by J. J. Cagney
“They were both excellent,” Danielle said. “I can’t believe how well you both played. I mean, didn’t you both get like eight hits and twenty-seven BRIs or something?”
Reid slumped down in his chair, giggling, while Kevin rolled his eyes importantly.
“That’s RBI, Mom. For runs-batted-in. Jeez.”
“Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting.” Danielle bit her cheek to keep her lips from quirking upward.
“Hey, she’s trying,” Garrett said, eyes dancing. “We’ve got to work on her lingo a bit,” he added, leaning back in his chair, his arm hooked with negligent ease over its back. “One of these days she’ll be talking stats and ribbies with the rest of us.”
“I thought ribs were lung protectors,” Danielle said, making her eyes as wide as possible.
Garrett smiled, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at her teasing. Reid slid farther toward the floor.
“You’re such a girl.” Kevin sighed.
“For which I am forever thankful,” Garrett said around a mouthful of pasta, winking at her.
More of the same. A conversation like this filled all their family dinners. Danielle wondered what it would have been like to have lived with an older sibling. Would the rivalry have been as strong?
Danielle turned one of the many stray pieces of spaghetti around her plate, watching it zigzag through the tomato sauce.
“Whatcha think about that, Dani?”
All three of them turned to look at her, nearly identical expressions of consternation furrowing their brows when she remained mute. Two were tanned and one so pale and smooth, just like her, sweet kid, that she choked on the love, and the fear, welling up inside.
Garrett’s mouth turned down on the left side. His fingers tapped on the table before he smoothed them through his hair. A curl sprang up on his crown. Danielle bit her cheek harder, blinking. He gripped her hand, his thumb rubbing small circles on her wrist. She swallowed, then again.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “No, don’t start with the whining, Reid. It’s time to get ready for bed anyway.”
He herded them upstairs, following them to the landing as Danielle rested her head on her elbows that she leaned onto the table top. Garrett answered the questions they hurtled at him. Then, she heard the squeak of the bathroom door’s lower hinge, which meant Reid would be in the shower soon, followed immediately by Kevin. On went the water, a faint hum seeping through the floor above.
Danielle gathered up the dishes. She clanked the plates and silverware hurriedly and settled the dishes there even as she heard Garrett’s footfalls; she pretended intense interest in the temperature of the water. Her prewash ritual was so ingrained that even when they’d bought this house three and a half years ago, she couldn’t break the habit. Once, years before, she tried to load the dishwasher, even buying the scrubber soap, but she rewashed half the load to get off the odd bits of stuck-on food. Better to continue what worked.
“Where were you, Dani?”
She shook her head, wishing he hadn’t asked. Garrett’s hands eased over her shoulders once she placed the dishes in the sudsy sink. He turned her, her body wooden and unresponsive.
“Talk to me,” he said, voice coaxing.
“Chief Hardesty said something that bothered me today.” Danielle tried to turn back to the sink, but his fingers remained firm on her arms.
“All right.”
She forced her gaze back up to Garrett’s. “He said the killer—Jonathan’s killer—is probably still out there.”
His hands fell to his sides. “Shit.”
“What do I do, Garrett? I’ve spent most of my life running away from my brother’s death. From my mother’s issues around my brother’s murder. I have the bare minimum of a relationship with my father.” She covered her face with her damp hands. “I don’t want that to touch the boys. I can’t let my past hurt them.”
She whirled back to the sink and scrubbed the dish harder, needing a way to get her anger out. She was emotional right now, conflicted with all the questions that danced around in her head since finding those journals—since her last conversation with her mother, really.
“I don’t really understand your history. I can’t. I didn’t live it.”
Garrett’s voice was strained, but the words were right. He was trying, she knew. He reached around her and turned off the faucet. He turned her back to face him, ignoring the soapy water dripping from her fingers.
“This is your past—your family. I want to be here for you. But I don’t know what to tell you, Dani. I don’t know what’s right.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek hard against his shoulder. “I’m scared.”
He slid his hand over her hair. “Of what?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Finding out the truth.”
“All right,” Garrett said, his voice holding a note of uncertainty. “Do you want Chief Hardesty to keep you informed of the investigation? Do you want him to investigate at all?”
Danielle squeezed her eyes tighter still. “Yes,” she managed to push out, barely more than a faint breath. She pulled back, studying Garrett’s face. “I do. I mean, if it could save another kid, how could I not? But . . . I don’t want to tell the boys. Or my dad. Is that . . . are you okay with that?”
Garrett pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m okay with that,” he murmured as he pulled her back into a hug. “Maybe you’ll be able to learn something.”
“What if it makes the situation worse?” Danielle asked, tipping her head back to see his expression.
“Then we deal with it,” Garrett replied. His teeth nibbled at his lower lip, a sure sign he didn’t like that option.
They stood together, hugging, Danielle drawing strength from Garrett, in the brightly lit sunshine-yellow kitchen.
“Detective Hardesty said it’s likely they talked to Jonathan’s killer.”
Garrett stiffened. “Then why the hell didn’t they arrest him?”
