by J. J. Cagney
Nancy remembered Jonny’s mussed, toffee-colored hair falling into his huge brown eyes. In those last moments, they leaked tears down to his trembling, open mouth.
Danielle tried to pull her hand away. Nancy didn’t let go. Danielle struggled harder; Nancy gripped tighter.
“He called for me. I know he did. In my dreams, I’ve heard him. ‘Mommy, I need you!’”
Danielle tugged again and Nancy’s hand dropped to the hard mattress. Nancy glanced at it, the exposed palm up, vulnerable and pale.
“You need to see him,” she cried.
Part of her understood this was a hallucination. Her actions scared Danielle.
Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.
She needed to say those words, but those weren’t the ones that dribbled past her lips.
“Trevor. That’s wrong. Need to stop that mess. The bastard.”
No, that wasn’t what she wanted to say. Nancy inhaled deeply and said, “Need to tell you about Jonny.”
But she didn’t have the chance.
7 Danielle
Before she spoke again, told Danielle what upset her so, Nancy’s breathing stopped.
Long after the heart monitor shrilled its loss, Danielle stayed, gripping the chair next to the hospital bed, staring at her mother’s narrow frame huddled under the mound of blankets.
What was that?
Nancy’s last moments held more emotion than Danielle ever saw before.
Trevor.
That name stuck out. Must be Trevor Dresden, Jonathan’s best friend.
Her mother called him a bastard with such spitting anger. What had he done?
Danielle stayed there, even after the nurses and doctor bustled in. Nancy never shared her secrets.
And, now, Danielle feared they were deeper and darker than she’d imagined. She knew where those secrets stemmed from: Jonathan.
In some ways, her entire life revolved around her brother—the child who wasn’t there.
Trevor, her father’s lover Janice, her parents . . . all the people mentioned, all the people Nancy thought about today related back to Jonathan.
That old, unquenchable need to discover every detail of her brother’s murder consumed her. Should she ask her father? Your father isn’t as resilient as he likes to think . . . Nancy told her that often growing up, and Danielle knew the truth of those words. A strong man wouldn’t leave his daughter alone with a woman who’d tried to commit suicide.
Garrett opened the garage door and met Danielle there, pulling her into his arms.
“There’s a lot of paperwork to sign when someone dies,” she mumbled into his chest, glad for the quiet and the man holding her.
Garrett pulled back and looked down into her eyes, studying her face as if searching for signs of her cracking under the weight of the strain. Danielle always resented her mother’s depression because she feared Garrett waited for her to succumb to its genetics.
“I’m fine,” Danielle said on a sigh. She didn’t feel fine. Garrett must have understood that because he tightened his hold and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
“Love you, Dani.”
“Mmm. Love you, too. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sad and maybe a bit angry she didn’t tell me . . .” Danielle heaved another thick sigh. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? This is a lot to deal with, and if your dad didn’t—”
Danielle’s eyes narrowed. “He showed up. He had to sign most of the paperwork but I didn’t want to leave Mom there, alone.” She trailed off, her gaze sliding away from Garrett’s to the garage’s concrete slab.
Garrett took her hand and squeezed it, pulling her gently into the house. Some of the grief Danielle carried sloughed off as she walked into her bright, happy kitchen.
Home. The word wrapped around her heart, creating warmth she hadn’t known she needed.
“I’m sorry Hank was an ass,” Garrett said.
Danielle shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to break the tradition.”
Garrett brought her a glass of red wine and a plate of reheated pizza. Danielle smiled her thanks. Garrett was a terrible cook, but he knew how to order a great pizza. She took a large bite, enjoying the comforting flavors and textures.
“Thanks,” Danielle murmured, taking a large gulp of wine. “The boys?”
“In bed. They were exhausted.”
Danielle nodded, but her mouth turned down and her heart ached a little. She loved bedtime. Both Kevin and Reid snuggled into her sides, heads on her shoulders, as she read to them. Kevin wouldn’t want to hug her, not tomorrow.
