He knew they needed rules, but damn if every one of them hadn’t been written more to protect the guilty than the innocent. And even when they followed the rules, if the public didn’t like it, the big brass threw the officer under the bus.
He had a few tire tracks on his ass. Connor had more. They’d trained him on when to use his weapon and when not to. And when he’d been forced to protect himself they couldn’t even argue that discharging his weapon hadn’t been justified. But when the shooter turned out to be seventeen, the press and the precinct turned on Connor.
“Spill it,” Connor said.
“Spill what?” Mark sat behind his messy desk. He liked it messy. Just like his life.
“What you’ve got on the sergeant’s ass.”
“Who said I’ve got anything?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Connor said. “If I or Juan here had said that to the old fart, we’d be cleaning out our desks.”
“I’m just more likable.” Mark leaned back in his chair.
The info he had wasn’t anything he’d ever share. If the sergeant pulled his head out of his ass, he’d know that. Right now, Mark hoped the man’s head never saw the light of day.
* * *
Saturday morning, dressed in funeral black, Annie found a row of creaky metal chairs, behind which was a door in case she needed to escape. Condensation dripped from her glass of watered-down lemonade.
The home, old, large, and rambling, would’ve made a perfect haunted house. It felt as if some wannabe contractor had added a couple more bedrooms every few years. Most of the rooms didn’t have closets but held antique armoires. Not the nicer ones people bought at auctions, but worn pieces that looked as if they’d been used all these years. She had a creepy suspicion that secrets and skeletons lay hidden in those scarred wooden wardrobes.
People milled around in a proper funeral mood. Yet nothing felt proper.
Her gut said this eerie somberness hanging in the stuffy air wasn’t brought here by a funeral, but lived here.
Growing up, she’d seen touches of it in her mom, but Annie’s father’s easy-to-smile persona had overridden her mom’s brief slips into depression.
Her gaze caught on the casket in the front of the living room. The air in her lungs felt like liquid concrete. What kind of family held a funeral in their home?
“Annie.”
At the sound of her name, she quashed the need to duck through her escape route. Aunt Doris, one of her mom’s sisters, darted across the room toward her.
“Look what I found last night. I thought you’d like it.” She held out a photograph.
Annie forced a smile and tried not to stare at her aunt’s false eyelashes. The woman reminded Annie of a slightly drunk, downplayed version of Dolly Parton—a look completely opposite from her mom’s Sunday-best style.
“Thanks.”
The yellowed photograph showed two girls sitting in kitchen chairs. She recognized herself. She looked about five. Her gaze shifted to the untied Cinderella tennis shoes on her feet. Her heart took a time-out. The scar on her knee itched.
Trying not to react, she continued to gaze at the snapshot. The other girl, who appeared to be older, another blonde, wore a cast on her right arm. Fran?
Annie had heard Fran’s name. The Reed gossip mill, which she’d already been privy to, said that the divorced Fran had drinking problems. That she’d left a kid with her ex-husband.
“You two were best friends.” Doris’s slurred voice had the hair on Annie’s neck dancing.
Annie studied the picture harder, drawn to the expression on Fran’s face—the sadness, a silent yearning begging for someone to save her. That look on a few of her students had haunted Annie when she’d been an elementary school teacher. That look had ultimately cost her the job. That look had resulted in a restraining order against her.
That look had gotten her arrested for breaking that restraining order.
She really didn’t like that look.
“Fran should be here,” Doris said. “I hope she behaves. She didn’t grow up as nice as you did.”
Little did Aunt Doris know. Annie’s “nice” was running on fumes. She wanted to get out of there so bad the bottoms of her feet itched.
She glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked and chimed in the corner like a bomb about to blow.
“But she’s my girl.” Doris’s words rode on her liquor-scented breath.
Annie’s cousin obviously came by her drinking problem honestly.
“I’m sure she means well.” Annie watched Doris bumping her way through the crowd.
The photograph found a spot in her purse, beside the panties that she’d almost left behind in her hotel room this morning. Cold drops of condensation from the glass of lemonade ran down the side of Annie’s hand and spattered on the toes of her black heels. The tiny splats echoed in her ears as she thought about Cinderella shoes and Fran’s expression in the photo.
Fidgeting, she looked up. Aunt Frieda, Uncle Harry’s widow, draped in black, paced the room in a cloud of misery. A red-haired woman, an aunt by marriage, whom her mom had introduced earlier as Aunt Karen, stood talking to her mom. Sarah, her mom’s youngest sister who’d never married, sat in a metal folding chair, staring at her hands in a not-really-there way. A vague but eerie feeling of déjà vu hit. She’d seen that woman sitting that way before. Not at the family reunion, but from some other time in the far reaches of her memory.
Right then Uncle George, her mom’s brother, a short, pudgy, red-faced man who looked angrier than he had the previous day at the wake, walked in complaining about the pastor being late.
“Annie?” Her mom’s voice rang out. “Come here.”
Annie saw her mom had moved to stand beside the casket. No. But her mom called again. Heart thudding, Annie walked over. She’d managed to be in the house for over an hour without looking at the guest of honor.
