by Debra Webb
“Oh shit.”
I drag out my cell, only then noting the four unopened text messages from David. One came late this afternoon.
Don’t forget we have dinner with the family tonight.
All the moisture evaporates from my throat. The next one came at five.
I’m sure you’re in the middle of something but don’t forget about tonight.
There is another of a similar nature at five-thirty. The one at six is different.
Never mind. I’ve told Mother you’re working late.
My appetite vanishes in a cloud of frustration and regret. I check my phone’s calendar. Yep. The dinner was there. How the hell did I forget? And why the hell hadn’t he called me? It’s easy to ignore text messages. Usually I don’t ignore that many but after seeing the doctor I was a little shell shocked. Taking the home pregnancy tests was one thing but having my doctor tell me that I’m pregnant and all the things I should be doing was truly life altering.
I could tell David and all would be forgiven in a burst of astonishment and happiness and celebratory tears. He is the type of man who isn’t afraid to show his emotions. I’m the one who keeps things hidden. My father called it a self-protective mechanism.
No one can use against you what he doesn’t know.
I force myself to eat. The television on the kitchen counter is always on but the sound is muted. Joseph Fanning’s face flashes on the screen and I look away. A child could go missing and he or she wouldn’t warrant the density of coverage focused on this disgusting pedophile. I banish the frustration that comes with the thought and finish off my dinner. If the media coverage helps us find the scumbag, then I should be glad for it.
A quick rinse of my bowl and I tuck it into the dishwasher. I should leave a note telling the cook, whose name I don’t even know, how much I enjoyed the pot roast. I saw her once when she was leaving for the day and I was arriving. She reminded me of my mother. Red hair pulled back into a neat twist. Petite. She looked to be about the age my mother would be if she were still alive.
I stare at my reflection in the window over the sink, the blond hair, the blue eyes. I didn’t get my mother’s red hair or my father’s brown or their dark chocolate colored eyes. But the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose is exactly as my mother’s was. My father swore I had his mind and I probably do. As a psychiatrist, his life’s work was about analyzing people. I suppose as a cop my work, to some degree, is as well. He and I thought very much alike, that’s true. Looking back, I find the idea funny because most of my early years were spent primarily with my mother. She was my mom, my schoolteacher, my riding instructor.
As a young woman, Corrine Newhouse was an award-winning equestrian. Though I competed in my share of local shows early on, they never wanted that notoriety for me. They kept me close, protected me from the world until I was too old to be sheltered any longer. As much as they shielded me, they also prepared me. I had the best private self-defense classes. Knew how to shoot a weapon, how to escape trouble, all before my first day as a freshman at college.
Thinking back on what my father called the MacGyver classes, I smile. He taught me how to take the simplest objects and utilize them as tools for protecting myself and for escaping captivity.
The walls of any prison are only as impenetrable as you allow them to be. Escape is always possible, even if only in your mind.
I never mentioned these lessons to my college friends since none of them ever mentioned having been taught such things. My dad took readiness to the next level. He was one of a kind.
My phone vibrates against the granite countertop. Easy to hear in the silent kitchen. I tell myself that if I’d had a moment of silence this afternoon I would have realized David’s texts were waiting.
I pick up my cell, hope it’s him wanting to know if I ever made it home. It would be far easier to apologize via text than face to face.
Not David. Walt.
A photo of Dana Reeves and Janie Hyatt appears on the screen. The photo appears several years old. The two women look like teenagers. Reeves has longer hair and is much slimmer.
Where’d you get this? I send the text.
Facebook. LOL. Apparently the two have been together since high school.
Nashville is a large city. It’s not impossible that two of Fanning’s victims just happened to end up together in high school but it seems a little unexpected considering the two women had not lived in the same neighborhood.
Interesting, I type back.
Here I am knocking around memory lane and Walt has been working. I pull up the Facebook app and search for Reeves and Hyatt. The two went to college together. Hyatt is a nurse at Vanderbilt. On both pages I notice several photos of them at a cabin. Definitely not the dumpy south side apartment where Reeves lives.
Any ideas about this cabin? I send the question to Walt.
Got a friend looking through property records at this very moment.
That’s the thing about being part of Metro for as long as Walt has. He knows everyone. Has serious contacts all over. I hope he introduces me to even half of them before he retires.
Another text appears on my screen.
Bingo. Hyatt inherited a cabin and ten acres way out in the middle of nowhere in Hendersonville. Road trip tomorrow.
Images of Fanning being held by one or more of his victims flash in my head. I close my eyes against the pain that follows. Damn it. Not tonight. Tonight I need to sleep. Tonight I need to make up for my negligence toward David.
I send Walt a thumbs-up and force myself to finish off the glass of milk I’d poured. I give myself a mental pat on the back for eating a decent meal for a change and decide maybe I will tear into those boxes. I search the cabinet drawers for a knife since I have no idea where a box cutter would be.
Knife in hand, I wander to the entry hall and size up the stack. Maybe if I at least get started on one and actually take a few items upstairs David won’t be so mad when he comes home.
Yeah, right.
