Gin felt her face flame but thumbed through her photos until she found a flattering one her mother had taken of her and her father when they’d gone out for brunch. “You’ll have to crop my Dad out,” she said, texting it to him.
“No problem. Can you check on Cherie while I set this up?”
Gin left him to it and joined Cherie at the table. Twenty minutes later, after pouring her some more juice and helping her with her phonetics homework, she returned to the office to find Tuck with his feet up on the desk, grinning triumphantly.
“With this profile, you could get George Clooney to ask you out,” he said, moving out of the way so she could pull her chair closer. “I should be a yenta.”
“Sure, if this cop thing doesn’t work out,” Gin said, squinting at the screen.
“Better yet, Keith is online now, and you just winked at him. You also sent him a nice note complimenting his profile.”
“I did?” Gin tried to hide the trepidation she felt; after chatting with Cherie, some of her determination had dissipated, replaced by second thoughts.
“Sure. In addition to hunting, Keith listed his interests as listening to live music, campfires, cooking together, and exploring the country in his RV. Hell, maybe I should date him.”
“Is that right,” Gin said, distracted by the profile Tuck had created for her. She had to admit that he’d done a remarkably good job in such a short time: under her photo, which he’d cropped and enhanced to bring out her smile, she read that Beth Conway was a thirty-two-year-old medical device consultant who enjoyed singing in her church choir and volunteering at the animal shelter. “What else did you learn about him?”
Before he could answer, a ping indicated a new message in “Beth’s” inbox. “He took the bait!” Tuck exclaimed. “Let’s see. ‘Hello Beth, thank you for your note. I’ve looked at your profile and feel we have a lot in common. Would you be interested in meeting for coffee?’” He glanced at Gin, winking. “Coffee, eh? No sir, we don’t have time for that…”
For the next few moments his fingers flew over the keyboard. Gin tried to read over his shoulder, but he batted her away.
“Tuck—come on, you have no idea how a woman would respond.” That came out wrong. There was another ding—Tuck and Keith Walker were apparently in a full-on conversation. Gin tried again. “What are you telling him? Listen, if you stray too far from the truth I’ll never be able to—”
“Just give me a minute,” Tuck said impatiently.
Gin gave up and let him work, sitting back in her chair and wondering if she’d taken leave of her senses. But in a few more minutes Tuck hit send and spun around in his chair, a grin on his face.
“You, Beth Conway, are meeting Keith for a drink tomorrow night. Your schedule was too full to do coffee this week and naturally the weekend was out of the question, because you’re serving meals at a homeless shelter and going to a watercolor painting class, but luckily you had an opening tomorrow.” Tuck gave her a wicked grin. “And just in case you’re getting cold feet—you’re single now, you should be getting yourself out there anyway.”
“I think you’re enjoying this way too much. Besides, Jake and I are—we’re just taking a break.” But her voice wavered on the words. “And I’ll never be able to remember all those lies.”
“Everyone lies on their profile,” Tuck said. “No big. You should see some of the women I’ve met for coffee. Wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a crowd based on the photos they used—most of them seem to be twenty years out of date.”
“But you told him I was thirty-two.” Gin protested. “I’m thirty-nine.”
“So? You could pass for ten years younger, not that it matters—I personally like some miles on a woman. Trust me, this guy is going to be counting his lucky stars and trying to figure out how he can get you over to his place.”
“Ugh … is that your MO?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Tuck said. “But since we’re being all touchy-feely here … the truth is that most women seem to find that they’re too busy for a second date once they find out about Cherie. Their loss.”
Gin didn’t notice the faint hint of bitterness in his voice. How frustrating it must be—and what a mistake the women were making. Tuck’s obvious love and devotion to Cherie were an asset, in Gin’s mind. Once you got past his flippant, abrasive exterior, there was a kind, generous, dependable man … with a broad chest and rock-hard shoulders that didn’t exactly hurt, either.
