by Muth, Becky
Kurt wanted to ask where they got the dashcam footage, but Peyton was staring at him. Her face was beet-red, and her eyes bulged. He asked, “Peyton, what’s wrong?”
“You didn’t see? At the beginning? The guy who stabbed you was talking to Owen!”
“Wait. Owen was talking to Phil the Pill?”
“Yes! So, this whole time you conveniently forgot to tell me that you saw my missing brother? Why would you withhold that information? You know how upset I’ve been.”
“But Peyton-”
“Oh, don’t you ‘but Peyton’ me!” Peyton unclipped the microphone from her blouse and stood. She slammed the device onto the hard-plastic seat of the chair, the microphone screeching in protest. “Do me a favor. Don’t call me. I’ll find Owen myself.”
Kurt felt helpless watching her walk away, Gilda at her side. The dog looked back, but Peyton tugged the leash, urging the dog to stay with her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ignoring Zahra and other studio employees who attempted to gain her attention, Peyton fled to the parking lot. After buckling Gilda and herself into their seats, she pushed her foot against the gas pedal, causing the Mini to jerk out of the parking space before speeding away.
“He should have told me. He’s had over a week to tell me. Why would he hide this from me, Gilda?”
From the passenger seat, Gilda gave a soft whine.
“I know! And after the almost-kiss! Ugh. What did I ever see in him? Why did I even ask for his help finding Owen? He’s probably been playing video games all week. I bet he didn’t even try to find him.”
The traffic light at the next intersection turned red. Peyton slowed her car to a stop and turned on the car’s blinker to indicate a right-hand turn. At the last minute, she turned it off. “Gilda, want to go to the cliffs?” When the dog woofed in response, Peyton reached over to rub between her ears. “Yeah, I’m not ready to go home yet, either.”
Peyton drove straight to the trail and parked her car. She tried not to dwell on the times Owen would join her and Gilda to walk the entire five miles. Pulling her phone from her purse, she saw there were no missed calls and tears spilled onto her cheeks. She pulled up her list of contacts and tapped Owen’s name. The call went straight to voicemail. Peyton opened her mouth to leave a message, but a robotic female voice cautioned that the mailbox was full. She silenced the ringer on her phone and put it in the front pocket of her skirt.
Looking at her strappy sandals, she observed, “These won’t hold up for trail walking. Wait here, Gilda.”
Kicking her sandals off, Peyton got out of the car and went to the trunk where she kept an emergency bag. Retrieving her spare sneakers and a pair of socks, she put them on and then opened the passenger door for Gilda. As the dog hopped down, Peyton grabbed her leash.
Gilda guided their path during the walk along the boulder-lined trail, only stopping when they reached the scenic vista at the other end. Peyton found a bench and sat, gazing out at the water, her golden retriever lying at her feet.
They sat until the sun was high in the sky. Gilda whined, pulling Peyton from her thoughts. “Okay, girl. Let’s go home.”
Peyton and her dog made good time on the walk back. Her Mini was in sight when her phone buzzed inside the pocket of her skirt. Walking to the edge of the trail, she tried to stay out of the way of foot traffic. She held Gilda’s leash close to the dog’s collar with one hand and pulled her phone from the pocket with the other.
The screen revealed Kurt’s name. Peyton slid her thumb against the icon to ignore the call and returned her phone to her pocket. “Come on, Gilda. Let’s go home.”
* * *
When Peyton turned into her driveway, she noticed a police car parked on the street in front of her house. “Gilda, I swear if this is Kurt trying to get my attention, I’ll serve him with a restraining order.” The dog whimpered and Peyton sighed. “Okay. I won’t really have him served, but I will talk to him about boundaries—when and if I’m ever speaking to him again.”
Peyton unhooked their seatbelts and exited the car. Ignoring the police, she retrieved her dog and started walking toward her house.
“Miss McIntyre? Can we have a moment of your time?” Jones inquired.
Peyton turned on her heel. “I don’t know what Kurt has put you up to, but please tell him that I’m not speaking to him at the moment. Maybe never again. I don’t appreciate being played.”
Lopez cleared his throat. “This isn’t about K.C., uh, Officer Collins. It’s about your brother.”
“Owen? Did you find him?” Peyton’s hopes soared.
Lopez insisted, “May we come inside? You should be sitting down.”
“What? Why? Is it bad news? You can tell me.”
“Let’s go inside,” Jones urged.
The officers led Peyton to her front door where she fumbled with her key before putting it in the lock and turning the handle. She gestured toward the living room and took a seat on the edge of an overstuffed chair before gesturing toward the sofa.
“Where was he? Camping? Taking a vaycay at the Redwood Cove Inn?” Peyton tried to laugh but the sound was hollow, even to her.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to let you know there’s been-” Jones began.
“No. No-no-no-no-no.”
Jones continued on, as if Peyton’s world wasn’t falling apart, “-an accident. We need you to identify your brother’s remains.”
“No! This isn’t happening! You don’t understand. Owen is the only family I have. He’s it. Well, and Gilda, but no. There must be some mistake. There has to be.”