She set down her slice of half-eaten pizza on her plate.
The doorbell rang. Danielle’s wineglass rested halfway between the table and her mouth. She caught Garrett’s questioning glance.
“You expecting anyone? Hank?” Garrett asked.
Danielle shook her head. “Dad and I . . . we didn’t get into it, but the situation was tense. He wouldn’t stop by, I don’t think.” He’d been so cavalier about her mother’s death, which caused Danielle to reply in short, chilled responses. Hank didn’t appreciate Danielle’s attitude and let her know it. Just another fun family interaction.
Garrett made a disapproving sound in his throat. “Sit and eat. I’ll take care of our visitor.”
“Thanks,” Danielle said.
She glanced out the window in the breakfast nook, his eyes widening as she caught a glimpse of a police car. In that moment, she feared what would happen when Garrett opened the door.
8 Arlen
Captain Arlen Hardesty rang Danielle’s doorbell even as he fidgeted on the stoop. He glanced around, his gaze drifting left then right as he took in the neighbors’ neat two-story brick homes and the number of late-model cars in the drives and at the curbs.
Nice area. New. A master-planned community with some of the best schools in Lewisville. The neighborhood took its identity seriously—between the themed street names and parks, there was no doubt each family considered their home their castle.
These types of places made him nervous. Not just their newness but their sameness. His little town might have grown over the years, but his house was a traditional’50s ranch. Arlen loved its low-slung profile and the redbrick faded by the harsh Texas sun. He liked the hominess of the single-story dwelling surrounded by large oak trees.
This place was . . . up-and-coming. Ambitious. Definitely what he’d expect from Hank Foster’s child. That man had always enjoyed the respect of his position and dreamed of more than being a small-town lawyer.
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
He hated to drop by so late—nearly nine.
The glass-and-wood paneled door opened, and he stared eye-to-eye with a young man who must’ve been about thirty. Dark, curly hair, hazel eyes. Dark brows drew lower as he took in Arlen and then the police cruiser stamped with the Mansfield logo on the side.
“Can I help you?” the young man asked.
“I’m Chief Arlen Hardesty. From Mansfield.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder at the car behind him. “I’m looking for Danielle Foster.”
“It’s Patterson,” a medium-height blonde said from behind the man. She peered past the man’s shoulder with the same wide green eyes as Nancy’s. Her face wasn’t quite as delicate as her mother’s, but fire lit those eyes and she had a mouth used to smiling.
A good face—interesting. Good-looking couple.
“You got your mama’s eyes, I see,” Hardesty said. He fumbled for his badge, tugging it from the pocket of his khakis his wife Irene insisted he wear. She said they made him more professional—as if his pants would impact his ability to do his job.
He flashed them both his badge, then his license.
“Mind if I come in? I wanted to talk something over with you, Mrs. Patterson.”
Danielle blinked before looking up at the man beside her, who shrugged and opened the door wider.
“Call me Danielle, please. And this is my husband, Garrett,” Danielle said as Garrett shut the door. Arlen had a moment of déjà vu, setting foot for the first time in Nancy and Hank Foster’s house all those years ago.
“Your mother called me today.”
Danielle’s mouth gawped before she cleared her throat.
“Oh, wow. She was busy today. Um . . .” Danielle glanced back at Garrett. “She . . . she died.”
As Danielle blinked back tears, her husband slid his arm around her shoulder in a protective gesture.
Hardesty felt the punch of emotion to his own chest. With a mental curse and a sigh, he offered his condolences best he could, feeling awkward and too large and country for their pretty Dallas home.
He didn’t want to bring all this old ugly into the clean, bright hallway. But he was here now and Nancy’s urgency beat against his conscience for disrupting these young folks’ lives.
“Can we sit a few?” Arlen asked.
“Yes, of course.” Danielle gestured forward. Her husband held her hand while she led them into a spacious living area that opened to a large yellow kitchen on the far side. White crown molding trimmed the room, accentuating the steep pitch of the double-story roofline.
