Making It Right (Most Likely To #3)

Twenty minutes later, Jo stood over her father’s grave. The image of him that had always come up when she closed her eyes started to become less of a memory and more of a snapshot. Like a photograph without animation. An image without scent or feelings. A stone protruding from the ground in place of a life.

Her throat clogged. “What were you hiding, Dad?”

The answer was there. Jo knew when she found it everything would fall into place.

She bent down, pulled a dandelion, and ran her fingertips over his name. In contrast, she turned to the site of her mother’s resting place with less attachment. She hated that. Would have loved to have known her mother better before the car accident that took her life. Her entire family sat in one place. Two dead, one alive. Her maternal grandparents sent cards at Christmas, the occasional birthday sentiment. Her paternal grandfather had passed before her father, his mother had died shortly after. Burying her son wasn’t something Nana Ward had taken well. She’d had a stroke shortly after, and then fell and broke a hip. It was over after that. That left Jo. There were cousins, but none that had kept a close relationship and none that lived anywhere close to River Bend.

Her friends were her family.

Jo straightened and closed her eyes.

The phone in her pocket buzzed, breaking her concentration. Gill’s name flashed on her screen.

“Hey,” she answered.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No. It’s fine.” She turned away from her parents’ graves.

“What’s wrong?”

She smiled, attempted to pull the cloud that had blown over her out of her voice. “Nothing.”

“You don’t sound like it’s nothing.”

“Just one of those days. I’m fine.” It was nice that he cared enough to ask. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing pleasant.”

Jo glanced around the cemetery. “That makes two of us. Guess what I found out.”

“That my name is Gaston and I’m really a French spy.”

Some of her cloud lifted. “Can you even fake a French accent?”

“Wee, wee.”

It sounded like a kid telling her he needed a potty. It felt good to laugh.

Jo turned and took a final look at her father’s grave. “My dad was having an affair . . . or had one prior to his death.”

Gill paused. “You didn’t know that until today?”

“You did?”

“I assumed. Did Miss Gina tell you who she was?”

Jo shook her head. “Wait, how did you know Miss Gina knew anything?”

“She tested me up at the cabin. Told me if I was worth my weight I’d figure out one of your father’s secrets.”

Jo noticed another weed, reached down to pull it. “She told you before saying a word to me.”

“She didn’t tell me anything. Not really. Do you have any idea who the woman was?”

“Not a clue.”

“Was there a face or name that came to you when you realized there was someone in his life?” Gill asked.

“No. No one. It’s disturbing.”

“Disturbing because he had a lover or because you can’t think of who it was?”

“I could only hope my dad found something after my mother. He wasn’t an old man. I should have realized there had to be someone in all those years before now.”

“You’re his daughter. It’s hard to think of our parents being sexual people.”

She hadn’t really thought about the whole thing on a physical level. The thought made her cringe.

“He never left town. We’d go up to the cabin when I was young. Once in a while we’d visit my grandparents, but that was so seldom I don’t remember the color of their house. His whole life was this town.”

“Not his whole life, hon. There was someone at some point. And from what I can determine from your father’s profile, the man was Mr. Commitment.”

“He was that.”

“So if he was a serial monogamist, then he had few lovers, and those he did have he felt some kind of connection with.”

“Who? I can’t figure out who.”

“Evidence is somewhere.”

“I’ve searched the house for anything to clue me in on his life. I’ve never found a photograph, a letter . . . anything.”

“Maybe it’s not in the house. Or it’s so hidden you’ve yet to find it.”

She tossed the weeds onto the grass. “It’s frustrating.”

“Most investigations are.”

“This is personal.”

“I know,” Gill said. “Makes it even harder to see the truth.”

Her head was too full, full of information, full of what she didn’t know. She shook it all off. “I’m looking forward to this weekend.” She was driving into Eugene a few hours before the track team for the meet taking place in Gill’s city.

“I’m starting to think you like me,” he teased.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said with a smile.

She heard him chuckle. “Will I jeopardize your reputation if I show up at the track meet to watch?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

There was a pause. “If you don’t want me there—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you do want me there.”

Jo rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Since when do you sound insecure?”

“Just trying to get my girl to ask me to come.”

His girl?

“Manipulation.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, quoting her.

“I would.” Jo looked up from the grass she was studying during their conversation and scanned the empty cemetery. Her eyes landed back on her father’s name. “You’re not a secret in my life. If you want to watch a bunch of kids run, jump, and throw heavy objects, knock yourself out.”

“I’ll see you at noon.”

Jo’s skin started to itch. She turned a full circle, scanned the edges of the cemetery. “Noon.”

“Are you okay?”

She pulled the phone away from her ear briefly, thinking she heard something that sounded out of place.

“Jo?”

The dead were silent, the birds scattered from tree to tree, and bees buzzed in a tree a few yards away. She shook off the cold that had washed over her.

“I’m here.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just distracted.”

“You sure?”

Another glance to her left, then to her right. “I’m sure.”

“I’ll see you this weekend.”

Jo disconnected the call, did another full circle scan before walking to her car. Once inside with the engine running, some of the cold dissipated, but the hair on her arms continued to stand on end.





Chapter Twenty-Three




Drew lifted his leg up along the fence and leaned over it to stretch. The week sucked. Outside of Tina, there wasn’t one redeeming hour to remember. The week before was forgettable, too.

“Drew?”

He glanced over his shoulder and noticed Parker, a rival from Eugene, walking toward him. They’d often alternate between first and second in the one mile, ending with handshakes and better luck next times.

“Hey.”

Parker placed his leg along the fence for a similar stretch. “Wanna bet on who is going to win today?”

“Is that kid from Sheraton here?” Sheraton High sat in South Eugene.

Parker shook his head. “No. He’s out for the season.”

“Injury?”

“I heard drugs.”

Drew switched legs. “It’s hard to run and smoke pot,” he said.

“I heard it was something bigger.” Parker stretched his hamstrings.