by Beth Yarnall
“Desperate people do desperate things.”
“From everything I could gather about him before the day of the shooting, Greg wasn’t desperate. He was planning a new life.” And that life had been stolen from him.
“Maybe Greg didn’t plan to kill his wife,” Ham said conversationally. “Maybe it was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”
“The gun was unregistered. Who just happens to bring an unregistered weapon to sign divorce papers and hand over the keys to their house?” Graham shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”
“How local was the man she was having an affair with?”
“Very.”
“You know who it was?”
“Keith Collins.”
Ham wiped his upper lip with a handkerchief. “What’d he have to say when you talked to him?”
“That’s number one on my to-do list tomorrow. Should I go check on Mom?”
“She’s fine,” Ham said. “The mayor’s also concerned that the additional patrols aren’t having the desired results.”
“The mayor can go to h—”
Ham pointed a shaky finger at his son. “Not in my house.”
“We’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got.”
“Are you?”
Graham’s mother, Catherine, came into the dining room, balancing a large platter in her thin arms. Her frailty frightened Graham in a way Ham’s heart problem didn’t. She was wasting away, both mentally and physically. Graham leapt up to take the platter from her and set it on the table.
“Wait,” Catherine said. “I need to put something down first. A what’s-it-called.” She put a hand to her forehead. “What is it called?” She spun on her heals and headed back to the kitchen.
Left holding the platter, Graham looked to his father. Ham shrugged.
Ham cleared his throat, a sure sign he was settling in for a lecture. “Dorans have been sheriffs in San Rey for—”
“I know, Pop.”
“Here it is.” Catherine came in waving a carved wooden disc. She put it on the table. “Okay, now you can set it down. Peas! I made peas.” She dashed out of the room again.
“I don’t think you do,” Ham said. “And neither does the mayor.”
Graham could feel the anger crawling up his throat. He started to lower the platter, then pulled it back up again. “Where did you get that wood thing?” he asked Ham.
“The trivet? I made it in that wood working club the doctor made me join to lower my stress. It was either that or yoga.” Ham jabbed his finger at Graham. “Don’t change the subject.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Some exotic wood called Purple Heart. What’s all the interest?”
Graham set the platter down. “I found some purple sawdust in the kitchen at the Lasiter house. It was the same color as this Purple Heart wood. Who else is in this woodworking club?”
“Let me see.” Ham settled back in his chair and dabbed at his forehead. “Ray Fine of Fine’s Hardware teaches the class. Then there’s Chris and Nick Farnsworth, Bill Nater, Mayer Behre, Donald December, Keith Collins, and Greg Lasiter.”
“So nearly half the town, including one of my victims. Damn. I was hoping it would’ve been the piece of evidence that blew open the case.”
“I told you to watch your mouth in my house.”
“Sorry, Pop.”
Catherine came in with a cake and stopped abruptly, staring down at the pot roast with a frown. Her gaze bounced back and forth between the cake and pot roast. “I made a carrot cake,” she finally said, her brows drawn together.
Graham stood and took the plate from her. “Come and sit down, Mom.” He helped her into her chair and poured her a glass of wine. “Let me know what you think of the wine I brought. I’ll go and grab the peas for you.”
She blinked up at him. “Peas? I always make carrots and potatoes with a roast. You know that.”
“Oh, good. I don’t like peas.” Graham patted his mother’s thin shoulder and escaped into the kitchen.
He found the oven still on so he switched it off. No carrots and potatoes inside. He lifted the lid off the steaming pot on the stove and found nothing but boiling water. After a quick riffle through the freezer he found some lima beans, so he dumped them in the water to cook. The evidence of his mother’s illness was everywhere in the kitchen. A misplaced item here, a task half done there. Little things that added up, forcing Graham to confront the fact that his mother was slipping away from him one oven mitt in the refrigerator at a time.
He stirred the lima beans, remembering the time when his mom had taught him to make grilled cheese sandwiches on this very stove. She’d been patient and had ignored his teenage protest that he didn’t need to learn how to cook when there was fast food.
“Fast food is expensive,” she’d said. “And I want to know my boys are going to eat more than cheap ramen and microwaved dinners.”
Graham had made countless grilled cheese sandwiches since then and every time he’d mentally thanked his mother’s determination. To see her now so unsure of herself, so scattered, shook him. He stared down into the pan, watching the water bubble around the beans, knowing he’d been away from home too long. He wanted to leave again, at the same time he knew he couldn’t. The thought of his father, shrunken and gray looking as he was tonight, standing on the porch with his mother, her brow pinched in confusion, waving goodbye as Graham drove away… hell.
Damn it to all hell.
Switching off the burner, he knew he couldn’t leave. Not like this. Not with both his parents the way they were. He bent over, leaning on the counter for support. Just the thought of staying in this town twisted his gut into knots. He saw himself eating lunch at the Do or Dine every Friday, cracking jokes with the old timers who hung out at Fine’s Hardware, and tipping his hat to the Ladies Auxiliary as he passed the VFW hall the same as his father had done and his father before him and so on. Having to hear, practically every day, how he didn’t live up to the Doran legacy. Everything he’d gone off to Los Angeles to avoid. And then he’d screwed things up there.
