Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “Would you like to go to the shooting range with me? Around seven?”

  There weren’t many places I wouldn’t go with Brooks. “Sure. I could use some more practice.”

  “I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you then.”

  That evening, after my shift ended, I knocked quietly on the door of Mary McClain’s hospital room.

  A man’s voice said, “Come in.”

  I walked into the room and said, “My name is Daisy DiStefano. I spoke to your son earlier today and told him I’d check in on you.”

  The man rose and extended his hand. “I’m Theo McClain, Mary’s husband. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I walked to Mary’s bedside. “I’m not one of your nurses, but I’d be happy to get you anything you might need.”

  Brooks’s mother gave me a weak smile but didn’t speak.

  Theo said, “I think she has everything she needs for now, but thank you. That’s very considerate.”

  The feeding tube was called a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy, or PEG. A small, flexible tube would deliver nutrition, hydration, and medication via a hole in Mary’s stomach. If she tolerated the tube without any problems, she’d probably be discharged in the morning. Her breathing sounded labored, which was the result of the deterioration of her diaphragm and intercostal muscles. The issue of ventilation support would soon be raised by Mary’s doctors, if it hadn’t been already.

  I dug a piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it to Theo. “Here’s my cell number. Please call me if you need anything after you get home. I’d be happy to come by.”

  “We have a nurse,” Theo said. “She comes every day.”

  “Sounds like you’re in good hands then.”

  “How do you know Brooks?” Theo asked.

  “He wrote a story about the murder of my grandmother.”

  “I’m sorry,” Theo said. “I read about that, of course.”

  “Brooks has been really helpful by keeping me in the loop.” I gave Mary’s hand a quick squeeze and turned toward Theo. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for Mary while you’re here.”

  “I will,” Theo said. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I caught up with Kayla as she was leaving the building and we walked to the parking garage together. “Is there any chance you could babysit Elliott on Tuesday night? At my place?”

  “Sure. I’d be happy to watch him. Big plans?”

  “I’m going out with the guy we saw earlier. The one from the elevator.”

  “Lucky you,” she said. “If I wasn’t already taken, I’d be wildly jealous.” Kayla had recently gotten engaged and only had eyes for her fiancé, Brian.

  “Don’t be jealous. It’s not a date. He’s taking me to the shooting range.”

  Kayla was one of the few people at work who knew I’d taken the gun course. She’d been remarkably blasé about it, which made me wonder if it was a much bigger deal to me than it was to anyone else.

  She laughed. “You’re right. That’s not a date.”

  Maybe it wasn’t a date, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to look forward to it.

  CHAPTER 24

  BROOKS

  I visited my mom at the hospital on my way to work the next morning. My dad had spent the night and was sitting next to my mom’s bed, drinking a cup of coffee.

  She was still sleeping, so I spoke softly. “Everything go okay last night?”

  “The doctor said she can probably go home this afternoon,” he said. “Everything looks good. No sign of infection.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Your friend Daisy stopped by.”

  “She said she’d look in on Mom.”

  “That was very nice of her.” He took another drink of his coffee.

  “How’s the coffee?” I asked, pointing at the mug.

  “Awful.”

  “You should have called me. I could have brought you some from home or stopped somewhere.”

  “That’s okay. At least it’s hot. Have you been to the lab yet?” he asked.

  “My appointment’s not until eight. I wanted to stop in and see Mom first.”

  I took a seat on the small couch near the window, browsing the news on my phone while we waited for her to wake up. A nurse came in to take her vital signs and my mother opened her eyes.

  She saw me sitting there and said, “Brooks.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Hi, Mom.” As soon as the nurse left, I walked to her bedside. “How’re you feeling this morning?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  My dad reached out and patted her hand, careful to avoid the IV line. “I’m right here, Mary.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” I said. “I have an appointment downstairs at the lab in a few minutes. It sounds like you’ll be discharged today, so I’ll see you when I get home from work.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Tears welled up in her eyes and my dad said, “Don’t, Mary. We’ve been over this.”

  I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “It’s okay, Mom. I love you and I’ll see you later.”

  I turned to my Dad. “Call me when you and Mom get home, okay?”

  “I will.”

  The lab was on the first floor. I pushed open the door and handed my paperwork to the woman sitting behind the desk.

  “Have a seat over there,” she said. “Someone will be out in a minute.”

  I didn’t have to wait long. A nurse called my name and after she snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and tied a tourniquet on my upper arm, she took three vials of my blood.

  She untied the tourniquet, applied a Band-Aid, and said, “There. You’re all set. You know it will take several months to get the results back, right?”

  I unrolled my sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “Yep.”

  *

  After leaving the hospital, I stopped for breakfast at a diner not far from the newspaper. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with this idea because it was packed. I could have hit the drive-through, but I really wanted food that didn’t come in a Styrofoam container. I hadn’t been required to fast before the blood test, but since I’d awakened to an empty house, I hadn’t bothered to make anything to eat, preferring to go directly to the hospital instead. I stood in line and waited my turn.