The furniture was slightly worn with obvious favorite spots on both couches. A box of LEGOs spilled across thick beige carpet along with some action figures.
Danielle’s gaze darted to the mess before she sighed and led Arlen to the couches. She waited for him to sit before she did. Garrett walked into the kitchen and returned with a glass of red wine, which he handed to Danielle.
“Want anything?” Garrett asked.
Arlen shook his head. Garrett settled next to Danielle and put his arm across the back of the sofa. Good. The young man seemed to care about her, seemed protective. That was really good.
“I can barely believe you’re the baby I used to give gummy bears to,” Arlen blurted.
“Time has a way of passing,” Danielle said. She sipped her wine.
“You got that right, Mrs. Patterson. Danielle.” He corrected with a slight grin. He heaved a sigh and settled his bulk more comfortably in the chair. “I’ve been in law enforcement for a long time, over forty years. And I must tell you that I’ve seen a lot of bad stuff, stuff that’d shake you.”
He paused, looked down at his clasped hands. “Times have changed. Mansfield’s growing. With growth comes more crime. Not much you can do about it, just like there doesn’t seem to be much you can do about budget concerns. Things were different there, a lot different back then.”
He glanced at Danielle from the corner of his eye, then turned to face her directly. “In the eighties, we weren’t that close to Fort Worth. We weren’t big and didn’t have any plans to be. Our crime consisted of a few D&Ds—that’s drunk and disorderly—and maybe domestic violence or a robbery. Assault, of any kind, was rare.”
“I’m not sure why you’re here, Chief Hardesty,” Danielle said.
He closed his eyes briefly. “Give me a sec. I need to tell this in order. We got the call from Nancy Foster. She was inconsolable. She knew, just flat out knew. I hated that she didn’t have any hope to live on. But it wouldn’t have been right to give her any because we were sure it was bad, too.”
“Why?” Danielle asked. Garrett took her hand, his grip gentle but firm.
“Because boys aren’t just plucked off the street when they’re walking to their mamas, Mrs. Patterson. That’s just not the way things happened then, in our town. It’s different now, not just here but all over. You gotta watch your kids real close and even then, it might not be enough. We all know that, though. That doesn’t make it right and doesn’t make it any easier for parents who don’t and pay the price.”
Danielle’s wineglass tilted. Garrett grabbed it, fumbling slightly but managing to keep it from spilling. He set it on the gleaming wooden coffee table.
“Back then, walking home a block or two wasn’t anything to worry about, just like playing in the woods or letting the boys drag race off 287 some Friday nights. It didn’t hurt anyone, just kids getting some of that macho out.
“Then, we got us a missing boy. We knew the guy was driving a Chevy pickup. Your mother told us that. Little Trevor Dresden saw the truck, too, when he was biking up the road with his friends back to their houses. Four other boys were out that night. That keeps me up at night, still.”
Arlen cleared his throat.
“Anyway, Nancy even knew it was an older model with a dent in the right fender.”
He met Danielle’s gaze. “We knew the time Jonathan had been walking down the road, and we knew almost to the second when the truck passed her ’cause the bagging boy heard it too as he was going on back into the store. He didn’t see it, but he heard a truck rattling past. Typical sound around those parts. In those days.” Arlen’s eyes teared up, as they always did when he talked about this particular case. “We couldn’t find him, not even a glimpse of him, and we started looking within an hour of the call.”
Arlen’s head collapsed down between his shoulders.
Garrett shifted on the couch. Arlen dipped his head in acknowledgment of the slowness of getting to the point. “Sorry. I got a bit caught up.”
“I . . . I didn’t know all that,” Danielle said. Her voice was rough with emotions. She turned to share a long look with her husband. Something passed between them, something important.
Arlen slapped his hands on his aching knees. “It’s late. Y’all have been through a lot. I just needed to let you know your mother wanted me to go by her place. Pick up some journals from the attic.”
