by Elle Keaton
“That was the weirdest thing that’s happened to me since the time I lost my wallet in Seattle and someone mailed it back to me with all my money and credit cards.”
“No shit?”
“Right? Anyway, I hadn’t seen Jessica since the funeral. I pushed a lot of people away,” he admitted. “But I don’t remember ever seeing her again until last week. Which was weird, because she’d practically lived with us. She and Shona were inseparable. Drove me up the wall. Then she turned around and left the café without taking her backpack. I was going to leave it in lost and found there, but I brought it home instead. I’ll take it out to her parents’ house one of these days.”
“Baby,” Adam said.
“Yeah?” Micah smiled. He had amazing eyes.
“I don’t want you to freak out, but where is the backpack?” Adam knew he was going to be right. He hated being right.
“In my bedroom closet? I think?”
“Do you have any pictures of Jessica?”
Micah got up from the couch where he’d been huddled and went to his bedroom. Adam heard a drawer open and close. He came back with one of those montage picture frames with six or eight spots for photos. It was full of a smiling family. A younger, less worn, Micah. A little sister who looked just like him, posed with her blonde friend who was holding pink cotton candy and grinning maniacally, an enormous old-fashioned wooden roller coaster behind them.
“I put it away,” Micah said. “That,” he gestured to the frame, “feels like a life I never lived. A bad joke. I hate even dreaming about them, because when I wake up they aren’t here. For a long time, I wished I had been in the car, too.”
“I’m glad you weren’t,” Adam said from his heart. “Can I keep this picture of Jessica for a little while? I’ll make a copy.”
They ended up dozing together on the couch for about an hour. Adam woke first and made a quick call to Ed. Before he could even tell him what had happened or that he needed to delay today’s work, Ed announced that someone had broken into the Booking Room. He was going to have to put off helping Adam until after Thanksgiving so he could help Sara clean up. Adam could hear Sara in the background saying she didn’t need any help, everything was fine and all the damages were covered by insurance, and she was paying Ira to come in and help put things to rights. Ed was determined to stay, though. Adam knew it was Ed who needed reassurance, not Sara.
Mohammad answered on the third ring. He always answered on the third ring. “You realize it is barely eight a.m. on a Saturday?”
Adam chuckled. “Yeah, but you’re at your desk and have been for at least two hours.”
“Why are you calling me again? You’re on leave.”
“Micah’s house was broken into last night.” The words spilled out before he remembered his vow never to tell Mohammad anything personal again. “Fuck my life.” Adam glanced toward the couch where Micah was sleeping fitfully under the hand-stitched quilt. He started to say he was just a hookup, but Micah was more than that. Adam just didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
“I met Micah at the coffee place, the Booking Room.” That sounded better than a bar. “And I guess we hit it off.”
“Adam.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“It’s yes; we’ve discussed this before.”
Deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. “Yes?”
“Eight or so years you’ve worked for me; ten I’ve known you. As far as I know, you’ve never dated. Not once.”
“Please don’t tell Ida. She won’t leave me alone.”
“I tell my wife everything.”
“That is total bull. And how did we get so far away from the reason I called?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that you are again calling to see if I will authorize you to interfere with a local investigation. The answer is still ‘no.’”
“Yeah, okay. I have a different request. Can you help me find out what authorities know about the deaths of Brett, Lucinda, and Shona Ryan? Happened about ten years ago. Please?” He relayed the rest of the details about the break-in to Mohammad. He could hear paper rustling and Mohammad pulling out a pen to write the names down.
“I’ll get back to you. Ida will be calling.” Mohammad hung up without saying goodbye, as usual.
Adam was a very good investigator. When his gut pinged, he listened. That’s why he’d called his boss.
Nineteen
NINETEEN
Micah’s initial panic over the break-in dulled somewhat in the face of the care and support Adam showered him with. While the police took pictures and asked questions, Adam growled and prowled around the uniformed officers who were attempting to figure out what happened. He pointed out each detail: every scrap of paper, book, or photo; the broken crockery and damaged cabinets. Micah wanted to take care of the mess and was barely holding on to his temper. He hated seeing the grim expression return to Adam’s handsome face.