  Observing the room, I realized there was a clear hierarchy to the seating arrangements: the retired residents, the ones for whom a daily visit to the diner constituted part of their social routine, were seated in the booths that lined both walls. The tables arranged in the inner circle of the room were for families, friends meeting for breakfast, and the errant businessperson—insurance agents and realtors, mostly. The counter was where the cops and good ol’ boys sat.

  And reporters, apparently.

  Standing next to me were three men who looked like they were around my age. Two of them were wearing Carhartt overalls with short-sleeve T-shirts underneath. The other wore camouflage pants and a sweatshirt with the arms cut off. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of them staring at me.

  “Do you need something?” I asked.

  “Don’t I know you?”

  He looked vaguely like the guy who sat next to me in English Composition my senior year, the one who never read the book. I couldn’t place the other two. “I think we might have gone to high school together.”

  “That’s it,” he said. “Knew I knew you from somewhere. Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “I don’t live here anymore. I’m just back for a visit.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Got a wife with you?”

  “No.” I turned away, hoping to stave off any more questions.

  “Girlfriend?”

  I turned back around. “Nope. Just me.”

  Half a minute passed, and I mistakenly thought our conversa
tion was over.

  “So, do you like girls?” he asked, eliciting chuckles from the peanut gallery. Encouraged by their reaction, he continued. “I mean, San Francisco? And with you dressing the way you do. No wife, no girlfriend. Well, you can’t blame me for wondering.”

  Yes I can, you homophobic idiot.

  “I do like girls. In fact, I like them a lot,” I said. “And I’m certain I’ve had more success with them than the three of you put together.” Two stools opened up at the counter and the waitress motioned to me. “If I might make a suggestion, try not buying your clothes at the same place you buy your firearms and antifreeze. And open your minds a little.”

  I sat down at the counter. A few seconds later, Jack Quick slid onto the stool next to me.

  “Hope you weren’t saving this seat,” he said.

  “No, but you probably pissed off the person who was next in line for it.”

  “Police perk,” Jack said, motioning for the waitress to fill his coffee cup. “No one’s gonna say anything.”

  “How do you stand it?” I asked.

  “Stand what? Cutting in line? I love it.”

  “No, this town. This narrow-mindedness. I just ran into a guy I went to high school with. What, you wear a suit and tie, you’re gay?”

  Jack looked over at me. “Well you are kind of snazzy.” He opened his menu, perused it, and closed it just as quickly. “My wife gets caught up in it more than I do. If you think the men are bad, you don’t want to know what the women gossip about. I only wish I could un-hear some of that crap.”

  “Ever thought of moving?”

  “Every damn day,” he said, “but my wife’s entire family lives here. We’re not going anywhere, at least not until the kids head off to college, which is gonna be a while yet. My youngest is only eleven.” Jack took a drink of his coffee. “If you hate it so much, why are you here?”

  “My mom’s sick.”

  Jack looked appropriately contrite. “Oh, hey. I’m sorry.”

  I held up my hand. “It’s okay.”

  “How long are you going to be around?”

  I looked at him and then turned away. “Until the end.”

  “That’s rough.” He took another drink of his coffee, and I opened my menu and scanned the offerings. “Tell me you’ve been nosing around and have something for me on Pauline Thorpe,” he said.

  “I’ve got nothing. I’m so desperate I thought about making a visit to the mobile garage sale to see what I could stir up.”

  Jack snorted. “Not in that suit, I hope.”

  “No.”

  “Good luck finding it,” Jack said. “They’re not kidding about the mobile part. We gave up trying to shut them down a long time ago. For every one we find, two more spring up in a different location. I swear they’re all just stealing from each other at this point.”

  “For twenty bucks and a pack of smokes, my buddy down at the Desert Tap will tell me where it is, although he seemed a bit unreliable.”

  “Messing with those meth heads will get you killed. No one is more paranoid than a tweaker. They’ll shoot you first and ask questions later.”

  The waitress came by and took our breakfast orders.

  “Did the crime lab ever turn up anything?”

  “Not yet. We have no leads, no suspects, and no tips coming in via the hotline. Pauline Thorpe was killed by either the smartest person or the luckiest. This is so far off the record it’s not even funny, by the way.”

  “Understood. Do you get many calls on the hotline?”

  “Every mentally unbalanced person residing in San Bernardino County calls the hotline. Most of the time it has nothing to do with a case, but occasionally we get lucky. Someone shoots off their mouth in front of the wrong person and bam, we get a call that pans out. You still in touch with the granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Her son hasn’t said anything either.”

  The waitress set down our plates and we began to eat.

  When we were finished, I threw some bills onto the counter, enough to cover both of our breakfasts. “I can’t tell you why, but this case doesn’t feel random to me.”

