by Melissa Tagg
Which she’d really hoped Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t notice.
No such luck. “Oh, that room’s nothing special, Mrs. Jenkins.”
The woman walloped her cane against the wall beside the cracked-open door. “Are you hiding something in there?”
“Of course not. I just—”
“It’s not an outrageous thought. Perhaps you have a child, and as I told you I’m looking for quiet and solitude, you thought it best to hide him away.”
“I don’t have a child.”
“Maybe a lover.”
Mara tried to squelch a laugh. Failed. It came out a snort. “Uh, no lover.”
“A dead body then.”
She didn’t even try this time. Her laughter echoed down the hallway. “What kind of writer did you say you are, Mrs. Jenkins? Suspense novels, perhaps? I promise, there aren’t any dead bodies behind that door.”
“Stranger things have happened, young lady. And you can’t deny the smell of mystery hangs in the air of this decrepit old house.”
Actually, that was probably just the lemony scent of the homemade polish Mara had used on the woodwork yesterday. And “decrepit” was a little strong, wasn’t it? Sure, all five bathrooms—one downstairs, four up—needed a complete gut job. The furnace rattled and old windows did little to deny wintry drafts.
But couldn’t Mrs. Jenkins see the charm underneath it all? Hadn’t she noticed the stained-glass window behind the registration desk downstairs? Or the ornate woodwork of the staircase banister? The tray ceilings and crown molding?
Mrs. Jenkins thumped the wall again. “Shall we?”
Mara swallowed her sigh and skirted around the woman. She nudged the door the rest of the way open, stepped inside, and waited as her potential boarder shuffled in behind her. And then, just like Mara had known she would, Mrs. S.B. Jenkins gasped.
“I know. They’re a bit much.” Porcelain dolls—dozens of them, with painted bow lips and beady glass eyes—peered from ghostly white faces all around the room. They were crowded onto every surface—the mahogany dresser, wall shelves, even the window seat with its faded mustard yellow cushion that matched the poster bed’s lacy canopy.
The other guestrooms had their quirks, but this one was just plain creepy, right down to the antique clock ticking loudly in the corner.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Mrs. Jenkins stuttered.
A nightmare.
“Beautiful.”
Mara nearly choked. “Wait. What?”
“Heaven only knows why you didn’t show me this room first. It’s positively delightful.” She straightened a doll’s dress. Opened a dresser drawer. Pushed aside a curtain, letting in what little muted light the overcast day had to offer, and wandered to the open closet.
“In that case, if you’re thinking of staying, we have nightly and weekly rates. Breakfast is included, of course, and—”
Mara was cut off by a screech. Mrs. Jenkins jumped and backed up, bumping into the bed, glasses sliding down her nose.
A telltale meow drifted from the closet, and a second later a tawny feline sauntered to Mara’s feet and batted at the hem of her sweater. So this is where the annoying furball had been hiding since last night.
Wrinkles folded into each other on Mrs. Jenkins’s forehead. “You have a cat.” Her voice was flat.
“I don’t have a cat. He doesn’t really belong to anybody.” According to Lenora, the cat came with the place when she’d purchased the property last year. But as long as Mara had been here, he’d come and gone at will, sometimes disappearing for days at a time.
Mrs. Jenkins took off her glasses and stuffed them into her purse as if she’d seen enough—or too much, perhaps. “I don’t do cats.” She pulled a tissue from her purse, punctuating her irritation with a sneeze. “I’m dreadfully allergic.”
She whisked from the room and Mara spun to follow, nearly tripping over the cat. “You just had to show up now, didn’t you?” She hissed the words over her shoulder before hurrying after Mrs. Jenkins.
“I can keep away the cat. He won’t come near you. Honestly, I don’t like him all that much either.”
Mrs. Jenkins’s cane bopped against each step as she moved down the staircase. “Thank you, but no. The house is completely unsuitable.”
“B-but the dolls. You liked the dolls.”
