Keep Her Safe

by K. A. Tucker

  “Maybe. They must be looking into something to do with Mantis. What, though, I can’t say.”

  I hesitate. “But there’s no investigation into my mom, right?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but you don’t hold a position like chief without eyes always being on you, wondering what you do or don’t know about what’s going on in your department.” He pauses. “Did you let them in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t, not without a warrant. And if they show up with one, I guess we’ll have our answer.” He collects the stack of unopened bills for me.

  A troubling thought crosses my mind. “But if they’re investigating Mantis, then why ask about Abe? Are they reopening Abe’s case?” Is that what got Mom so unsettled in the first place?

  “I don’t see why they would. There isn’t any evidence to speak of.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  Silas picks up a pen, only to toss it across the counter. “The department was changing over their computer system in evidence storage and there was an error. Several cases were accidentally marked for disposal instead of retention. Abe’s was one of them.”

  Holy shit. “So, there’s nothing left?”

  “Nothing useful. The crime scene photos, the 9-1-1 call, the canvassing notes . . . they’re all gone. I mean, we could track down soft copies of reports. And of course there’s the final internal investigation report submitted to the chief. There’s got to be a copy of that stored somewhere . . .”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Twelve years ago?” His brow furrows. “No, thirteen. It was my first year as DA and I had to let five guilty criminals go free. I was furious.”

  My body sinks back against the wall. A year after Abe dies, all evidence from his case is destroyed. How is that possible? I mean, I know how it’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d heard of evidence accidentally being incinerated. It happens more than any police department wants to admit.

  And sometimes guilty people walk free because of it.

  But will an innocent man remain guilty because of it this time around?

  Something still doesn’t make sense. “Then why would the feds be asking about Abe’s death, if they have nothing to go off?” I ponder out loud.

  Unless they found new evidence.

  Silas looks as perplexed as I feel. “Did Jackie say anything to you about the FBI that night?”

  “No, not that I understood, anyway.” And I’ve spent the last week jotting down every incoherent ramble of hers that I could remember. I’ve spent hours studying each line, hoping this elusive “he” that she kept referring to will reveal himself.

  Could “he” be this Dwayne Mantis? Is Mantis the wily fox in the thicket?

  Silas watches me. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . Mom used to say that having the FBI breathing down her neck would be the worst pressure.”

  “Noah, your mother killed herself because she was sick. Not because the FBI was asking questions.”

  But what if those questions had to do with Abe? Something that would implicate her in his death?

  “What I let happen . . . I may as well have pulled the trigger.”

  What did my mother do?

  Silence falls over us.

  Silas’s voice softens when he offers, “Sorry I couldn’t make it to Fulcher’s. Court took longer than expected. How’d it go?”

  “Alright. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow to settle her bills.”

  “There’s enough money?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Good. If not, let me know and I’ll cover it until the estate pays out. Everything is as we expected? No surprise liens or anything?”

  Here’s my second chance to come clean about the suicide note.

  I grit my teeth and shake my head.

  He nods to himself. “Still couch-surfing at Jenson’s place?”

  Mention of the couch reminds me of the kink in my neck, and I reach up to rub against it. “Yeah. Not sure how much longer I’m gonna do that.”

  “You know, Judy’s itching to empty out Becca’s room for you.”

  “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” Between my cousins and their kids flying in, and Silas hosting the luncheon after the funeral, his house was bursting with people in the days after Mom’s death. It was too much for me to handle.

  “Talked to your dad lately?”

  “A couple nights ago.”

  “And?”

  “And he wants me to move back to Seattle to live with them. They finished that apartment in their walkout, and he said he’d rent it to me for a few months.”

  “He’d rent it to you?” Silas rolls his eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Blair always did have short arms and deep pockets.”

  It’s no secret he thinks my dad is a cheap son of a bitch, and I can’t argue with him on that one. My mom paid for all my flights home to Austin to visit her. And it’s thanks to her that I’m not saddled with a crippling student loan. The guy has never owned a new car, not because he can’t afford one but because he doesn’t want to pay the premium that comes with driving it off the lot. He hasn’t taken an out-of-state vacation since moving to Seattle, convincing his urban wife that she should love camping because the price is right.

  Then again, I have to remember that he also has my stepsisters—twelve- and ten-year-old girls—to raise on a single income.

  “He said he’d give me a bargain price.”

  Silas seems to ponder that. “I wouldn’t be able to hold your job for you. We’re stretched beyond capacity as it is.”

  “I’d never ask you to do that.” Being an investigative analyst at the District Attorney’s office when your uncle is the district attorney has its advantages. I haven’t stepped foot inside the office since Mom died and haven’t received so much as a text from my manager about when I need to come back.

  I can almost see the wheels churning inside Silas’s head. “I have connections at the Seattle DA’s office.”

  “Is there a state where you don’t have connections?”

  He chuckles. “I could make a few calls . . . see what’s open up there. These jobs are tough to come by, though. I don’t even know if Washington employs IAs. A lot of states don’t. You sure you’d want to start over somewhere else though?”

