Her Perfect Bones

by Ellery A Kane

  He repeated those words like a solemn oath, even as he jogged down the steps to the beach, his heart in his throat. Even as he saw her, sitting barefoot on a driftwood log, her hair whipping in the wind like the first day they’d met. But the moment she stood and raised her eyes to his, he forgot any promise he’d ever made to himself.

  The jacket she wore fell open. Her shirt was covered in blood.

  Sixty-Three

  Like the waves at high tide, relief pushed Olivia forward and into Deck’s arms.

  “It took you forever.” She grumbled the words against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him. She only half listened to his reply, preferring the steady brag of his heart in her ear.

  When he let go first, she shivered, despite the warmth of the day. Hugging Leah’s jacket against her, she sat back on the log. Deck joined her there, his dress shoes covered with sand. She’d shed hers by the stairs and carried them in her hand down the beach while she tried to make sense of the afternoon.

  “Are you okay?”

  She’d been prepared for the question, of course. Still, the words felt jumbled, hurtling like pinballs through her brain, so she just nodded.

  “Is that your blood?” Deck winced.

  “Termite’s.”

  “Termite? As in your half-brother, Termite? Of the Oaktown Boys?”

  “Do you know any others?” The tinny sound of her laughter got lost in the wind. Deck didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Olivia, why is his blood on your shirt?” He turned to her, imploring her with those brown eyes. “On second thought, don’t answer that. Do I need to call you an attorney?”

  She laughed again, wilder this time. The tension of the afternoon unspooling from her mouth in hysterical half-gasps. “I—didn’t—I didn’t—he’s…” She pointed over her shoulder at Shells-by-the-Sea, where she’d checked Termite in two hours ago. She and Leah had stitched up his wound with a needle and fishing line.

  Deck’s hands went to her arm, stilling her. Instantly, she sobered.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Can we walk?” She felt restless, like she couldn’t sit still. She kept replaying what Termite had told her, disbelieving, though she recognized it as the truth.

  “Okay.” He kicked off his shoes and balled his socks inside them. Rolled up the legs of his pants. “Let’s walk.”

  As she spoke, they trudged through the softer drifts toward the packed sand at the water’s edge. By the time they’d reached the rocks that bordered Shell Beach, she’d gotten through the hard part.

  Deck stopped, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what? That you were out of your mind to try to break up a gang fight? That would be stating the obvious.”

  “So what then?”

  “I just… I’m just glad you’re okay.” He kept walking, and she watched him for a moment, certain he’d meant to say something else. Something more. “So I’m guessing that asshole shirked on his promise to tell you everything?”

  Olivia didn’t want to lie. Not to Deck. But Termite had sworn her to secrecy, reminding her that whoever knew the truth about her father had a target on their back. “How’d you guess? Anyway, he won’t be sticking around Fog Harbor much longer. I told him he has to be out of here by morning. And that I don’t want to see his face again.”

  “I should probably send a few patrol units up to the junkyard. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  He slipped his phone from his pocket and started to dial. With a mind of its own, her hand wrapped itself around his wrist. His skin, warmer than she’d expected. Or maybe it was just the point of connection between them that radiated heat.

  “You won’t leave, though? Not yet.”

  He shook his head, pressing the phone to his ear. Asked, “Why?”

  The real answer had little to do with the words that came out of her mouth. “Because I have a lot more to tell you.”

  Sixty-Four

  Will stood in the soft, wet sand and let the water glide over his feet. As the setting sun lit the sky on fire, he listened to Olivia tell him the rest. Her call with Brenda’s brother. Her run-in with the warden. And he filled her in on what they’d learned about Max Grimaldi and Reid Vance. Will had no intention of leaving. Not until she told him to, and even then he’d drive away under protest.

  “By the way, I never told Blevins he should hire my brother. I may have insinuated that having a cop on his side could be useful, but only so he’d approve the transfer. I didn’t think he’d take it literally.”

  “What do you think he’s up to?” she asked.