He will be pissed. Twice a month his entire family gets together for dinner. The two brothers, the sister, their spouses and offspring descend upon the family home and catch up over the meal prepared by the family’s private chef. David’s parents have a full-time chef, two housekeepers and two gardeners. Oh yeah, David has basically the same staff only the cook is part-time and maybe not an actual chef.
These are things I should be grateful for and somehow I can only see the waste and self-importance of living so large. Why did I not notice this before? Giving myself grace, until I moved in we spent more time at the farm or at some restaurant downtown than at his house. Still, I should have done a better job of sizing up the situation the first time I went to dinner at his parents’ palatial home.
Is this my way of finding a reason to break up? This sudden need to pick apart every aspect of David’s lifestyle? Am I subconsciously looking for a way out?
Pushing the worries aside I reach for a box, prepared to slice through the tape holding the flaps. But the flaps are already loose on this one. When did I do that?
The security system chimes and announces: Garage door open.
David’s home.
I lay the knife aside and reach for the box. None of them are labeled so I have no clue what’s inside. I’ve barely pulled one flap open when he appears in the dining room, jacket slung over his shoulder.
“You forgot.”
“Sorry. I don’t know how I did. It was on my calendar.” I shake my head, infusing as much contrition as possible into my voice. I really am sorry. I don’t want to embarrass him in front of his family and I’m certain my inability to show up for their bi-monthly dinners is very awkward for him. “My only excuse is that it has been a crazy week.”
“I sent you several texts.”
He keeps his voice low and even, but I hear the anger simmering beneath all that control. He’s seriously pissed. I guess I don’t blame him.
“I didn’t see them unt
il I got home.” I reach for another of the flaps.
“What held you up?” He moves closer now, the edge in his voice more prominent, his face a mask made of stone.
“We’re interviewing Fanning’s victims. We have no choice but to work with their schedules. When I’m in an interview, I have no choice but to ignore my phone.”
“Oh yeah.” He glances upward in obvious frustration and then shakes his head. “Interviewing potential suspects is far more important than dinner with my family.”
I drop my hands from the box and take a breath. I am not going to fight with him. Clearly, that’s what he wants. “Not suspects, persons of interest and, for the record, I’m a cop,” I remind him. “It’s my job. We have possibly two missing persons. One or both may be gravely injured or dead. Time is our enemy.”
“He’s a pedophile.” The words come out a low roar. “Who gives a damn if someone dragged him off somewhere to torture and murder him? He deserves it.”
I can’t say that I don’t feel the same way, except that I can’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work. “It’s my job. Whatever he is, the law protects him as much as it does anyone else.”
He stares at me. I’m not sure whether it’s disbelief or defeat on his face. Whatever it is, he is far from finished.
“Why did you sleep in the guest room last night?”
I frown, then realize he couldn’t know the answer. “I had the worst migraine of my life yesterday. I had to leave work and close myself up in a dark room. It was awful.”
Something like sympathy flashes across his face but it doesn’t last. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He shrugs. “Of course, I wouldn’t know because we never talk anymore.” His voice rises with each word.
I close my eyes and grab tighter onto my own self-control. I refuse to allow this to turn into a war. “I told you the other day that I suffered horrible migraines as a teenager.” I open my eyes and look directly into his. “I haven’t had one for a very long time. The reason I didn’t hear your first text was because I was at the doctor’s office trying to figure out why the hell they’re back.” Like his, my voice rises despite my best efforts to keep it steady. I hesitate, calm myself. “The appointment put us behind so we had no choice but to work late.”
“We?” He shakes his head. “You and Walt, right?”
I take a deep breath, hoping it will slow the pounding in my chest. “He is my partner.”
“I don’t see why you don’t marry him. After all, the two of you are always together. He knows all your secrets. Takes you to the doctor. I saw the way he took care of you at your father’s funeral. You are more than partners, Olivia. I’d have to be blind not to have seen it.”
That part is true. Walt and I are more than partners. We are friends. Good friends. From the day we became partners he has been a friend and mentor to me. “Walt didn’t ask me to marry him,” I say. “You did and I said yes.”
My words take the fire out of him, at least for a moment.
“Then why doesn’t it feel like you want to be with me?”
I hold my breath. Now would be the time to tell him about the baby. And it is a baby. Not just a pregnancy. There’s another human growing inside me. One David and I created together.
I can’t. Not yet. He will take complete control of my life then. He’s already crowding me to the point I feel as if I can’t breathe.
“I’m sorry about missing dinner with your family. I truly am,” I say carefully. “I’m even sorrier that you’re having doubts about our relationship. Relationships go through stages, David. It’s normal for one or both of us to have the occasional doubt or misgiving.”
He scoffs. “Do not try psychoanalyzing me or our relationship, Olivia. I will not stand for it.”
“My father was the shrink, not me.”
“Not just any shrink,” he reminds me. “The top shrink in the city. You learned from the best and I am tired of feeling as though you’re manipulating our relationship with this adept ability you have to make me the bad guy in whatever happens.”
