Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  “He talked to me about it,” Mac said, looking out her window again. “Because I don’t have a mom, and he doesn’t have a dad. That’s why.”

  “He has a dad now. Luke’s his dad if anybody ever was.”

  “That’s what I mean. He already had a dad. So it was weird to get another one.”

  This was important, Jim had a feeling. “Maybe,” he said cautiously, “you could have two. Maybe you could have both. I can’t believe Luke didn’t think about that. He wants them to be a family, that’s all, and he wants Eli to feel like part of it. You don’t have to have the same name to do that, but maybe he thought it would help. I’m sure he gave Eli the choice.”

  “That’s what Eli said. He said Luke told him he could keep his dad’s name as his middle name if he wanted to. Eli Chambers Jackson. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  She shrugged a little too elaborately. “You asked me about it, that’s all. He’s my friend. Like you said.”

  “So that question you asked me,” Jim said. “About whether I’d want to date again. Eli’s mom did, and it seems to have worked out all right for Eli in the end.”

  Mac didn’t answer that. They were almost to the end of Ridge Road now, and she asked, “Is this where she lives? Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “This is it.” Jim negotiated the final sweeping turn, and then he was pulling into the long drive on the left, heading up the hill. And then they saw it.

  “Wow,” Mac said on a breath.

  The letters were a good two feet high, the words scrawled in black spray paint with no pretense at artistry, covering the entire width of the three-car garage.

  LESBIAN BITCH

  GO HOME OR DIE

  He should have left Mac at his mom’s. She shouldn’t be seeing this.

  “That’s homophobia,” she said.

  “Yeah. It is.” He was so tense, he could barely speak.

  “It doesn’t matter if Ms. Cavanaugh is one or not.”

  “You’re right. Not OK.”

  “Dad.” Mac was looking at him as he pulled up beside the sheriff’s vehicle in the driveway and put the truck into Park. “You’re being weird again.”

  How was he going to get through this with DeMarco in there and Mac watching, too, and the rage building up inside him?

  Somehow, that was how. “Let’s go,” he said, turning the truck off and hopping down.

  Mac followed him without saying anything else, and by the time he rang the doorbell, he had himself back under control.

  The Hallie who opened the door couldn’t have been more different from the soft, sleepy woman he’d held a few hours earlier, even though she was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and snug jeans that emphasized her curves. It was the tension that was new. And when Jim looked beyond her at DeMarco, standing in the living room with his notebook in his hand, the other man raised his eyebrows with an expression that didn’t need any interpretation.

  “Hey,” Jim told Hallie, ignoring DeMarco but reaching an absent hand down to give Cletus, who’d rushed forward to say hello, a friendly thump. Some killer guard dog.

  “Hey,” she said, stepping back to let him and Mac into the house. She was hugging herself tight, keeping it together. Plenty tough. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her it would be all right, that he’d make sure of it, but he couldn’t.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked her as she shut the door behind him and Mac.

  She shrugged, not looking him in the eye. “I called the sheriff’s department. It seemed like the thing to do. Hi, Mac. How are you?”

  “Fine,” Mac said with a smile that didn’t look entirely natural to Jim. Uh-oh.

  “Cletus,” Hallie said as the dog crowded close to Mac. “Sit.”

  Cletus thumped his butt down onto the hardwood, but his tail was swishing across the floor like mad as he smiled at Mac. Cletus was the only one here who wasn’t tense. Well, Cletus and DeMarco, who was still watching.

  “Sorry,” Hallie told Mac. “He loves kids.”

  “Can I pet him?” Mac asked, sounding shy for once. “I heard about him from my cousins.”

  “I’d love it if you did,” Hallie said. “He’s upset by all the excitement, I think.”

  “He doesn’t look upset,” Mac said dubiously, and it was true. Any animal less upset looking than Cletus would be hard to imagine. Now, his entire backside was wriggling as Mac petted his ears.

  “He was upset,” Hallie said. “Or maybe I was just upset, and he noticed.”

  Jim had had enough small talk. He told Hallie, “I thought you were getting cameras.”