In the lobby Mrs. Jenkins reached for her suitcase. “I was temporarily distracted from the rest of it. The atmosphere is most assuredly not adequate.”
Mara followed her to the porch. “Mrs. Jenkins, please, I—”
But it was too late. The woman had made her decision and there was nothing to do but watch her march down the porch steps and across the lawn. Within minutes her Lincoln disappeared down the lane, its rumbling engine joined by the groaning of the stooping elm tree.
The wind carried off Mara’s sigh and lifted her already unruly hair, reddish strands fluttering over her eyes. I tried, Lenora. I really did.
But apparently she didn’t possess the same inviting warmth and knack for welcoming guests as the Everwood’s owner. She never had been any good at impressing folks. But she’d thought the house’s charm might make up for the lack of her own.
She cinched her sweater’s belt. On a different day, she might make herself feel better with a stroll over the patchy lawn. She might pass under the arbor at the side of the house, imagining spring and flowers and rolling green reaching into the trees, while her heart tested out the word that never seemed to fit anywhere else—home.
But it was too cold for that on this March day and those bundled clouds overhead, too gray.
So she went only as far as the mailbox. She plucked a lone letter from the box and turned back toward the house.
And then froze halfway across the lawn, two boldfaced words on the outside of the envelope marching into focus—Foreclosure Notice.
The leaning elm whimpered again. So much for home.
Pounding his fist on his captain’s desk was going too far. Marshall knew it when a framed photo of the man’s wife tipped. Knew it when stale coffee sloshed over the edge of a forgotten mug, slicking down to stain letterhead bearing the precinct’s emblem.
But when Captain Wagner’s granite gaze seized his . . . that’s when he felt it, the sickening thud in his stomach an echo of his mistake. Only the latest in a reckless series.
It should’ve been enough to still his tongue.
But no. “You can’t release him. I still have two hours.”
“And what exactly are you going to accomplish in those two hours that you haven’t been able to in the past forty-six?” Movements methodic, Captain Wagner angled in his chair, pulled a wad of tissues from the Kleenex box on the windowsill behind him, and wiped up the coffee. “I hope you realize how much restraint it’s taking me right now not to make some snide comment about the irony of cleaning up your mess.”
Any other time, a rumble of laughter might lighten his commanding officer’s tone, even during a scolding. Not this time.
Too far.
Rain drizzled down the window in rivulets, the Milwaukee evening sky outside as gray as these unadorned office walls. He rubbed sweaty palms over his tan pants. Had he been wearing these since Saturday? “Captain—”
“Save it.” With a final swipe, Captain Wagner shoved aside the wet mess and fastened his dark eyes on Marshall’s once more. “You should never have brought him in. I know it. You know it. Every cop out there who’s spent all weekend trying to dig up evidence just to make your arrest stick knows it.”
Marshall couldn’t make himself turn to glance where the captain pointed, to the glass overlooking the pod of desks that made up the detectives’ bullpen. Didn’t have to. He’d already seen the circles under Tracy’s eyes earlier this morning, after a night spent wading through street camera footage. He’d spotted Larry napping in the precinct lounge a couple hours ago. Must not have gone home last night either. Bailey and Lewis had been pulled off a case to help out too.
&nbs
p; And Alex. His focused efforts over the past two days had nearly outrivaled Marshall’s, so much so that his wife had taken to texting Marshall, asking if she was ever going to see her husband again.
A chore sometimes, having a sister married to his closest friend on the force.
A friend he’d let down. Just like he’d let down Captain Wagner and all the rest of them. He’d known on Saturday night when he brought in his suspect, Liam Price, that there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him for the string of Westown burglaries. The chances of obtaining said evidence in the time they were allowed to hold the man before recommending charges? Slim to none.
The thing was . . . he hadn’t cared.
And Captain Wagner knew it.
“I could lecture you, Hawkins. I could tell you how stupid it was, hauling in that kid. The son of a council member? Really?” Captain Wagner stood, not a single crinkle in his starched navy blue suit nor any hint of the exhaustion he must be feeling. He’d spent the bulk of his past two days here too, working just as doggedly as everyone else to fix Marshall’s error.
