I turn off the engine and rest my hands on my lap for a moment, staring at the covered front porch. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at it again without seeing yellow police tape around it.
From the backseat, Cyclops gets to his feet, having spent most of the ride belly up and snoring like a lap dog. “So there are a couple of neighborhood cats around here . . .”
“He’s never actually killed a cat, as far as I know.” Gracie sees the look on my face and huffs. “I’ll keep him on the leash.”
“He can run free in the backyard, as long as he doesn’t dig under the fence.” I slide out of the driver’s seat and stretch my sore legs. I collect our bags from the back.
“I’m capable of carrying my own bag.” Gracie holds her hand out.
I put on an extra-heavy Texas drawl to mock her. “Not in Texas you aren’t, little lady.” That earns me an eye roll, but also a ghost of a smile. She doesn’t argue further, trailing me along the stone path, her shoes dragging. I can’t tell if that’s due to weariness or reluctance.
“My mom said our house in Austin was nice.”
“You had a deep backyard,” I confirm, my keys jangling in the quiet night. “And a big-ass Texas state flag—”
“Hanging from the porch. He hung it before they even stepped inside, the day the Realtor gave them the keys. He was so proud to be a Texan. She took it with us when we moved.” Gracie adds in a softer voice, “It’s gone now.”
I sense the melancholy slipping in and I’m desperate to chase it away. “He had a basketball net on the garage door. That’s where I learned how to play. And there was this one day, I was dribbling the ball out there after school and the neighbors called the cops for a noise complaint. Your dad showed up with his partner, and then my mom showed up, along with another cruiser of cops. They all started playing in the driveway, in their uniforms.” I smile at the memory. “Three on three. Even my mom, who couldn’t dribble a ball to save her life.”
“Did the neighbors ever complain again?”
“If they did, I never heard about it. Abe told me to keep on playing because it meant I was staying out of trouble.” Every once in a while I still hear his booming voice, telling me to keep my eyes up, to dribble low, to use my body to block.
I climb the front steps to the porch and unlock the door. I step aside so she can let Cyclops off his leash. He takes off through the house as I disarm the alarm system, his nose to the tile. “Go ahead, make yourself at home,” I say mockingly, but to be honest, it’s nice to have a dog in the house again. Mom and I had talked about getting another dog when I moved back, but neither of us could commit to the kind of schedule it would need.
I wonder what he smells. The forty or so boots and shoes that have traipsed through here in the last few weeks? The bleach mixture used to scour the kitchen and remove the blood?
Or maybe it’s the faint scent of lilac—my mother’s favorite—from the plug-in air fresheners. It still lingers, even weeks after the oil has burned up.
A strange silence settles over us as Gracie’s eyes travel down the long hall toward the kitchen, her arms folding tightly as if she feels a chill. “Does it feel weird being here, after . . . ?” She drifts off.
“I can’t stand being here,” I answer honestly. “Being in the kitchen is the worst, especially at night. I’ve only been back three times since she died.”
Gracie bites her bottom lip. “So if I hadn’t come, where would you have stayed?”
“I was supposed to move to my uncle Silas’s this week.” He’s going to have a thing or two to say about me bringing Gracie back with me. I’m not looking forward to that conversation. Then again, I’m sure he’ll be easily distracted when I tell him about Klein.
“So I messed up your plans.”
“Not at all. Follow me.” I show her to her room upstairs, setting her bag inside the door. “The guest bathroom is there.” I nod to the bedroom opposite hers. “And that’s mine.”
She eyes my door, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m gonna crash. Do you need anything?”
“A glass of water.”
I open my mouth to offer to get it for her, even though I’d rather run headfirst into a wall than go into that kitchen right now.
“It’s okay. I can get it for myself. Remember? Independent woman.”
“Right.” I watch her descend the stairs with slow, measured steps.
But I don’t have the guts to follow her.
* * *
Mom kept meticulous records—paperwork filed neatly, spending tracked thoroughly.
How thoroughly, though, I wonder, as I’ve just spent two hours sifting through the tall filing cabinet in her office.
Did she account for all her money?
Will there be something in these folders that explains the ninety-eight thousand dollars that she left to Gracie? Something that proves it isn’t tied to that drug bust?
If there is, I haven’t found it. All I’ve found are tax returns that look legitimate and three years of her personal spending records that match her salary on the police force.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Grace’s voice cuts into the eerie silence, startling me enough that I jump. “Sorry.” She leans against the door frame, her smooth legs crossing at the ankles, her arms crossing at her chest. Her shorts and tank top leave just enough to the imagination. Even at three a.m., my blood begins to race.
It doesn’t help that I can feel her intense gaze drag over my body. Had I known she was going to show up, I would have thrown on pants over my boxer briefs.
I smoothly slide Klein’s business cards into the top drawer. I’ll tell her about him after I talk to Silas. “I thought I’d do a few quick online searches for your aunt. Get those out of the way.” The same rudimentary steps I take when I’m searching for people in my job. I hit up Google, all the major social media sites, a few people-search databases. Two Betsy Richardses and two dozen Elizabeth Richardses turned up, but nothing promising yet.
She nods toward the file folder in my hand marked Visa, a knowing smile touching her lips. “You’re still holding out hope about that money, aren’t you?”
“I was just looking for . . . I don’t know what I was looking for.” I sigh, flipping it open. Every month reads mostly the same—weekly grocery shopping, gas, maintenance on her BMW, stops at local restaurants to grab lunches. Mom paid for everything on her card. She liked to collect points for that big trip she talked about taking one day. Where to, she couldn’t decide.
A line item catches my notice.
A charge at a gas station in El Paso.
I keep scrolling through the statement—from two months ago—to find a hotel charge in Tucson.
“What is it?” Gracie asks, stepping farther into the room.
“Did your mother mention my mom coming to see her?”
Gracie frowns in thought. “No.”
“You sure? Maybe when she was high and you assumed she was making up things?”
“I wasn’t the one who was high.” Understanding passes over Gracie’s face. “Your mom came to Tucson, didn’t she?”
“For one night, back in February.” The same weekend that Jenson and I flew to Colorado Springs to go snowboarding.
“Why didn’t she give us the money then?”
“I tried to make it right. But I couldn’t even face her. I couldn’t face what I’d done to her; what I’d made her become.”
“Because she was a coward,” I whisper, sliding the bill back where it was and shutting the filing cabinet. So far, everything she said that last night, though seemingly incoherent, ties to the truth.
Based on her call to Klein, my mother knew Mantis killed Abe and she did nothing about it. The question is, why? If I figure that out, then maybe I can distract the feds from wondering why I lied to the police in the first place. Maybe I can keep my mother’s name—and her own admissions of guilt—out of this. But in order to do that, I need information.
Tomorrow . . . I’ve had enough truth for today. “Let’s go to bed.”
Gracie’s eyebrow lifts with surprise, making me replay my choice of words and then cringe, as I brace myself for the sharp-tongued rejection I’ve come to expect from her.