  It came out mad, which wasn’t what he’d intended, and her head jerked back before she said, an edge to her voice, “I did. And I installed them, too. The deputy was just about to go check them with me.”

  They moved into the living room, where DeMarco’s dark eyes were more sardonic than ever. “Ms. Cavanaugh was just explaining to me,” he said, “that she wasn’t home last night. Interesting that this would happen on the one night she happened to be gone.”

  “It is,” Jim said. “Let’s look at that footage.”

  Once they pulled the cards and took a look, things got more interesting, though not at first. The camera mounted near the front door didn’t show a thing.

  “They didn’t come to the door,” DeMarco said unnecessarily. “Probably not trying to break in, just to do this. Pretty small-time stuff. Did you have any lights on, Ms. Cavanaugh? Would they have thought you were home?”

  “No,” Hallie said, feeding the card from the garage-mounted camera into the TV. “I wouldn’t think they’d have thought so. I didn’t leave any lights on. I didn’t know I’d be gone for the night.”

  She was in an easy chair. Biting her lip, her face so troubled, sitting apart from the two men and Mac, all of whom were on the couch. DeMarco looked at Jim again, and Jim looked back, his face carefully blank. Hallie wasn’t looking at either one of them.

  The second camera was motion activated, too, but this time, there had been motion. A time stamp of nine thirty p.m.; not nearly as late as you’d expect. And two slight figures in hooded jackets. One of them holding back, hovering just at the fringe of the camera’s range, the other one darting forward, holding something.

  “Dad,” Mac said urgently. “I—”

  Jim put an arm around her. “Shh. Wait.”

  DeMarco muttered, “Well, this is about the most professional situation I’ve ever been in,” but Jim wasn’t listening. He was watching the blurry, low-resolution figures. One of them backed out of view, then appeared briefly again, as if the person were shifting from one foot to the other, or wanting to leave and changing their mind. The other figure was busy. An arm swept up, then down. The garage door was out of sight, but it was obvious what was happening. Spray-painting. A minute or two max, and then the person was turning around, joining the other one, and they were both gone and the screen went blank.

  “No car,” DeMarco said. “At least not in the driveway.” He rewound, and they watched it again in silence, and then he asked Hallie, “What age do you teach?”

  “Eleven to fourteen or so,” she said, but she wasn’t looking at DeMarco. She was looking at Jim.

  “Could be thirteen or fourteen,” DeMarco said. “Easily. I’d say those were teenagers, if they’re boys. We could measure the image against the door, but I’m thinking five five to five seven. The one doing the painting is shorter, but neither of them is tall. The one holding back had longer hair, looked like. Could be a girl—can’t really tell. Graffiti’s more of a male thing, but maybe two teenagers. Girls grow before boys do. The girl holding back, the boy doing the work.”

  Jim didn’t say anything, and DeMarco went on. “Those letters, though, Ms. Cavanaugh—would you say they were from teenagers? I’d guess you’d know how they write.”

  “I don’t know,” Hallie said. She jumped to her feet. “Thanks for coming out. Do you hav
e what you need? Mainly, I just need a police report for the insurance company, if the damage is beyond the deductible. I don’t know what that is, and I have no idea how much it costs to paint a garage door. I don’t imagine you’ll find out who did it, so I’ll just focus on getting it fixed.”

  DeMarco persisted. “I’ll take that camera card with me, but you should put another one in there, keep that going. How many of those letters have you had?”

  Hallie said, “Six altogether, now. The latest one was just a few days ago. I’ve dropped them all off for Jim. But I’m all good.”

  DeMarco nodded and, finally, stood. “You’re right that there isn’t a whole lot we can do, realistically, even if we call that a terroristic threat, which it is. We won’t get an ID off that video, though we can estimate height and weight and get closer. But if anybody says anything at school, if you hear anything that makes you think it was one of your students—let me know, and we’ll follow it up.”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just graffiti. Get me the report for the insurance, and it’s done.”

  DeMarco put his notebook away and headed outside, with Jim following him and Mac trailing behind, and Hallie bringing up the rear.

