Mom, what’s a nightclub? Mom, Mom…” Jordan continued to tug on her pants.

  Cassidy didn’t stop chopping the veggies, each hack of the knife precise, as if she didn’t have to concentrate. Her gazed flicked between the blade and something beyond the window in front of her.

  “Mom, can we go to the park?”

  “Kiddo.” He went to scoop him up, but Birmingham beat him to the task, keeping Jordan even as he struggled to get away.

  Matthew rested his backside against the counter and gripped its edge, affecting a calm he hadn’t felt since before Hannah’s death.

  All the struggling had caused Jordan’s face to turn red and, from experience, Matthew knew tears weren’t that far off. A big pile of elephant dung lodged in his throat. Birmingham didn’t deserve to look at Jordan, much less hold him. What kind of person did that? Held a child against their will?

  Someone who didn’t care. Didn’t have anything to lose.

  Cassidy stopped working, rubbed her hands on a towel and whisked Jordan from Birmingham’s grasp. “I think that’s enough for today, Garrett.”

  “I just got here.” Birmingham followed the two of them a few steps, then stopped.

  She whispered soft, comforting words to Jordan as she rubbed his back. “We agreed to short visits at first.” Then she walked out of sight, leaving Matthew and Birmingham standing in an awkward silence.

  Birmingham turned back toward Matthew. “That kid’s got a mind of his own. He just needs to settle down and realize I want to be hi
s friend.”

  Matthew clenched his hands, then forced himself to relax. “He’s five. When it became apparent he didn’t want to be held, you should have let him go.” Matthew opened the fridge and stared at the contents.

  “I’m his father, I can hold him however long I want. He’ll get used to it. She coddles him too much.”

  He squeezed the door handle and made it to five before he shut it.

  “You never come out anymore. You should swing by the club this weekend. Get a sitter. Both you and Cassidy could come. It’d be like old times.”

  Yeah. Like old times, which meant what? Drinking too much booze and picking up women? “Thanks.” He started counting again, because if he didn’t, he would have Birmingham leaving on a stretcher. “We’ll have to pass, though.”

  “You always were a spoil-sport. Both you and Alexis.”

  Ten. Nine. Eight. “That’s us.”

  “Well.” Birmingham picked up a shiny red apple from the fruit bowl on the island, threw it into the air and then caught it. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He took a bite and grinned. “I better get going. All this bonding time has made me late for work.” He was halfway through the door before he turned back. “We could always make it a guys night and find ourselves some lonely women to entertain.”

  Birmingham winked and then he was gone.

  Cassidy came downstairs moments later and went about finishing dinner as if Birmingham had never been in their kitchen.

  “What can I do to help, Cass?”

  “I’ve got it.” As if he weren’t present, she continued cutting veggies, stirring pasta. Matthew could stand two feet from her all night and never get an acknowledgment. What was he supposed to do here? Force her to make eye contact? To talk about things he couldn’t speak of either?

  No. He’d find another way around this mess. Except all through dinner, neither adult said a word. No fleeting touches or stolen glances. Jordan jabbered about something he’d done during the day, happy to be making a mess with his meal. Matthew shoved tasteless food into his mouth and choked down every bite. Cassidy pushed hers around on her plate, a perfect study in not eating.