  “I don’t know.” Do I even want to work in another DA’s office? I took this job because Silas offered it to me, and Silas can sell a wild Vegas weekend to a devout nun. I’d just finished five years of college—a bachelor’s degree followed by my MBA—and had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. That was two years ago, and not much has changed.

  My job isn’t exactly thrilling. It’s digging through phone records and social media accounts, and hunting down and organizing case data for court. It’s tedious, mind-numbing work with brief moments of heart-pounding excitement when you discover a detail that’s relevant to a case. I do whatever the ADAs ask me to. I’m basically their slave.

  “You’re making a real name for yourself here, son. Maxwell and Rolans are losing their minds without you. And Cory mentioned a raise and a promotion. I’d hate to see you throw that all away before you give yourself time to come to terms with everything.”

  Maxwell and Rolans are two of the ADAs I support. A bunch of jokers, but they’re good at their jobs. And I can’t complain about Cory, though I think she wants to promote me to another group so she doesn’t have the top boss’s nephew reporting in to her.

  Silas rests his elbows against the counter. “You could apply to law school. I told you, I can make a few calls and put in a good word.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But you’d make one helluva lawyer if that’s the way you wanted to go. I’d hate to see it wasted.” Silas has been pushing me toward law school for years.

  I sigh. Too many decisions to make. “How long before I need to be back?”
/>   “Take as long as you need. The work will get done. Your mental health is more important. I mean . . .” He gestures to the wooden chair—painted a buttery yellow—that they hauled my mother from. “Case in point.”

  That’s the unofficial media byline: Jackie Marshall Couldn’t Handle the Pressures of Being Austin’s Top Cop So She Killed Herself. There’s no proof to back it up, but if enough people whisper the same speculations, eventually it becomes fact.

  Silas shifts to lean his back against the counter, his focus on the kitchen table. “You’d never know by looking at it, would you?”

  “No.” Not since guys from the APD showed up off shift to clean up the bits of my mother’s brain matter so I wouldn’t have to. But there’s no way they can scrub the horrific memories from my mind. Every time my gaze wanders over there, all I see is a pool of blood.

  That prickly lump that’s been lodged in my throat flares with the thought.

  Silas reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, a deep frown furrowing his brow. It’s the one I confiscated from her that night. I found it in my room when I came back for clothes the other day. I’m torn between dumping it down the sink and cracking it open. “You should have told me about her drinking sooner. If I’d known, I could have—” He cuts himself off abruptly, his jaw clenching tight. “That came out wrong. This isn’t on you, Noah.”

  And yet I feel like it’s all on me. All I want to do is forget everything about that night. Everything she said about Abraham Wilkes. Let it stay buried, six feet under the ground, while she rests in peace, her name untainted.

  It’s not that easy, though.

  Especially now that I may be one letter away from learning everything she didn’t say.

  “Come for supper. We’re having guests tonight. Your aunt’s making her pot roast.”

  “Sure. Maybe.”

  He levels me with a look. “You’ve been saying that all week.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Making conversation with Silas and Judy sounds exhausting, let alone one of Silas’s friends.

  Silas grabs his keys from the counter and hooks an arm around my shoulders. “I won’t take no for an answer this time. Judy will have it on the table by seven. We can eat a nice meal together.”

  The thing with Silas is he won’t leave until he gets what he wants. Plus, I’ve barely eaten a full meal in a week. My jeans are starting to feel loose.

  And my aunt is a fantastic cook.

  “She’s going to be so happy to see you.” He gives my back an affectionate pat. “This is just what you need.”

  I force a smile.

  CHAPTER 6

  Noah

  I’m catching up on sports highlights in the family room when Judy’s delicate hand settles on my shoulder. “Would you mind helping me with the table, Noah? I’m so terribly behind.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I pull myself off the couch. Not that I would ever deny help to anyone, but it’s impossible to refuse Judy’s lilting Southern accent and motherly smile. She may be the sweetest woman alive.

  Silas and Judy have lived in this big, old white colonial outside of Austin for as long as I can remember. We’d drive out on weekends when I was young and spend our days hanging out on one of the three covered porches, or running through the sprinklers in the expansive yard. Coming here is like entering a time warp—instead of renovating to modernize, they’ve poured money into the place to hold on to its historical charm, plastering the rooms with busy wallpaper and moldings, refinishing the old plank wood floors until they shine, and hanging antique chandeliers.

  As much as I dread the idea of making small talk with strangers, it feels good to be here. Familiar. Plus, dinner with people who don’t know me may be exactly what I need. “Thanks for letting me crash your party,” I tell Judy.

  “You know you’re always welcome here, my darling.” She reaches up to give my cheek an affectionate pat. “Silas has an early morning meeting, so our meal will be served shortly after they arrive. I hope you brought your appetite.”

  I rub my stomach. “I’m starved.” I’m not, but telling Judy that would only make her worry. “Are we eating in the dining room?”