  “Probably what Blevins does best. Covering his own ass.”

  “You still owe him a visit, you know?”

  “Blevins?”

  “Ben. It’s clear that he misses you.”

  Will scoffed. “Clear to who?”

  Olivia’s dimple made a sudden reappearance. She reached toward the water, laughing, and splashed him. “Phil Radovsky.”

  “He told you?”

  She nodded gravely. “He told me everything.”

  The spray of the ocean didn’t help cool his flaming cheeks. Not one bit. They’d probably turned the color of the sunset by now. “I’m going to kill him.”

  But then, he realized. If she really knew about Radovsky, she’d have been just as embarrassed. He darted toward her, trying to splash her back, but she’d jogged just out of his reach. Her green eyes twinkled in the light off the water, while she backpedaled in the sand. When she stopped, he’d never wanted to kiss her more.

  “Just kidding,” she said. Until right then, when she gave him that little smirk.

  Will stalked toward her, anticipating that she’d bolt down the beach. But Olivia didn’t run as he’d expected. She waited for him to reach her.

  He could already conjure the taste of her lips, the way her hair would feel tangled in his hands. But the sliver of space between their bodies felt like a mile. A mile he wouldn’t cross. Couldn’t cross. Not unless he’d been invited.

  “Deck—”

  Later, he’d lie awake and analyze the single syllable she’d spoken. He’d try to parse the meaning in her voice.

  But now, the ringing of his phone stopped him cold. She stepped away, the spell broken.

  “Answer it. It might be important.”

  When he saw the number, the San Francisco area code, he nearly laughed. Or hurled the phone into the ocean. Before he’d left the office, he’d put in a call to Amy to get an update on their parolee-at-large, Chuck Winters.

  “Will Decker, Homicide.”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news.” Amy never did bother with pleasantries. “I assume you want the good first.”

  “You know me, ever the optimist.”

  “We found Winters.”

  Will’s gaze met Olivia’s, and the whole day caught up with him—Trish’s sad eyes, Grimaldi’s denials, the bloodstains on Olivia’s shirt. The realization he couldn’t protect her the way he wanted.

  “And the bad?”

  “He’s got a bullet in his head.”

  Sixty-Five

  Olivia kept her hand raised in a wave as Deck’s taillights grew smaller and disappeared. Shaken to her core, she stood there for a moment in the twilight, processing it all. Termite’s revelation. Chuck Winters’ death.

  Surely Amy’s call had been a sign from the universe. A sign that she’d been about to repeat a colossal mistake. Still, she wouldn’t have been disappointed if the universe had held off until after Deck had kissed her senseless.

  Leah joined her on the hotel’s wraparound front porch. “Liam’s napping, and Jake’s repairing a creaky floorboard in the Sand Dollar Suite. Want a cup of tea before you go?”

  “Tea sounds great.” Though it was the company she needed most.

  Leah delivered two steaming cups to the table.

  “Thanks.” Olivia wrapped her hands around hers, savoring its
warmth. “Not just for the tea, but…” She jerked her head in the direction of the guest rooms, leaving the nitty-gritty unsaid. The stitches, the guest room. The blood Leah had helped her clean from her car. “You really went above and beyond. Jake too.”

  “Are you sure he’s going to be okay? He should really see a doctor. He’ll end up with a nasty scar.”

  Olivia gave Leah an incredulous look, remembering the raised skin on her father’s midsection, where a rival gang member had stuck a knife. “To guys like that—guys like my father—scars come with the territory.”

  “Well, what about you? Can I worry about you?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know. You took a tire iron to a psychopath. Got blood all over you. But you’re fine.” Leah disguised the twist of her mouth with a sip from her teacup. “Detective Decker sure left in a hurry.”

  Olivia ignored the obvious hint in her voice. Once Leah got started, it was hard to slow her down. “He got a call about the case. One of his suspects turned up dead.”

  “Wow. This case sure heated up fast.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Kind of like the two of you, if you know what I mean.”