Danielle’s face turned whiter than fresh cream. Arlen’s cop radar lit bright and started whirring.
“Journals?” she choked out.
Arlen nodded. “That’s why she called me.”
Danielle cleared her throat. “She . . . she kept them?” Danielle asked, her voice rising.
“That’s what she said,” Arlen responded. “I knew she was sick.” He frowned. “Didn’t know it was that bad.” He paused, blowing a thick stream of air out of his cheeks. “Look. I’d like to pick them up. I got a warrant.” He pulled the document out of his back pocket. “Figured we should keep it all legal.”
“You’ll be running up against my father,” Danielle said, her voice dry. “It’s always a good idea to dot i’s and cross t’s with that man.”
“Don’t I know it.” He tried not to growl out the words but failed to keep his voice even.
Danielle swallowed. She turned to face her husband. They communicated without words yet again.
“Would tomorrow morning work? Say, about eight thirty? It’s my day to carpool the boys,” Danielle said.
“I’ll do that, Dani,” Garrett said. He had a nice voice—deep, pleasant, full of caring for his wife. Hardesty liked him.
“You sure?” she asked. “I know it’s getting to be tax season and—”
He squeezed her shoulder with gentle pressure. “I’m sure. You do this with Chief Hardesty.”
Danielle nodded. “Is that okay? Tomorrow, I mean?”
Hardesty wanted to tell her no. That he wanted to go tonight, get it done. But he had no desire to crawl around a dead woman’s attic at ten o’clock at night. Tomorrow, in the light, would have to work.
“All righty. I’ll see you there.”
9 Danielle
Sleep eluded Danielle. By the time she rose, groggy, from the twisted sheets, her neck had developed a crick, and her head thrummed with each beat of her heart. She shuffled from the bed, feeling fuzzier and more drained than the night before.
After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she made the mess of a bed: she pulled up the white cotton sheet with the tiny eyelet lace edging and fluffed the pillows. Next came the thick chocolate damask comforter and then the assortment of throw pillows, all the while thinking about Chief Hardesty’s comments about her mother’s journals and her brother’s death—the endless loop she didn’t know how to break
.
Danielle moaned when the first whiff of coffee hit her nose—the expensive kind that required being ground fresh from beans. They didn’t usually drink it during the week, which meant they were either out of the other stuff or Garrett knew Danielle was going to be drinking a couple of mugs. She couldn’t manage more than one cup of the big-can kind because it made her stomach hurt.
“Thanks for starting that,” Danielle said, glancing at the clock. With a yelp, she hurtled over to the refrigerator and began the morning scramble to get breakfasts and lunches completed before the boys exploded into the room. As she made the meals, Garrett poured himself a cup of coffee, then he made one for Danielle, placed it at her elbow. He sipped from his mug, eyes dark and narrowed as he considered her over the rim. His English muffin and sliced melon sat on a plate near his hip, half-eaten.
“You going to be okay today?” he asked, setting his mug down on the counter. He leaned against the white-and-gray flecked granite negligently, his long body rearranging itself into a more comfortable position. But Danielle didn’t appreciate the sight like she normally would. She was too busy slapping the bread onto the top of sandwiches she’d finished building.
“Of course.”
Danielle glanced up to see Garrett still leaning there, considering her.
“What?” she demanded before she raised the coffee cup to her lips.
“I’m worried about this Hardesty fellow. What he’s asking of you. What it will bring up.”
Danielle jerked, splashing coffee on her hand.
Garrett gave her a dishtowel, his gaze still solemn. “I know it bothers you. Jonathan’s death.”
“You have no idea.” Danielle sighed.
Garrett picked up his coffee again. She watched him bring the cup to his lips, tip it, and drink. Danielle met Garrett’s eyes, the slight crinkles at the corners more pronounced, as they always were when he was trying to figure her out. Knots formed in her shoulders and throbbed in painful syncopation with her pulse.
“I—I don’t know what to do.” Danielle’s words stopped as she struggled for breath. “You hated her.”
