“Then you know why I didn’t say that. I was protecting her.”
Sheriff Barnes snorts disbelievingly. “Sure, and it just conveniently proved your whole theory so Everlife didn’t have pay out.”
“We didn’t pay out because it’s not a valid claim and you haven’t done your due diligence in investigating when Zoey told you it wasn’t open and shut from the get-go. You ignored her, and we did what we had to do to find the truth!”
Our accusations twist around us like barbed wire, digging into our tough guy exteriors to the soft underbellies we both hide and pulling us to a middle ground that seemed impossibly unreachable just moments ago.
“You really weren’t using her?” Barnes finally says.
I shake my head, looking him in the eye. “You didn’t say something to hurt her?”
“I treat her like my own daughter. Though my daughter is always asking for money and wanting me to take her to the mall. Zoey wants to be left alone, so I do that as much as I can and make sure no one else messes with her.”
“I’m just trying to get underneath all those layers of defenses and get her to go out with me, something she finally agreed to, and then this whole court thing blew up.”
We eye each other carefully, hearing the different ways we try to protect the same woman.
“Well, shit,” I say.
“Ain’t that the truth,” he answers with a chuckle. “Your . . . what’d you call her . . . sugar snookums? She ain’t here, and she’s pretty mad at you, so when you find her, your best bet is to be on your knees, groveling for forgiveness.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “Hell, boy. I’ve been married a long time, and let me give you a hint I learned from my Martha . . . what you did or didn’t do don’t matter a lick. Apologize long and hard, and then, when she’s cooled down, maybe you can have a little chit-chat and explain things. But to start? Groveling’s the way to go.”
That’s the second round of advice I’ve gotten today from men I respect.
Frederick’s, I can put to use tomorrow when I go back to work. Sheriff Barnes’s?
I plan to put his into action immediately . . . as soon as I find Zoey.
Chapter 23
Zoey
“Say that again,” Holly orders as she slams a mixing bowl on the counter. “And get the M&M’s out of my secret stash.”
I open the fridge and shuffle the bag of wilted spinach to the side to reach into the back recesses of the vegetable drawer to get the hidden bag of candy Holly requested. I drop it next to her, and as she mixes the ingredients she’s added to the bowl, I tell her about court today.
“I didn’t see it. Was absolutely, stupidly, blindly, dumbstruck by Blake Hale,” I tell her morosely.
Her mixing gets aggressive, and I’m pretty sure there was some shell added with the egg she just cracked on the bowl’s edge. “You’re sure? Absolutely certain? Because I’m going to kill him, so I need you to be positive.”
She threatens me with the dripping spoon and an evil glare promising bloodshed—maybe mine, probably Blake’s.
“You’re not going to kill him,” I tell her, even though the idea that both Holly and Jeff independently put forth holds some merit. Not for real, but an imaginary bus running over an imaginary Blake sounds pretty fucking justified. Or maybe he could be pecked to death by razor-beaked chickens while being held down by barbed wire? Something slow and painful and memorably humiliating so that it makes it onto one of those ‘How They Died’ shows and he becomes a trivia tidbit people laugh at. “Don’t kill him, but yeah, I’m sure. Jeff realized it before I did.”
That holds weight for both of us since Jeff is a pretty steady and solid sort, known for his level head. That’s how he became Sheriff of Williamson County.
“Break it down for me, step by step,” Holly instructs, and I find myself giving her the replay of the entirety of testimony.
“Blake didn’t mention that I helped him dig in the trash, put together the invoice puzzle, or did the research on what it meant. He held it up like he’d done it all himself.” I groan and steal a handful of candy, shoveling the whole bunch in my mouth at once. Chewing open-mouthed, I keep telling Holly, “That might’ve been okay, like maybe he was covering for us the way we talked about? But then Mr. Neilhouse basically agreed that Everlife would do anything to not pay a claim. It started to come together then.”
“What makes you think that,” she asks, swinging the spoon left, “includes this whole thing between you and Blake?” She swings the spoon right, a glob of dough flying to the counter.
