by Jo Davis
“Stay and have some breakfast,” Cori offered. “We have bacon and eggs.”
Eve’s stomach lurched. “There’s no way I could eat, but thank you, both of you.”
“Coffee, then?” Zack’s jaw tightened in stubbornness. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re one hundred percent sure you’re all right.”
In that case, she could be here for eternity.
She mustered a wobbly smile. “Coffee sounds fine.”
And so went the morning of turnabout, Eve doing her best to reassure her friends she was fine when nothing could be further from the truth. She was dying inside. Her love for Sean wasn’t just a festering secret anymore; it was an open, bleeding wound.
And she was the one responsible for handing him the power to deliver it.
Just look him straight in the eye and tell him. What can he do? Nothing.
Eve parked behind Sean’s Tahoe, and got out, tough outer shell in place. For the most part. She’d been shredded, but the visit with Zack and Cori had gone a long way toward patching up the ragged seams to where they were almost invisible to the naked eye. Sort of like putting wall plaster over a crack in the Hoover Dam.
She left her purse in the car and locked up. This wasn’t going to take long.
At the front door, she rang the bell and waited. After a few moments she tried again, and still no sign of Sean. Of course he wouldn’t come to the door and let her get this over with, especially when her nerves were shot. Always the hard way with Sean.
A nicker from around back caught her ear and she tensed. If he was outside, even better. Might make this go quicker and make for a faster exit. Leaving the porch, she walked around the side of the house. As soon as she rounded the corner, she saw his long, lean form sprawled in a lounger, the backrest propped upright. His head was back, and as she got closer, she saw his eyes were open, staring at the pasture and the horses, who were observing her approach curiously.
Her running shoes were making plenty of noise crunching through the grass, so she couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t turned his head to see who was approaching. Reaching the deck, she ascended the three steps, skirted his chair to face him . . . and a cry of dismay escaped her lips when she spied the small table beside him.
“No! Jack Daniel’s? What are you thinking?” A highball glass sat beside the bottle, half-full of amber liquid.
He raised his eyes and blinked slowly, as though noticing her for the first time. “Why are you here?”
She flinched. “That can wait. Why do you have a gallon of whiskey? Tell me you didn’t go out and buy this.”
“Sunday. Liquor stores are closed.”
“Then where did you get the bottle, Sean?”
“It was a gift. From someone who hates me.” His laugh was harsh, his eyes bleak. “And no, I haven’t taken a drink.”
“There’s whiskey in the glass,” she pointed out.
“Didn’t say I didn’t want to.”
She took a cautious step forward, scrambling to make sense of this. “Back up. How exactly did you come into possession of the bottle?”
“You sound like a detective,” he said dully. “Maybe that’s what I need.”
His attitude scared her. “Answer the damned question.”
“I never picked up my mail yesterday. When I got home this morning, there was a package wrapped in brown paper sitting beside the mailbox. I brought it in, opened it, and found the bottle inside.”
“That’s it? Why would you say someone hates you? Could be from an old friend who doesn’t know you’re on the wagon.” She didn’t really believe that, though, and from his expression neither did he. Something else was going on.
Without a word, he reached behind the bottle and picked up something from the table. A photograph. Since it had been lying facedown, she hadn’t seen it before. He simply handed it over, and waited.
Flipping it over, she peered at the pic, frowning. A big fire, obviously. Involving a truck? What . . . ?
The instant she realized what she was looking at, the blood drained from her face. “Oh my God.” Cold horror gripped her and her knees grew weak. She sat heavily in the lounger beside his, staring at the hideous photo.
“Someone watched my family die. Took a fucking picture and sent it to me two years later.” He looked at her with wrecked eyes, voice cracking. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand. “But considering this and the phone call that upset you the other day, I think we need to call the police.”
“What can some beat cop do? I haven’t actually been threatened and there’s no real proof this is anything but meanness.”
“First, we’re not going to call a uniform. We’re going to use our tie to the police department and go straight to the guys who can really help.” Her tone brooked no argument. “I’ll make the call. Can I use your phone? I left my cell phone in my purse, in the car.”
He nodded, looking lost. No way could she address the real reason she’d come. Not now.
“I’ll be right back. In the meantime, don’t touch the bottle or that glass anymore. If someone hates you that much, the whiskey could be tainted. Did you think of that?”
His eyes widened. “No, I didn’t. But the bottle was sealed. . . .”
“That doesn’t mean squat. Just sit tight until I get back.”
Slipping inside the house through the sliding glass door, she went straight to the phone sitting on the far end of the kitchen counter. Picked it up and scrolled through the numbers on his speed dial. She found the one she was looking for with no trouble. As captain, Sean kept all of his team’s numbers handy, and as she’d guessed, this one was still included.
Tommy Skyler answered on the third ring. “Hey, Cap! What’s up?”
She smiled at the way he still called Sean “Cap” even though Skyler was now working in Arson. “Wrong person. It’s me, Eve.”
