“Shut up. I do.” Troy scowled and took a swig of his beer.
“There was enough space for two cars. And it took him ten minutes to figure it out.”
“Jeez, Troy. How did you pass your driving test?” Mackenzie quipped.
“Charm. She was fifteen years older than me and very obviously a cougar.”
Mackenzie groaned, but he seemed very proud of himself.
“So, tell me, Nick,” Rivera said. “How did you catch Lakemore’s most notorious serial killer?”
Mackenzie hid her smile behind her glass of wine. Nick didn’t like discussing that case. It had propelled his career at a young age. All the police departments in Washington knew Nick for catching one of the state’s most infamous serial killers, but he didn’t like the attention; it was one of the reasons he was never by his senator father’s side during campaign season.
“It was a team effort.”
“I read all about it in Ohio.” Rivera tucked her hand under her chin. “How did you figure it out?”
“I talked to him.” Nick swallowed hard. “He started sending letters. We knew who he was, but didn’t have anything against him.”
She looked intrigued. “Every detective dreams of a case like that one. Straight out of a movie.”
“What was your most memorable case, Lieutenant?” Mackenzie jumped in, shifting the focus from Nick, much to his gratitude.
“My third year as a detective in Savannah.” She stroked her chin. “A couple was found shot in their apartment. Their nine-year-old son was hiding in the closet. We found gunpowder on his hands and clothes.”
“He killed them?”
“Yes. Later, he admitted it, too.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to know if TV shows portrayed gunshots accurately or not.”
“That’s some messed-up shit,” Sully muttered, and finished his beer.
Was Kim like that too? “Maybe you can help us profile in our cases,” Mackenzie suggested.
“Of course. I’d like to say that I know Peck had a different style. As a lieutenant, I have a lot of teams to oversee, but homicide is my passion. I like to be more involved.” She slammed her hands on the table. “No more shoptalk. How about we order another round on me?”
Hoots. Guffaws. Glasses raised. And Sully’s sleepy beam of appreciation.
The waitress wasn’t paying them any attention, so Mackenzie hopped off her chair to go place the order at the bar.
“Can we get another pitcher for the table over there?” She hitched her thumb in its direction.
“Sure thing,” the bartender said. “Anything else?”
“Another glass of the merlot, please?”
“Yeah. Just give me a minute.”
She placed her elbows on the counter and then jerked them away. It was grimy and sticky, matted with spilled drinks that hadn’t been cleaned up. Next to her, one of the construction workers was sitting at the bar, away from his group. His face was hidden behind graying dreadlocks. His calloused finger trailed over the hardhat in his lap.
“This one’s on me, Billy.” The bartender slid him a drink.
“Pitying me already?”
“It’s a tough situation, man. Sorry.”
“It was going to the biggest contract of our lives. I feel like I let the boys down,” Billy gestured to the group by the pool table.
“It’s not your fault. And they didn’t cancel the construction, right? It’s just postponed.” The barman’s deft hands made two more cocktails, and he passed them to the waitress.
“Yeah, but they didn’t give us a date. It’s all up in the air. Who knows.”
Lakemore’s college team was supposed to be getting a brand-new football stadium with higher capacity, but construction had been postponed pending the FBI investigation. Mackenzie had read that it was supposed to bring at least two hundred jobs to the town.
“Bullshit, if you ask me,” the bartender said, opening a bottle of merlot. “Why should the entire town pay?”
Billy shrugged.
Mackenzie lingered, considering telling them something similar to what she’d said to Maria, but ultimately decided against it. She returned to the table, feeling glum. Everyone was telling Rivera stories about Captain Murphy falling asleep in briefings and going on incoherent rants. She laughed politely.
“How are things with your dad?” Nick asked in a low voice.
“Awkward. But overall fine, I guess. He keeps asking me about the state of my marriage.”
“And what is the status again?”
“Complicated.” Her own voice sounded bleak to her. “Sterling’s planning to come over for dinner almost every night to show support.”
Nick smirked. “Of course he is.”
“Yeah. There’s just too much on my plate.”
“What do you call him? Dad? Robert?” Nick asked.
Mackenzie hesitated. “I don’t. I avoid addressing him.”
“What did you talk about last night?”
“Not much. He asked about how I met Sterling, about my day. I kind of avoided him.”
Nick nodded like he understood.
Her phone pinged with a message from Becky. Before she opened the notification, her heart lurched. She knew Robert was her father. But a part of her hoped that he wasn’t; that he was an imposter and that the man she had buried that night had been her abusive father.
The thought itself gutted her. She had spent the last twenty years feeling guilty for burying her father, but now she was hoping that she had. The alternative was so much worse.
With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone and opened Becky’s text.
That paternity test was positive. He’s the father.
Blood roared in her ears. She tossed her phone on the table with a thud and gulped down the wine. She felt Nick watching her curiously. She was usually careful when drinking wine; careful not to get stains on her teeth, careful not to get too drunk. But tonight, she just couldn’t bring herself to care.