Maybe he could get them a live-in nurse. As soon as he had the thought, he knew his pop would never go for it. Ham would see through it for the cop out it was and would never accept the help. He’d insist they could take care of themselves. Damn, Adam, for leaving him to handle all this by himself.
“Graham?” His mother padded into the kitchen. “Come and eat. Dinner’s getting cold.”
“Sure, Mom. Just grabbing the lima beans.”
“Lima beans?” She glanced around the kitchen as though she was looking for something.
“Thanks for making them for me instead of potatoes and carrots. You know how much I love lima beans.”
She tilted her head and her expression cleared as she took the foothold he offered her. “Anything for you, honey.”
He followed his mother out of the kitchen, noticing how stooped she’d become, how thin her hair was, and how she’d forgotten to do the buttons of her blouse at the nape. Ham straightened in his seat and swiped the handkerchief across his forehead as they re-entered the dining room, pretending he hadn’t been hunched over in pain.
Graham helped his mother into her chair and took his seat. She reached her hand out to Graham across the table. It had been so long since Graham had said grace before eating that it took him a moment to react. Her hand was too small and fragile in his, like a bird wing made of glass. He averted his gaze, trying to avoid how thin her skin was, how the veins stood too proud, blue streaks running through age spots, and how her wedding ring no longer fit, the setting sliding off center.
On his other side he took Ham’s hand. Growing up, he’d measured his own hands against his father’s so often he couldn’t deny the changes that were there, too, how old and shaky Ham had become. He bowed his head, not in prayer, but in acknowledgment that the two people he’d relied on all his life now depended on him. Whether they realized it or not. Whether he wanted the respons
ibility or not.
He listened to Ham recite the prayer he’d said every night of Graham’s childhood. With his eyes closed, Graham could hear the strain in his father’s voice, the boom of it dampened by illness and age. Graham prayed for the first time in years, asking for more time with his parents and the strength to stay and endure it.
“Amen,” Ham finished and pulled his hand from Graham’s at the same moment his mother did.
Graham hesitated before dragging his hands into his lap. The cold emptiness left behind at their withdrawal echoed in every corner of his mind and body.
“Amen,” Graham repeated, sending his prayer off with a measure of guilt.
“You should’ve invited Susie for dinner,” Catherine said to Graham.
Ham paused in the act of slicing the roast to give Graham a meaningful stare. She was talking about Susie Philpot, his high school girlfriend, Graham suddenly realized.
Graham grabbed the spoon for the lima beans and shoveled some onto his plate, avoiding his mother’s gaze. “She has a report due tomorrow.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could coordinate your outfits for prom… or is it winter formal?”
“The one that’s held in the fall,” Ham interrupted. “Please pass the lima beans, Cate.”
“Lima beans?”
“I got it, Mom.” Graham handed the pan to Ham, and Catherine, like a train jumping tracks, launched into a story about picking pumpkins in the fall with her sisters when she was a child.
Jiggling his leg like a piston, Graham kept his head down and his mouth full. It was all too much. He’d avoided his parent’s reality, but it had chased him down, pinning him beneath its weight. He could almost hear the crashing surf of the bluffs, luring him like a lover, the need to escape rising with every forkful of food. He wished his phone would ring.
Then he remembered that Erin should’ve called him.
Something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. He dropped his fork with a clatter, startling a gasp of reproach out of his mother, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Nothing.
“Duty calls?” Ham asked, a note of reprimand in his voice.
“What? Yeah.” Graham jammed his phone in his pocket and took the excuse his father handed him. “Gotta run.” He leapt up and came around the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. It was delicious.”
“Where are you going?” she asked. “I made a cake.”
Graham inched toward the door. “Save me a piece?”
Ham patted his wife’s hand. “Let the boy go. He’s anxious to see his girl.” Ham gave his wife’s hand a squeeze that Graham felt deep in his chest. “I remember being just as eager to see my girl.”
“Oh, Ham.”
“Why don’t we take our cake upstairs?” He heard his dad whisper suggestively to his mom.
Graham was out the door before his mother answered. His parents’ relationship both embarrassed him and made him proud. Sometimes late at night he’d wonder if he’d ever have what they have. If he’d ever settle down and have kids. If he’d ever want his son to be a cop just like him.
With a chirp of tires, he pulled away from his parents’ house. As he wound his way through the darkened streets of San Rey, his thoughts went to Erin and why she hadn’t called. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. It went straight to voicemail. He tossed his phone into the cup holder and pressed harder on the gas pedal, careening around the corner where Fine’s Hardware stood. He passed the Clippity-Do-Da and turned onto the street that would take him to Erin’s house.