She cleared her throat. “The right woman won’t be put off by that—she’ll see you for what you are.”
Tuck’s gaze held hers, the unspoken question in the air between them: what did she see when she looked at him?
Another ding interrupted the charged moment. Tuck clicked on the inbox. “Great news … the gentleman suggests Drake’s Tavern at seven. I hear they do a pretty good grilled snapper.”
“It’s just drinks,” Gin reminded him. “So. I guess I should go home and, um…”
“Wash your hair,” Tuck said wryly. “Shave your legs. Do your nails.”
“All that, for a faux date?”
“You’ll want to be convincing. Maybe you should buy a new dress or something. Something red and tight.”
“I hardly think that’s necessary when all I’m trying to get is an impression of Keith Walker.”
“Yeah, use your feminine intuition. Is this a guy who could dig up a body and haul it back behind his cabin and bury it? Does he seem to have problems in other areas of his life—debts, gambling problem, grudges … that sort of thing. By the end of your date, I’d just like to be able to cross him off my list.” He sighed. “Which we could already have done if Bruce wasn’t too afraid of a damn pasty-ass doctor with a temper and a lawyer on retainer to conduct a proper investigation.”
“Tuck…” Gin ventured, remembering her conversation with Katie. “Do you think Bruce … I mean, he’s so scornful of people, even his closest colleagues. Every time I’m around him, he violates at least one HR guideline. I know you don’t want to talk to me about what’s going on in County, but I feel like it’s not much of a stretch to think he’d see an opportunity to make some cash and take it.”
“Bruce is a dick,” Tuck said. “No doubt about it. And if it ends up to be him, I’ll make a special trip up to the city just for the pleasure of watching him get taken away in cuffs. But I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t have any proof that it’s him.”
“That sounds like double-speak. What you’re saying is that you don’t have any proof that exonerates him either.”
Tuck drank the rest of the beer and crushed the can in his fist, regarding her thoughtfully. “You’re not very good at this game, Gin. You don’t put all your cards on the table in the first round.”
His voice had dropped, and his gaze drifted down to her neck, and Gin remembered the night last winter when, standing under a streetlight in the drifting snow, he’d almost kissed her.
Luckily, Cherie burst into the room, breaking the awkward silence. “Aren’t you guys done yet?” she yelled. “Want to help with the corn, Gin?”
“I’d love to, Cherie, but I need to go home and have dinner with my parents.”
“Oh,” Cherie said seriously. “Do you have a mom and a dad?”
“I do,” Gin admitted, hoping she hadn’t brought up a painful subject. In a strange parallel to Jake’s situation, Cherie’s mother was an alcoholic who signed away her rights to her child after she was born and had no contact with Cherie or Tuck.
“I just have a dad. But he’s twice as good as regular dads so it’s okay!” She gave her father a high-five, and he pretended that it hurt, moaning and letting his hand flap uselessly.
“Don’t forget,” Tuck said. “Tomorrow night at seven at Drake’s Tavern. Wear something pretty. And wear your hair down, with the curls or whatever.”
“Are you going on a date with my dad?” Cherie asked, looking very surprised.
“No, not
at all.”
“She’s going to meet a new friend. A man.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe you’ll marry him, Gin!
“Maybe,” Tuck said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and steering her out of the room, “we should get started on that corn.”
13
When Gin got home, Richard was peering over his glasses at one of Madeleine’s old cookbooks. He’d only begun cooking recently, after Jake put him to work in the kitchen one night and taught him how to prep the ingredients, and Richard discovered that he enjoyed it.
“Boef bourguignon tonight, honey,” Richard said. “You and your mom are in for a real treat.”
Laid out on the kitchen island were a marbled slab of beef, two yellow onions, and a package of mushrooms. Dinner, if past experience was any indication, was still potentially hours away as Richard made his slow, methodical way through the recipe.