Twenty-Three
By the time Mackenzie returned home she was slightly buzzed. After a few glasses of wine, she had called a cab. When she climbed out, icy wind slapped her face. Her skin immediately began to crack. Luckily the alcohol kept her insides warm as she jogged across the driveway to the front door. She had the urge to talk more, move more, clean more, read more, just do everything more. This kind of jitteriness was foreign to her. When she reached the door, she paused. Looking over her shoulder, the unforgiving storm with flurries of swirling white seemed more inviting than her home.
She knew her father and Sterling were inside. The two people she didn’t want to lose control in front of. But her voice of reason was too faint for her to pay attention to for once. When she entered the house, she heard some movie playing in the living room.
“Mack?” Sterling said. “Where were you?”
“Happy hour with the new boss.” She avoided his gaze and put away her jacket.
“Are you drunk?”
“Shit.” She didn’t realize it was obvious. But then she looked up at the mirror in the foyer. Her red hair was disheveled. Her pale skin flushed pink. And her red lipstick was wiped out. “I’m just a little tipsy.”
“But you never get tipsy.” He was horrified, like she was a different person.
Behind him, Robert sat on the couch. There were explosions on the flat screen and guns blazing. But the silence in the room was much more deafening. Robert paused the movie. He played with his hands, not knowing where to look.
“It was just two glasses of wine.” On an empty stomach. She rolled her eyes and headed to the kitchen to drink water. She should have eaten more.
But Sterling gently held her elbow. “Mack, you’re not this.”
A giggle sputtered out of her throat. Sterling stared at her with wide eyes like she was a lunatic. Robert slipped out of the room quietly, giving them space. “Sterling, you should hold yourself to the same standard you hold me to.”
&nbs
p; “That’s not what I meant.” He released her.
“Hypocrite.”
“I’m concerned.”
“Why?” She filled a glass with tap water and whispered, “Are you concerned that I slept with somebody else, like you did?”
“No!” He flinched, like the thought itself disgusted him. “I’m concerned that everything’s a little too much for you. Your father, your line of work, our issues—”
“We don’t have issues. You have issues. You are the one who decided to have a fling instead of communicating with me.”
He pulled at his hair. “I think we should see a marriage counselor.”
“Give me a break!” Her stomach grumbled loudly.
“I made mushroom ravioli.” He pointed at the large pot on the stove.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have any food at home.”
“Ugh!” Mackenzie growled and covered her face. “Why are you doing this, Sterling? What are you trying to prove? How nice you are? How caring you are?”
“No. I’m just helping you out.”
“I didn’t ask for your help!”
“You don’t need to ask me.”
She fluctuated between wanting to slap him for hurting her and to hug him for loving her. Two years ago, Mackenzie had caught a nasty infection. She had to take ten days off work. Sterling’s best friend was getting married in London, and he was a groomsman. He could have easily gone for five days and flown back. Mackenzie was an adult and able to move around. Nick was there to check on her. She had told Sterling that if it made him feel better, he could stock her freezer with food. It was only a matter of five days.
But Sterling refused to leave her side. He missed the wedding. He skipped work. He didn’t let her move a finger and nursed her back to health.
“I think you should go,” she croaked.
“Mack…”
She looked outside at the new onslaught of snow. “Sleep on the couch. It’s getting bad outside. But leave early in the morning. I need to take a shower and sleep this off.”
“Okay. Just eat something before you go to bed.”
She nodded and went to her bedroom. Launching herself onto the bed, she cried into her pillow.
November 26
The white noise of the blender filled Mackenzie’s empty kitchen. Sterling had left by the time she came downstairs. She regretted not being able to go on a run early in the morning. It was not just the fresh blanket of snow, but the fact that she was irritable and ultrasensitive to sounds and light.
A hangover. Her first one. At the age of thirty-two. She didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed.
The contents of her stomach threatened to swim up to her throat. The only thing that was missing was a headache.
“Micky?”
She looked at him, startled, still not used to having him around.
“Sorry,” Robert raised his hands. “Didn’t mean to scare ya there.”
“It’s okay.”
“I wanted to talk to you.” He perched on a stool by the kitchen island.
Mackenzie braced herself. Did he know something more about that night? Did he trust her enough now to share it with her?
“About last night.”
Her shoulders fell.
He scratched his ear and sighed heavily. “I know alcoholism is genetic. And I’d hate if you’ve been struggling because of me.”
Mackenzie flipped the blender off with more force than required. Her face clenched into a stone-like hardness. “Excuse me?”
Robert stuttered. She knew he’d never seen this side of her. He remembered her as the meek girl who hid in her bedroom and ate the rotten eggs he’d cooked while crying. She had grown a spiky exterior over the years. “M-Micky… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I appreciate your concern. But I’m not an alcoholic.” Her tone was clipped. She began pouring her smoothie into her thermos.
“Thank you for having me here,” he said after a moment of silence. “I know I don’t deserve it.”