Without warning, Lopez held a black and white photo at arm’s length. Peyton wanted to look away but felt compelled to stare at the glossy print of her brother’s face. If not for the jagged cut on his forehead, she would have assumed he was sleeping. A low moan filled the room. It took Peyton a moment to realize the sound came from herself and not the golden retriever who leaned against her legs.
* * *
Peyton sat on the front pew of the funeral home. Carla and her husband sat with her while Gilda lay at her feet. The Dean of Student Affairs stood behind a lectern where he praised Owen’s many scholarly accomplishments.
Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Peyton saw the sea of students and faculty who filled the other pews. Most of them had introduced themselves before the service began, their names and faces coalescing into a giant blur.
The empty feeling that began the day Lopez and Jones told her about Owen in her living room continued growing. Now at the funeral, Peyton’s body was an outer shell devoid of substance.
Carla had stopped by Peyton’s house daily to check in, bringing mini-casseroles and dog treats. Although she claimed she made too much food for herself and her husband, Peyton understood the real intent. She couldn’t bear to tell Owen’s teaching assistant—former teaching assistant—that the thought of food repelled her. The foil-wrapped bricks multiplied in her freezer like gold bars in a Fort Knox safe.
Peyton didn’t realize how far her thoughts had strayed from the memorial service until Carla’s husband replaced the Dean behind the lectern. Soon, the silent room filled with the sound of the man's rich tenor voice as he gave an emotional performance of Ave Maria. The music created hairline cracks in Peyton’s outer shell, allowing the grief to seep into her body. Even when mom and dad died, I still had Owen. But now I don’t have anyone. I’m a true orphan now. Tears spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks, but she failed to notice until Carla handed her a tissue.
By this point, the hairline cracks were ravines. As the emotional walls tumbled around her, the tissue quickly became soaked from Peyton using it to dry her nose and wipe her tears away. Feeling a nudge against her arm, she looked to see Carla handing her a box of tissues.
By the end of the service, Peyton had made a serious dent in the box. Peyton sensed rather than saw everyone leave.
After their parents had died, Owen insisted that he and Peyton plan their funera
ls. He requested a service only, and once it was finished, there was no church or social hall to gather at to remember him.
“Thank you, Carla. I’m not sure how I’d have made it through today without you.”
“It is an honor to be here to and Owen's memory.” Carla pulled Peyton into a hug. Upon releasing her, the woman pulled a plastic shopping bag from her purse and held it open for the used tissues.
This must be what it would have felt if mom would have been here today. The thought came out of nowhere and set Peyton crying again. Deep, heaving sobs wracked her body. Carla’s hand rubbed her back until her wails subsided. She sensed someone standing in front of her.
But when Peyton looked up, anger replaced her grief at once.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kurt saw the change in Peyton’s expression. She went from mewling kitten to angry badger in the blink of an eye. Rising from the pew, she drew her arm back before swinging it forward. Her open palm connected with his cheek with a loud smack. When he opened his mouth to speak, she slapped him again.
“How dare you show your face at my brother’s funeral.” She spat the words.
“Peyton, I can explain,” he started.
She repeated, taking time to enunciate each word, “How dare you. I want you to leave.”
“Can I please-”
“Now, Kurt. I want you to leave right now before I say things we’ll both regret.”
There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he took a step backward, sidestepping to avoid bumping into a wreath of wilting flowers displayed on a cheap metal stand. His respect for Peyton’s wishes outweighed his need for her to hear what he wanted to say. Allowing her the last word, a precious commodity, he turned and ducked out of the room. Following the main hallway, Kurt made his way toward the front of the building.
Sunlight assaulted Kurt as he stepped into a parking lot next to the building. He lifted his hand to shield against the bright sunshine, squinting to look for his sister’s car. He spotted it and dashed over, ducking into the passenger seat.
“Well?” asked Morgan.
“She slapped me. Twice.”
Morgan snorted. “Did you explain you forgot about seeing her brother at the scene of the crime? After all, you were like, stabbed and super hopped up on painkillers for several days.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she slapped me.”
“Ouch, bro. You're telling me that she didn’t even give you a chance? You wait here. I’ll tell her for you.”
“No.” When Morgan moved to open her door, Kurt shook his head. “No, don’t! If you go in there now, it will only make things worse. Now is not the time to be my overprotective big sister.”
“Fine. What now?” she asked.
“Please take me home. I’m done for today.”
* * *
Kurt walked into his apartment with a feeling that something was off. He stepped into his living room and heard movement behind him.
“Go sit down and nobody gets hurt.”
Unable to recognize the voice, Kurt had no choice but to obey. He went to his recliner and sat on the edge of it. When he looked up, he was not prepared for the shock that awaited him.
“Rumor has it that you’ve been spending time with my sister.”
Staring at Owen, Kurt blurted, “Rumor has it that you’re dead.”
“Touché. I need your help.”
“That seems to run in your family.”
“I know Peyton had you looking for me. Sorry about that.”