“Do you think his tie works?” her mom asked.
Intent on offering only a glance, like swallowing a bitter pill fast, Annie cut her eyes downward. Her gaze stuck on the dead man. Her heart raced and yanked her back to the recurring dream. Thump. Thump. Thump. Run. Run. Run.
“The tie’s fine.” Annie’s gaze shot to the door. “I…need air.”
When she swung around, she accidentally ran into her aunt Karen. Muttering an apology, Annie moved as fast as her liquid knees would take her. Feeling raw, feeling vulnerable, feeling chased.
Faster, Annie. Faster!!
* * *
“Let’s bow our heads.” The hour-late pastor began.
The swish of a door opening brought the pastor’s words to a halt. Annie turned to see a blonde saunter into the room.
“Better late than never.” Her voice didn’t match the room’s mood. Neither did her red dress. She stumbled to the closest available chair.
Murmurs echoed from the crowd. Red. Drunk. Not again. Annie glanced at her mom.
“Fran,” her mom whispered.
Annie tilted her head to the side just enough to study her cousin. She saw similarities to the picture Aunt Doris had handed her. Fran’s hair was darker, she wore the years on her face, but the lost look in her eyes hadn’t changed.
Almost as if she could feel Annie’s stare, her cousin turned. Their gazes locked. Recognition filled Fran’s eyes. Memories that Annie couldn’t quite reach clawed at her mind. She looked away.
The metal folding chair under Annie suddenly felt unstable. She fought the desire to reach for something to hold on to.
How soon could she get the hell out of here?
The service ended. The crowd thinned. Back to hugging the corner of the room, the one beside the door, she waited for her mom to say it was time to go.
Twice she watched Fran make trips to the kitchen to refill her glass with something stronger than lemonade. When Fran stumbled, spilling her drink, Annie moved in.
Fran, gripping the back of a chair, looked up. “So the little cousin finally co
mes out of hiding.”
Annie took the glass from Fran’s hand and knelt to collect the ice cubes. When she stood up, she met Fran’s one-too-many gaze.
“It’s not a big deal,” Fran said. “I was on my way for a refill.” She took the glass and started walking. Then she swung around. “You coming?”
Annie followed. The kitchen was empty except for herself and Fran, who rode her tiptoes as she pulled a bottle of vodka from the pantry’s top shelf.
Freshly brewed caffeine flavored the air. “How about coffee, instead?” Annie asked.
Fran’s brows rose with too much expression. “Still trying to be the good girl, huh?”
Had Annie been a good girl back then? “Just being helpful.”
“Then pass the lemonade. It helps this cheap vodka go down.”
Annie spied the coffee cups on the counter. “You take it black?”
Fran stared. Annie continued, “People are talking.” Why she wanted to save Fran from the gossip was a mystery. She recalled her aunt’s words: You two were best friends.
Fran’s laugh bounced around the yellow kitchen, but there was nothing cheery about the sound. Or the room. “They always talk.”
“One cup,” Annie pleaded, her voice too small for the big space.
Fran leaned against the old refrigerator. The noisy icemaker clanked out ice. Annie took Fran’s posture as a sign of resignation. As Annie poured hot coffee into the cups, steam rose in the air.
“Black?” Annie asked again.
The fridge spit out more ice.
Fran stared. It wasn’t resignation shining in the watery pools of green. “I don’t want any fucking coffee. And I don’t fucking care what they say. Do you?” She grabbed the bottle again. “Because if you think by not coming back all these years that you saved yourself from their hypocritical judgment, well think again.”
The bitterness in Fran’s tone scraped across Annie’s nerves.
“They say you lost two jobs ’cause you couldn’t handle the pressure. That you had a nervous breakdown. Then you became a regular on some shrink’s couch. Personally, I’d rather drink.”
Anger burned in Annie’s stomach. How dare her mother…
Fran raised her glass. “We all deal with it somehow, don’t we?”
Annie took a backward step, her heart crashing against her chest like a trapped bird seeking freedom. She had to leave. She started for the door.
Fran blocked her path. “Do you ever think about her?”
“Move,” Annie managed.
“Mom said you live there now. When you drive past the park, do you think about her?”
Annie shook her head, her blond hair scattering over her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember Jenny.” Fran slapped a hand over her lips. “Oops, not supposed to say her name, am I?”
A wave of nausea swelled in Annie’s stomach. She had to get out of here. Away from these crazy people. She took off, bumping into several people standing right outside the door.
“What’s wrong?” Fran’s question chased her out.
But in Annie’s head she heard Fran scream, Run, Annie! Run!
She snatched her purse. Outside she spotted her mother and met her halfway across the yard. “How could you tell them my problems?”
“What?” her mother asked.
“Me losing my jobs, my therapy. How—?”
“They’re family,” her mom said.
“They aren’t my family. Daddy made that clear.” Annie took one step then swung around. “I’m going home.”
Her mom’s eyes rounded. “Annie? You can’t—”
“I can.”
Don’t tell me you don’t remember Jenny.
Shaking, she dug through her purse and found her keys. Then Annie did just what Fran had told her to do all those years ago.