His face looked heartfelt. She didn’t remember him looking like this—eyes glistening with moisture, nostrils flickering, the corners of his lips pulled down. Even when he had flashes of conscience back then, his eyes would be shifty, his voice curt. Like he didn’t like admitting his mistakes and apologizing.
Could someone really change this much?
Mackenzie found herself shrugging.
“I didn’t want to be a burden, so I found a job.”
She stilled. “A job?” Did he tell them his real name? Give his social? Did they need paperwork? “Why didn’t you ask me first?”
“I thought I didn’t need to—”
“No!” A sudden wave of panic swarmed over her chest. “You were legally dead. If you… it might lead to complications. Unnecessary digging into your past.”
That was enough to make him understand. “It’s not a legit job. I gave my name as Charles. I’ll be paid in cash for working four times a week. It’s all under the table.”
“What job is this?”
“One of Blake Richie’s garages. It’s walking distance from here. You mentioned him the other day, remember?”
Mackenzie remembered distinctly. He’d casually asked how her day went and she had casually answered that they hadn’t made much progress except to track the ownership of some cabins to a mechanic. He’d asked the name of the mechanic. And she had given him the name, not thinking much of it.
She had withheld all other information. But he’d latched on to the minute detail she accidentally let slip and used it to his advantage.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
She grimaced and drummed her fingers on the edge of the counter. “No.”
“Are you sure? You look mad. I swear, I just wanted to help out. He’s not some murder suspect, is he?”
She felt like a cornered animal. Why did she open her mouth? She was so used to talking about her day with Sterling. But Sterling understood lines of professionalism and appropriate behavior. Her desperate eyes searched for something to clean, something to control.
She picked up the blender and started to wash it with her hands, despite having a dishwasher. As the green paste began to detach itself from the walls of the blender, she felt her body lighten.
“He’s not,” she said, giving him her back. “But please don’t discuss anything I tell you there. I’m on an active case.”
“Understood.”
Some green clumps were stuck to the lid that weren’t coming off. She had to use her fingernails to scrape them off. When she was done, she looked at her caked fingernails to assess the damage.
Except they weren’t coated in green. They were red and black. Like the dried blood on the pan Melody had struck him with.
“Ah!” she screamed and jumped back. The blender slipped from her hold and crashed into the sink with a loud clunk.
“Micky!” Robert was instantly at her side. “What happened?”
She looked at her hands again. They were green. “I… I thought I cut myself on the blade.”
“Did you?” He tried to inspect, but she moved away. “Sorry.”
She stumbled back and grabbed her thermos. “I have to go to work.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You look really pale.”
She nodded vaguely. It was difficult to breathe. Like the air had become toxic. When she flung open the door and stepped outside, she inhaled deeply. She jogged to her car and threw a quick glance at her front yard.
The wilted flowers were covered in snow. She had clearly neglected her little garden.
She climbed inside the car and turned on the engine. Her phone rang. It was Nick.
“What’s up?”
“Mack, you need to come to the Beckers’ right away.”
“What happened?” She punched the accelerator.
“Katy was abducted.”
Twenty-Four
Mackenzie parked her car haphazardly next to t
he squad cars in front of the Beckers’. The curious neighbors had crawled out of their houses to inspect what was happening. They stood in their yards, whispering among themselves.
Nick was talking to one of the officers in the front yard.
“Mack!” Nick called her over. “This is Peterson. The first responding officer.”
“The dispatcher got a call at 8:23 a.m.,” Peterson said. “I was close enough and arrived at 8:31 a.m. The husband was sitting on the steps leading to the front door. We went inside the house, and there were clear signs of a struggle.”
“There’s a patrol officer assigned to keep an eye on the house,” Mackenzie said. “Where was he?”
“He came back at around 8:30 a.m., ma’am. Said he takes a breakfast break every day from eight to eight thirty.” He tipped his chin at the young patrol officer with an army haircut and red ears being interviewed by Justin.
“I’ll be inside.”
She ducked under the yellow tape secured across the front door. The red armchair on the way to the staircase was tipped over. The rug in the living room had shifted, as evidenced by the deep grooves misaligned with the legs of the coffee table. A lamp had toppled over, the bulb smashed on the hardwood floor. This was a crime scene. One of the officers carried Katy’s scarf and pajamas in a plastic bag—scent articles in case they needed search dogs. Another one clicked pictures. Mackenzie’s eyes scanned the house—no blood. There was a broken plate on the kitchen floor. The door that opened to the backyard was off the kitchen. The window had been smashed in. The glass pieces were cluttered on the inside of the house, meaning someone had broken it from the outside, trying to get in.
“We believe that’s how he got inside the house,” Justin came to her side. “And probably how he left too.”
“Are any items missing?”
“The husband is upstairs going over the inventory.”
“When did Cole last see her?”
“She was still sleeping when he left for his run at 7:45 a.m.”
Their Frozen Graves: A completely addictive crime thriller and mystery novel Page 12