Error? More like outright failure.
“I could go on and on about how the last thing we need right now is a PR scuffle.” The captain rounded his desk, the steps of his polished shoes clacking. “I could waste time I don’t have yelling ‘til I’m blue in the face.”
Marshall’s gaze traced the groove in the floor, trekked the diagonal line until it crossed with another and then trailed that one. A habit he’d picked up in the hospital, following lines or tracing patterns wherever they appeared—floors, ceilings, walls.
In the quilt over Laney’s hospital bed. He’d memorized its every patch.
A too-familiar buzz lurked near the back of his brain. It would turn into an all-out pummeling if he didn’t get out of this office soon, rummage through his locker until he found the spare pill bottle he hoped to high heaven was there. He hadn’t allowed himself so much as Tylenol in the past two days, needing full alertness for the impossible task in front of him.
Lot of good that’d done.
“Marshall.”
He forced his attention to the captain, the stern but kind man who’d mentored Marshall since his earliest days with the precinct. Alex might be his closest friend on the force, but there were times when Elias Wagner bordered on father figure.
“I could lecture you,” he said again, lifting one hand as if to comb his fingers through nonexistent hair. His palm stayed there, resting on the back of his bald head until he let out a sigh. “But I don’t think you’d even hear me.”
Marshall shifted in his chair at the sudden softening in the captain’s voice. No. No, not this. He knew what was coming and this was worse. “Cap—”
“Alex reminded me of the date. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it on my own.”
“Please. Don’t.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
“I won’t try to imagine what you must be feeling, Marsh—”
“I said don’t.” He pitched from his chair so quickly that it swiveled behind him, knocking into the closed office door and rattling its glass pane. Too far. “I’d rather have your lecture.”
He spun, facing away from Captain Wagner, accidentally catching Tracy’s eye as she watched from her desk in the bullpen. There was pity there. He yanked his gaze away only to see Alex leading Liam Price down the hall, on his way to freedom. Liam would pick that moment to look up, glance Marshall’s way, flash a smug grin.
“Fine then. Three months.”
At the captain’s voice, he whirled. “What?”
His boss had moved behind his desk, sitting once more. He held up the letterhead, a lingering drip of coffee dangling at the corner. “Administrative leave. You say one word in argument or hit my desk again, I’ll retype this myself and replace ‘leave’ with ‘suspension.’”
“I—” He clamped his lips at the tick in Captain Wagner’s jaw. But no, he couldn’t just stand here, defenseless. Three months’ leave? He’d go crazy.
Or worse. With that much empty time, the quiet, the despair . . . he’d be helpless against it. And he’d rather feel a frigid nothing than feel helpless.
“Please, Captain.” He didn’t so much sit as wilt, limbs heavy and head cloudy.
“I wish you would’ve taken some extended time off two years ago. Right after . . .” The captain shook his head. “Perhaps I should’ve forced it on you then.”
“You don’t understand—”
“What I understand is you’re not capable of doing your job right now, son. You haven’t been for some time.” He steepled his fingers atop his desk. “And I won’t have the rest of the team paying for your stubbornness.”
“My stubbornness?”
“Figured if I said pain or grief or depression, you’d jump out of your chair again.”
“I’m not depressed.” Mumbled words. Dishonest ones.
“I don’t think you know what you are. But you are on leave. Starting now. Clean out your locker. Turn in your badge and firearm on the way out.”
“Captain—”
“I meant what I said about changing this to a suspension.”
Did it really matter, though? Call it administrative leave, call it a suspension, the end result was the same. Humiliation and far too many hollow days.
But the flint in Captain Wagner’s expression, even rimmed as it was with compassion, warned him into silence. What more was there to say, anyway?
He rose, wordless, and moved in a bleary-eyed trance. Out of the office, past the bullpen, down a hallway to the lineup of officer lockers. Wouldn’t take more than five minutes to empty his own, nothing more than bare essentials inside. No school pictures or crayon drawings anymore.
