by Aimee Hix
And then she was at my elbow with her hand on my back. How do moms know?
“What’s going on, sweetie?”
Therapy had made my emotions too easy to access, in my opinion. I was sure normal people thought that was a wonderful breakthrough and something to be pleased about, but the fact was I didn’t feel like myself.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him or me or maybe both of us. I’m not acting like me anymore and I think that’s a problem for him.”
“Anyone who really loves you wants this for you, Willa. You’ve always been reserved, but when Michael died you closed off almost completely. You changed when Seth came back into your life. You got your spark back. Hold on to that.”
I rubbed my hand over her arm. It was possible that my mother was a better therapist than the one who had her shingle out. Then again, she knew me a lot better.
“How’s the sex? That’s still fine, right?”
I could feel Dad cringe from across the room. And since he’d sent me on a fake stakeout at Motel Disgusting, I was going to torment him more than a little. I turned around to face her.
“No, that’s still amazing. Like, uh-mazing. Even when we’re fighting we’re one step away from tearing each other’s clothes off.”
I heard a clank as Dad banged the mug down on the table before fleeing. She laughed, smoothing my hair down and then caressing my cheek for a moment. Then she reached around me to grab the tea I’d started for her.
“We’re terrible for torturing him like that,” I said.
“That’s what he gets for sending my baby on a made-up case.”
She winked at me. Never mess with Mom. He hadn’t learned that lesson in the almost twenty years they’d been married.
I slid down the stairs to my room. It had been mostly denuded since I’d started spending more time at the apartment with Seth. And it was true. It was a mere technicality that I was holding onto saying I didn’t really live over there with him. And it wasn’t just the fear that once I made it official, we’d pack up the last of Michael. I didn’t want to lose my space. A place that was just mine.
I checked my phone. Nothing from Seth. I couldn’t deny something was going on with him. The only thing I was sure of, bone deep sure, was that he wasn’t cheating on me. I’d mentioned it to Dad mostly to make him feel guilty for my fake stakeout. In high school, Michael and I spent a lot of time bantering about Seth being a player, but he’d never been a cheater. And if he was going to start, it wouldn’t be with the woman who knew his whole playbook. Would he?
Dammit, he was making me doubt all the things I thought I knew about him. He wouldn’t be pushing me so hard to move in if he was trying to get something over on me or trying to end it. I had to hold onto that faith in him. I had to believe that whatever was bothering him wasn’t about us. If it was his work, I couldn’t do much of anything. Maybe I could check in with Gordon, Seth’s de facto partner. After last fall, I trusted him and I knew he’d be honest with me, as honest as he could. If it was a case, he’d tell me.
Maybe it was his family. Seth’s relationship with his parents had gotten extremely rocky since Michael’s death. Seth and I hadn’t spent much time with them since we’d gotten together. Barely an hour at Christmas. He’d been in a bigger hurry to get out of there than I had. They had both been excited to see us and even happy that we’d reconnected after the years apart. Neither of us had enlightened them to our “reconnection” being a drunken hookup the night of Michael’s memorial service. They didn’t need to know and, honestly, it wasn’t something either of us were particularly proud of.
He’d even forgone Thanksgiving with them. I was still a mass of injuries and physical damage. It had made sense he’d want to be with me and that I’d want to be with my family. I hadn’t even thought about the Andersons and what they were doing with no children home for Thanksgiving.
I took a quick shower, just to wash off the feeling of cheap motel and stupid fight. I had time to have breakfast with Ben before he left for school.
What greeted me in the kitchen was pancakes. Real pancakes. Nothing wheat germ or flax. Pancakes and syrup and, god bless the woman, bacon. I gulped down half my cup of coffee from earlier. It was slightly warmer than room temperature but that left room for a top off. Ben played it cool but he was happy to see me. He must have been because he didn’t say a word as I slathered butter all over my stack of pillowy, carb-laden heaven on a plate and dumped a cup of syrup over it. I chewed a piece of bacon and watched him spread all-natural almond butter on his. No butter or syrup. Mom had a single pancake on her plate. A cup of herbal tea seemed to be the only thing she touched. Dad used the rest of the bottle of syrup on his plate, drowning the bacon too. Talk about a house divided.
I had just cut into my stack when I heard the front door open. The pancakes had been a trap. I gave my mother a look filled with betrayal but she just shrugged. Either I was losing my touch and my expression of pain and outrage had come across as merely vexed or she’d had nothing to do with Seth’s presence. I looked at my father and he had conveniently found a newspaper to read.
“Dad?”
“Hmm, yeah, sweetie?”
“Why is Seth here?”
“What makes you think Seth is here, pumpkin?”
“The awesome skills of deduction you’ve been training me in literally my whole life.”
I slammed my fork back down on the table and got up. I got another plate and filled it with the now understandable overabundance of pancakes. I set the plate in front of Seth as he sat down and returned to my seat across from him.
Dad offered him a faint smile. It was like blood meant nothing to him. Ben passed him the butter dish. Traitors in my own family.
“Good morning, Nancy,” Seth said.
