“Good night, Noah.” She disappears down the hall, into her room.
I shake my head, the smile slipping out despite the somber mood. “?’Night, Gracie.”
CHAPTER 28
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 24, 2003
“Mike!” I clasp hands with the officer sitting behind the desk. “Where have you been all summer, besides not on the court?”
“In hell.” He gestures to the brace around his knee, frustration filling his round face.
“Still?” Mike Rhoades tore his MCL chasing down punks who’d robbed a convenience store months ago and, it appears, is still on light administrative duty.
“It was this place or answering phones. Either way . . . great for the waistline.” He pats his growing stomach to emphasize his sarcasm.
“So? How is it down here?” I rattle the fence partition that surrounds the desk. It’s part of the evidence room’s security measures.
He shrugs, then offers a wan smile. “They let me out to see daylight every once in a while.”
“Damn, man. Hope you’re back on the road soon.”
“You and me both. Definitely before they upgrade this computer system. I don’t want anything to do with that mess.” He sees that I’ve come empty-handed. “So what are you doing down here?”
I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s behind me. “You know that big bust over at The Lucky Nine the other night?”
“Who doesn’t? Canning wants to give Mantis a commendation for that one.”
“Yeah, I heard.” I hesitate. “Can you tell me what was logged in for evidence?”
His bushy eyebrow pops up, making me think that I’m overstepping our long-standing friendship.
“Or, at least, how much cash came in with the drugs?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
After a long pause, Mike shifts his attention to his computer and begins tapping the keys. I wait quietly, watching his gaze as it scrolls down the screen.
His head shakes slightly. “No cash. A shit-ton of drugs, four guns . . . no cash.” His green eyes flicker to me. “Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
More like a glaring understanding about how Canning’s prize-winning hounds are operating.
CHAPTER 29
Grace
Cyclops growls at the strange bird caw.
I scratch behind his ear to settle him, and he relaxes against my side once again. “I know, buddy. Weird, right?” I snuck out to the back porch to huddle in this wicker chair and watch the sunrise half an hour ago and in that time we’ve listened to ten of the bluish-black crows singing back and forth to each other, Cyclops’s mangled ear twitching this way and that.
Otherwise, it’s been peacefully quiet out here, giving me a chance to gather my thoughts with a view of Jackie Marshall’s backyard, an urban oasis of large trees and border gardens surrounding a kidney-shaped pool, and a gate in the fence to a park beyond. It’s paradise.
What would my life have been like, had my father not died? Would I have grown up in a quiet suburb with gardens and trees?
I’ve often wondered that through the years.
“Who were you, really, Jackie Marshall?” I whisper into the morning quiet.
Everything is so meticulous. The gardens are cared for and bursting with spring blooms; the pool is crystal clear, the stone around it pristine. Inside is a house full of order, a palette of beige, creams, and coral, everything from the clean-line furniture to the knickknacks flowing seamlessly. Cookbooks sit in neat stacks on shelves, the spines barely cracked. Cute “hearth and home” signs hang from hooks on the wall, welcoming family and friends. It all makes me conjure a version of the blonde Texan woman who doesn’t leave the house without a pristinely made face and a stylish outfit, who offers sweet tea to every guest before they have a chance to cross the door’s threshold, who hums while she putters in the kitchen, her apron on to protect her clothes.
And she raised Noah, who, by any standards, is the most decent guy I’ve ever met.
But Jackie Marshall was also the chief of police and an abuser of whiskey.
And had a giant bag of money for her dead partner’s daughter but didn’t have the guts to deliver it herself.
And she blew her brains out on the other side of this French door, with her son upstairs.
As far as I know, I’ve never been in a house where someone committed suicide. I wonder if the hairs on my neck would have stood on end when I stepped in that kitchen last night had I not known for a fact that’s where Jackie died. I was happy to fill a glass of water and get the hell back to my room, unsettled by the eerie silence.
I hear someone—I assume Noah—shifting around in the kitchen. Just the idea of seeing him stirs nerves in my stomach. I heard what he said about me to his friend over the phone yesterday. But what does it mean? More importantly, what do I want it to mean?
This is Noah. Jackie Marshall’s son . . .
Noah is his own person. He’s not Jackie.
But he wants to protect her—a woman who, at the very least, knew my father had been set up and never did anything about it. How do I get past that?
I do like Noah, though. More with each passing day.
But I’ve never been that girl who loves too much, too fast, too soon. That girl gets hurt too much, too fast, too soon.
So, I stay in my chair, sipping the last of my coffee and enjoying the sun cresting over a tall maple tree, not rushing in like some love-struck dimwit.
It’s the smell of sizzling bacon that finally lures me through the doors.
But it’s the view that stops me in my tracks.
Noah’s standing in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of dark-wash jeans and a white T-shirt, the cotton stretched over his broad shoulders, his hair slightly damp from a shower. “Ow!” He flinches and steps away, brushing a bubble of grease from his sinewy forearm.
“You need an apron.”
He glances over his shoulder, giving my body a quick once-over. He does that a lot. Not in a leery way. In a way that makes my heart pound. “Oh, hey. There isn’t much food, but there’s bacon. I know you love that.”
“Here. Let me.” I slip the fork from his hand, our fingertips grazing, the scent of his soap overtaking the food smells, stirring my blood.
“What time did you get up?”
“Too early. Cy needed to go out.”
He drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “Did you get a coffee?”
“Yeah. After I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to use that.” I give the high-tech machine a dirty look.
Noah checks his watch. “Alright. I locked up the cash in the safe. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Uh . . .” I frown, and gesture at the stove.
“I was making that for you.”
Of course you were. I stifle my groan. Mom said my dad was like that, bringing her coffee in bed, making her breakfast. Is that a Texas thing? Or a nice-guy thing?
Or can he not handle being in this kitchen for another second?
In any case, I see what he’s trying to do. “You’re not leaving me here while you go talk to Harvey Maxwell.”
“I’ll be back soon, I promise. And I’ll grab groceries on the way.”
“I’m going with you.”
“He’s a good guy—”
“Let’s find out how he was connected to my father before you go throwing around the ‘good guy’ label, okay? Harvey Maxwell might be the mastermind.”
Noah chuckles. “Trust me, he’s not. I have to do this on my own.”
“So you can protect more people for what they might have helped do to my father?”
Noah averts his gaze to the floor, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I need to remember the difficult position he’s in when I lash out at him.
“This is about my father, so we’re in this together, all the way.”
“It’s just . . . my mother said something that night, about it being safer not to ask questions. And I promised your mother I’d keep you safe.”
“Did you happen to notice where I’ve been living for the past fourteen years?” I can’t help the sharpness in my voice. “I don’t need you protecting me. I can take care of myself.”
The doorbell rings then, interrupting our argument, which is far from over.