by Mary Burton
Footsteps shuffled toward the metal door, and it opened with a snap, releasing a cloud of whiskey-infused cigarette smoke.
Faded blue eyes narrowed, and the old woman stared at him as if just for a moment she did not recognize him. Then distrust turned to a cautious optimism. “Elijah.”
“Mom. How are you?”
Her emaciated face was deeply lined, and her disheveled white hair made her look older than her fifty-two years. She did not rush to embrace him, taking time to survey his khakis and light-blue button-down shirt. “Not as well as you, from what I hear. Heard you hit pay dirt with the state.”
He was not surprised she had mentioned the settlement right away. Or that she had not bothered to hug him. His mother, at her core, put her survival above all else.
“I brought you these,” he said, shoving the box of gold-wrapped candy toward her.
She flicked her cigarette over the side of the rail and dug shorn fingernails into the box’s thin plastic coating. She pulled off the top and inspected the box. In a monotone voice, she said, “They look fancy.”
“I remember you liked this chocolate,” he said.
“You remembered that? That’s nice of you.” She selected a center square, pulled off the foil, and bit into it. She grimaced, spit out the candy, and tossed it and the uneaten portion over the side rail. “I could use some cash.”
His mother had been the youngest of seven children, and judging from academic awards he had found in a box under the stairs, she had been a brilliant student. But a few years before his birth, her bright path had begun to dim as her drinking increased. The madness took hold in her midtwenties, and by thirty she was a frequent resident of mental health facilities.
Elijah fished a couple hundred dollars from his pocket and handed it to her.
She nodded as she counted the money. “About covers the money I put in your canteen account when you were in prison.”
It was ten times what she had given him. “That should make us square.”
“You think this money evens us out? After all I done for you? All the secrets I keep? A reporter was willing to give me a hundred bucks to talk about you.”
“Did you take the money?” he asked carefully.
“No.”
“Did you figure I’d pay you more to be quiet?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I stayed quiet because you’re my son.”
“An accident of genetics.”
She gripped his arm with a surprising strength. He paused, wishing it could be different with her. Wishing she cared. Wishing he cared. But whatever was going on in her head had long ago destroyed their chances at a normal relationship. The best he could do was send her money so that she kept quiet about him.
“I’ll send you money as long as you don’t talk about me. It’s important people not know about my past.”
She released her grip. “The cops don’t know about it all, do they?”
“No, and I want to keep it that way.”
She grinned. “That’s my boy.”
As he left, she turned back toward her game show and closed her door behind her with a hard bang. Behind the wheel of his car, he started the engine.
He glanced to the open envelope on the passenger seat and removed the letter from the DNA-testing company. There was no doubt, according to the paternity results, that Nate was his biological son. He had sensed it from the moment he had seen the boy with his mother, but now he had proof.
He backed out of the space and turned toward the park entrance. The stress stirring in his gut ebbed as he reached the main road, and he took the left back toward town.
Nate would never come here, never see that woman. He deserved better. And Elijah would see to it that the boy had the best. Until then, it was his duty to protect him, and the first order of business was to eliminate Paul Thompson.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, August 24
1:00 p.m.
Bryce was curious as he stood in the back of Ann’s classroom and watched her hand out semester syllabi on bright yellow paper. She had texted him an hour ago and asked to see him.
He took a seat, the amphitheater half-full of at least a hundred students. All looked young as hell, but he guessed most were either senior or graduate level.
As she began to talk about what she hoped to cover in Forensic Perspectives, a woman to his right began to wave her hand wildly. “Dr. Bailey!”
Ann nodded to the woman. “No questions yet.”
The woman was silent for only a moment before she flapped her hand again. “But I need to ask this very important question.”
A second woman two rows in front of her twisted in her seat and said, “Can you shut up! The professor is talking.”
The first woman leaned forward in her seat. “I can ask whatever question I want. This is a free country.”
“And you are free to get the hell out of this classroom.”
Bryce noted the first woman’s eyes narrowed as she stood and curled her fingers into a fist. Her body language rippled with anger and tension, and whatever her issue, she was spoiling for a fight. He rose, and when he did, he caught Ann’s gaze. She managed an imperceptible shake of her head, as if to ask him to stand down.
He held off, watching as the fight between the two women escalated into a shouting match. About half the students in the room had put down their phones and were watching. Behind Ann, the doors opened, and an armed security guard appeared as if on cue. The guard ordered both women to leave with him. The first woman resisted, but when he threatened to bring in the local police, she followed him and the other woman out of the room.
The room buzzed with nervous laughter, and Ann moved slowly behind her podium. She raised her hands, told everyone to calm down, and then asked if anyone could describe the two women.
“That first woman was crazy,” a young woman with blue hair said.
“What was she wearing?” Ann asked.
She received a flurry of adjectives, none of which really hit the mark. When she asked for details about the second woman, she was bombarded with descriptions as varied and inaccurate as the first.
