And what had I done in return? Turned him down every time he suggested even a hint of a date, flirted with him relentlessly to bolster my self-esteem and then, when he mustered the courage to ask me out again, I’d turn him down. Over and over.
And it wasn’t just me. Adam was the “nice guy,” the one everyone went to for help but who got nothing in return for it. I remember him telling me that he was going to major in journalism because he wanted to give voice to those like him who didn’t have one. At the time I thought it was noble, now I wasn’t so sure.
But then I thought of Zoe. Adam might know where she is. Journalists had contacts and informants, didn’t they?
“Okay,” I said, “You can help.” I ignored the niggling thought that here I was again, using Adam for my own gain. “Thanks.”
Adam rubbed Remy’s ears and tried to comfort her while I hosed her down and lathered her up. Remy shook beneath my fingers, ears pinned back.
“I wanted to come to the funeral,” Adam said. “But my kid got sick.” When I didn’t say anything, Adam said, “Why’d you come back? I mean, you just got to town when you found your dad, didn’t you?”
I glanced at him, suspicious. I’d already been accused once of killing my dad, I didn’t need to be again. “I came back to find Zoe Mitchell.”
Adam rubbed a finger along Remy’s snout. “Why?”
“Do you know where she is these days?”
“Did you ask her dad?”
“Yeah,” I said, taken aback. “He doesn’t know.”
“Whatever happened between you and Zoe, anyway?” Adam asked.
Heat rushed to my face. “Nothing. We just drifted apart.”
“She really went down the rabbit hole, didn’t she?”
“I guess. I mean, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“For a while her name was always on the police blotters,” Adam went on. “Then her dad would send her to rehab and she’d be gone for a few months before showing back up again.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’s in rehab again.”
“But I asked Mitch—“ I broke off. “And you haven’t heard if she’s back in town?”
Adam straightened up, wiping his damp hands on his pants. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Like he was trying to read my mind or something. “I haven’t seen her around, no. Did she reach out to you?”
I concentrated on scrubbing Remy’s flank where the majority of the deer poop had been. Sweat dripped down my back despite the cold water splashing over me. “I never wanted to come back here, you know?”
He raised dark eyebrows. “Really? You hate it that much?”
While Adam didn’t know what happened between Chris and I, he’d witnessed firsthand the aftermath on those endless evenings as I struggled to concentrate on schoolwork while my emotions were a devastated mess.
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking to myself yes. “It’s a pretty town. But a lot of stuff happened here.”
“You mean like the stalking?”
“Wow.” I stared at him. “You put it right out there, huh?”
To his credit, his face reddened slightly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
Through the worst of the stalking, Adam had been there. He’d even tried to talk to Davis about it once, but Davis’s cousins got wind of the exchange and threatened to cut off Adam’s “black penis” if he ever talked to Davis again.
“But, yeah,” I said, then added, “He’s doing it again, you know.”
Adam’s eyes widened. “Davis? You’re kidding.”
I told him about the sedan outside my house and then at the funeral.
“Are you sure it’s Davis?”
I gave him a look.
Adam frowned. “Did you tell the detective? What’s his name? Egress.”
“Ingress.” I shook my head. “He wouldn’t care. Besides, Chris said he’d talk to Davis.”
At the mention of Chris’s name, Adam’s face grew very still. Chris Savine had always represented to Adam everything he was not: handsome, popular, rich, charming. Feelings that were only amplified when Chris and I began dating.
Remy whined and tugged at her chain. “Hang on, girl,” I said, rinsing the soap off her backend. “We’re almost done.”
“Savine talked to Davis?” Adam said.
“Told him to leave me alone, yeah.”
“Mady—”
“Can we not talk about this stuff, please?” The ground at our feet saturated with water and soap.
But Adam wouldn’t leave it. He said, “He’s got issues, Mady. That guy.”
“Adam,” I began, but he cut me off. The last thing I wanted to hear right now was old jealousies come to life.
“He’s been booked on domestic abuse charges.”
“What?” In my shock, I dropped the hose. It sprayed upward in an arc before collapsing back into the grass. Remy, thinking the bath was finished, pulled at her chain.
I searched Adam’s face for any sign of triumph but saw none.
“I don’t believe you.” There was no way Chris would ever—ever—hit his wife.
Without warning, Remy shook vigorously, water flying everywhere. Adam cried out and tried to jump out of the way, but it was too late. His shirt and pants got soaked. I hid a smile. Serves him right.
Remy wagged her tail, pulling at the leash.
“Hang on, girl,” I said, retrieving the hose. “You’ve still got soap on you.”
Adam, wiping at his shirt, said, “It’s what got him fired in Avon Lake. After that, he took a job here."
Silence stretched between us as I finished rinsing Remy. I tried to reconcile this new information with the Chris I knew, but couldn’t.
I led Remy around the tree several times to unwind her leash, giving her room to move about. She immediately dropped into the grass and rolled.
“Why did you tell me that?” I said.