I stuffed a large forkful of pancakes in my mouth and chewed viciously. I had just wanted a few hours to process the whole scene at the motel. Why in the hell did he have to show up and ruin breakfast too?
“Willa.”
I swallowed and shoveled in another forkful. If I kept my mouth full it would be impossible for us to fight. If we couldn’t fight then I wouldn’t cuss. If I didn’t cuss, Mom would be happier. I was doing it for her. I was literally eating my feelings. Of course, once I was full or the plate was empty then I’d be out of excuses to avoid talking to him.
“She’s really pissed, dude.”
And there was my baby brother wading into the emotional sewage for me. I really loved that kid.
“Yeah, I know she is, man. She’s right to be. I was a jerk.”
I took a deep breath forgetting I had five square inches of gummy pancake paste in my mouth. I coughed hard and then ran for the sink so I could spit the food out before I choked. I spit a few more times to make sure I had it all out. And to buy myself some more time.
I turned back to the table to find all four sets of eyes watching me. I noticed no one got up ready to give me the Heimlich, just in case. Nice.
“Seth admits he’s wrong? The apocalypse is imminent. Do we have a Bible?”
“Be nice,” my mother said.
I thought I was being nice. I hadn’t thrown anything at him. I hadn’t walked out. I hadn’t even cursed. I got any nicer and I’d have to offer him a mint and hot towel.
“No, she’s right to be skeptical, Nancy. I’ve been pushing her buttons and then apologizing when she reacts. This morning I crossed the line big time intruding on the fake stakeout and trying to boss her around.”
He’d known it was fake too? And he must have realized his mistake because he started to stand.
“You move from that chair and I will make sure it’s the last thing you do. You knew. You not only knew but you kept me there while you took a goddamn nap. You are so dead it’s not even funny.”
Chapter
4
I need 20 minutes.
>
For? my reply read.
20 minutes of you not asking stupid questions.
I had missed Detective Jan Boyd. We had kept in touch after the Joe Reagan case but it had been a few weeks since she’d let me buy her coffee and pick her brain on the cases I was studying for the PI licensing exam. She was the only person who’d been treating me remotely normally since the end of that case. Which mostly meant that she treated me like she was mildly annoyed with me and slightly proud at the same time. But she didn’t hover or worry over me so it was a nice change.
Sure. Bob’s? I wasn’t a fan of anything at Bob’s. All their food went down like paint stripper but Jan liked the coffee.
Can you meet me at the station?
I stared at the words for a moment. “At the station” was not something I figured Jan would ever say to me. I wasn’t persona non grata at the PD, but I also wasn’t one of them anymore. I knew she wouldn’t want to meet there if it wasn’t important so I texted back my agreement and grabbed a jacket.
It wasn’t my workplace anymore, but the sight of all the black-and-whites in the parking lot calmed me almost as much as the front door of home. The little asshole voice in my head reminded me that I was much safer at the cop shop than at home. I stuffed her in the box as I disarmed and stowed my weapon—concealed carry took you most places but into a police station without a badge was not one of them.
I tried for casual as I walked up to the front desk and landed mostly on not actively displaying signs of instability. They were used to it though. Cops just made people nervous.
“Hi, I’m here to see Detective Boyd. She’s expecting me.”
“She’s expecting you?” he asked, distracted with something on his monitor.
I wanted to swallow my smartass reply but he’d barely glanced at me. This was a public building with dozens of targets some crazy would love to put down. That annoyed the hell out of me because I knew how quickly a lapse in vigilance could go ugly. “I said she was.”
He looked up. Ah, Cop Face, I know you well. His expression softened. “Pennington, right?”
My right eye started to twitch, my fifth least favorite reminder of the reason for my fame.
“Yeah.” I jammed my hands in my pockets and looked away.
“Here’s your access.” I turned back to see him flop a lanyard on the counter. “And you’re supposed to wear it, not just carry it in your hand.”
I smiled at him and slipped it over my head. I’d never met him before but he’d obviously met my type before. The door behind him buzzed and popped open slightly. “She’s waiting for you on the other side of the man trap.”
I paused in the four-by-four space until the second door buzzed and Jan yanked it open. She didn’t even say hello before she turned and walked back through the main aisle of the glass and MDF cubicle farm. Her hair was longer than the last time I’d seen her. It was almost pretty.
She took a right and I was worried I’d lose her. Then I remembered the building wasn’t that big so I trailed back, taking it all in. The detective’s cubes weren’t something I’d experienced much of when I was a uniform, plus I’d been assigned to another station. This one was more modern, newer even if the computers were something out of a museum. The keyboards clacked at varying speeds. I was grateful that Ben made sure we always had the best bargain equipment because if I’d had to listen to Dad hunt and peck like I was hearing some of the old timers doing, I’d go mad.
“You done strolling down the runway, Beauty Queen?” Jan asked. Most women wouldn’t complain about that kind of nickname, but since she’d deposited it on me when I was bruised from temple to chin, it chafed. I’d learned in the past few months that Jan did not value meekness.
“Sorry. I forgot you speed walk with the other old folks at the mall in the mornings.”