  “It doesn’t feel random to me either,” Jack said. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 25

  DAISY

  Brooks knocked on the door a little before seven. Kayla and Elliott were playing with Play-Doh at the kitchen table.

  “Call me if you need me,” I said. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it to anyone.”

  “I won’t,” she said. “Go have fun shooting at things on your non-date.”

  When I opened the door, I was surprised to see that Brooks was still dressed in his work clothes. “Hi,” I said. Maybe this wasn’t a date, but seeing him at my door sent a jolt of happiness through me. There was something so capable about Brooks, and his presence instantly put me at ease.

  “Hi,” Brooks said. His voice didn’t sound as businesslike or as formal as it usually did. At that moment, he seemed more like a friend than a reporter.

  A very handsome friend.

  “Were you not able to go home first?” I asked, shutting the door behind me and waiting until I heard Kayla lock it.

  “I had a few things I needed to catch up on in the newsroom.”

  “Have you eaten?” I asked. “You must be hungry.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll grab something later.”

  It had taken me half an hour to decide what to wear, which seemed ridiculous considering the circumstances. I’d finally decided on jeans and a short-sleeve shirt with my favorite zip-front hoodie on over it. I wore my hair in its usual ponytail because I didn’t want it in my eyes and besides, debuting a new hairstyle to go to the shooting range was even more ridiculous than taking a half hour to decide what to wear.

  “How’s your mom doing with the feeding tube?” I asked when we reached the car.

  Brooks opened my door and waited until I sat down to close it, then opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. “She’s doing okay. It’s her breathing that’s gotten bad.”

  “I noticed she was having some trouble when I stopped by her room that night.”

  Brooks looked at me as he started the car.

  Oh, those eyes.

  “It was really nice of you to check on her,” he said.

  “It was no problem.”

  When we arrived at the shooting range, Brooks reached under the front seat and pulled out a gun case, similar in size to mine.

  “You carry a gun?” I asked.

  “Not usually, but I never know where I’ll end up when I’m covering a story. Believe me when I tell you there are places in San Francisco you don’t want to find yourself without a weapon at two a.m.”

  Brooks and I walked through the glass double doors of the building. An attendant sat behind a desk, typing on a computer.

  “Two,” Brooks said, laying down his credit card.

  “Do you need ear and eye protection?” the attendant asked.

  “Yes.”

  The guy rang us up and Brooks waved me away when I tried to give him some money.

  The attendant led us down a long hallway to the last range on the left. “You’ve got an hour. Let me know if you want more time.”

  We unpacked our guns and I pulled a box of bullets from my purse.

  “What did you buy?” Brooks asked.

  I held it up so he could see it. “Beretta Nano.”

  “Wow.” He took it from my hand. “That’s really sleek.”

  “I wanted something small and easy to conceal.”

  “It’s perfect for you.” Brooks pointed at my box of bullets. “Do you need help loading the magazine?”

  “You mean the Pez dispenser?” I smiled, picked up the magazine, and started loading the bullets by pushing down on the floating lever.

  His face transformed. His eyes crinkled at the corners and the hard line of his mouth curved upward as he let o
ut a short laugh, shaking his head as if I amused him. The spontaneous reaction was so different from his usual serious demeanor that all I could do was smile back. As attractive as Brooks was when he wasn’t smiling, it was nothing compared to the way he looked when I finally got a glimpse of his personality.

  “Hey, you smiled,” I said.

  He looked at me strangely. “I smile all the time.”

  “You smile, never.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “No you don’t. You are very serious.”

  “I would like to smile more”—he paused and looked at me pointedly—“at you, but the circumstances surrounding our interactions haven’t exactly called for levity.”

  “Oh,” I said, putting the last bullet in the magazine. “Of course. But it’s a really great smile just the same.”

  If Brooks wanted to, he could bend me to his will with that smile, and by the way he was looking at me, I would say he knew it.

  After handing me my earmuffs and safety glasses he said, “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  If this were a romantic comedy, Brooks would surely be putting his hands on my hips and repositioning me by now. Maybe even asking me to spread my legs a little farther apart, which would spark awkward laughter and make me blush. But this wasn’t a romantic comedy and I had bigger concerns, so I put on the earmuffs and safety glasses, approached the target, and took aim. My first two shots missed by a wide margin, but the next three got progressively closer to where they needed to be.

  “Go ahead,” Brooks said. “Take the last one.”

  When I was done, he asked, “Are you scared of the gun?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little. Why? Does it show?”

  “You seem hesitant. But remember, you’re the one in control. Why don’t you go again?”

  I reloaded and this time, I tried to forget that Brooks was standing there watching me. I planted my feet and took aim, squeezing the trigger until I’d emptied the magazine.

  “That was better,” Brooks said. “You handle the gun well, but you need to make sure you’re shooting frequently. The more secure you are in your ability, the more confidence you’ll have in a self-defense situation.”