  “Were you spying on us?”

  “Me, spying? Never. But I may have been cleaning the windows in the Bridal Suite when the curtains just happened to open a tad. I can’t be held responsible for what I saw.”

  “And what did you see, exactly?”

  Leah smirked at her. “You tell me.”

  The clunk of footsteps interrupted their conversation. Termite posted up in the doorway, holding his arm to his chest like a broken wing. Something about the set of his jaw, the way the light hit his face, made her think of her father and the resemblance between them she’d never noticed before. “My ride will be here in twenty.”

  With his gang ties all but severed—literally—Olivia wondered who he’d called. An Uber for criminals? But she didn’t dare ask.

  “Can I pack you any food for the road?” Leah asked. “I made a few loaves of banana bread for the morning.”

  Termite shrugged. “Sure.”

  After Leah vanished into the pantry, Termite got right down to business. Two long strides and he stood over Olivia, glaring down at her teacup. “Remember what I told you.”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you? Because I saw you with that cop again.”

  Had everyone been watching her? “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Better not. Unless you want him to end up like—”

  Leah’s eyes widened at the sight of them, at the hard edge in Termite’s voice. She thrust a paper bag in his direction, not meeting his eyes. “I threw in a loaf of the day-old pumpernickel, too. It was just going to get stale in there anyway.”

  Termite reached inside and pulled out one of the Saran-wrapped loaves. He tore into the plastic and ripped off a hunk with his teeth, chewing noisily as he spoke. “Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

  Driving home from Shells-by-the-Sea, Olivia could barely focus on the road. The afternoon’s events looped on a technicolor reel in her mind. Blue for the perfect spring sky pierced by gunfire. Red for the blood spilled from Termite’s arm. Gray for the ocean rolling in, kissing the sand with white foam before it retreated again. She felt unmoored, adrift. Uncertain what to do next. Worried for herself and for Emily, who she wished wasn’t so far away so she could lay eyes on her just to reassure herself.

  A flash of blinding light in the rearview caught her attention. Motorcycle headlights. Two of them. And not Termite, who’d ridden away in the passenger seat of an old pick-up truck over an hour ago.

  She moved to the shoulder, rumbling to a stop to let them pass. When they stopped too, revving their engines at her menacingly, she felt the vibrations in her skin and straight down her spine.

  She floored it then, trying to lose them downtown, zipping down the side street adjacent to the courthouse, but as soon as she hit Pine Grove Road, they popped up behind her, as ominous as a shark’s fin.

  Her heart at a full-blown gallop, she sped up. Slowed down. Sped up again. Slammed on the brakes, sending her purse to the floorboard. No matter how she maneuvered, the headlights matched her pace.

  Desperate now, she struggled to reach her phone but it stayed just out of her grasp, mocking her from the spot where it had tumbled.

  She flew past a speed limit sign and the turnoff for Route 187, the decommissioned highway that dead-ended after a few miles.

  No way in hell could she go home, but the farther out she drove the more afraid she felt. Out here, no one would see her car fly off the highway and dive head first into a redwood. No one would hear her scream.

  With a death grip on the wheel, she turned it suddenly and sharply to the left, as far as it would go. The old station wagon squealed into the hairpin U-turn, its back end fishtailing across the center line. She jammed the accelerator and held the wheel steady until she regained control, leaving the two motorcycles in her wake.

  While they pivoted their bikes in her direction, Olivia made up her mind to go to the one place they couldn’t. She booked it back down Pine Grove in the direction she’d come, driving even faster now. Her breath came in stops and starts and little gasps every time the bikes closed the gap.

  By the time she reached Crescent Bay State Prison, the motorcycles flanked her tail end, their engines a pair of mad dogs growling on either side of her.

  A quick right turn after the welcome sign, and she floored it, screeching up to the entrance. The correctional officer on duty jumped out of the way, gaping at her once she’d brought the car to a stop. He moved toward her cautiously, as she rolled down her window.