“I guess it doesn’t work like that.” Danielle sighed. “It sounds like the burden of proof is harder to get than it is on TV. They have to have enough evidence to bring someone in to interrogate them.”
“I don’t like this, Dani. I’ll support you, support your decision, but I . . . Shit. This makes me nervous.”
“Me, too.” Danielle closed her eyes.
I expect you to follow my wishes.
Danielle wanted. She wanted to honor her mother’s last request to her. Nancy’s writing it out in the letter made more sense. Nancy spoke in code about her wishes for Jonathan’s murder: She wanted Danielle to continue the search for her brother’s killer. To get the justice Nancy never procured.
Something had changed. Nancy’s death? Possibly, but Danielle couldn’t shake the worry that it was more than that.
“I have to plan my mother’s memorial service,” Danielle said.
Garrett pulled her tighter against him. “Ah, Dani, I wish I could do more for you.”
“You being here, this right here, it helps.”
“Your dad won’t help?” Garrett asked.
Danielle’s lips twisted down. “I didn’t call him.”
Garrett grunted. No doubt if she looked, Garrett would be wearing the expression she’d dubbed The Foster Look. Garrett never liked either of her parents. Somehow, he’d still managed to make her feel loved, wanted, respected.
She was damn lucky they’d met. She would never forget that.
“Why not?” Garrett asked.
“Because . . .” Danielle trailed off. “This sounds so stupid, I know. Mom wrote about his affairs. I read about one today.” She raised her gaze to his, trying to get her bearings, trying to articulate what she’d come to realize after her search through the attic.
“I don’t think my father loved my mom. Ever. And he sure as hell doesn’t care about me.”
16 Danielle
Danielle spent the next day talking to the funeral director and crematorium, a
nd they set up a memorial service for late that following Tuesday afternoon.
Four days. In four days, Danielle would have to say her final goodbye. She called Garrett with the news.
“You need to let your dad know,” he said as they finished speaking.
“I know. I just . . .” Danielle hated talking about her father because she struggled to put into words her reaction based in part on her mother’s reactions to him.
“He’s a workaholic ass, Dani. I get it. But this was his wife. Your mother. He can’t ignore that.”
Garrett continued to have faith in her father where she didn’t. But she would call her father because Garrett wanted her to and she knew she should.
After ending her call with Garrett, Danielle scrolled through her contacts until she found her father’s name: Hank Foster. She hadn’t called him Dad in years. Danielle pushed the talk button with trepidation.
“Agency for Missing, Exploited and Abducted Children.”
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly six in the evening. Did he let anyone who worked for him have a reasonable schedule?
“Hank Foster, please.”
“Just one moment.”
She listened to the watery jazz music for a few minutes before the pleasant voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting.”
“This is his daughter,” Danielle said, pulling the rarely used trump card. “And I really need to speak with him.”
“Hold the line.”
Meetings. Such a convenient excuse.
“Danielle.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
“Look, if this is about your mother’s funeral—”
“Memorial service. She didn’t want a funeral.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Hank said on a sigh. “Just understand we’re busy here, and—”
“And attending your wife’s memorial service is the decent, Christian thing to do.” She put an emphasis on Christian, knowing it would anger him by pointing out his hypocrisy. “You were still married.”
“I don’t need a lecture about my actions.” His voice turned hard, just as she’d anticipated.
Danielle disagreed, but now wasn’t the time to argue that point. “That’s only part of why I called. I wanted to know what you intend to do with the house. Garrett asked if you wanted to sell it.” Her mom left everything to Danielle; that included Nancy’s half of the big house on the acre-lot near SMU with its astronomical taxes. Danielle wanted out, quickly.
“You sure you don’t want to move into it? It’s been in the family a long time.”
“Seriously?”
She waited. So did he. Was he clueless or a complete asshole? Maybe with Hank there was no difference.
“After my childhood there? No. Way.”
Hank sighed. “I guess you want me to get the house on the market.”
Danielle was a little surprised Hank didn’t offer to buy her out of the place. She’d been hoping he’d do so. Would have made her life so much easier.
“I know a good real estate agent. Garrett’s sister recommended her. But I need your approval to sign. Does Aunt Mel have any rights to the place anymore?”
“If you want to handle that, Danielle, I’ll be happy to sign the paperwork. Mel doesn’t have anything to do with the house, I bought her half after . . . look, I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
When don’t you? Danielle wanted to ask. Instead, she squeezed her free hand into a fist and kept her voice level. “I’ll have the real estate agent send over the documents once we’ve established a price. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine. I need to get back to that meeting.”
“I’m sure it’s important.”
“Look, I’ll stop by the house later this week. Maybe tonight. I want to collect some things.”
Danielle’s breath froze. “The house?”
“You know, just some old keepsakes.”
“Like what?” Danielle asked. “I’m going by anyway, I could grab whatever you want.” She hadn’t planned to step foot in the house again—spending her morning there with Chief Hardesty had left her shaken and unhappy—but she didn’t like the idea of Hank rifling through Nancy’s things.
Hank made a strange, almost annoyed sound. Someone called to him in the background. “I’ll get it. It’s from your . . . Jonny’s . . .”