The SkPD finally departed after what seemed like hours. As much as Micah appreciated Adam’s help, he needed some time to himself to sort through the debris and think about whatever was happening between himself and the elusive Adam Klay. Adam wanted to hover and take care of him. Micah got it, he did. The entire town believed he could barely function on his own; why would he be able to when his home had been broken into and ransacked?
“Look,” Micah huffed. He was having a hard time explaining it, even to himself. “I know I freaked out at first. And, yeah,” he waved a hand toward the wreckage in his kitchen, “it looks bad, but I feel strong, like I can handle this—and I need you to let me. Okay? I’m tired of people treating me like glass, and I don’t need you to start. Brandon is bad enough.”
Adam didn’t look convinced. He looked like he wanted to rip through the criminal element of Skagit taking no prisoners, no excuses, no survivors.
“I need to do this. I can do this.”
Adam ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of frustration and capitulation if Micah had ever seen one. “Fine. Okay. I can get some things done, too, I guess. I don’t like it, though.” Adam tapped Micah’s chest with two fingers. “Call me if the uniforms give you any trouble.”
He felt alive. Capable. Able. Did the break-in make him nervous? Yes. Was he upset about the irreplaceable things that had been broken? Yes. Was he going to have a nervous breakdown over them? No.
He finally shooed Adam out of the house by promising to call Brandon. Then he had to call Brandon because he didn’t want to be caught in a lie, and besides, the way the gossip in Skagit worked, Brandon either already knew or would find out within minutes.
“I was just going to call you,” Brandon grumbled.
Micah sighed. “What have you heard? So I know what misinformation I need to correct you on.”
“You want to know everything I’ve heard? Or just the part about you being held at gunpoint by intruders until, when the end was near, your ‘houseguest’ surprised them, disarming them with some kind of Krav Maga or judo. Personally, I think one of the neighbors has been watching too many late-night reruns.”
“Oh, man.” It was even worse than he’d thought. Someone had seen him with Adam, and Brandon had found out about it. Divert! Divert! his inner self screamed. No way was he ready to talk to Brandon about Adam. Brandon was already overprotective enough; he took the role of life manager for Micah way too seriously. Micah had never minded before. If Brandon hadn’t stepped up after his parents’ deaths, Micah would probably be living in a room with rubber walls.
“There were no gunmen, sheesh,” he said. “The police think it was some kids trying to find stuff to sell. They messed around in the kitchen. Broke some stuff; some pictures got stepped on. Most of it can be fixed or replaced. I don’t even think they took anything, because I, uh, woke up and heard them.”
“Huh.”
“I’m a little freaked out but mostly okay.”
“Mo
stly okay,” Brandon repeated. Micah could hear voices in the background; it sounded like he was outside.
“Where are you? Micah asked, hoping against hope for something to distract Brandon from his next set of questions.
“At the car dealership. Stephanie’s car needed some work. Hey, man, they want to talk to me now; I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later. About your houseguest.”
Damn. Still, a temporary reprieve was better than nothing.
Micah spent the rest of the day cleaning and waiting for the locksmith to come and fix the door. The snapshots that had been stashed in the kitchen cubby he took into his bedroom; he should have done it years ago. While he was there, he noticed Jessica’s blue backpack sitting in the back of his closet.
Twenty
TWENTY
Adam stopped by the Booking Room on his way out to Gerald’s.
Just because Ed wasn’t going didn’t mean Adam couldn’t finally drum up the courage to go inside the house. Sara was at the shop, of course, a huge piece of plywood covering one of the front windows evidence of the break-in.
Ira was sweeping up the last of the glass and debris that had blown inside. The guy was remarkably lean, no body fat at all. He must have jumped straight out of bed to come and help; he was wearing worn jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, and he’d missed his morning shave, because his scruff was impressive. The guy had a disturbingly inscrutable air about him, but it was clear he was loyal to Sara and her father.