A pause. “Eve? Oh! What’s going on?” His voice was cheerful, but clearly puzzled about why she was calling from Sean’s number.
“I have sort of a situation here and I need your help, old friend.”
“Sure—shit, he’s not drinking, is he?” he asked in alarm.
“No, but there’s some stuff going on that needs to go on record with the cops. Preferably a detective.”
She proceeded to tell her former teammate about Sean’s phone call, the awful “gift” in the box, and the implications. When she was finished, Tommy cursed softly and got right on board, just as she’d known he would.
“I’ll call Shane right now,” he said, referring to Detective Shane Ford. His future brother-in-law, and a good man who’d helped out the guys at Station Five more than once. “He’s in Homicide, but I know he’ll send someone out to talk with Sean. Someone good, whom he trusts.”
“You don’t know how much that means, buddy. Thank you.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Not great, but hanging in there.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I’ll stop by and see him in the next day or so.”
“I know he’d like that. He needs his friends around him.”
“Is that what you still are, Eve? Just a friend?”
Crap. “What makes you ask that question?”
“My eyes worked just fine when I was at Station Five,” he said, a trace of wry humor in his voice. “And you’re there, protecting him from the boogeyman. Gonna spill?”
“That’s a story I’ll have to tell you another day.”
“Aha! So there is a story.”
“Bye, Tommy,” she said softly. “And thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
She hung up, thinking she missed the kid, missed his constant teasing and flirting. But for all his acting like a big, goofy puppy, Tommy was a very perceptive, intelligent man. Much too perceptive.
And she was a fool for letting Sean Tanner rule her heart.
6
1990
“Have you e
ver noticed how a gun feels better in a man’s hands than any woman?”
Sean, lying on his back on his bunk, hands behind his head, craned his neck to laugh at his friend. “Man, you have some seriously fucked-up priorities.”
“I’m not joking.” Those dark eyes held his. “A piece of ass can be had anywhere, but the respect a leader commands from his men, the power he holds? Better than any orgasm.”
Sean stared at his friend, not liking the implication of those words. “And you think a weapon will get you respect and power? You don’t get those things by using force, Jess. They’re earned, not commanded.”
“Semantics. How you get them isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
Jesse stared at him so long, he began to feel weird. Like what his friend said next might change everything.
“The point is what you do with them once you have them. Let me ask you something. . . . Do you believe every person has the right to eat, to have clothing and shelter, to defend themselves? No matter what country they′re from?”
“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m here, serving our country?”
“And if you found out the country you so proudly serve gives with one hand and takes with the other, same as it’s done since it beat the shit out of the Native Americans? If you found out that not a fucking thing has changed and that soldiers like you and me are feeding into a warped system designed to kill the ones we’re supposedly trying to help? What then?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Jesus.
“Oh, come on. Rip off those goddamned rose-colored glasses, my friend, and answer my question.”
He knew damned well there was more than a grain of truth to what Jesse claimed. History spoke for itself. “Sure, our government does some stuff I don’t agree with. But we’re just the peons, and I don’t know what either of us could do to change that.”
“But if you could right those wrongs, would you?”
“Christ, I don’t know,” he muttered irritably. “I suppose. Can we drop this?”
A smile played about Jesse’s lips. “For now. I’ve got big plans for us, though.”
“Whatever.”
Much later, as he mulled over the conversation, he worried about what Jesse was up to. And whether the man took his answer to heart.
Eve was here. Thank God.
That was all he could think over the numb shock that had stormed his brain. She was taking action like a trouper, keeping her head on straight and handling his nightmare.
My nightmare, not hers.
He should do something. Take this out of her hands, because she didn’t deserve any of this. His past, his present shit. None of it. Yet he was paralyzed. The horrible photo brought back that night like it was yesterday.
The flames.
The stench of gasoline and burned flesh.
His wife’s license plate curling, blackening.
He lurched out of the chair, gasping, clutching his chest. The memory was a razor blade to his throat, slicing deep the way he wished he could slice his wrists.
Parents expected they’d die before their children. Not with them.
Why my son, my baby girl? Why?
“Sean! Honey, look at me.” Strong fingers dug into his shoulders. “Look at me, now!”
Her voice penetrated his self-inflicted hell and he stared into her face, the fog lifting. Until then, he hadn’t realized he was standing by the deck railing, hands fisted in his hair as though ready to pull it out by the roots. Gradually, he relaxed, dropping his hands to his sides . . . when what he really wanted to do was to take her in his arms and never let go.
“You’re going to get through this, you hear me?” Her worried face hovered close to his. Beautiful.
“Do you see now why I don’t want to drag you into my shit?” he rasped. “Do you get it?”
“Come inside and sit down.”
“But I—”
“Hush.”