  Once they were out there, DeMarco asked Jim, “Talk to you a second?”

  “Sure.”

  Hallie said, “Thanks again for coming out, Deputy. Mac, do you think you could do me a favor and throw a ball for Cletus for a few minutes? He hasn’t had enough exercise today, and I’d like to make some coffee.”

  “Because you were gone all night,” Mac said.

  “Yes,” Hallie said. “I was.”

  Jim waited until they’d gone into the house, then looked at DeMarco and said, “What.”

  “No, man. I’m asking you ‘what.’ And ‘why.’ Why didn’t she call you, why did you bring your kid out here, and what just happened in there? I’d swear I was the only one who didn’t get it. Why did she stop being worried about somebody vandalizing her house and threatening her life and want me to get lost? You tell me. Why?”

  “I’m not sure why,” Jim said, which wasn’t exactly true. “I’ll let you know if I find out.”

  He’d switched off the emotion and gone to autopilot. DeMarco looked at him searchingly for another minute, then said, “Paradise. My wife says it makes up in intensity what it lacks in importance.”

  “That’s almost poetic,” Jim said. “But I don’t care.”

  DeMarco turned for his rig. “If there’s any actual police work that needs to be done here, maybe you’ll let me know. Next time, tell her just to call you, will you? Cut out the middleman.”

  SHAME

  When Jim went back into the house, he found Hallie in the kitchen, making coffee.

  “Sit down,” she said. “And tell me what you didn’t want to tell the other deputy.”

  He took a seat at the breakfast bar. “How do you know I didn’t want to tell him something? And thanks for getting Mac out of here. I know I shouldn’t have brought her. I was expecting this to be something simpler.”

  She ignored that for the diversion it was. “Because I just spent all night in bed with you. I spent it watching your face and your body and caring about what I was seeing. I saw the moment something changed in you, and I saw it in Mac, too. So tell me, Jim. What did you see?”

  There was no choice. He’d known that from the beginning. There was loyalty, but there was also right and wrong, and there was protecting this woman. “One of those guys,” he said. “The one who wasn’t painting—I’m pretty sure that was Cole.”

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her hand jerked, and she spilled coffee on the granite countertop, and on her hand holding the cup. She jumped back, spilled more, and cried out, a sharp, anxious sound. Then she set the pot down on the counter, shoved her hand under the sink faucet, and turned it on.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice not sounding all the way steady. “I thought it must be something. I don’t know why I—”

  He was up, taking her hand under the water, examining it.

  “I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “I was surprised, that was all. I’m just glad it wasn’t Mac. I had the most horrible feeling when both of you froze up like that. All I wanted was to get him out of the house so he wouldn’t notice.”

  Her first impulse had been to protect him, and Mac, too, when she herself was the one who’d been threatened. It was so Hallie, and it was doing painful things to his heart.

  “No,” he said. “That wasn’t Mac. She wouldn’t do that.” He grabbed a rag, mopped up the spilled coffee, then poured two mugs while Hallie pulled her hand out from under the water and examined it.

  “Just some redness,” she said. “I’m fine. And are you sure about Cole? That’s bad news.”

  Distress again in her voice. For Cole, and for him, and for—who knew who else. His mother, probably. Anthea. Everybody but herself. “I’m pretty sure,” he said. “And let’s keep a wet rag on that.” He picked up her hand himself to check, but she was right. A red patch across the top, but no blistering. He kissed her knuckles, careful to avoid the burned area, and her gaze lifted to his, which let him see the tears she was trying to suppress. Pain, and not from the burn. Shock that somebody had done this to her. Hurt that somebody could hate her so much, when she’d tried so hard to do what was right.

  “Hey, baby,” he said helplessly. “Hey, now.” He finally did what he’d wanted to do from the beginning. He pulled her into him, put his arms around her, and held her close, stroking a hand over her hair. “That was nasty to come home to. I know it.” He gave in to impulse and kissed the top of her head. “You’re so damn tough, and so damn . . . good. And we’re going to fix this. I promise.”