She ran.
She flung herself into her car. Gravel spit from beneath the tires as she put it into gear. Faster, Annie, faster.
As her wheels made tracks back to Anniston, her mind took her to the dream. The footsteps.
Getting closer.
Closer…
And just like that, she remembered Jenny. She knew the bloody teddy bear had belonged to Jenny. She knew Annie and Fran had gone into the woods looking for Jenny. Then another image flashed, of Jenny lying in a hole in the earth, dirt being tossed over her too-still body. Blood running down the side of Jenny’s face.
Annie yanked her mom’s car to the side of the road, opened the door, and puked.
Chapter Three
Someone’s here to see you.”
Mark looked up from his messy desk to see Mildred, the front desk clerk, standing at his door. Round, pudgy, with dyed red hair. He frowned at his cell phone, noting it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
Too early on Monday morning to have people popping in. It didn’t matter that he’d been here since five, going back over the case files of the dead little girl. Coming in was better than staring at the damn ceiling all night, not wanting close his eyes. Because when he did, he saw things he wanted to forget. Images that stained his soul.
The concern of a mother bear puckered her lips. “You look like something my cat dragged in and then refused to eat.”
“Good. That’s the look I was going for.” His tone hinted at sarcasm.
He pressed a finger to his temple, wishing he could rub away the headache. Friday night he’d lost himself in a bottle of scotch. Or—how was it that Judith had put it? He drank himself into oblivion. Something he hadn’t done in about a month. It seemed the less he drank, the longer the hangovers lasted when he did. And there he had it: a reason not to slow down.
“Who is it?”
Mildred leaned in. “A Ms. Lakes. She said it’s about a murder.”
Mark stopped massaging his forehead. “The Talbot case?”
“I assumed. She asked for you.”
He rolled his shoulders. “Is she one of the crazy ones? You know I don’t do crazies on Monday.”
“Do you do crazies on Tuesday?” The question came with tease. “She’s pretty.”
“Well, hell. Why didn’t you start with that?”
The smile in her eyes faded. “Take something for your headache.”
When Mildred left, the two plastic cups of cold coffee he’d poured and hadn’t drunk caught his attention. He’d skipped his coffee run, but he still couldn’t drink this shit.
He set them in the trash can, an attempt to come off like less of a slob.
The tapping of heels echoed down the hall.
He stacked up a few more papers. The tapping stopped at his door. He stood up, hoping to come off well-mannered, even though his present demeanor leaned more to don’t-give-a-damn curt.
“Hell…o.” The o of the greeting stuck to his tongue when his eyes lit on the package in pink. Pink sandals, a wispy skirt with pink flowers, and a fitted pink cotton shirt that looked as soft as what filled it.
Pink looked good on her, too.
Real good.
Add blond hair and blue eyes, and, hangover or not, old-fashioned lust washed over him.
Then recognition hit. He knew her. Didn’t he?
He motioned her inside, trying to place her while trying to recover from his initial, completely normal male reaction. One he hadn’t felt since a certain news reporter.
“Come in. Ms. Lakes, right?” She nodded. He continued. “I’m Detective Mark Sutton, but you know that.”
She nodded again.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” She fiddled with the sunglasses on top of her head as she inched closer.
Her hesitation told him she had doubts about being here.
When they’d each settled into their chairs, he watched her fidget with her purse strap. Patience had never been his strong point. How the hell do I know you?
An uncomfortable thought hit. He hadn’t met her in a bar and gone home with her, had he? He
’d done that a few times before Judith.
“You wanted to see me?” His tone was soft, but her reaction wasn’t. She flinched as if he’d asked for her bra size.
Then she blinked and replied, “Yes.”
That was when he noticed the purple rings under her eyes. Blatant evidence that, like himself, she hadn’t been sleeping that well. The fact that she hadn’t taken the time to hide those purple smudges told him something, too. This problem was serious enough to keep her awake, and she wasn’t the overly vain type.
He liked that. Not the seriousness of the situation, but the lack of vanity. His fling with Judith had taught him a few things. Mainly, stay away from women whose egos were larger than their breasts.
She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. “I don’t know where to start.”
Her voice didn’t ring any bells. He picked up a pen, and ignored his instinct to lean in and glance down at her legs. Not that he hadn’t already noticed them. He had.
“How about starting at the beginning?” He offered her the police-regulated smile, hoping to put her at ease. She brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, and he got the feeling again that he’d watched her do that before.
Her gaze met his. The haunted look staring back at him seemed familiar in a different way than before. His faux smile slipped off his face. The woman looked as if she might pass out.
“Do you need something to drink?”
She played with the flap on her purse. “It was a long time ago.” Her voice barely reached him.
He leaned in. The chair protested with a squeak. “What was a long time ago?”
“The beginning.”
“Is this about the Brittany Talbot case?”
She frowned as if it was a trick question. “No.”
“So what’s it about?” he asked, growing more impatient. Her fidgeting must have been contagious, because he ran his finger over the lip of his messy desk.
“I think it’s about a murder. Another girl. Not Brittany.”
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