Her house was dark, but her car was parked in the drive. That didn’t mean anything. She could have walked into town or, he thought—with more animosity than he should have—she could’ve decided to overlook the affair between Keith and Deidre and gone out on a date with her boyfriend. He slammed his car door harder than necessary and stomped up her front steps. He knocked, then knocked again. The silence that greeted him ratcheted up the sensations he’d had when he realized she should’ve called. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
Why hadn’t she called?
She should’ve left the porch light on. The sense that something was off fisted inside his chest, constricting his breath. He examined the door and the frame, fighting off the urge to boot the door open and charge inside. No sign of forced entry. The windows were closed, but the curtains were parted slightly. He wrestled with the bushes beneath the window to get a look inside. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered through the window. A light was on somewhere deeper inside the house. Something was off. His instincts screamed at him.
He crept around to the back of the house, passing through a half gate into the backyard. The rich scent of foliage and damp earth filled the air. The back of the house was even darker than the front. He’d have to talk to her about getting motion detecting security lights.
A noise in the bushes froze him in place. He listened hard over the beating of his heart as he slid his weapon from the holster and held it against his thigh. A cat leapt onto the path in front of him. He’d raised his arm to aim before recognition hit and he lowered the gun back to his side again. Damn cat.
The wooden back porch steps creaked beneath his feet as he crept toward the back door. The house was just as still and quiet on this side. She’s in trouble. The thought hit him hard, knocking him down a step. He charged toward the door and banged on it.
“Erin!”
Nothing.
He tried the knob, but it was locked. He raced around the house to the front door. He pounded on it with the flat of his hand.
“Erin!”
This time the knob twisted in his hand. He went in low, gun raised. Silence. He mentally sketched the layout of the house as he remembered it. The living room was first, the kitchen at the back, a hall opened on the right. He slid his feet across the hardwood, not wanting to trip over something. He thought about calling out again, but if Erin was able to hear she would have answered his earlier calls.
He came to the turn into the living room, paused, then went low around the corner. A lamp lay on its side on the floor behind the couch. The light he’d seen through the window. Yeah, definitely something wrong here. He scanned what he could see of the room in the dimness. His gaze snagged on something sticking out from behind the couch.
A hand.
He raced forward.
Erin lay sprawled on her back, her face turned toward him. A thin stream of blood oozed from her nose into the carpet.
10
Graham sank to his knees beside Erin, his heart galloping in his chest. He placed two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was slow, but measurable. His breath whooshed out and he gripped his knees to keep from collapsing next to her.
She was alive.
His training kicked in and he was back on his feet, gun up. Whoever had done this to her could still be in the house. He reached for his phone to call for back up, remembering too late that he’d left it in the car. He strained to listen. Nothing. Inching his way across the floor, he checked the rest of the house. Empty. Whoever had attacked her was gone.
He dropped back down beside her. “Erin.” He patted her cheek. “Come on, Erin. Wake up.”
She moaned, turning her face away.
“That a girl. Come on.” He took her hand and rubbed it between his. “Wake up and give me shit like you always do.”
“I only give you the shit you deserve,” she murmured.
He grinned like the fool he was when she was near. “That’s true.”
“Where…?” Blinking, she looked up at him and in that moment all he wanted to do was hug her and tell her it would be okay. “What happened?” she asked.
“You tell me. Who did this to you? Please tell me it was that goofy grocer so I have a reason to punch him in the face.”
“He left… I think.” She struggled to sit up.
He held her shoulders down. “Stay put. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No
. Don’t. No one did this to me…exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just let me up and I’ll tell you.”
“What if you hit your head? You should see a doctor.”
She reached a hand up to feel her scalp. “I didn’t. I’m fine. Let me up.”
He watched her closely as he helped her into a sitting position.
“Let me see.” He gently ran his hands through her hair, feeling for any lumps. He ignored how amazing her hair felt in his hands and just how damn good it was to be near her. After a few moments, he reluctantly removed his hands and sat back on his haunches. “No bumps.”
“Told you.”
“Now tell me what happened.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—a habit drilled into him by his father—and dabbed at the blood on her face.
“I’m bleeding?”
“Yeah,” he answered grimly, holding her chin in his hand to keep her still. He could feel her watching him as he gently wiped away the blood. Each red smear was like a knife through his gut. “Here.” He handed her the handkerchief to finish up, trying to hide how badly his hands were suddenly shaking as he crossed his arms. She scared the shit out of him in more ways than one. He cleared his throat and watched her wipe at her nose. “Better?”
“I never get bloody noses.”
He regarded her with a frown, trying to get a handle on a few minor things like what the hell had happened here? What was her emotional and physical state? And this new, perplexing awareness he associated only with her.
“What caused it?” he asked.
“I had another vision, but before I could get control of it I got broadsided.”
“Broadsided.”
“That’s the only way I can describe it except that it was kind of like getting hit over the head with a metal folding chair.”
“That’s happened to you before?” he asked, his head jerking back in surprise.
“No. Of course not.”
“What was the vision about?”
“Keith having sex with Deidre.”