by Mary Burton
“Age doesn’t stop abusers.”
She shook her head in denial even as the old memories flooded. “Grady always favored Mariah. He’d spent extra time with her. He didn’t like it when boys wanted to date her.” She closed her eyes. “It explains so much.”
“Like what?”
“The way she’d tease him with news of a date. She knew he hated it.”
“Is he Sooner’s father?”
“No. I told you it was that boy. The one with the fictitious name. Matt Davis.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed. “And she never told anyone who had fathered Sooner?”
“We never talked about the baby’s father.”
“Maybe that’s why Grady kept Sooner because she was his.”
“No. Grady is not Sooner’s father.” He’d kept Sooner to punish her for leaving. “Why are you asking all these questions? What have you found out about Mariah?”
His jaw tensed. “I found out what happened to her.”
She closed her eyes and immediately they filled with tears. He was about to tell her what she’d sensed for years. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“No.”
She hadn’t cried since the night she’d left Sooner with Grady at the carnival. Over the years she’d kept tears and sadness buried so very deep. But now she couldn’t stop the tears.
Rokov pulled her into his embrace and held her close. He didn’t say anything but just held her as the sadness and worry and old fears poured out of her.
Finally she pulled back and swiped the tears. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His tone was soft and firm.
“I guess I’ve known it all these years, but to hear it is another matter.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be sorry. You gave me the answer I’ve needed for too many years.” She pulled back away from the heat and the touch of his fingers on her arms. “How?”
He hesitated. “She was drowned.”
“Like the other two women?”
“Yes. And she was marked with the word Witch.”
“Oh, God.”
He enunciated each word carefully. “Could Grady have killed Mariah in a jealous rage?”
She felt sick.
“He’s a liar. You know that.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe he’d kill her.”
Rokov was silent for a moment, and then in a low dangerous voice said, “Did he ever try anything with you? You two were the same age. Did he ever touch you?”
She paled.
“Charlotte?”
“I was too argumentative. Grady used to say if I could just be more like Mariah, his life would be easier.”
His gaze burned into her. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“A no. Grady never touched me.”
A grim smile tipped the edge of his mouth. “Okay. Okay.” The question satisfied, his mind seemed to return to the matter at hand. “You said you both worked the Madame Divine tent.”
“That’s right. We took shifts.”
“You wore the same costume.”
“And the same wig and mask. Grady didn’t want folks knowing Madame Divine’s identity. He never wanted the mystique ruined.”
“Or he never wanted the public knowing his psychic was two underage girls.”
“That, too, I suppose.”
“If Grady didn’t kill Mariah,” he said carefully,
“could the killer have come into the Madame Divine tent as a customer and become fixated on her?”
“Sure. Maybe. We saw so many people. I lost track.”
“The killer could just as easily have gotten a reading from you as Mariah?”
Her stomach dropped. “You’re saying whoever killed her was really after me.”
“Maybe. Maybe he just wanted Madame Divine. If the public didn’t know she was two people, then he wouldn’t either.”
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
“We switched at the last second that night. I wasn’t feeling well and Mariah was happy to get out of the trailer and away from the baby.”
He frowned. “Did anyone odd come into your tent before Mariah died that set off alarm bells for you?”
“It has been eighteen years. I’ve blocked all that out. And after Mariah died, I was gone for good in less than a week.”
“When was the last time you worked in the tent?”
“About a week before she died. After she was gone, I refused to go into the tent again.”
“Grady give you a hard time about not working?”
“Yes. He was furious. He said ...” She paused and swallowed jagged emotions. “He said it should have been me.”
Rokov opened the manila folder at his side. “These are Mariah’s crime scene photos and they are rough.”
She moistened dry lips and tried to dismiss the growing nausea in her gut. “Let me see.”
He hesitated a moment and then opened the file.
She stared in horror at the colored picture of Mariah lying on her back, her face covered with a handkerchief, and her limp body lying by a road. Tears choked her throat. “I don’t see a connection.”
“Have a closer look.”
She clenched her fists. She lowered her gaze and drew in a sharp breath when she fully took in the image of her sister lying in the grass. She’d seen her share of autopsy photos, and though she’d found them sobering, they’d never been as devastating as these.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
He flipped to the next picture. It was another angle of her lying down.
“He wrote on her.”
“Yes.”
All she saw was the violence and the hatred that had spewed out of a monster onto her sister. But as she’d allowed logic to elbow and subdue emotion, her mind locked on a detail. “That handkerchief is Grady’s. He always carried one like that.”
“It appears fairly generic.”
“He bought them by the dozen because he always needed one in his pocket. He called them his good luck charm.”
Her knees gave way, and he quickly closed the file and caught her elbow, preventing her from crumbling. He guided her to a cream-colored sofa. “I still hear her screams in my dreams. Her last moments must have been a nightmare.”
