by Elle Keaton
“I have a different request. Can you help me find out what authorities know about the deaths of Brett, Lucinda, and Shona Ryan? Happened about ten years ago. Please?” He relayed the rest of the details about the break-in to Mohammad. He could hear paper rustling and Mohammad pulling out a pen to write the names down.
“I’ll get back to you. Ida will be calling.” Mohammad hung up without saying goodbye, as usual.
Nineteen
Micah’s initial panic over the break-in dulled somewhat in the face of the care and support Adam showered him with. While the police took pictures and asked questions, Adam growled and prowled around the uniformed officers attempting to figure out what happened. He pointed out each detail; every scrap of paper, book, or photo; the broken crockery and damaged cabinets. Micah wanted to take care of the mess and was barely holding on to his temper. He hated seeing the grim expression return to Adam’s handsome face.
The SkPD finally departed after what seemed like hours. When the door closed behind them, Adam made Micah sit with him on the couch. Much to his chagrin he fell asleep for a little while. But, as much as Micah appreciated Adam’s help, he needed some time to himself to sort through the debris. Adam wanted to hover and take care of him. Micah got it, he did. The entire town believed he could barely function on his own; why would he be able to when his home had been broken into and ransacked?
“Look,” Micah huffed. He was having a hard time explaining it, even to himself. “I know I freaked out at first. And, yeah,” he waved a hand toward the wreckage in his kitchen, “it looks bad, but I feel strong, like I can handle this—and I need you to let me. Okay? I’m tired of people treating me like glass, and I don’t need you to start. Brandon is bad enough.”
Adam didn’t look convinced. He looked like he wanted to rip through the criminal element of Skagit taking no prisoners, no excuses, no survivors.
“I need to do this. I can do this.”
Adam ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of frustration and capitulation if Micah had ever seen one. “Fine. Okay. I can get some things done, too, I guess. I don’t like it, though.” Adam tapped Micah’s chest with two fingers. “Call me if the uniforms give you any trouble.”
He was alive. Capable. Able. Did the break-in make him nervous? Yes. Was he upset about the irreplaceable things that had been broken? Yes. Was he going to have a nervous breakdown over them? No.
He finally shooed him out of the house by promising he would call Brandon. Then, he really had to call Brandon because he didn’t want to be caught in a lie, and besides, the way the gossip in Skagit worked, Brandon either already knew or would find out within minutes.
“I was just going to call you,” Brandon grumbled over the connection.
Micah sighed. “What have you heard? So I know what misinformation I need to correct you on.”
“You want to know everything I’ve heard? Or just the part about you being held at gunpoint by intruders until, when the end was near, your ‘houseguest’ surprised them, disarming them with some kind of Krav Maga or judo. Personally, I think one of the neighbors has been watching too many late-night reruns.”
“Oh, man.” It was even worse than he’d thought. Someone had seen him with Adam, and Brandon had found out about it. Divert! Divert! his inner self screamed. No way was he ready to talk to Brandon about Adam. Brandon was already overprotective enough; he took the role of life manager for Micah way too seriously. Micah had never minded before. If Brandon hadn’t stepped up after his parents’ deaths, Micah would probably be living in a room with rubber walls. But it was far past time for Micah to stand on his own two feet.
“There were no gunmen, sheesh,” he said. “The police think it was some kids trying to find stuff to sell. They messed around in the kitchen. Broke some stuff; some pictures got stepped on. Most of it can be fixed or replaced. I don’t even think they took anything, because I, uh, woke up and heard them.”
“Huh.”
“I’m a little freaked out but mostly okay. “
“Mostly okay,” Brandon repeated. Micah could hear voices in the background; it sounded like he was outside.
“Where are you? Micah asked, hoping against hope for something to distract Brandon from his next set of questions.
“At the car dealership. Stephanie’s car needed some work. Hey, man, they want to talk to me now; I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later. About your houseguest.”
Damn. Still, a temporary reprieve was better than nothing.