At the anger in my voice, Adam looked away, abashed. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“I don’t see how it matters,” I said. “Chris isn’t in charge of dad’s case and it has no bearing on anything.”
Adam wouldn’t look at me, his face reddening. “Forget I said anything.”
Birds twittered in the warm afternoon sunshine. The frogs in the irrigation ditch at the edge of the property twilled their shrill call. Remy stopped rolling and was testing the limits of her leash, nose to the ground, tail in the air.
Adam picked up the bottle of dog shampoo from the sodden grass.
“You’re married?” I said, noticing the ring on his left hand.
Adam’s face lit up. “Yes! Two years. Do you remember Megan Kolski?”
“Yeah.” A teen with a hairy upper lip and big boobs flashed across my mind.
“Three years,” Adam said proudly. “Two girls.”
“Wow,” I said, not really feeling it. “That’s great.”
“Do you remember when I asked you to the dance in middle school?” Adam said with a laugh.
I did. I had barely hit puberty and hated my new breasts and the strange attention the boys heaped upon me. As a tomboy, I was used to being one of the boys, and then suddenly, in a matter of months it seemed, I found myself wondering how to make them talk to my face instead of my chest.
“You wouldn’t let me touch you,” Adam said, his face lighting up. “We just stood there, our arms at our sides.”
All I remembered from that night was how humiliated I had been that grandma had to take me bra shopping so my nipples wouldn’t show through my dress. And how angry I was that she’d been the one who had to do my hair and makeup because dad was too busy working.
Following another awkward silence, Adam said, “Did you hear that Whitney Johnson married Frank DeFaun?”
We talked for another half hour while Remy circled and rolled and circled and barked. Adam filled me in on our high school class: who was married, who had kids, who was doing what, who was on drugs. When Adam’s phone pinged, he glanced at it th
en looked back at me.
“Listen, Mady,” he hesitated. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, irritation sparking anew. “I’ve read some of your articles.”
His expression shifted and suddenly he was once again that little, nervous brown boy with no friends. “Mady, look—those—" He cleared his throat. “I know your dad was a good man—"
The words he’d written about the PD floated before me like gnats: Incompetent. Brazen. Arrogant.
“Are you glad he’s dead?” I said, my voice breaking.
“No! Mady! No! It’s just that the Beacon Falls police—as a whole—they’ve—they’ve bungled a lot of things and there’s the rumors--"
“Do you think he deserved to die?” My voice was thin, stretched with emotion.
“No!”
“Do you know who killed him?”
Adam didn’t answer.
“Adam.”
He gave me a look of such pity that once again, I was overcome with rage.
“What you said,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “About dad. That was a lie. Dad would never take money from drug dealers." Behind us, the A/C rattled to life. The A/C dad had had installed the same year he’d bought a new truck and a four-wheeler. I shook my head, feeling the press of something I didn’t have the energy to face.
Some of my emotions must’ve shown on my face because Adam opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it.
“Here.” Adam handed me his card. “If you need anything.”
I waited until his minivan was down the street before I dropped the card in the sodden grass.
Chapter 11
Adam’s visit had unsettled me. I spent the next morning reading every article I could about the Beacon Falls police. I scoured the internet, the online library archives, and social media, immersed in a quagmire of rumor, hate, conspiracies, and unfounded theories of how the police in this town had taken cash from drug dealers in exchange for looking the other way as drugs flowed into Beacon Falls. There were also rumors that the cops would overlook petty crimes like theft, possession, or speeding if the price was right.
The problem was that there was no real, physical proof. No agency had ever come to Beacon Falls to investigate dad and the others. No auditors. No Internal Affairs.
We don’t want government around here, one particular commentary said, buried deep in the comments of an article about cross-state transportation of stolen auto parts. If there’s a cancer somewhere in our own, we don’t want it going out. We don’t want people telling about it. That’s both the problem and the solution. We gotta take care of it ourselfs.
Cold water filled my veins. Yes, that was a prevailing attitude around here, that much was true. One time when I was in middle school I remember hearing about a prominent soccer player who was accused of date rape. Instead of letting the police handle it, the rest of his team ganged up on him and beat the crap out of him. When police were finally brought in, the team shut down and refused to say what happened. No one was ever charged.
I reached for my phone and dialed Mitch.
“Mady, how are you doing?” He sounded tired.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Hey, listen, is there any evidence that—“ I hesitated. “That maybe someone close to dad—or, like, someone from around here shot him?”
In the silence that followed, I could hear his office phone ringing.
“Why do you ask?” Mitch said at last.
“I mean, with all the rumors about—you know. I was just wondering if maybe someone decided to take things into their own hands.”
Mitch chose his next words carefully. “If that were true, Mady, that would mean me and the rest of my guys are in danger as well.”
“Yes!” I almost shouted into the phone. I hadn’t dared articulate that thought but now that he said it—
“That’s ridiculous.”
“But--“
“There’s no way someone in my town is going to go on a cop-killing spree without me knowing it.
“But you said it looked like dad knew his killer. Couldn’t that mean it was someone from Beacon Falls?”