“The glass guys will be here in about an hour, and it’ll be good as new,” Sara said, matter-of-fact. Ed was still all worked up, determined to stay and keep an eye on her as if armed thugs were around the corner ready to come storming in the minute he let down his guard. Adam understood. Leaving Micah had been hard, nearly impossible, but his father’s property wasn’t going to clean itself up and put itself on the market. He drove toward Gerald’s with a huge coffee and the desire to get something done.
An SkPD squad car was speeding in the other direction, lights flashing but no sound. Crime spree in Skagit, apparently.
All the guys had bailed today. Adam didn’t blame them. He slogged down to the overgrown shed. The three cars were still there. With everything that had been going on, he had put the things on the back burner, but he supposed he should call somebody about them. It’s not like he was a car buff; someone else deserved them.
The first guy, at Ace’s Classics, hung up on him when he explained what he had, calling him a liar. The next time he used his phone to do a little research before dialing. Saturday or not, Buck Swanfeldt from Swanfeldt’s Auto and Body was more than happy to come and see what Adam had found—ecstatic, even. He’d be there in an hour.
Staring at the three-story log house his father had built mostly using trees from the property, Adam let out a deep sigh. These days, he supposed, what they had done would be considered insanity. In the 1960s, though, Gerald Klay had wanted to build his own log home, so he sent away for plans, bribed his friends into helping, and ten years later the county inspectors did their final walk-through. Gerald had been so proud of it. Adam remembered many evenings spent listening to tales about Gerald and his cronies trying to finish the house before Adam’s mother gave birth. It couldn’t be that bad now.
It was that bad.
Adam couldn’t understand how the EMTs had even gotten into the house to bring the body out. Then he saw where they’d pulled the slider off its track and cleared a path from the deck to the driveway. The stench of trash and mold was overwhelming. The electricity had indeed been turned off. Whatever had been in the fridge was long rotted.
The kitchen counters were overflowing with dirty dishes, containers, boxes, and paraphernalia of all sorts. Even the floors were covered. Magazines and newspapers were stacked along the walls, festooned with cobwebs and mouse droppings. He should have brought a mask. He pushed forward anyway, until one of the stacks of papers toppled over, causing a ripple that raised an incredible amount of dust. It was a wonder his dad had died of a heart attack and not been crushed to death.
He couldn’t do this alone.
He waited outside in the yard for Buck Swanfeldt to arrive. Thank fuck, he was much younger than Adam had expected; close to his own age. Carried Skagit’s traditional northern European genetic stamp of approval. If he hadn’t been wearing stained blue coveralls and a grubby Mariners baseball cap, he could have just stepped off the plane from Norway, or anywhere in Scandinavia. Only the poorly set broken nose sometime in Buck’s past marred his perfect Nordic beauty.
Buck about had a heart attack, too. Don and Tim hadn’t been wrong when they said the cars were worth some cash. Adam thought the Thor-like man might hyperventilate. Buck left with a promise to call Adam ASAP with some numbers and a time when he could bring a flatbed out and take the cars away. Buck wanted him to call an auction house, too. Adam saw the nightmare unfolding in front of him. He did not want to deal with these cars. On the other hand, it was better than the inside of the house. He might as well start doing some research.
Adam’s phone sat abandoned on the dash of his car, its screen blinking frantically. He had about forty text messages and at least ten voice mails. Crap. After he’d made Micah promise to call him, too. Bad start to boyfriendhood.
He stopped in his tracks, almost giving himself whiplash. What the fuck was he thinking, and why was his brain trying to ambush him? He wasn’t in the market for any relationship that had ties to Skagit. Or, fuck, any boyfriend, right? Get a grip, Klay.
“Did you know the Ryans had a surviving son named Micah?” Mohammad asked.
“Yes. You are not catching me out here; I was aware you’d figure out who they were.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Ryan was a district attorney for the county? The collision was ruled accidental, but many people benefited from his death.”
“Yeah?”