I mentally grasp for the last threads of my composure. “You’re the one who rushed the issue of marriage,” I remind him. I am beyond pissed now. However hard I try, there is no holding back. “You refused to let it go until I agreed to move in and now you want to complain about my work and even the fact that I had a headache last night and had to escape into the darkness for relief.” I shout the last and I hate, hate, hate losing control to this extent.
Control is everything.
My father’s voice echoes in my ears.
The only person who can take it from you is you, Olivia. Do not look back, only forward. What happened in the past is irrelevant. All that matters is what happens now.
“I see.” David’s head hangs as if he cannot bear to look at me.
“I’m really, really sorry.” The words are stiff but I say them anyway. “I will call your mother in the morning and apologize. I will make sure I check my phone more frequently in the future so I don’t miss your texts. I let you down and I will do all in my power not to let it happen again.”
His gaze meets mine and in that instant, staring into his beautiful eyes, I see the man who stole my heart. He is, under normal circumstances, kind and considerate. He will be a good father and a good husband—as soon as he learns that he cannot keep me on a leash when it comes to my work. I want very much to find a way to work this out. To take us back to the way things were before…whatever changed.
“Thank you.” He moves closer to me. “Forget about the boxes for tonight. Let’s go upstairs.” He searches my face. “As long as you’re feeling up to it.”
Rather than answer I kiss him. I kiss him until we both lose our breath.
He takes me in his arms and carries me upstairs.
When all else fails, distract. The most vulnerable prey can outwit a predator with the right distraction.
Another piece of handy advice the man who raised me instilled.
Detective Walter Duncan
It’s the holes—the ones that go unrecognized for a little too long that cause the most trouble—in the best-laid plans.
I sit on the back porch steps, my loyal companion at my side. We both stare out across the lawn for as far as the light will reach through the darkness. I think of Stella’s roses and how inept and pathetic I’ve proven at trying to keep them healthy and blooming. My Stella was a natural with plants. Our yard, front and back, was always a standout in the neighborhood.
Until Stella suddenly got sick, the yard was her domain. Of course, I navigated the lawnmower around the property on Saturdays, kept the grass trimmings up, but the rest was her territory and she had shooed me out of her flowerbeds more than once. She would be horrified if she could see the overgrown mess they have become. I’m glad it’s dark and I don’t have to look at them.
Neither she nor I ever considered the possibility that I needed to learn how to take care of those things. Never seemed necessary. She was here. Healthy, years younger than me. I was the cop, the smoker until a mere five years ago. If anyone was going to end up dead a little early in the game, it was me.
Except we’d been wrong.
In an effort to go into this final rush toward the finish line with both eyes open and all potential gaps in the strategy covered, I have been carefully organizing and planning my demise. It’s inevitable. Nothing I can do to stop it. No use lying to myself. Pretending was never my strong suit unless it was necessary to prompt a suspect to talk. I can be a pretty good actor when the occasion calls for it.
But in all my elaborate planning and thorough consideration I forgot the most important thing in my life, besides Liv and my work—Sandy. At eighty-five pounds and taller than me when she stands on her hind legs, my yellow lab should be hard to forget. And yet, I left her completely out of the scenario until that call from the vet.
I’ve made arrangements at the funeral home to be buried next to my wife without the bother of a funeral. I t
old the funeral director to do what he had to do and plant me, no frills, no fuss. My house, everything inside it and the SUV I bequeathed to Stella’s favorite charity. She and I donated her car to the same charity before she closed her eyes for the last time. I considered leaving my savings and insurance money to Liv, but she doesn’t need it. She would be the first to say her parents left her far more than she will ever need. So I decided to assign it to my favorite charity—the families of wounded and fallen officers. My fellow officers are the only real family I have. Like Liv, I was an only child. Parents are long gone. I was never close to the few distant cousins I met as a kid.
I’ve been so thorough with all the necessary final arrangements. How in the world did I allow anything—especially something as important as my sweet Sandy—to fall through the cracks in my preparations?
Maybe because I didn’t want to face the fact that leaving a dog behind is a true dilemma, not like the money or the material possessions. I’m reasonably sure Liv would take her in a heartbeat but I don’t know how the knucklehead would feel about it. I shouldn’t care but if she’s going to marry the man, I need to try and respect that. Maybe I could bring up the subject of pets with her and get a feel for Preston’s take on such things.
“Don’t worry, girl.” I rub Sandy’s back and pull her against me. “I’ll make sure you have a good home.”
Sandy turned ten this year. Never been sick a day in her life. Her last annual checkup was all good, I expect the upcoming one will be as well. She’s had all her shots. Even though she eats like a horse, she’s worth the cost of kibbles because she’s a damn good watchdog. A damn good companion. Stella put a big bow on her and tucked her into a box for my fiftieth birthday. I remember thinking what the hell am I going to do with a dog. I’m not home nearly as much as I should be. How will I take care of a dog? What on earth had she been thinking?
It didn’t take long to figure out the dog was more for Stella than for me. She was lonely and didn’t want to hurt my feelings by telling me. So she got a dog. By the end of year one we were down a few pairs of shoes, but both of us were in love with the animal. I toss the tennis ball Sandy loves to chase and wait for her to bring it back to me, then I throw it again. At least one of us will get some exercise today.