Micah spent the rest of the day cleaning and waiting for the locksmith to come and fix the door. The snapshots that had been stashed in the kitchen cubby he took into his bedroom; he should have done it years ago. The trash he took to the mud room, he had to shift some stuff around to fond trash bags. As he did, he also saw the backpack Jessica had left behind that day at the Booking Room.
Twenty
Adam stopped by the Booking Room on his way out to Gerald’s. Just because Ed wasn’t going didn’t mean Adam couldn’t finally drum up the courage to go inside the house. Sara was at the shop, of course, a huge piece of plywood covering one of the front windows evidence of the break-in.
Ira was sweeping up the last of the glass and debris that had blown inside. He must have jumped straight out of bed to come and help out; he was wearing worn jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, and he’d missed his morning shave, because his scruff was impressive. He had a disturbingly inscrutable air about him, but it was clear he was loyal to Sara and her father.
“The glass guys will be here in about an hour and it’ll be good as new.” Sara said, matter-of-fact. Ed was still all worked up, determined to stay and keep an eye on her as if armed thugs were around the corner ready to come storming in the minute he let down his guard.
Adam understood. Leaving Micah had been hard, nearly impossible, but his father’s property wasn’t going to clean itself up and put itself on the market. Besides, Micah had insisted Adam let him take care of the cleanup on his own and Adam needed to respect that. He finally drove toward Gerald’s with a huge coffee and the desire to get something done.
An SkPD squad car was speeding in the other direction, lights flashing but no siren. Crime spree in Skagit, apparently.
All the guys had bailed today. Adam didn’t blame them. He slogged down to the overgrown shed. The three cars were still there. With everything that had been going on he had put the things on the back burner, but he supposed he should call somebody about them. It’s not like he was a car buff; someone else deserved them.
The first guy, at Ace’s Classics, hung up on him when he explained what he had, calling him a nut job. The next time he used his phone to do a little research before dialing. Saturday or not, Buck Swanfeldt from Swanfeldt’s Auto and Body was more than happy to come and see what Adam had found—ecstatic, even. He’d be there in an hour.
Staring at the three-story log house his father had built mostly using trees from the property, Adam let out a deep sigh. These days, he supposed, what they had done would be considered insanity. In the 1960s, though, Gerald Klay had wanted to build his own log home so he sent away for plans, bribed his friends into helping, and ten years later the county inspectors did their final walk-through. Gerald had been so proud of it. Adam remembered many evenings spent listening to tales about Gerald and his cronies trying to finish the house before Adam’s mother gave birth. It couldn’t be that bad now.
It was that bad.
Adam couldn’t understand how the EMTs had even gotten inside to bring the body out. Then he saw where they’d pulled the slider off its track and cleared a path from the deck to the driveway. The stench of trash and mold was overwhelming. The electricity had indeed been turned off. Whatever had been in the fridge was long rotted.
The kitchen counters were overflowing with dirty dishes, containers, boxes, and paraphernalia of all sorts. Even the floors were covered. Magazines and newspapers stacked along the walls. Cobwebs, mouse droppings. He should have brought a mask. He push
ed forward anyway, one of the stacks of papers toppled over, causing a ripple that raised an incredible amount of dust. It was a wonder his dad had died of a heart attack and not been crushed to death.
He couldn’t do this alone.
He waited outside in the yard for Buck to arrive. He was much younger than Adam had expected; close to his own age. He carried Skagit’s traditional northern European genetic stamp of approval. If he hadn’t been wearing stained blue coveralls and a grubby Mariners baseball cap he could have recently stepped off the plane from Norway or anywhere in Scandinavia. Only a poorly set broken nose sometime in Buck’s past marred his perfect Nordic beauty.
Buck about had a heart attack, too. Don and Tim hadn’t been wrong when they said the cars were worth some cash. Adam thought the Thor-like man might hyperventilate. Buck left with a promise to call Adam ASAP with some numbers and a time when he could bring a flatbed out and take the cars away. Buck wanted him to call an auction house, too. Adam saw the nightmare unfolding in front of him. He did not want to deal with these cars. On the other hand, it was better than the inside of the house. He might as well start doing some research.