“Oh.” Danielle huffed. “When did you get a key? I mean . . .” Danielle tried to think of a plausible excuse. “I would have been happy to give you one.”
“I’ve always had keys to the house.”
“I didn’t realize you stopped by to visit with Mom,” Danielle said, fishing for . . . she wasn’t sure what information she wanted. More than the tidbits Hank dropped throughout their conversation.
“I didn’t. She didn’t want to see me, but I own the place.”
17 Arlen
Danielle’s phone message stated Hank Foster had keys to the house. And he planned to go by the ostentatious residence this week. Well, that would prove interesting—especially if Hank was looking for the box of journals now in Arlen’s possession.
Arlen frowned. Hank was a lawyer. A savvy one. Good thing Arlen worked through Danielle and had all the appropriate paperwork to justify his claim on Nancy’s years of notes and research. But just to be sure, Arlen needed to work through those books lickety-split.
After signing off on the last of the day’s paperwork, he heaved a sigh. Arlen had a choice. He picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s number.
“It’s after seven,” Irene said in that calm way of hers he’d come to rely on. But beneath the serenity, her tone held a hint of surprise.
“I know. I should have called a few hours ago. Got backlogged with the new cruiser request and—”
“As interesting as all that is.” Irene’s tone let him know she did not find the conversation interesting. “Are you coming home for dinner or should I bring something up?”
Arlen glanced at the journals, then at the notes he’d made of Danielle’s call. He wanted to be at Nancy’s house should Hank swing by.
“You mind bringing me a bite?” Arlen asked.
“You working on that old case?” Irene asked. Her voice powered through the speaker, causing Arlen to think she’d squeezed it between her ear and shoulder, probably pulling Tupperware out of the fridge.
“Yeah.”
“You think it’s going to pan out? This new information you got?” Irene asked. Arlen heard her rip off some tinfoil. Damn, he married a good woman.
“I want to think so. But it’ll be a lot of work, Reenie. I gotta go through these books and keep an eye on a couple of guys.”
“Just remember your blood pressure, Arlen. You promised me a month in Florida when you retired. I plan to hold you to that.”
Arlen pulled up the first journal and opened to the first page. “As you should. Thanks, Reenie.”
“Be there in fifteen.”
Arlen skimmed the page of Nancy’s journal as he set down the phone in its cradle.
The casket was closed. Hank and I fought about that.
We seem to do that a lot now. I didn’t get to see Jonny. How can I know he’s gone if I didn’t see him there, eyes closed and body too still?
Hank said there was no way he’d have Jonny’s casket open.
Hank can’t understand that I needed to touch him one more time. To see Jonny in death. Because right now, even still, I can’t accept Jonny’s gone.
Hank can say that to me because he’s the one who identified Jonny’s body.
Hank came home so pale, his body convulsing. He looked so old and broken.
Shit.
These books were going to be harder than hell to read. He glanced down at the box and shook his head. Nancy had filled fifty of these bad boys. That was over five thousand pages.
Arlen picked up his phone. He spun the Rolodex until he landed on one of his buddies who worked up at the Dallas Police Department. Time t
o start calling in the favors he’d accrued over the years.
“You want me to what?” Jim Kondren asked.
“I know it sounds far-fetched, Jim, but just . . . trust me on this. Couple of days tops.”
“You’re asking me to put resources toward a stakeout. Of a dead woman’s house. On a thirty-year-old cold case.”
Arlen rubbed his thumb between his eyebrows, trying to ease the tension headache building there.
“I am.”
Jim remained quiet. “How big we talking? I mean if this lady was right—if you find evidence in her personal effects?”
“If I’m right . . .” Arlen waved Irene in, smiling at her. She smiled back but worry shadowed her eyes. “This could rock some big boats, Jim.”
“Arrests?”
Irene set a plate on his desk, next to Nancy’s journal. “That’s always the goal,” Arlen responded.
“I can get you a guy over to Highland Park residence tonight ’cause we’re slow. You’re damn lucky I work in that jurisdiction.”
No, it wasn’t luck. Arlen had made friends in that police force on purpose. Not that he planned to tell Jim that.
“Thanks, Jim. Appreciate it. I’m worried,” Arlen said on a sigh, shifting gears. “There’s been no activity we can attribute to our killer in over four years. That’s the longest stretch he’s gone.”
“Could be he died. Or quit, then,” Jim said.
“Or could be we’re about to find another dead boy. We got that Amber Alert today. Could be the same guy.” Probably wasn’t. Jonathan’s killer liked old pickups. “You really want to take that chance?”
Irene laid her hand on Arlen’s shoulder. He patted the back with his free hand.
“Dammit, Arlen. No. Fine. I’ll figure something out to keep a guy there—just nights, right?” He waited for Arlen’s affirmation “But now you owe me.”
“Thanks, Jim.” He settled the phone in the cradle and closed his eyes. Thinking back to Jim’s parting words, Arlen muttered to himself, “Get in line.”
“You think it’ll come to that?” Irene asked. “Another little boy murdered?”