There was a table arrayed with pastries and, blessedly, those giant coffee pots. I made a beeline for it and she watched with a quirk to her lips as I looked through the cups for one that seemed even slightly larger. They were all tiny. Why did they even make cups that small? They were tea party tiny.
“Dude, do you have a real cup I can use?” I turned to Jan. “These are cups for kids. I need a grownup cup.”
Jan chuckled and opened her magical cubicle cabinet, producing a mug bigger than a baby’s face. It had a smiley face with a bullet hole in its forehead. Giant and pithy. Yes. I could definitely work with that.
I overheard someone whispering, “Did she just call Boyd ‘dude’?”
Jan handed me the mug. I took my time attempting to empty the vat of regular coffee and stirring in a single packet of sugar with a meager splash of half and half. I was practically drinking it black. Jan made an annoyed noise and grabbed the coffee from me, tossing in another sugar and a waterfall of the creamer.
“You can’t think without cowboy coffee and we both know it.”
She handed me back the mug and I took a long swallow, which I could do because it wasn’t scalding hot anymore thanks to the extra half and half Jan had generously dumped in. She was right. It was much better with the usual condiments added.
Another voice whispered, “Did Boyd just fix her coffee?”
Geez, Jan’s co-workers had no idea how whispering was supposed to work.
“Yes, I called her ‘dude.’ I do it a lot. Yes, she fixed my coffee because she knows I’m too incompetent to handle the task. If you have any other questions, you should ask them out loud. Some detectives they are. They’re all under the impression that you’re some kind of hard-ass ball breaker.” I winked at her.
She tried not to smile but we both knew that it wouldn’t last. “Kid, you’re ruining my reputation.”
I shrugged and had another over-large mouthful of coffee.
I scanned the desk surface and saw the usual cop paraphernalia—dirty cups half full of coffee, stacks of folders in no discernible order, and a stuffed pig in uniform. Hell, even I had that stupid pig packed in a box I’d jammed in a closet. All she was missing was the cartoons about donuts. And then my eye lit on the enclosed shelf space. I reached over and slid the door down. There it was. Cops, coffee, donuts, and pigs.
“Sit,” Jan barked.
I dropped into her chair instead of the guest chair and spun around to annoy her. “I need a lawyer, Detective?”
“Up, smartass. You sit in the perp chair.” We both knew no perp had ever, would never sit in that chair but that’s what it was named and that’s what we called it. Cops like routine.
I took an extra ten seconds hauling my frame up and over into the chair that didn’t have wheels and slumped down, giving her my best sullen criminal stare.
“You having fun?” Jan dropped into her own chair and it kept going to the bottom of its adjustment level, stopping with a jolt. All those months of punishing martial arts training had been worth it. She’d never noticed I’d depressed the height button on the chair.
I smiled at her in earnest. “You done giving me shit, Jan? I am here out of the goodness of my own heart, you know.”
She laughed and cranked her chair back up to the right height.
I had done an admirable job of ignoring the food but I had skipped out before finishing breakfast and, as I had pointed out, I was working for free. She caught me eyeing the table and gave me the nod.
I stole three donuts and a bear claw too big to dunk in the mug. These weren’t pastries from a grocery store or chain donut place. These were the real deal. And enormous. The sugar rush would take me through the rest of the week enormous. I took as small of bites as my ravenous appetite allowed.
She grabbed a folder off the top of the pile. The spine was worn and soft and it was neat but overstuffed. She handed it to me.
“I need your help.”
I must have taken the folder but I was too busy gaping at her to register doing it. I might have gotten over
my hero worship and started calling her by first name—at her insistence—but Detective Jan Boyd asking for my help was still a shock. I recovered enough to start running my mouth, the only part of me that never seems to shut down.
“What? You need my help? With … ?”
She nodded at the folder. “Give that a look and tell me if anything jumps out at you.”
I began to flip the folder open and she put her hand on top. “Not here. Take it home. Give it a good going over. Call me in a couple of days and let me know if you’ve got anything.”
She turned back to her desk. I had been dismissed. You bet your ass I’d be looking over the file if only to figure out what the best detective in the county needed my help for. Neither of us was under any illusions that I’d done anything more than stumble into a solution to one of her cases last fall, and that was with her and the ATF doing most of the heavy lifting.
I resisted looking in the folder until I had returned my lanyard and got back in my truck. I’d seen a few of these when I’d been in uniform. I’d even handled a few when I had to give the officer’s notes for a case that was moving on from my hands to a detective’s.
The first page in the file was a summary report detailing the contents of the folder: witness statements, crime scene photos, detective notes, and the evidence list. I flipped through realizing there was too much to get into in the front seat of the truck. I fanned out a few crime scene photos looking for the detective notes and not finding them. I paged through the file piece by piece in case they’d been put back in the wrong section. Nothing.
I slipped out my phone to text Jan.
Detective notes seem to be missing.
I want your opinion without mine leading you.
Huh. That made it easier and harder. I’d built enough of a relationship with Jan that I wasn’t too giddy to speak to her coherently, but I’d never before been in the position she was asking me to assume—reviewing her work. It was an odd feeling.