Ann listened, nodding as each student talked. She gave no hint whether she agreed with the students or not. “Turns out we have a real law enforcement officer here today,” she said. “What do you think of our recap, Sergeant McCabe?”
Bryce felt the glare of the proverbial spotlight as the students turned in their seats. He was hard to miss, since his persona screamed cop. “Eyewitness testimony in a high-stress, unexpected situation is often unreliable. A few students got a couple of details right, but most were wrong.”
“Can you describe the women?” Ann asked.
“The first female was approximately twenty to twenty-five years old. She was five feet five and weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds. Black hair, gray dress with white fringe. The second woman was about the same age, five eight, brunette, and she wore jeans and a blue T-shirt.” Both women were dressed inconspicuously and would have been easily forgettable, as most criminals were.
Ann walked to the rear door, opened it, and the two women appeared. They stood on the stage, each on one side of Ann. They were just as he had described.
“They are paid actors,” Ann said. “This was a setup.”
Nervous laughter and murmurs rumbled over the crowd. Several pointed out they had been right about age and height—some teased others for being dead wrong.
“Sergeant McCabe is correct about eyewitness testimony. It is often wrong. Our perceptions are colored not only by stress and the brevity of the incident, but also by our own personal biases. It’s human nature to mix up events with all the other distractions we have going on. My point is that we as forensic psychologists have to be better than the average witness. We have to note the fine details, because they will often give us greater insight than the subject’s words. Stay on your toes, kids. This is day one, and you never know when I’ll have
another surprise for you.”
“Are we going to get graded?” a young man joked.
Ann grinned. “Of course. Today’s assignment is to find a quiet place, write up what you saw, and read chapter one of the textbook. See you on Thursday.”
Bryce watched the students file out of the classroom. Several tossed him curious, even nervous, glances. When the aisle was clear, he made his way down the steps toward Ann. When he was a few feet from her, he smelled the faint scent of her soft perfume, and he realized the fragrance invigorated him.
“Nicely done, Dr. Bailey,” he said. “Your actors had me fooled for a second.”
“When I saw you stand, I knew it was going to be over before it started if I didn’t stop you.”
“All worked out in the end. You said you had something to tell me.”
“I met with Paul Thompson this morning in a public coffee shop.”
“After my text?”
She hesitated as if chewing on words and then met his gaze. “Yes.”
“For a lady who appears cautious and reserved, you take a lot of risks.”
“It was important to determine if he had more to say about the Fireflies.”
Bryce would bet it was more than that. “And?”
“He admitted to sleeping with Sarah, just as Brown suggested. And he said the Fireflies communicate with each other.”
“You already established they had the chat room. Which, by the way, my IT guy was able to find.”
“And what did he discover?”
“Content was taken down. He’s trying to locate the administrator.” He leaned toward her a fraction and dropped his voice. “What aren’t you telling me, Ann?”
“Mind if we take a walk, maybe sit in a car or go back to my house? I have more to tell you.”
“Sure. We can go now.”
She appeared relieved he did not argue or press for details as she gathered her bag. He followed her out of the building and then trailed her in his vehicle the few miles to her house.
She opened her front door. “I can make coffee.”
“Sounds good.” He removed his hat and set it on the table by the front door, next to Nate’s worn copy of King Lear. He picked up the book and casually thumbed through the pages. This time he saw Elijah Weston’s name on the inside front cover.
The boy had not ended up with one of Elijah’s books by accident. “Did Nate finish reading this?”
“Twice.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how smart is he?” He set the book down.
“Eleven.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“That comes with challenges.”
“The goal is to keep him busy and his mind engaged.”
“A full-time job.” He suspected the small talk and coffee were delay tactics as she searched for the right words. “Unpacking still at a standstill?”
“I keep finding better things to do,” she said.
Minutes later, she poured each of them a cup of coffee, and they sat at the kitchen island.
Bryce sipped. “I’m all ears.”
She traced the brim of her cup. “When Thompson first made himself known to me, he alluded to something that threw me for a loop.” She blew out a breath. “Back in college, I’d broken up with Clarke because I was convinced that we wanted different things in life. Elijah and I were tutors at the math center together. And one thing led to another, and we slept together.” She looked up at him. “Then the house I shared with Joan caught fire.”
“And Elijah was convicted of arson.”
“Yes.”
“Did Clarke know about your relationship with Elijah?”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but now I will always wonder.” She tried her coffee. “When I was in the emergency room after the fire, the doctors ran a pregnancy test as a precaution. That’s when I found out I was pregnant with Nate. Clarke was with me. And he, of course, assumed the baby was his, as did I. It didn’t take much to convince me to get married and stay in Missoula.”
“When did you realize Elijah was the boy’s biological father?”