His phone sat abandoned on the dash of his car, its screen blinking frantically. He had about forty text messages and at least ten voice mails. Crap. After he’d made Micah promise to call him, too. Bad start to boyfriendhood.
He stopped in his tracks, almost giving himself whiplash. What the fuck was he thinking, and why was his brain trying to ambush him? He wasn’t in the market for any relationship that had ties to Skagit. Or, fuck, any boyfriend, right? Get a grip, Klay.
“Did you know the Ryan’s had a surviving son named Micah?” Mohammad asked.
“Yes. You are not catching me out here; I was aware you’d figure out who they were.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Ryan was a prosecuting attorney for the county? His death was ruled accidental, and the family’s deaths as well, but many people benefited from the accident.”
“Yeah?”
“’Yes.’”
“Urgh. Yes?”
“He was in the middle of developing evidence in a high-profile drug- and child-trafficking ring based out of Skagit County. Mitya Matveev was the target; a Russian with connections throughout the west coast and Russia. With his death, the case ended up being dismissed.”
“Fuck.”
“I would have to agree with you.” Mohammad replied dryly.
“Fuck.”
Twenty-One
The house Jessica had grown up in was painful even to look at, sharp and angular, no soft touches encouraging passersby to knock on the front door. Every blade of grass in the immense sloping front lawn was the same length. The picket fence was stark white; three cars in the long driveway that swooshed along the front of the house sat gleaming under the gimlet eye of a rare November sun. It was difficult to imagine children growing up there. No doubt they were being watched as they pulled up the drive, parking next to a well preserved white Cadillac Seville.
When the door opened before they knocked, Adam knew he was right about being watched. Mrs. Abrahams was very young, surprisingly so. Much younger than he would expect for the mother of a twenty-two-year-old. They all stood there, each on their side of the threshold, staring at each other for a few moments. The quiet was finally broken by a gruff, querulous male voice from the background.
“Micah Ryan.” Mrs. Abrahams spoke before he did.
“May we come in?” Micah’s voice was low and quiet, almost a whisper. He had insisted on driving out to the Abrahams’ to ask if they had seen Jessica recently, and Adam wasn’t letting Micah out of his sight again if he could help it.
Mrs. Abrahams gestured them into the living room. Hideous flower blossoms splashed the furniture set, which hailed from a time most designers would prefer to forget. Probably the 1980s. Micah perched uncomfortably on a plastic-covered love seat, Adam on a straight-backed chair, while Mrs. Abrahams fussed in the kitchen for coffee neither of them had requested. Above the brick fireplace Jesus was bleeding out while Mary held him to her breast in an uncomfortable Pietà. On closer examination, the patterns on the furniture seemed to be intricate cabbage roses and green vines. Adam supposed it was meant to be English style, but it was the stuff of nightmares.
Mr. Abrahams was old. Eighty at least, age clearly getting the better of him. He shuffled into the room, scowled vaguely at them, and left muttering something Adam couldn’t hear.
Micah had told him that Mr. Abrahams was much older than Mrs. Abrahams. Tabitha Abrahams was the second wife. But Adam hadn’t understood until he had seen both of them. She was apparently younger even than some of Abrahams’ children from his first marriage. Jessica had been their only child. Micah calculated that Tabitha Abrahams couldn’t be much more than forty. Adam thought he was right. Which would have made her no more than eighteen when she had Jessica, maybe younger.
“What brings you here, Micah?” Tabitha asked tightly. “It’s been quite some time.”
“It has. How have you been?”
The conversation was barely two sentences long and already unimaginably awkward. Tabitha and Micah chatted painfully for what seemed like eons. Adam surreptitiously checked his watch; it had been four minutes. The conversation ground to a halt. Adam heard the grandfather clock ticking from the hallway and the squeak of the chair cover as he fidgeted. Micah was clearly uncomfortable, too.
“Mrs. Abrahams, I’m wondering if you could help me get in contact with Jessica. I, uh, have something of hers,” Micah asked.