  “Dad.” It came from behind him, a sharp, imperious sound.

  Hallie jerked back, but Jim didn’t let her go for a second. He stepped back with deliberation, turned, still with an arm around Hallie, and looked at Mac, standing there, legs planted, with Cletus, oblivious, beside her. “Yeah, partner?” he asked.

  Hallie moved away from his side, and he said, “Rag,” rinsed it under the faucet, squeezed most of the moisture out, then wrapped it around her hand. “Hallie burned herself,” he told Mac.

  “Dad,” Mac said again. “Can I talk to you?”

  “If you want to tell me that was Cole on the tape,” he said, “I already saw it, and I already told Hallie. Ms. Cavanaugh.”

  “‘Hallie’ is fine here,” Hallie said. “Ms. Cavanaugh’s for school.”

  “Oh.” Mac’s gaze flew to Hallie, and Jim said, “Cole’s her brother, too, you know. This is all about family, even if Cole’s messed up right now, so if it’s all right with Hallie, we’re going to talk about it like a family.”

  Hallie said, “It’s all right with me. And I’d appreciate your help.” Still shaken. Still strong.

  “Are you going to tell Grandma?” Mac asked. “She’s going to be so mad.”

  “She’s not going to be madder than me,” Jim said. “And, yeah. I’m going to tell Grandma. But mainly, I’m going to talk to Cole. And then Hallie will do whatever she wants about it. Including pressing charges if she decides to. That’s her right.”

  Hallie stood there, the rag around her hand, and thought about it. Finally, she said, “I’d like you to bring Cole out here, if it turns out it really was him. Who you tell is up to you, but I’d like to talk to him.”

  She had another two hours to think about it before that happened. She got a brief call from Jim and that was all. Meanwhile, she went out and washed the garage door with a mop and a bucket. She had to wash it before she primed it, and she wasn’t waiting to hear about the insurance. She was painting this mess over herself. She wanted it gone.

  When Jim finally showed up again, he didn’t bring Mac. He brought Cole. The boy climbed out of the truck with his face half averted and the hood of his sweatshirt up, followed by his mother.

  Vicki shut the door of the truck and said to Hal
lie, her voice tight, “I apologize for my son. And I apologize for myself.”

  The lump in Hallie’s throat was so big, she could hardly speak past it. “You have nothing to apologize for. Please don’t.”

  “I’m sure I do,” Vicki said. “He must have gotten it from me. I didn’t talk enough about all of this to him, because I didn’t want to. I didn’t make it clear enough that none of this was your fault. I probably thought it was your fault, somehow. I might as well say it now, when we’re all here. It’s no secret anymore. What happened to Jim all those years ago, which I just found out about recently, all the things your father did . . . I hope I know better, though, than to blame women for what the men in their lives do. Or to shame a woman,” she said, looking Hallie straight in the eye, “because she had sex with a man, even if that man was my son. Especially if he was older than she was, and more experienced than she was. Especially if she might not have wanted it as much as he did.”

  Hallie was at a loss for words. Cole had backed up a couple steps and was looking absolutely miserable, and Cletus was pressed close to Hallie’s side. And Jim came forward and did the same thing he’d done this morning at her sink. He put his arm around her and said, “Hey, now. It’s all right. It needs to be out there. It’s hurt too much keeping it in.”

  She took a deep breath, then said, “Would you—would you all like to come in?”

  “Yes,” Vicki said. “I would. Thank you.”

  When she walked through the door, she did it with her head high, and it was only then that Hallie realized that the last time she’d been in here, it had probably been as a cleaner. Or as Henry Cavanaugh’s unwilling bed partner. Or both.

  When they were sitting down in the living room, Hallie told Vicki, “Now I’m the one who’s going to tell you I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Vicki said. “None of it.”

  “I know it isn’t,” Hallie said, “but I still have to say that I’m sorry for everything you went through, and everything you’re going through today. What my father did wasn’t right. Any of it. And what Cole did—it’s part of my father’s legacy, too. It’s part of the ugliness that’s still hurting all of us. All the secrecy, and all the shame.”