  “Yes, of course. The dishes are stacked on the buffet. We need five settings. Salad forks on the outside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Everything about my aunt is proper, right down to the table settings when company comes. I’m grossly underdressed in my T-shirt and jeans and she’s the type to gently reprimand me about that, but tonight she hasn’t said a word. I guess I’ve earned a pass.

  The doorbell rings as I’m Googling “wineglasses and placement” because I know Judy will come in and quietly fix it all if I don’t do it right. Moments later, Silas’s loud voice carries down the hall. “Retirement’s treating you well, I see.”

  A man chuckles. “Can’t complain.”

  “And yet he does complain about being bored, daily,” a woman says, earning a round of laughter.

  “How was Italy?”

  “Just lovely! We’ll be going back, soon.”

  “You’ll be going back. This old fart’s had enough of trains and planes. Let me rock in my chair in peace.”

  His voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.

  “You’ll have to tell us about it over supper. Judy’s already pricing out tickets to Tuscany for the fall.”

  “She must know that she can’t get you away from your office for more than twenty-four hours?”

  “Well, she’s darn determined this time.” The hardwood floors in the hallway creak.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” the woman says. “I was in the midst of figuring out what to make for tonight when George mentioned it this morning. Saves me from having to cook!”

  I frown. Silas invited this couple over for dinner just this morning? That’s unlike my aunt and uncle. They’re normally reserving space in their calendars two months in advance.

  “Come. Let’s have a drink in the parlor.”

  I chuckle. My cousin, Emma, would be rolling her eyes if she heard him. Judy is desperate to live in nineteenth-century England, and has decorated their living room with stiff furniture and china figurines and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that house leather-bound volumes. It’s one of those rooms that’s used only when company comes and is not at all comfortable.

  I finish setting the table and then wander in, to find Silas mid-pour from a crystal decanter. His idea of a pre-supper cocktail is Kentucky bourbon. “There you are! Noah, do you remember George?”

  “Hi.” I offer my hand in greeting, but can’t help the frown as I study the portly man with the gray beard because he does look familiar. I just can’t place where I’ve seen him.

  “Well, look at you!” He seizes my hand in a firm grasp. “To think I last saw you when you were a gangly boy.”

  “And if we don’t get food into him soon, he’s going to turn into one again,” Silas mutters, passing a drink to the man.

  The way they’re talking, I feel like an ass for not knowing who this guy is. “It’s been a while,” I say casually.

  George’s round belly jiggles with his laughter. “You don’t have the first damn clue who I am, do you, son?”

  “George, really!” his wife, a petite brunette with a round face, a glass of sweet tea already in hand, scolds.

  “No offense taken. You probably only saw me in uniform and it has been a while. I’m George Canning. I was chief for some time.”

  “For twenty years,” Silas pipes in, clinking glasses with him in a toast. “And he was so dang good at it, he’s getting his own life-sized monument downtown this June.”

  “Yes, hopefully a trimmer version.” He emphasizes the word with a pat against his gut.

  Silas adds, “Your mother knew George well.”

  George clears his throat and with the act, all amusement vanishes. “Dolores and I were on our way to Italy for a wedding when we heard the news. It was a shock to all of us.”

  I simply nod, not trusting
my voice with this prickly ball sitting inside my throat. So much for mindless conversation with people who don’t know anything about me.

  * * *

  “Noah!” Silas nods his head toward his office entrance.

  “I should get going home.” Two hours of listening to the women babble about Italian food and grandchildren, and the men debate about Republicans and Democrats, is my limit. Thankfully, the one thing everyone stayed far away from during supper was talk of Jackie Marshall.

  “Nonsense.” He hooks an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into the traditional man cave of dark leather, mahogany furniture, and heavy drapery. George has already found his spot in a chair in front of the wide-open French doors, a lighter held against the cigar in his mouth.

  Silas sees my brows pop and laughs. “Your aunt may reign over the roost, but I get the final say in my little coop.” He thrusts a glass of amber liquid into my hand. “Join us.”

  I hate hard liquor—more now than before—but when Silas offers, you don’t refuse. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “That Jackie raised you right, I can see that.” George lifts his foot to push a chair out for me with his polished shoe. “The kids these days . . . My grandkids misplace their manners more than those godforsaken electronics they’re attached to.”

  “She’s a stickler for some things. Was a stickler.” A fresh wave of numbness washes over me before I have to feel the full impact of that simple correction.

  George’s heavy sigh fills the room. “I still don’t know what to say. I never would have seen that comin’ in a million years.”

  “No one did.” My standard three-word line. Pretty sure I’ve started saying it in my sleep.

  “Silas mentioned that she had a bit of an issue with . . .” He tilts his glass in the air.

  “Near the end,” I admit reluctantly.

  “Bad?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “I reckon so.” He shakes his head. “She’d be far from the only one to get caught up in the drink. She and the boys could tie one on, back in the good ol’ days. Still . . . I can’t make heads or tails of it.” Sweet smoke fills my nostrils as he puffs on his cigar. “She was smart as a whip, that one, and driven to succeed. Loyal . . . honest . . . Integrity like I’ve never seen.”