“Kevin.”
“They fold right back out of the way, just open it all up. You couldn’t have a prettier situation here.”
She took one of the spring chairs while Tag poked his nose to Sam’s knee.
“I saw you at the service,” Sam began. “It was good of you to go. I know you didn’t know her, and what you did know wasn’t especially friendly.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to her.”
“We all are.” He shifted, turning from the view so his gaze met hers. “I wouldn’t be doing my job, Naomi, if I hadn’t gotten some background on the person who found her body.”
“No. I should have told you myself. I didn’t. I wanted to believe you wouldn’t look, and no one would know.”
“Is that why you changed your name?”
“It’s my mother’s maiden name, my uncle’s name. He raised us after . . . They took us in, my mother, my brother, and me, after my father was arrested.”
“You were instrumental in that arrest.”
“Yes.”
“That’s about as hard on a young girl as anything could be. I’m not going to ask you about that, Naomi. I know the case, and if I want to know more, it’s easy enough. I’m going to ask you if you’re in contact with your father.”
“No. I haven’t spoken or communicated with him since that night.”
“You never went to see him?”
“No. My mother did, and ended up swallowing a bottle of pills. She loved him, or he had a hold over her. Maybe it’s the same thing.”
“Has he tried to contact you?”
“No.”
For a moment, Sam said nothing. “I’m sorry to add to things, but it must have struck you. The similarities. The binding, the wounds, what was done to her, the way she was killed.”
“Yes. But he’s in prison, on the other side of the country. And the terrible reality is, others rape and kill and torture. Others do what he did.”
“That’s true.”
“But I’m here, and I found her. Like I found Ashley. Only I found Ashley in time. I’m here, and Marla was raped and killed and tortured the way my father liked to rape and kill and torture. So you have to look at me.”
“Even if I did, I know you didn’t take her, or hold her for two days, and do what was done to her. Even if I did, you were with Xander at times you’d have needed to be with her. I’ve known Xander all his life and sure as hell don’t believe he’d be party to something like this. I don’t believe you would either.”
She should be grateful for that; she should be relieved. Yet she couldn’t find the energy for either.
“But you wondered. When you found out who I was, you had to wonder. Others will, too. And some of them will think, well, Blood tells. It’s blood that ties us together, makes us who we are. Her father’s a psychopath. What does that make her?”
“I won’t tell you I didn’t wonder. That’s part of my job. I wondered for about ten seconds because I’m small town, that’s a fact, but I’m good at my job. I came here to ask you if you’re in contact with your father, or if he’s in contact with you, on the slim possibility what happened here is connected.”
“He didn’t even look at me. That morning, in the police station back in West Virginia, when they brought him in.”
She could still see it, in minute and perfect detail, down to the sun hitting the water in the water fountain, the dust motes in the air.
“I came out of the room where they had me waiting. I just came out for a minute, and they were bringing him in, in handcuffs. And he looked right through me, like I wasn’t there. I think I was never there for him, not really.”
“You’ve moved around a lot in the last few years.”
“I made it part of my job. Our uncles shielded us as much as they could from the press, the talk, the stares, the anger. They uprooted their lives for us. But the shield didn’t always hold. Every few years, he bargains something, some privilege, something, for the location of another body. It brings it all back—the stories on TV, online, the talk. My brother says it’s what he wants more than whatever privilege he’s thought up, and I believe that, too. Moving around means you’re not in one place long enough for anyone to notice you, or not very much.”
“You bought this house.”
“I thought I could get away with it. I just fell for it, and convinced myself that I could have this—a real home, a quiet place—and no one would ever know. If I’d walked another way that day, if someone else had found Marla, maybe, but I didn’t walk another way. I’ve got no reason to tell anyone about this.”
When she turned her head to meet his eyes again, Sam gave her hand a pat. “It’s yours to tell or not.”
She wanted relief but couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a favor. I got background, that was an official act. I don’t go around gossiping on people’s private business. I needed to ask you the questions I did. Now we can put it away.”
“I . . . I just want to find out if I can live here. I want time to try.”
“It seems to me you’re already living here, and doing it well. I’m going to say something personal now, and then I’m going to go, get back to town. It’s clear to me now you haven’t told Xander any of this.” Sam pushed to his feet. “I’m going to say to you, on a personal level, you’re doing him, and yourself, a disservice. But it’s your story to tell, or not. Take care of yourself, Naomi.”
He walked down the deck steps, left her sitting there staring out at the water, at the white sails of clouds above it, wondering if she’d ever feel again.
—
Like twin storms, grief and gossip rumbled through the cemetery and left Xander with a low-grade headache. He slipped away as soon as possible, switched the radio off for the drive back to town. He could do with some quiet.
He had enough work, including what he’d postponed that morning, to keep him fully occupied. He stopped into parts and sales, got a ginger ale from the machine, picked up some parts, then headed over to the garage.
After a check of his worksheet, he opted to take the easy first, ease his way into the delayed workday. Before he walked out to drive the Mini Cooper into the bay for its diagnostic, he swung by to see the progress in the body shop.
He considered himself better than good at bodywork, but Pete was a freaking artist. The wrecked Escort would look showroom fine when Pete finished the job.
“Back from the funeral?”
“Yeah.”
Frowning, Pete adjusted his safety goggles. “Can’t stand funerals.”
“I don’t think anybody likes them.”
“Some do.” Pete nodded wisely. “Some people are fucked-up and get off on them. They hunt them up and go even when they don’t know who’s dead.”
“It takes all kinds,” Xander said, and left Pete to his work.
Once he’d finished with the Mini, keyed in the worksheet on the shop computer, and sent it to sales, he broke long enough to go up to his apartment, make a sandwich with the slim pickings he had available. With the Mini in the pickup area, he moved on to the next on his sheet.
He put in a solid four hours more—ditched the headache, picked up a stiff neck.
Since he’d told Naomi he’d bring dinner, he called in an order for baked spaghetti before going about the business of closing up.
He’d just started to his bike when Maxie from Rinaldo’s pulled in with her flat rear tire bumping.
“Oh, Xander! Please.” She actually gripped her hands together as if in prayer as she jumped out of the car. “I know you’re closed, but please. Something’s wrong with my car, it just started making this noise, and I could hardly steer it.”
“You’ve got a flat, Maxie.”
“I do?” She turned, looked where he pointed. “How did that happen? It didn’t like blow or anything. It just started thumping. I thought it was the engine or something.”
After raking her hand through her purple-streaked blonde hair, she sent him a sheepish smile. “Can you change it?”
He squatted down. “Maxie, this tire’s bald as your grandfather, plus you trashed it by driving on it.”