Rolling my eyes, I huff out, “Duh. It’s me, Hols. Blake was using me so they wouldn’t have to pay out this big claim, and like a sucker, I fell right into the trap. I knew better, I fucking knew better, but I let myself get carried away. By him, by hope.” Pain burns fresh in my chest again, and I shake my head, feeling dumb for not seeing it, for not questioning Blake’s intentions when almost every time we saw each other, it was about this investigation.
That’s not true. This morning didn’t feel like that, my heart tries to argue, remembering the needy growls and heady conversation. Facts are facts, my brain tells my heart. However I thought things were this morning, I’ve since learned differently.
“So, did Yvette really kill Richard?” Holly asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I mean, it matters to Everlife and Blake,” I snipe, “and it definitely mattered to Richard Horne. But that’s the point. If Everlife hadn’t needed me to change the autopsy ruling, Blake would’ve never spent a minute with me. It was all for show. Like you said men do, he was using me, for professional gain and sex.”
I fidget, sorting out the spilled M&Ms into piles by color, and Holly is quiet as she takes the candy from me to add them to the dough.
Once mixed, she scoops it out onto cookie sheets and slides the cookies in the oven to bake.
“Mommy, can I lick the bowl?” Olive begs, dancing her way into the kitchen in a purple tutu and high-top tennis shoes that light up with every step. She was probably listening from the living room, ready to strike when the time was right.
“How about the spoon?” Holly negotiates as she scoops up a little bit of the leftover dough. She’s strict but reasonable. Except I kinda wanted that dough for myself.
“You can get salmonella from that,” I warn.
Olive looks at the spoon in confusion and then shrugs. “I like salmon.”
“Not salmon, sal-mon-nell-a. It’s a bacteria.”
“We need bacteria to make the things we eat divest in our tummies,” she gravely informs me as she licks the other side of the spoon. “Mrs. Thompson said so.”
“Di-gest,” I correct. “And yes, but those are good bacteria. Raw eggs and flour can have bad bacteria.”
Holly tilts her head, somehow managing to roll her eyes while staring right at me. “Has anyone really died from eating raw cookie dough?”
“Probably somewhere, sometime.” I eye the bowl warily, but I can’t lie to this kid. “I don’t have exact statistics.” The very idea of life and death statistics makes the gash in my heart yawn wide open, bleeding fresh and hot again. “Give me that.” I grab the bowl and slide my fingers through the dough, gathering a bit for myself.
“Oh, no! You’re gonna get salmon ‘acteria, Aunt Zo-Zo,” Olive shouts, but she immediately bursts out in laughter at her own silliness.
I try to smile, but my lips just won’t, not even for Olive. Not now. Tears burn, and I turn away so Olive won’t see, grabbing a kitchen towel to swipe at my eyes.
“Hey, honey, go wash up, okay?” Holly tells her daughter.
“Okay, Momma.”
Olive runs to the bathroom, more energy in her little pinkie toe than I have in my entire body right now as I sag. Putting on a brave face for Olive for just those few moments exhausted me, reminding me of the innocence I once had.
But that was so long ago.
Not just bef
ore Blake, but before my grandparents, my parents. Before I had any idea what loss or betrayal felt like, before I knew fate was cruel and the world harsh.
“I don’t know, Zo. I feel like I might’ve infected you with some of my bitterness.” Holly returns to our conversation as though the interruption from Olive never happened, a mom skill I don’t have so it takes me a second longer to mentally turn back around to where we were with Blake using me. “Don’t get me wrong, there aren’t many good ones out there, and Lord knows, I haven’t found one, but just because I haven’t, doesn’t mean you didn’t. What if—”
My mouth opens to argue and she shoves M&Ms into it to shush me. Effective tactic.