“Marsh?”
Alex had finished the paperwork for Liam’s release already?
Marshall kept his back turned on his brother-in-law, yanking his duffel bag from the locker and stuffing in a pair of spare shoes. “Go home, Alex. Beth keeps texting.”
“Keeps texting me too. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s because she loves and misses me, not just that she wants a hand with the twins.”
Marshall hadn’t seen his niece and nephew in weeks. Sometimes he wondered if Beth and Alex thought it was better that way. Better they not see the man he’d become. He stared at the small, square mirror on his locker door. Bloodshot eyes. Stubble, yes. But other shadows, too, darkened his face.
Beth and Alex were probably right.
“Listen, Marsh, I’m sorry if—”
He gave his locker a shove. Refused to look at his partner and friend. “You just had to remind him.”
The lack of sleep, the headache on its way to a migraine, the thought of three months without even the shallow solace of work—all of it churned in his empty stomach. He had to get out of here.
He turned but Alex blocked his path. “Cap needed to know. The way you’ve been cutting corners, storming around for weeks . . . and arresting the Price kid? I was legit scared he was going to fire you.” Alex threw up his hands in a show of exasperation. “So yeah, I reminded him of the anniversary. Maybe I overstepped.”
Two years. Two years to the day since Laney’s eyes closed, since his little girl . . .
“Maybe you overstepped? Maybe?” His voice was too close to a snarl.
“Beth is worried. I’m worried. You aren’t yourself, man. What would Laney think if she could see you—”
He snapped, his last scrap of self-control demolished in one fell swoop as he dropped his bag and lurched at his brother-in-law, both hands snagging Alex’s collar. Lockers rattled at the force of his push, Alex flinching as Marshall raised one fist.
“If it’s what you need to do, go ahead.”
Alex’s calm tone, the way he met Marshall’s eyes—it was a wound all its own. For one tortured moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything other than wince at the pain in his head and the guilt punching through him.
Finally, lungs heaving, he dropped his balled hand.
Backed away. What had he almost done?
Alex slumped against the locker. “Let us help—Beth and me. Or the captain. You know he’d do anything for you.”
Marshall picked up his bag, slung it over one shoulder. He placed his firearm and badge on the bench running the length of the lockers. “Turn ‘em in for me, would you?”
“Marsh—”
Legs brick-heavy but pace brisk, he escaped down the hallway.
2
“Please don’t do this, Marshall.”
Marshall plunked his suitcase onto his unmade bed. Before he could use his foot to nudge away the navy blue comforter he’d thrown off in the middle of the night, his sister snatched it from the floor, folding it without breaking a beat.
“Don’t leave. Not like this. I know yesterday was rough—”
“Try brutal.” He surveyed the empty luggage. What exactly did a man pack for a road trip with no set destination?
“Okay, fine.” Beth dropped the neatly folded blanket next to his suitcase. “I know yesterday was brutal—”
“Try the past two years.” No, make that three. His world had turned upside down the day Laney died. But it had started tilting dangerously long before.
First there’d been the fever that started the day after her sixth birthday and didn’t go away. One visit to the clinic. Then another. Blood work. Test results. A diagnosis without a cure.
Brutal didn’t begin to cover it.
Marshall lumbered across his sparse bedroom. No wall shelves, knickknacks, throw pillows—Penny had taken all of those when she’d moved out. He yanked open one dresser drawer. A few pairs of jeans, a handful of shirts, boxers and socks. That should do it, right?
“Would you just stop for a second?”
The frustration in Beth’s voice halted his movement. Honestly, he didn’t mean to exasperate his sister. Nor Captain Wagner nor Alex. Alex. He should’ve at least texted an apology last night. Just like he should’ve apologized to his exhausted coworkers before stalking out of the station yesterday.
But the temptation to flee to his townhouse and drift into a haze aided by some heavy-duty painkillers had been too much to resist.