She swallowed and did not seem surprised he had guessed. “A few years ago. Clarke was never stupid but never off-the-charts smart like Nate. Mannerisms, the way Nate smiled, even how much milk he puts on his cereal was all Elijah. I had a DNA test done, but I never told Clarke or Nate.”
“Which brings us back to Paul Thompson. How could he know about your relationship with Elijah?”
“My very short relationship with Elijah wasn’t really common knowledge. But if Elijah got ahold of a picture of Nate, he would have known,” she said. “Elijah guesses the truth, tells a few Fireflies about me and Nate, and word spread among them.”
“Even if he’d said nothing, it wouldn’t be a stretch to make the connection, given the boy’s likeness to Elijah.”
“It’s getting more and more obvious, and I’m sure more people are making the same assumption,” she said. “I’m hoping if I talk to Thompson, he will back off his information about Nate.”
“At the rate Nate is growing, everyone will see it.”
“Nate will need to be told, but I was hoping for a few more years. And for all of Clarke’s faults, he loved Nate.”
“Is there any way I can talk you out of talking to Thompson?”
“I don’t see how I have a choice.”
“When are you to meet?”
“Saturday.”
“What are you going to talk about?”
“Not your case, of course, or its connection to the Fireflies. I’ll talk about Clarke and tell him what I know about Elijah.”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Maybe you can use the interview to our advantage. You’re good at reading people and body language and coaxing facts that otherwise might have gone unsaid. Treat him as a suspect. Also be sure to tape the conversation.”
“I’d planned to do all that. But I wanted to be up front with you. This past of mine is refusing to stay in the past.”
A small smile. “They rarely do.”
She stared at his lined face, deeply tanned by the Montana sun. She moved around the island and cupped his face with her hands. He stared up at her, and, carefully, she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
A charged jolt shot through Bryce’s body as Ann kissed him. He rose and threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her toward him. The kiss quickly deepened.
When he pulled back, she moistened her lips. “I want you.”
“Same.”
“I know you said something about moving slow, but . . .”
“Forget what I said,” he growled as he kissed her again.
She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, where the double mattress and box spring still sat on the floor. The sheets were rumpled, and clothes from yesterday draped a cane rocking chair.
“Not exactly a palace,” she said.
“It’ll do.”
He removed his weapon and set it on the floor by the bed and toed off his boots. A sense of urgency built in her as she shrugged off her blouse.
He was at her side, sliding his hand up over her flat belly to the curve of her breast. He squeezed her nipples gently, then pressed his fingertips to the hollow between her breasts. “Your heart is beating fast.”
“Been a while.”
He smiled and cupped her buttocks. “Just like riding a bike.”
Bryce lay next to Ann, their naked bodies coiled together. He had learned on an Afghanistan mountainside to savor the good moments life tossed his way, because they came few and far between. When they showed, he locked out the outside world and zeroed in on what was directly in his line of sight. Sounded more Zen than he would ever admit to out loud, but the way he figured it, if he paused in the best places, he would have the reserves to power through the worst of the gunfire, the explosions, the screams, the blood.
And now his body was boneless, and he realized he might have touched perfection for a
few brief moments. He understood hard work and duty, but Jesus, he had forgotten what bliss felt like.
Bryce’s phone rang, and a curse growled in his throat. He felt Ann stir at his side, and he hugged her a little tighter. Just a few more seconds.
“It’s not my phone,” she said.
“Nope, fault’s all mine.”
She rose up on her elbow and kissed him on the lips. “It’s for the best. I have to pick the boys up at school soon.”
Bryce let the call go to voicemail, knowing he would not have a productive conversation with Gideon Bailey while lying naked in bed with Ann. “It’s your brother.”
“He never calls to chat.” She checked her phone. “He didn’t call me, so it can’t be the boys.”
Bryce kissed her. “The outside world is calling.”
“Yes.”
And just like that, the best of all moments ended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, August 24
4:00 p.m.
Bryce pulled up in front of the small one-story house now surrounded by several cop cars, a forensic van, and yellow crime scene tape. Out of the vehicle, he tucked his jacket back so that the badge around his neck was visible and approached the young uniformed officer. He introduced himself, received the all clear to proceed, and then slid on gloves and booties before entering the house.
The smell was the first thing he noticed. It was the strong, sickly sweet smell of death that, despite the frigid temperature of the house, was thick enough to make a man’s eyes water.
He paused in the entryway to study the main room, which was decorated in mauve and white and reminded him of the eighties. There were plenty of pictures on the walls of generations of families, and he quickly saw the same middle-aged woman appearing in all of them. He did not understand why he was here, but like Ann had said, Gideon did not ask for an assist just for the hell of it.
He found Gideon in the back bedroom, standing to the side as a forensic tech snapped pictures of a woman lying on her bed. Judging by the patchy discoloration on her face and arms, the slippage of her skin, and the bloating in her belly, she had been dead more than twenty-four hours.