He sat beside her. Though he didn’t touch her, his presence gave her the strength to stay calm. She wasn’t going to cry this time.
“It’s no shame to cry,” he said.
“My mother taught me never to cry. A foolish lesson for a mother to pass on to a child, but until today I’ve not cried in a very long time.”
“I’m sorry I was the cause.”
“It wasn’t you. You gave me the answers I needed for so long.” She tossed him a sidelong glance and found him staring at her. “Where is she? Grady said he had her buried in Fairfax but he wouldn’t let me see the grave.”
“She was never claimed so she was cremated.”
She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “She should have been claimed. We should have gathered and honored her.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Get away from here. Get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need a break. You need an hour to get away from this place and the White trial and the worries you are carrying about Sooner.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“Get your purse or whatever it is you carry. Break.”
“Detective.”
He shook his head. “I think we moved beyond the formal titles a long time ago. My name is Daniel.”
She shook her head. “Detective, I told you we were not going to move on beyond the formal titles.”
“As I remember, we did. Five times.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “That was different.”
“Really? How?”
“It was a divers
ion for both of us. We both knew it was what it was.”
“Meaning?”
“Not personal.”
“When a man and woman get naked, it’s personal.” He rose and pulled her with him. “Now get your purse. We’re getting out of here.”
Chapter 19
Thursday, October 28, 8:55 p.m.
Too tired and overwhelmed to argue with Rokov, Charlotte grabbed her purse from her desk drawer and shut off the lights. Rokov waited on the front porch beside her as she set the alarm and locked the deadbolt. He guided her down the stairs to an unmarked police cruiser, opened the passenger side door for her, and waited as she slid into the car. He closed her door. The car’s interior had remained warm and immediately subdued the chill clinging to her bones.
Without a word, Rokov got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. A quick glance in the rearview mirror and he was driving down the street. Before long they’d maneuvered around the latest patch of road construction, so much a part of this area, and were on I-495 south. She didn’t ask where they were going, knowing she was safe and for these few moments with him she did not have to worry.
When he pulled into a residential neighborhood, she sat a little straighter. The houses were small, many built in the fifties, but the lawns and properties were neatly kept. “Where are we?”
“I have to stop by my parents. They’re having dinner so we might as well grab a bite there.”
Immediately, she tensed. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not? Their food is good, better than any restaurant, and you’re hungry.”
“No. They’re not expecting me.” She stared down the street, wondering if they’d passed a Metro stop, a bus, or a subway line.
He ignored her. “Mom cooks enough for an army. Besides, it’s late and some of the clan will have cleared out.”
“I don’t like being around real families.” They were reminders of too many personal disasters. “I can wait in the car.”
“No.” He parked behind a black Lincoln and came immediately around to her side of the car. He opened the door. “Don’t be a baby, Wellington. It’s just a meal.”
“Breaking bread with family is personal.”
“More personal than sex?”
“Absolutely.” She got out, hugging her purse close.
Rokov followed and pressed his hand into the small of Charlotte’s back, guiding her toward his mother’s front door decorated with dried cornstalks. He could have called his mother and begged off the meal. God knows he’d done it enough times. But he’d wanted Charlotte to meet his family. Why? And to fully answer that question required more time than he had. All he knew was that they were both hungry, and there was no better place to nourish her than here.
Without knocking, he opened the front door. Immediately, the sounds of laughter and music rushed out to greet them. Charlotte’s muscles stiffened under his palm, and he could feel her pushing back. If he’d not been there, she’d have run.
“You can cross-examine a man to shreds without breaking a sweat, and yet a little family time scares you?”
“It scares the shit out of me,” she whispered.
The uncharacteristic remark made him laugh. Which was how his mother found them, him smiling down at her and her looking at him with a bemused if not embarrassed expression. An outsider might have thought he’d just kissed her or they’d shared an intimate exchange.
“Daniel?” His mother’s voice was loud and excited. “We did not think you’d make it.”
He nudged Charlotte closer to his mother with more than just a little push in the small of her back. “I don’t have much time. I’ve got to get back to work soon.”
His mother’s bright blue gaze had shifted completely from him to Charlotte, and there was a curiosity there that could only be described as hungry. “And who is your friend?”
His mother had learned English well over thirty years ago but she still spoke with a pronounced Russian accent. Streaks of white had turned her blue-black hair to salt and pepper, but erect shoulders gave her the presence of a much taller woman. A strict code of eating had kept her figure trim, and she still wore dark dresses instead of slacks or shorts.
“This is Charlotte Wellington. We’re working on a case together.”
His mother arched a brow. “You are a policeman?”
Charlotte extended her hand. “I am an attorney, Mrs. Rokov.”
His mother took her hand in both of hers. “My name is Nadia Rokov. Daniel’s mother. And please call me Nadia.”