Mitch sighed. “The evidence suggests there wasn’t a struggle. That doesn’t mean he knew the person. Someone could have gotten the drop on him.”
I chewed my bottom lip.
“Mady,” Mitch said, “I know you’re struggling right now. Hell, we all are. But I need you to remember that your dad was a good guy, okay? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Tears pressed against my eyes. “Okay.”
“We good?” Mitch said.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got your dad’s stuff boxed up. I can bring it—“
“No,” I said, jumping on the chance to get out of the house. “I’ll swing by this afternoon.”
I hung up and slumped against the La-Z-Boy, where I’d spent all morning, the laptop warm against my thighs.
Mitch was right. My father was a good guy. He moved through the ranks of the department until he found where he was most comfortable (sergeant) and there he stayed, doing his job and doing it well. And if citizens like Adam couldn’t see that, then that wasn’t my fault.
Chapter 12
That afternoon, after giving Remy a chewy to occupy her, I jumped into my car before remembering that I’d left my coffee mug on the counter. Remy had awoken me with a ferocious barking episode the night before, so despite it being nearly noon, I was still downing the coffee like my life depended on it.
When I returned, I turned the key in the ignition. It clicked.
“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.” I turned it again. Nothing.
The humidity sat over everything like a wet blanket while the cicadas and crickets trilled their relentless songs. Remy, watching me from her post at the window, barked once.
I stared at the dusty dashboard of my old car, its once-gray interior now faded after decades in the sun. I knew my battery was old, but I didn’t have the money to replace it.
I called Mitch. He didn’t answer. I thought about calling Adam, the guy I had always relied upon in the past, but after reading so many horrible things about Beacon Falls PD and knowing he believed and perpetuated at least half of them, I didn’t want to see him again.
So I dialed Chris.
Fifteen minutes later, Chris’ cruiser pulled into the driveway.
“Jeez, Mady, how old is this thing?” he said, examining the battery.
“Not funny.” Inside the house, Remy barked excitedly.
Chris smiled and moved to his trunk where he pulled out a set of cables. “I’ll give you a jump.”
As we waited for the battery to charge, I went and got Remy so she’d stop barking and clipped her onto her long leash. She leapt onto Chris like she hadn’t seen him in years. He scratched her behind the ears.
“Let’s give it a go,” Chris said.
I turned the key. Still nothing.
Chris frowned. “I didn’t think that would work. When was the last time you got a new battery?”
I shrugged, feeling my cheeks warm. I didn’t want to tell him I’d never gotten a new battery in the seven years I’d owned this piece of junk.
“Come on,” Chris said, “I’ll take you to the hardware store. You can get a new one and I’ll help you install it.”
“You don’t have to do that. You’re on duty.”
Chris shrugged. “We’re not busy. Come on, Remy, let’s get you inside.” Chris put his face to hers and snuggled her in a way that melted my heart. A twinge of regret shot through me. Life could’ve been so different…
When he returned, I said, “I saw your engagement announcement online.”
Chris raised an eyebrow.
“Your wife is very pretty. Where’d you meet?”
“It was nothing special,” Chris demurred. “One night when I was at the Academy, me and a couple guys went out, and Rachel was at the same bar with some of her friends. We just started talking, and I gave
her my number.”
It was just like Chris to give the woman his number rather than asking for hers. It put the decision of whether to call squarely in her hands.
“She called the next day, and we went hiking up at Swine Creek.”
Something caught in my throat. Chris and I used to hike at Swine Creek before I’d gotten pregnant. I remember the smell of the tall grass, the burble of the water over rocks, and felt a rush of jealousy.
“What a terrible place to take a girl on a first date,” I said. “The mosquitoes are awful.”
Chris laughed. “Looking back, I don’t know what I was thinking. When we counted our bug bites the next day, I had twelve. Rachel had sixteen.” His eyes unfocussed, remembering. “She never let me live that down.” Something sad flashed across his face but quickly disappeared.
I climbed into the passenger seat of the cruiser. Inside, the smell reminded me so much of my father that I was momentarily transported back to those days when he'd take me for rides. Leather, sweat, and gun oil mixed with the faint tang of marijuana, alcohol, and fear soaked into the backseat.
But then Chris slid behind the wheel, bringing with him the subtle, woodsy scent of…well, of him. I remember the first time I noticed it. It must’ve been our third or fourth date because he’d finally dialed down the cologne. It was October, we were heading home from a hayride at one of the surrounding farms. When we pulled into my driveway, I tried to break the awkward silence with a stupid joke (my specialty!) but before I could, he leaned over and kissed me. Just a quick peck on the cheek. He drew back, his cheeks flushing. And in that pulling away, I smelled it: the woodsy scent of the man he was becoming.
That subtle comfort, combined with the way he listened—really listened—when you were speaking, was it any wonder women threw themselves at him like bugs to a porch light?
“How’s the cleaning going?” Chris asked now, turning down the hiss of static from the radio.
The Things We Keep Page 5
