“I’ll bet. And how’s Janie doing with it?”
The question hit David like a well-placed punch in the solar plexus. How was Janie doing with it? “We’ve managed to keep the cops away from her.” But that wasn’t enough. It never would be. There’d always be some little asshole at school bringing it up, like that bitchy Miller girl had. He and Claire often made the mistake of believing that they could keep Janie sheltered from it all, but they were lying to themselves. He made a mental note to sit down with his daughter tonight and have a long talk with her. Try to figure out how much damage all this new coverage had had on her. She wasn’t like Kelsey. Happy, sad, angry, their oldest daughter wore her emotions for all to see. Janie spoke freely at home—her anxiety had never been an issue there. But she rarely shared anything personal. At least, not with him.
A stab of guilt arrowed deep. Father of the year, an inner voice jeered. Like going to parent-teacher conferences once each semester gave him a clue about what was going on in his youngest daughter’s head.
Just like he hadn’t had a clue with Kelsey. Until it’d been too late.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, David shoved away from the desk and stood. He hadn’t been as productive as he would have liked after the meeting with Kurt. So he’d leave on time for once. Have dinner with the family, and spend some time with Janie. Try to get an idea about how much she’d been impacted by the DeVries case. He was ashamed to admit that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a conversation with his daughter that had lasted more than a couple of minutes. And he knew exactly what that said about him.
Troubled, he crossed the room to collect his coat. Opening the door of the closet tucked into the corner of the room, he noticed one of his gloves on the floor. He bent down to retrieve it and rose, rapping his head painfully on the overhead shelf, knocking it from its brackets. Colors burst behind his eyelids as pain exploded. The shelf and contents tumbled down on top of him. He raised his hands in a delayed response that was too sluggish to stem the avalanche. It all fell to the floor, the shelf with a thud, followed by a tinkle of glass.
Damn it. Gingerly David touched his head where a bump was already forming before squatting down to deal with the mess. He found the brackets and readjusted them before affixing the shelf again. He crouched to dig through the pile. Scrolls of old campaign ads, a ball cap he didn’t even recognize, a briefcase he no longer used . . . All were covered with tiny shards of glass. His fingers slowed as he pulled a large framed picture from the bottom of the heap. With hands that had started to shake, he turned it over.
A crayon drawing of their family. No, he corrected himself immediately as his gaze traced over the sketch, not crayons but colored pencils. Kelsey had graduated from crayons years earlier. She’d been eight when she’d presented this to him and told him gravely that he was to hang it at work.
In it, he and Claire flanked the two girls, all of them holding hands with big smiles on their faces. He liked to think Kelsey had gotten her artistic side from him. She’d captured their features with a talent far beyond her years. He’d framed the picture, and it had hung on the wall of his office until several months after she’d disappeared. When looking at it had become an agonizing reminder of everything he’d lost. He’d had to hide it away because each time he passed it, he was sucked back into that emotional maelstrom with its sticky tentacles of grief that could entrap him if he let them.
He carried the picture to the waste can, carefully brushing the broken bits of glass from it. David hadn’t thought about it for years. But seeing it again was a reminder of the vagaries of time. How it rushed and ebbed in a rhythm more random than any of them wanted to admit. Had he known how finite the years with his daughter would be, he liked to think he would have worked less. Played more. Listened better. He would have tucked away every moment with her to guard against the day when memories were all he had left, to be taken out and pored over like a miser fingering his gold.
He could feel his eyes misting as he strode back toward the closet, the symbolism not lost on him. It was a tangible representation of how he’d locked away every painful memory in a simple quest for emotional survival.
“Hey, David, glad I caught you.”
He froze, glad his back was to the door as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes. “Wow, looks like you’ve got a mess on your hands. Odd time for spring cleaning.” A hearty laugh. Grayson. “How ’bout that celebratory drink you missed out on the other night? My treat. Meet me at the Golden Bucket in ten?”
“Sounds good.” Anything to get rid of the man. He rose, replacing the picture on the shelf quickly. “I’ll see you there.”
“You need some help with any of this?”
“No.” The word was more emphatic than necessary. Quickly he moved to replace the briefcase, scrolls of paper, and odds and ends that had been dumped. “No, I can handle this.” The same way he’d been handling things for seven years. Tucking them away out of sight in hopes that the painful recollections could be dismissed as easily.
“I can’t stay long.” David slipped off his wool overcoat and draped it over the back of the bar stool next to Steve Grayson. “I want to get home in time to have supper with my family.” He’d regretted accepting the man’s invite the moment the words had left his mouth. A quick drink, no more, he promised himself, and then he’d be on his way. He caught the bartender’s eye, and the man ambled his way. Scanning the bottles arrayed behind the bar, David said, “Lagavulin Sixteen. Neat.”
“I’ve got dinner plans myself.” Grayson flashed his trademark bright smile. “Seeing someone new.” As the man went into detail about his flavor of the month, David’s mind drifted. A sense of despondency had seized him, and he knew exactly what had caused it. Putting the picture away again was less about avoidance and more about self-preservation. He accepted the drink from the bartender gratefully, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a swallow. The scorch of the liquor sliding down his throat was welcome.