  “Jesus, lady!” He frowned in confusion. “Doctor Rockwell? I—I didn’t recognize you. Are you alright?”

  Terror squeezed her stomach, but she raised her eyes to the rearview mirror anyway. The asphalt glimmered, awash with the light from the floodlamps that surrounded the prison. Behind her, the road was undeniably empty.

  “I forgot something.” She swallowed hard. “Something important.”

  He waved her through with a shake of his head.

  Olivia parked in her spot and cut the engine, double-checked the locks. Ironic, that she felt safe here of all places. Even with the creepy redwoods keeping their silent watch across the half-empty lot. Beyond the tree line, she’d never seen such darkness.

  After an hour had passed, Olivia forced herself to start the car and head for home. White-knuckling it the whole way, she pulled into her drive a little after nine and hightailed it inside. She collapsed against the door, bolting it immediately, and turned on the light.

  Dropping her purse on the kitchen table, she went straight for the bedroom, securing the snub-nosed revolver from her nightstand. Keeping it close, she checked every room for signs of intruders.

  Satisfied, she dropped to the sofa and clicked on the TV to take her mind elsewhere. But her eyes wouldn’t rest. She still felt uneasy. Like she’d stumbled into a dream where nothing seemed quite right.

  When she finally realized, panic rose up in her throat. The books that usually sat on the left side of the credenza had been stacked on the right instead, next to the picture of her and Emily. She ran to the bedroom, where she immediately spotted another anomaly. Deck’s sweatshirt lay on her rocking chair beneath yesterday’s work clothes, not on top as she’d left it.

  A shiver whipped through her like a cold wind. Someone had been here, rifling through her possessions. It could only mean Termite had been telling the truth. Her father had information. Information important enough that someone—the FBI? The Oaktown Boys?—had come here looking for it.

  Moving with urgency, Olivia double-checked her purse, ensuring the drawing was still tucked safely inside. Relieved, she headed to the bedroom, where she packed a bag and emailed Dr. Stanley, who’d no doubt be more than happy to cover for her tomorrow. If she left now, she could be in San Francisco by early morning, with enough time to catch a few hours’ sleep be
fore planting herself outside the door of FBI headquarters, ready to demand some damned answers.

  Sixty-Six

  When Will pulled into the parking lot of Crescent Bay Regional Airport, he spotted Chief Flack lingering outside the hangar. JB had already arrived. Chuck Winters’ dead body awaited them in San Francisco.

  “They don’t pay me enough for this shit.” JB’s relapse still in full effect, he took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it onto the tarmac, stamping it out with the toe of his dress shoe. Then, he lugged his small suitcase from the back seat of the Camaro, groaning. “Dragging me and Tammy out of bed at nine o’clock.”

  “Since when do you go to sleep at nine?”

  “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  Will had walked right into that one. He laughed, giving JB his due. Slinging his own duffel bag over his shoulder, he waved at the chief.

  “Brown-noser,” JB muttered. “I don’t understand why the chief is in such a goddamned rush. The guy will still be dead tomorrow.”

  Will didn’t dare say the trip had been his idea; that he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving their investigation in Amy’s hands. Not that JB was wrong, per se. According to San Francisco’s chief medical examiner, Chuck Winters had been dead for at least forty-eight hours from a single bullet to the back of his head. A .45 caliber bullet Will would’ve bet good money was a match for the one they’d pulled from Heather’s back. Same kind as the one that had stopped Drea’s heart beating.

  “You sure this isn’t about something else?” Will asked.

  “Such as?”

  “Your fear of flying.” Smirking, Will dropped his bag on the tarmac. “Oh, excuse me. Your fear of—”

  “Don’t say it.” JB grimaced, put his hands to his ears.

  “Crashing.”

  “Jeez, Louise. You don’t say ‘crash’ in an airport. Just like you don’t say ‘bomb’ on a plane. C’mon. You’re just asking for trouble.”