If she hurried, Gin could drive over and be back before her dad put the meal on the table. In the kitchen, she found Richard holding up a mushroom, frowning. “How on earth do I stem a mushroom? All of these already have stems.”
Gin laughed. “I’m going to go check my email, Dad. Let me know if you need help.”
“I’m offended!” Richard called after her as she went up the stairs.
As she opened the door to her room, something caught her attention—a faint, unfamiliar chemical smell on the breeze that fluttered the lace curtains in the bedroom window. As Gin put her hand on the light switch, she hesitated—hadn’t she left the windows closed earlier, because the forecast included a chance of rain? Her heart thudding, she turned on the light.
And gasped. All around the perimeter of the room, random slashes of red paint dripped down the walls. It was still wet, dripping onto the carpet, slopping onto her dresser and the framed watercolors her mother had hung so many years ago. Gin searched for a pattern, but the marks formed no words, no images … it was almost as if someone had flung the paint straight from the can.
And then left through the open window. Gin raced across the room and leaned out, her hands sliding in the paint puddled on the sill. Sure enough, there were smudges of paint on the shingles of the dormer—and an empty paint can near the gutter. As she watched, a gust of wind tipped it over and it rolled, almost leisurely, to the edge and then fell with a soft plop onto the lawn below.
Gin hastily wiped the paint on her shirt before realizing that she would ruin it. She ran to the bathroom, her mind racing, anxious to get out of the soiled clothes, to rinse the paint from her hands. The sense of violation was overwhelming. She needed to leave the room, preserve any evidence, call the police, take care not to alarm her father—but first she needed to remove all traces of the vile act from her skin and clothes.
After scrubbing until her hands and forearms were pink and stuffing the ruined shirt into the trash and knotting the bag closed, she took a deep breath and went back down the stairs. Her mother had come home in her absence and was sitting at the counter with a glass of wine, laughing at something Richard had said. Seeing Gin’s expression, Madeleine’s expression immediately changed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Mom, everything’s fine.” Gin forced a weak smile. “But we seem to have had an uninvited visitor.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked, setting down the grater and the hunk of parmesan he was holding.
“It’s … everything’s fine, all right, so please don’t panic, but I’m going to call Tuck. I think someone broke into my room.”
Madeleine looked aghast. “If that’s true, he could still be in the house! Shouldn’t you call nine-one-one?”
But Tuck’s phone was already ringing, and besides, the upstairs had felt entirely empty and still. Whoever had splashed the paint, he or she had retreated.
“Hiya sunshine, did you miss me?” Tuck answered jovially.
Gin could hear Cherie in the background, singing along with the television. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, and—maybe I should call the station. Someone’s broken into the house. My, uh, room actually.”
“Where are you now?” Tuck said, his tone instantly hard and terse. “Did you see the intruder?”
“We’re downstairs in the kitchen. Dad’s cooking.” Gin felt a little silly. “It’s just a little paint … red paint.”
“I’m on my way. If you hear anything, leave the house. Don’t go back upstairs. I’ll be there in ten.”
“Thanks, Tuck,” Gin said, but he’d already hung up.
“He’s on his way,” she told her parents, who were staring at her openmouthed. “It’s just … a prank or something. Kids, maybe. They splashed a little paint.”
“Paint?” Madeleine echoed. “Was there a message?”
“No, no message.”
“I’m going to check the yard,” Richard said, yanking off his apron.
“Dad, please wait for Tuck,” Gin pleaded. “Let him handle this.” She didn’t want to say it, but the idea of her father going up against an intruder frightened her. Richard was in excellent shape for his age, but there was no way to know who had done this.
Someone with an axe to grind. Someone affected by Gin’s consulting work—perhaps a relative or friend of a suspect who Gin had helped identify in one of the county’s recent forensic investigations.
Or someone trying to discourage her from digging deeper in a current one.
Her mind flashed to the unidentified body in the morgue … to the cabin in the woods where it had been buried. She thought of Jonah, frightened and incapacitated on Jake’s floor, and of his father raging in front of the police station.