“As I was saying, what if he came to see you because of the case, because that makes sense, and then was knocked out by how awesome you are?” Even with a mouthful, I smile wryly at her absurdity. She keeps adding ridiculousness to her version of events. “And since you’re not exactly the friendly sort,” she says, giving me a pointed glare, “Blake used the only ‘in’ he had to spend time with you. Falling for you, and through the magic of his dick, getting you to fall for him.”
I wish, with every fiber of my being, that were true. But . . .
“This isn’t some movie where the hot guy falls for the basement weirdo, Hols.”
“Don’t call yourself that!” she chastises.
I shrug, licking a bit of chocolate off the back of one of my teeth. “It’s true. And we both know it. I own it, mostly proudly. But who I am, what I do, the things I’ve been through, don’t exactly lend toward a happily ever after.”
I’ve lived with that truth for a long time, had it hidden deep inside behind locked doors and solid walls, but those have all been shattered, and after Blake, with my defenses all but gone, it hurts to spell it out so bluntly.
Holly’s eyes go red and glittery, but she growls, “I’m going to kill him.” Even she knows I’m right, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true. “If anyone can figure out a way to do it without getting caught, it’s us.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me enticingly.
“I don’t want to kill him, Holly. I want to pretend it never happened so I don’t feel stupid, sad, and mad all at the same time.”
“You are not stupid. You’re kind and sweet. Sad and mad, I can help with. You need pizza rolls, cookies, and wine. Go claim the prime spot on the couch.”
I wish I had the strength to argue, but shitty food and a shittier movie sounds like the perfect way to wallow in my misery, so I don’t bother.
In the living room, I get my favorite blanket, the extra-fluffy one I gave Holly for Christmas two years ago, and curl up in the corner of her sectional couch with three huge pillows to make a nest of heartache.
I hear Holly get Olive set up with a one-millionth playing of Frozen and then she sits down next to me on the couch, a tray of steaming pizza rolls and cookies between us. I hit play on Legally Blonde, the movie we watch every time one of us has a breakup. Except it’s always Holly. It’s never been me.
Until now.
I bite into a too-hot pizza roll, wanting the burning pain of the liquid fire in my mouth. It’s nothing compared to the agonizing hurt in my heart. And I don’t mean the heartburn the shitty food is going to give me.
* * *
It’s late when I leave Holly’s, or it seems like it because Olive went to bed hours ago, but she’s only five with a bedtime of eight thirty. Since I’m a little older, it’s hours until sleep has any chance of taking me into its slumberous relief, and I can’t imagine going home and reliving my humiliation again by telling Jacob what happened today.
So I go to the only other place that brings me any solace.
Work.
I’ll lose myself in the cold morgue, spend some focused time on paperwork, concentrate on deep cleaning every inch of every surface, and time will hopefully fly by.
Or maybe I’ll get lucky and get a call! Scraping up body parts from a car accident would definitely distract me.
Wishing someone death so you have the distraction of a DB isn’t exactly professional.
I sigh, telling my inner responsible self to shut the fuck up. I’ll take anything that pushes Blake and his betrayal from the forefront of my mind. I turn the light on in the morgue and step into the closet area to change into scrubs. The frigidness of the room doesn’t even register anymore, especially when my insides are solid ice.
Stoically, I begin sorting and organizing the files on my desk. I stay pretty caught up and am naturally neat and tidy, so it doesn’t take nearly long enough to get my workspace in tip-top shape.
With a sigh, I look around for something else to tackle. After a short internal debate, I decide the refrigerator could use a good mopping. I drag the mop bucket in from the hallway closet, filling it with hot water and bleach from the sink in the corner, and then push it into the even colder space.
Back and forth, I push the mop in even, straight lines across the floor, letting the punishing work build up a sweat at my brow despite the room’s temperature. Wringing out the mop for another swish over the floor, I hear something in the morgue just outside the refrigerator.
“Alver? I don’t need or want dinner,” I say, poking my head out with an evil glare already fixed in place. He’s the last person I want to deal with tonight, especially given that he probably heard about my running out of court this morning and will gloat in my pain before disappearing to spread it around the gossip grapevine with malicious glee.