Adam wouldn’t have thought the room could go even more silent. Mrs. Abrahams’ eyes brimmed, her quick glance toward the kitchen door betraying nerves. A chair in the kitchen scraped violently against the floor and Mr. Abrahams appeared in the doorway.
“That girl has been gone a long time,” he growled. “She wasn’t nothing but trouble to begin with.” He shuffled farther into the living room. Tabitha visibly shrank from his approach. “After all this time you got no call comin’ and askin’ questions. So you take yourself and leave. Jessica is gone; there is no bringin’ her back. The Lord gave her to us as a trial!” His voice had grown louder, to the point where he was shouting and spittle was flying from his mouth.
Though the man was old, he was big and probably still strong. He was loud, seemingly unhinged. Tabitha Abrahams was cowering and shaking her head, her eyes full of a desperate plea. They wouldn’t get information about Jessica from her family today.
***
Standing next to his car, Adam wondered aloud if there was a time when the Mr. wasn’t home. Any information about the girl was going to come from her mother and not from a crazed old man. Washed-out sunlight glanced obliquely off the hood of his Subaru. In the distance, another car honked its horn, the sound sharp against the soft afternoon murmurs. Late snow geese swirled upward from an adjacent field, forming a V behind their anointed leader. Another car pulled into the Abrahams’ driveway. Unfortunately, Adam recognized the driver.
“Well, now, how interesting.” Jack Summers’ obnoxious drawl oozed malicious intent. “I kept telling Parks here that we needed to follow up with you, and here you are.”
As Parks was getting out of the car, the front door of the house flew open with a jarring bang. Micah startled and twisted around, staring with fear at the angry man starting to come down the steps.
“This is private property; you all need to get back in your cars and go back wherever you came from.” Spittle was again flying from the old man’s lips and his face was dark with fury. Adam was concerned the man might have a stroke while they were watching. Tabitha Abrahams rushed out after her husband, pulling on his arm to get him back inside, but he was resisting her, struggling to confront the interlopers. Adam saw it happen; there was nothing any of them could have done to stop his momentum. None of them could have moved fast enough to stop the old man from jerking away from his wife, stumbling backward off the top step, and tumbling down to land in a disturbingly still heap
at the bottom of the stairs.
There was a frozen moment when all five of them, Adam, Micah, Jack, Parks, and Mrs. Abrahams, stared at each other wondering what had happened. Mr. Abrahams lay quiet. Micah reached him first.
“Don’t touch him; he could have a neck injury,” Adam said.
Micah knelt on the damp asphalt. He put a finger to the man’s neck and frowned at Adam.
“Call 911,” he said quietly. Adam could see blood seeping from where Abrahams’s head had smacked the cement step
Mrs. Abrahams shakily made her way down the steep steps. She was ashen.
“Summers, grab her or we’re going to have another casualty,” Adam commanded. Mrs. Abrahams didn’t faint, but she did fall against Jack for support. Sirens screamed in the distance, and they all turned to watch as the ambulance rushed toward them along the rural roadway, visible one minute and dipping down a short hill the next. Mr. Abrahams still had not moved.
By the time they had moved their cars and the EMTs had carted Abrahams away, Mrs. Abrahams with him, with the local cops had following, the day had gone. Micah was waiting in the car, doing something on his laptop. Adam wanted nothing more than to talk to him. Adam’s fascination had grown deeper as he watched Micah take care of Mrs. Abrahams until the EMTs arrived. He was gentle and kind, even with someone who clearly did not like him.
Abrahams had hit the back of his head on that last concrete step, hard. They’d all heard the smack. And yeah, head wounds bled, they bled a lot. But he had not regained consciousness by the time the ambulance pulled out of the driveway. Adam had a very bad feeling.
Mrs. Abrahams had disappeared into the back of the ambulance with her husband. She was quiet and pale but not hysterical, thank god. She had to be at least thirty-five years younger than the Mr. And, yeah, he was self-aware enough to realize he had a problem with that. It was hard not to judge other people’s relationships from the jaded glass of his youth.