“Look, can you tell me what’s going on? I left your funeral a few minutes ago and your sister is pretty upset with me at the moment. It’s okay, though, because now I’m looking forward to calling her and giving her the good news that you’re alive.”
“No, I’m not. Don’t ever say that again. Anyone who knows I’m alive could be in danger, and I won’t risk her life.”
“Gee, thanks. So instead, you chose to drop in on me?”
“Yeah, I did. Now will you help me or not?”
“Are you giving me a choice?”
Owen’s lips pressed to create a thin line, and he shook his head.
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.” Kurt sighed and gestured toward his couch. “You might as well have a seat and start at the beginning.”
Owen perched on the edge of the sofa. He rolled his shoulders back and exhaled a deep breath. “It started when the college’s insurance company denied a life-saving procedure for my colleague’s daughter. She has a complex seizure disorder and insurance isn’t covering the things the family needs, like a home health nurse. The month before, I received a grant that was more money than I needed at the time. With the help of someone in the clerk’s office, I tweaked a few numbers and gave the rest to my colleague.”
“That explains why you were being investigated for grant fraud. But why were you hanging around Phil the Pill?”
“I needed to get in touch with his boss.”
“Dirty Dave?” Kurt leaned forward. “They’ve been trying to nail him for a while now.”
“Well, he’s a small fish in a big pond. Dave’s boss is this guy named Vincent. They call him Ten-Pin Vin, because he operates out of a bowling alley. He wanted me to enhance their, ah, product.” Owen bounced the heel of his foot on the floor as he spoke.
“Like the TV show where that chemistry teacher made the blue meth?”
“Something similar to that, yeah.”
Kurt stared at the man. “Did you do it?”
Owen jerked his head back and put his hand against his chest, fingers splayed. “No! I’m a physicist, not a chemist.”
“Sorry, that doesn’t tell me a lot.”
“Physics and chemistry don’t have a lot of overlap. I study concepts of matter, such as dark matter. A chemist, on the other hand, studies how matter reacts to, well, never mind. It’s not that important. When my last grant fell through, I agreed to transport goods for Dave’s boss.”
“Did the goods happen to be drugs?”
“I don’t know. They told me to drive the van from point A to point B. Except when I got to point B, the guy I met claimed the mileage on the van wasn’t right and that some of the product was missing. I swear, I didn’t make any stops and I never touched anything in the back of the van.”
“What happened then?”
“I was supposed to meet with Dave’s boss, but when I found out just how big the operation was, I got scared and ran.”
As Kurt listened, he weighed what Owen told him against the facts Sam presented during her visit to his apartment. Part of an international crime ring, these were not the type of men who would take these types of incidents lightly.
“So how did you wind up dead?” Kurt asked, putting air quotes around the final word.
“It was my only way out. One of my former students is a funeral director and serves as a kind of liaison for the medical examiner. I called in favors.”
“What's next?”
“Now I need to disappear.”
“Would you be willing to share what you know with my sergeant?”
“No way. Not without a guarantee. I want protection and I'm not leaving to talk to anyone.”
“What if he came here?” Kurt leaned forward in the chair. When Owen didn’t reply right away, he added, “He’s a good guy. You can trust him.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because he’s my dad, and you’re already here in my apartment, talking to me. Having him come here would be safer than having someone recognize you, don’t you think? Seeing as how an hour ago people paid their last respects to you and all?”
“Fair enough. Give him a call.” Owen’s voice cracked, his body slumping into the plush couch cushions. He stared at the aquarium.
Kurt picked up his phone and made the call, choosing his father’s cell phone over his direct number at the station.
“Sergeant Collins,” his dad answered on the oth
er end of the line.
Kurt took a quick breath and released it. “Hey, um, dad?” He hadn’t called his father anything but Sarge since joining the department.
“Kurt? What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I found our missing person.”
“Is this a joke? We all know where he is. They’re probably cremating his corpse right now! I’m a busy man, son, and I do not have time to-”
His dad’s incredulous tone came through loud and clear through the cell phone’s tiny speaker. “Dad. Dad! He’s sitting in my living room.”
"He's what?"
"He's here with me."
“Are you out of your-”
“Dad! I’m looking at Owen McIntyre right now.”
After a pause, his father asked, “And he’s alive?”
“Very much so.”
“Well, how in the devil did that happen?”
“Why don’t you drop by my place and ask him?” Kurt invited. "We're not going anywhere."
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let him leave.”
The call dropped, no doubt on the part of his father. Kurt had a strong feeling that if he had called the landline in the Sergeant’s office, the man would have slammed the receiver down in his son’s ear.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Peyton’s cell phone warbled from its place on her bedside table. A ray of sunshine fell through the window and landed across her face. She winced against the intrusion and threw her forearm over her eyes. The phone stopped, and before she could look to see whose call she ignored this time, the warbling resumed.
Rolling over and snatching the phone, Peyton looked at the display. The screen displayed nine missed calls and five voice messages since she crawled into bed the afternoon before. As she did every morning since the day of Owen’s funeral, Peyton deleted Kurt’s attempts at contacting her. All that remained were two missed calls and one voicemail, all from Carla.