But Alver’s not in the morgue.
No one is. I look around but see nothing amiss.
Back in the refrigerator, I mop and think—a dangerous combination.
As mad as I am at Blake, I can’t let go of Richard Horne. Like Jeff, I feel a responsibility to tell my DBs’ stories because they deserve to share their truth. But I don’t know what else there is to discover or how to investigate, especially since Yvette is now on alert and the clock is against Jeff.
We found the poisonous supplement, but it’s not enough. We know how Yvette likely gave it to Richard, but it’s not a smoking gun because like Jeff said, Horne could have been taking the supplements himself, unaware of the damage he was doing.
I hope Jeff really is as good at investigating as he says he is because I’m at a dead-end.
I hear the unmistakable sound of a desk drawer opening and closing in the morgue and growl at the interruption.
“Alver. Get the fuck out of my morgue,” I shout, but when I peek out, there’s no one there again. I think I’m losing my mind for a moment and look around in confusion. Realization dawns and I sigh. “Jacob, I’ve had a really shitty day and I’m not in the mood for one of your pranks.”
I half expect him to pop out and say ‘gotcha’ when I jump, but nothing happens. “It’s not funny tonight.” Still nothing. “Fine, but I’m not playing these games. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll see you at home later.”
I inject as much mom-tone to my voice as I can, channeling Holly’s no-nonsense manner. Unlike Olive, Jacob doesn’t readily fall into line. Understandable since Olive’s five and Jacob’s eighteen, but I’m too exhausted to deal with him tonight. I spin on my heel and disappear into the refrigerator once more, hoping Jacob will slink away. I’ll apologize for my bitchy mood later, but for now, all I can manage is mopping and thinking.
I do three more passes, making it all the way to the door of the refrigerator when the hair on the back of my neck stands up and gooseflesh that has nothing to do with the cool room breaks out over my skin.
Before I can turn around to scold Jacob for scaring the shit out of me again, a train crashes into my skull. Sharp pain explodes in my head, stealing my vision and turning everything black with colorful sparkles.
I stumble, or I think I do, but my brain isn’t working any better than my feet. The floor is cold and wet against my cheek, unforgiving beneath my body. From far away, I hear a furious voice snarl, “You should’ve let it go. This is all your fault.”
Was that real or in my head?
I’m not sure, and it seems less important as I sink into the darkness.
Chapter 24
Blake
I leave the morgue after talking to Jeff, rushing straight to Zoey’s trailer. Like she said, if she’s not at work, she’s home, and vice versa. Sliding into the dirt driveway, I run up the stairs and bang on the door.
“Zoey? Let me in.”
No answer.
My heart climbs up in my throat, and I hit the door harder, using the side of my fist to make it louder. The door shakes in its frame. “C’mon, Zo. This is all one big misunderstanding.”
No answer.
I peek in the window, begging. “Please, Zoey. Let’s talk about this.”
“Quit your bellowing, boy!” Thelma yells louder than I am as she leans out her front door. “She ain’t there, anyway.”
I look at Zoey’s door again, then back to Thelma, trying to make sense of what she’s saying, no matter how illogical. “What do you mean she’s not here? Where is she?”
Thelma takes a long drag off her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as she inhales. Lifting her bony shoulder, she says, “How would I know?”
I want to shake her, rattle whatever information her nosiness might’ve earned out of her brain because I need it now. I have to find Zoey and set her straight because she has things all wrong.
Exponentially wrong.
“Thelma,” I warn harshly. “Where is she?”
Thelma balks, softer than I’ve seen her, but waves her cigarette around. “I told you . . . I don’t know. Haven’t seen her since she left this morning. All dressed up, though I don’t know where she was going.” She takes another drag. “Maybe she had another fellow?”
I growl, knowing Thelma is trying to rile me up and I’m letting her get to me.
But I don’t have any other option.
“What about Jacob? You seen him?”
“He’s got late school tonight. Boy takes some night classes since he can’t get up like a normal person in the mornin’.”
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