More laughter and conversation bubbled from the kitchen. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Intrude! That is the last thought to cross my mind. My son knows I feed all hungry people. Now come and please sit at my table.”
His mother led the way and Charlotte tossed him a glance filled with a mixture of worry, relief, and payback-is-a-bitch. He winked at her.
They moved into the kitchen, decorated with Formica and white wallpaper with strawberries and vines. The stainless round kitchen table now sported two extra middle extensions to accommodate the mountains of food and the crowd, which included his parents, two brothers, a sister, and a grandmother.
All the Rokov children looked eerily similar. Growing up, they’d been known as the Rokov Rat Pack, infamous for close ties and a readiness to fight anyone who challenged the Pack.
When Daniel and Charlotte entered the kitchen, all conversation stopped.
Rokov stood at her side, his hand on her back. “Family, I’d like you to meet Charlotte Wellington. We work together.”
The group stared in stunned silence, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if they’d heard him. However, his father broke the shocked stillness. “Welcome, Ms. Wellington. I am Dimitri Rokov.”
“Charlotte, please.”
He nodded. “And you will call me Dimitri. These are my children, Nathan, Ivan, and Joanna. There is another daughter, Alexa, but she is traveling for her business.”
They all raised their hands and nodded. Dumb grins ignited and spread across each face. He’d be catching shit about this later. So be it.
At the other end of the table sat his grandmother. “Charlotte, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Rokov.”
She smiled at Charlotte. “Daniel, get this poor girl a chair. She is hungry.”
“Sure, Nona. Sure.” He pulled two extra chairs from the dining room and set them at the table. His sister scooted to the right to make room for them.
“I have a lovely dining room,” his mother said. “And of course no one ever eats in there. Everybody wants the kitchen.”
“Family gatherings are often impromptu here,” Daniel explained. “One kid figures out what Mom has on the stove, and he texts the others. Before you know it, there’s a crowd.”
Charlotte sat on the edge of her chair as if she could jump and run with little prompting. “That’s nice. You’re lucky to be so close.”
“Do you have family in this area?” Mr. Rokov said.
“No,” she said smoothly. “They’re out of town.”
Charlotte had never talked about family until tonight when he’d informed her Mariah had been murdered. There was Grady, niece Sooner, and an unnamed aunt who’d taken her into her home. They were a ragtag group with loose ties at best.
Rokov took two plates from his mother and gave one to Charlotte. “Dig in.”
Charlotte accepted the plate and glanced at the table with a bit of panic. “Oh, my. I don’t know where to start.”
“It’s all guaranteed to bust any diet.” The comment came from a tall slender brunette with ice blue eyes. The dad had introduced her as Joanna. “Mom likes to cook with gallons of butter.”
Mrs. Rokov shrugged. “A little butter is good for the soul. Much better than all that junk in the stores today.”
Charlotte had no idea what dish to choose or where to start. She’d not felt this awkward since she’d argued her first case in law school. Without much thought, she grabbed the first serving spoon
and heaped what looked like a cabbage dish onto her plate. Next was a meat dish, something marinated and spicy. And then potatoes. It smelled tantalizing, and she realized she was hungry. She’d been so nervous when she’d visited Sooner that she’d barely eaten.
Grateful to have a plate and something to do, she ate and listened as the family chattered around her. Rokov’s brothers razzed him about cleaning his stuff out of the backyard shed, discussed who would rake Nona’s leaves and Alexa’s latest text from Boston. He took it all in stride, letting all the good-natured razzing roll off his back.
When Charlotte had first suggested they sleep together, she’d not really thought of Daniel Rokov as a person. She’d sensed he was honorable and good but that had been secondary to her primary goal: ending a very long and lonely dry spell. And he’d done it. In fact, he’d done such a good job, she’d been unable to forget him. She’d called him the second time, half hoping it wouldn’t be as good as the first time. Better to be disappointed early and move on. But the second time had been as good as, if not better than, the first. Before she realized it, she couldn’t stop anticipating the next time.
She’d convinced herself it was just sex. A basic need, not so different than food or water. But she’d been fooling herself. It was more than sex. And Daniel Rokov was so much more than a man in a motel room. He was a man who could be gentle with horrific news, who was loved by his family, and who was respected by his coworkers.
She’d not only learned a lot about Daniel Rokov these last few days, but had broken all the rules she’d established for their relationship. What emotional price would she eventually have to pay for allowing too much familiarity?
Better to pull back. Just sit, eat, and make a quiet retreat from the conversation. The Rokovs had a different plan.
“You were representing that woman who murdered her husband, weren’t you?” The question came from Joanna.
“That’s right,” Charlotte said.
“I read about you in the paper.”
“You did?” She smiled but didn’t expand.
“Have you spoken to Ms. White since the trial? She must be pretty relieved.”
“She’s putting her life back together,” Charlotte said.
“Many of the editorial pieces suggest she killed her husband,” Joanna challenged.