She pulled him inside, through the kitchen and into the living room. Pushed him down onto the sofa and he didn’t resist. His legs just sort of surrendered and he sank, defeated. Her footsteps moved off in the direction of the kitchen and he heard her rustle in the fridge, remove a glass from the cupboard. In a few seconds she returned, holding out a glass of juice, which he took with a question in his eyes.
“Apple,” she said. “It’ll go easier on your stomach than coffee.”
That wasn’t the main question on his mind. “Why are you taking such good care of me, especially after I ran off this morning?”
“I’m into pain.”
His lips curved into a half smile at the joke. “Inflicting or receiving?”
“Well, I’d thought receiving, but I might’ve changed my mind. Might want to inspect that apple juice carefully, and keep me away from sharp objects.”
“I’m amazed you can joke with me after what I pulled.”
“What else am I supposed to do? My hair shirt is at the cleaner’s.” The sadness in her eyes was quickly covered, her expression neutralizing.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Let’s get the detective up to speed on your situation before we worry about anything else, okay?”
He sighed, staring into his unwanted juice. If he pretended it was a few shades darker and tasted like Jack, it might go down better. Fat chance.
He hated what he’d done to her this morning. Hated himself. But God, he was scared. No, terrified. To let any woman in, to let her matter.
Because he’d never survive another loss.
The doorbell saved him from another round of self-flagellation, and he rose, setting down his glass. “I’ll get it.” Now that the shock was subsiding a bit, he wasn’t willing to act like a helpless victim in his own home, and in front of a stranger.
He opened the door to find a man with dark blond hair and brown eyes, not as tall as himself, but close. More muscular, too, built like he could put a man on the ground without much effort, if necessary. And the guarded expression in his eyes, the tense stance that appeared natural to him, suggested he’d done just that a time or three.
“Captain Sean Tanner, Sugarland Fire Department,” he said, offering his hand with a smile. Or what he hoped passed for one.
The man’s tension bled out some, and he shook the offered hand with a return smile that made him appear much more approachable. Even friendly. “Detective Taylor Kayne. I understand you’ve got a slight problem, some harassment going on.”
Sean nodded. “I hope that’s all it amounts to, but that’s what I’d like you to tell me, given your expertise. Come on in.”
The detective stepped inside, his gaze going straight to Eve and settling on her. Sean moved around him to stand next to Eve, bristling inwardly at the man’s rather frank appreciation of the woman in front of him. As Kayne introduced himself and shook her hand, Sean edged closer to her and draped an arm over her shoulders. He felt her stiffen in surprise and sensed her glance at him, but his attention was on the cop.
Let Detective Muscles admire the view all he wanted—from afar. Real fucking far.
And yeah, that gasping noise was his resolve to remain just friends dying a swift death.
Shit.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Eve asked the man.
Sean tried not to frown and barely managed to keep to himself that the detective wouldn’t be there long enough to enjoy it.
“That would be great. Thanks.” The cop beamed at her, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Detective.” Sean gestured to the easy chair at one end of the coffee table and took up a seat on the sofa.
To his credit, the cop wasted no time getting to business, removing a small notepad and a pen from the pocket of his long-sleeved shirt.
“I’m surprised you guys aren’t using electronic devices of some sort to take your notes on by now,” he commented.
Kayne looked up from scribbling something at the top of a page. �
�To me, nothing beats good old pen and paper, at least in the field. Then I transfer my notes on each case to computer, expand on clues, interviews, my own observations, and such while the details are fresh. It’s a system that works for most of us.”
“Do you ever run into any trouble?” he asked, curious. The cop didn’t look like a man who got his build from a gym membership.
“You kidding?” He laughed. “Nine times out of ten nobody is happy to see me coming, unlike your job. Got scars from a knife and two bullets to prove it.”
“I’ll remember that next time I think I’ve had a bad day.”
Eve returned with the man’s coffee, and he thanked her politely. After handing over the mug, she took a seat on the other side of Sean, with him planted firmly between her and the detective. Not that he’d left her enough room to sit anywhere else, and a secret part of him smirked.
It vanished quickly, however, as Kayne began the interview.
“Captain Tanner, give me a rundown of what’s been going on. I got only a brief version from my colleague Shane Ford.” All his attention was now focused solely on Sean. When it came to his job, the man obviously didn’t allow any distractions of the female variety. A major point in his favor.
Sean steeled himself against reliving the story, and knew keeping it factual was the only way he’d get through the telling. “Almost two years ago, my wife, son, and daughter were killed in a traffic accident. At least I thought it was an accident until I received a call on my cell phone at work on Friday.”
“Who was driving the car?”
He swallowed hard. “My son. He drove into the back of an eighteen-wheeler that was parked on the shoulder of the highway.” It should’ve been me.
“I’m very sorry.” The detective sounded sincere, and gave Sean a few moments before he continued. “What did the caller say?”
“He said, ‘Did you ever ask yourself, what if it wasn’t an accident?’ It took me a few seconds to make the connection as to what he could possibly be talking about.”