“Did he go in any of the other rooms?” Madeleine asked, twisting her hands together.
“I didn’t check, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sure Tuck will check them all out.” She didn’t share her intuition that this was directed solely at her. “Let’s just sit down and stay calm until Tuck gets here.”
Richard topped off Madeleine’s glass of wine and wordlessly poured one for Gin. They’d barely sat down when there was a knock at the door and both Madeleine and Richard jumped up to answer it.
“I’ll get it,” Gin said hurriedly. “You guys relax.”
She opened the door and discovered that it had started to rain in the time since she had been upstairs; Tuck was standing in the drizzle, wearing a windbreaker over the T-shirt he’d had on earlier. His expression was hard. “Show me.”
She led him up the stairs; he muttered a greeting to her parents as they passed. The room was just as she’d left it: the curtains fluttering, the paint still glistening in places. She noticed something she had missed before: the vase of cut flowers that her mother had left on the dresser lay on the floor, the water puddling out, the flowers crushed.
Tuck went to the wall and dabbed at the paint, held it to his nose. “Latex, is my guess,” he said. “Other than the color, it looks like ordinary paint. It can’t have been here more than an hour or so. None of you heard anything? Saw anything?”
“I just got home right before I called you. And mom got here after me. Dad’s been in the kitchen—and he’s a little hard of hearing.”
Tuck nodded. “Go back downstairs. I’m going to clear the rest of the house. You know that technically I shouldn’t even be here—but I’ll get someone over here to dust for prints. I don’t need to tell you it’s a long shot.”
Gin remembered the can that had rolled off the roof. “The paint can’s out on the lawn. Do you want me to bring it in?”
“No, leave it for now.” He was already on his phone, and he spoke quietly to the dispatcher as he walked into the hall.
Gin wanted to follow him, but she knew her parents had questions—and worries. Reluctantly, she went downstairs to keep them company.
“Tuck called someone in to see if they can get fingerprints,” she said. “They’ll be here soon.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Gin said, deciding it was best to acknowledge what they weren’t saying. Obviously I don’t kn
ow who did this, but given the work I do …
“Makes me wonder if this damn gun turn-in of your mother’s is a good idea,” Richard muttered. “I’d like to get ahold of whoever did this—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Gin chided.
Tuck came back down the stairs, looking at his phone. “All clear up there. I took a few pictures but Max will take more when he gets here. So. No thoughts on who it might have been?”
“None,” Madeleine said. “I mean, there’s a few council members and contractors who I’ve had words with, but nothing that would spur something like this.”
Tuck shot Gin a glance; his meaning seemed clear: they’d talk later, out of her parents’ presence.
Richard cleared his throat. “Can I offer you something to drink? I realize you probably won’t have wine, but shall I make some coffee?”
“No, sir, I’m fine. I think it’s best that we focus on getting this processed and cleaned up so you folks can get some rest tonight.”
* * *
Nearly two hours later, Gin finally joined her parents downstairs after cleaning up as much as she could, and putting clean sheets on the bed in the room next door. Tomorrow she would make some calls to get someone in to replace the damaged carpet and repaint; Madeleine had already suggested they take the opportunity to finally replace the old furniture. Glad to see her mother’s attention focused on something other than the intrusion, Gin had agreed.
But for the foreseeable future, she would be living in Lily’s old room, with the white painted furniture and the sunny yellow walls, the holes still in the walls from the posters that her sister had hung.
Downstairs, lights burned in every room. Her parents were sitting in the living room, but seeing her, Richard jumped up.
“Sweetheart. Come and relax. Your mother set out some snacks.”
“She doesn’t want to eat,” Madeleine scolded, patting the sofa next to her. Indeed, the platter of cheese, bread, and sliced apples on the coffee table was untouched. “She’s been through a traumatic event. We all have.”
“Then a glass of wine,” Richard said. “Or maybe sherry?”
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