“‘Yes.’”
“Urgh. Yes?”
“He was in the middle of developing evidence regarding a high-profile drug- and child-trafficking ring based out of Skagit County. With his death, the case ended up being dismissed.”
“Fuck.”
“I would have to agree with you,” Mohammad replied dryly.
“Fuck.”
“The picture you sent me appears to match the victim you have been hounding me about.”
Adam remembered the photo frame Micah had shown him, with a smiling and happy Ryan family, Jessica Abrahams clearly a part of it. “Triple fuck.”
Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
The Abrahams’ house was painful even to look at, sharp and angular, no soft touches encouraging passersby to knock on the front door. Every blade of grass in the immense sloping front lawn was the same length. The picket fence was stark white; three cars in the long driveway that swooshed along the front of the house sat gleaming under the gimlet eye of a rare November sun. It was difficult to imagine children growing up there. No doubt they were being watched as they pulled up the drive, parking next to a well-preserved white Cadillac Seville.
When the door opened before they knocked, Adam knew he was right about being watched. Mrs. Abrahams was very young, surprisingly so. Much younger than he would expect for the mother of a twenty-two-year-old. They all stood there, each on their side of the threshold, staring at each other for a few moments. The quiet was finally broken by a gruff, querulous male voice from the background wondering what Karol was doing.
“Micah Ryan.” Karol Abrahams spoke before he did.
“May we come in?” Micah’s voice was low and quiet, almost a whisper. He had insisted on driving out to the Abrahams’ to ask if they had seen Jessica recently, and Adam wasn’t letting Micah out of his sight again if he could help it.
Mrs. Abrahams gestured them into the living room. Hideous flower blossoms splashed the furniture set, which hailed from a time most designers would prefer to forget. Probably the 1980s. Micah perched uncomfortably on a plastic-covered love seat, Adam on a straight-backed cha
ir, while Mrs. Abrahams fussed in the kitchen for coffee. Above the brick fireplace, Jesus was bleeding out while Mary held him to her breast in an awkward Pietà. On closer examination, the patterns on the furniture seemed to be intricate cabbage roses and green vines. Adam supposed it was meant to be English style, but it was the stuff of nightmares.
Mr. Abrahams was old. At least eighty, age clearly getting the better of him. He shuffled into the room, scowled vaguely at them, and left muttering something Adam couldn’t hear.
Micah had told him that Mr. Abrahams was much older than Mrs. Abrahams. Karol Abrahams was the second wife. But Adam hadn’t understood until he saw both of them. She was apparently younger even than some of Abrahams’ children from his first marriage. Jessica had been their only child. Micah calculated that Karol Abrahams couldn’t be much more than forty. Adam thought he was right. Which would have made her no more than eighteen when she had Jessica, maybe younger.
“What brings you here, Micah?” Karol asked tightly. “It’s been quite some time.”
“It has. How have you been?”
The conversation was barely two sentences long and already unimaginably awkward. Karol and Micah chatted painfully for what seemed like eons. Adam surreptitiously checked his watch; it had been four minutes. The conversation ground to a halt. Adam heard the grandfather clock ticking from the hallway and the squeak of the chair cover as he fidgeted. Micah was clearly uncomfortable, too.
“Mrs. Abrahams, I’m wondering if you could help me get in contact with Jessica. I, uh, have something of hers,” Micah asked.
Adam wouldn’t have thought the room could go even more silent.
Mrs. Abrahams’s eyes brimmed, her quick glance toward the kitchen door betraying nerves. A chair in the kitchen scraped violently against the floor, and Mr. Abrahams appeared in the doorway.
“That girl has been gone a long time,” he growled. “She wasn’t nothing but trouble to begin with.” He shuffled farther into the living room. Karol visibly shrank from his approach. “After all this time, you got no call comin’ and askin’ questions. So you just take yourself and leave. Jessica is gone; there is no bringin’ her back. The Lord gave her to us as a trial!” His voice had grown louder, to the point where he was shouting and spittle was flying from his mouth.