In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  His fingers fisted at his sides. “Do you even get that she’s dead?”

  She stared at his hands, an odd light flaring in her eyes. “I’m not going to hurt myself. You’re not worth it. Especially if you did it.”

  Her words ripped right through him. “You think I did it?”

  “Peyton does. She said that no matter what, you should go to jail for what you did to me.”

  He didn’t realize he’d swayed backward until he lost his balance and stumbled back a step. When had his own sister turned against him?

  “It’s not against the law to break up with somebody,” he finally muttered.

  “If you humiliate them it should be.”

  “You’re upset about what everyone thinks, not about losing me.”

  “I’m upset about that bitch taking what was mine.”

  Drew stared. She’d spit that out in a tone worthy of one of those TV teens who went around being possessed by demons.

  Her mom poked her head out of the house. “Allison. Time to come in.”

  Behind them, the tricked-out Tahoe started up. Allison shivered, and Drew hunched his shoulders.

  “I have to go,” he said slowly.

  “Me, too.” And she sent him a look that had him absolutely convinced she was anxious to get back to jabbing needles into a voodoo doll that looked exactly like him.

  This time he was the one who shivered. He trudged back to the SUV.

  Twenty minutes later, he was letting himself into his grandparents’ house. All he wanted was to take a shower and crash for an entire week. But he heard voices—and the all-too-familiar tink of ice against crystal—coming from the living room. He should check in. Maybe someone was still sober enough to care that he was home.

  Suit coat and tie flung over his shoulder, his free hand in his pocket, he trudged down the hallway. He paused under the arch that opened into the big-ass formal space he and Peyton had always steered clear of. Too many breakables. Stainables. Fuck-up-ables.

  His grandfather hunched over the bar, fixing his grandmother a drink she didn’t need. The gurgle of liquid, the rattling smack of a bottle returned not quite steadily to a metal tray—how many times since they’d moved in had he heard these sounds? His grandfather turned with a drink in each hand—one for his wife and one for Drew’s mom—then turned back and poured himself a whiskey. Drew exhaled. They all looked rumpled and pale. Defeated. He opened his mouth to tell them to stop worrying, to let them know he was there. The odd expression on his mother’s face stopped him. She was looking at his grandfather, who had his hand in his jacket pocket.

  As she held out her palm, the old man produced a plastic amber bottle. He uncapped it, tipped it, and presented his daughter with a couple days’ worth of oblivion. Drew inhaled. The need to yell, to kick, to hit, to smash every last bottle in the fucking house rose up inside him like foam charging out of a glass filled too quickly with Coke.

  “Mom?” His legs wobbled as he stormed into the room. “What are you doing?”

  She spun toward him, fist to her chest. “Drew! You’re home!” She hurried toward him, relief drenching her eyes. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you. Thank God. Thank God.” Her forehead hit his chin as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Why didn’t you call us?” His grandfather trailed drops of whiskey as he crossed the room. “We would have come for you.”

  “One of the deputies brought me home. And they did try to call.” Drew pulled away, eyeing his mother’s fist. “You didn’t pick up.”

  “I didn’t hear my phone ring.”

  “What are you taking?”

  “Just a little something to help me sleep. Never mind that. What matters is you’re back, safe and sound.”

  “What matters is Sarah is dead. Somebody killed her. What matters is those pills are fucking you up so much you believe your own son is a murderer.”

  His mother went white.

  His grandmother slapped both palms to the diamond glittering against her chest.

  His grandfather pointed at him with the hand holding his whiskey. “You watch your mouth, young man.”

  “That’s not true,” his mom said, her voice small and tight. “I know you couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “You confessed to protect me. Everyone knows it. You thought I did it.”

  “No. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I panicked.”

  “You weren’t thinking clearly because you’d been drinking. And popping those.” He nodded stiffly at her pocket. “Can’t you see what these are doing to you? To us? Mom, you’ve gotta stop.”

  “I…I can’t,” she said, and the despair in her voice took him right back to the desperate days after his father had moved out.

  “Drew.” His grandmother put a trembling hand on his arm. He shook it off. Wished he could shake them off. He rounded on his grandparents.

  “So, what, you’re her suppliers? Judas Priest, don’t you care what you’ve turned her into?”

  His grandfather drew himself up. “You will not speak to us like—”

  “Mom. You’re an addict.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been through a lot but that’s no excuse for disrespect. I think you’d better go to bed.”

  “So you can be alone with your pills?”

  His grandfather slammed his nearly empty glass down on an end table. “Don’t give us that holier-than-thou shit, Drew Bartholomew,” he said. “You had an affair with a woman twice your age.”

  “That sounds more like sour grapes than outrage,” Drew said wildly. “At least I cared about Sarah.”

  “She certainly didn’t care about you.” His grandmother snatched up her husband’s whiskey glass and drained it. “All the while she was sleeping with you, she was—”

  “Don’t you dare,” his mom choked.

  “—sleeping with your father.”

  Remorse replaced the triumph on his grandmother’s face the moment she finished the sentence. Drew stared for a moment, struggling to wrap his mind around her words.

  Dumbass. He really was a dumbass. Sarah was already seeing his father when she’d ended things with Drew.

  At the moment he was too tired to care.

  He stalked out of the living room. He’d reached the bottom of the staircase when his dad came in the front door, Peyton clinging to his arm. The surprise and relief on his dad’s face when he saw Drew warmed him. Until he remembered what his grandmother had said. The warmth turned into freezer burn.

  “You’re supposed to wait outside,” he snapped, dodging his dad’s embrace.

  Uncle Grady and Matt came in then. “Drew!” Matt shouted, and thrust himself forward. They exchanged the back slap that was the male version of a hug, then bumped knuckles. “Dad said you wouldn’t be back yet. What was it like in jail?”

  “Give him some space, Matt.” Uncle Grady closed the door, gaze bouncing back and forth between Drew and Drew’s dad.

  With a scowl, Matt backed into the corner of the foyer.

  “Matt and I took Peyton to dinner,” Uncle Grady told Drew quietly. “Your dad had just pulled up when we got back.” He held out a hand. “It’s good to see you, kid.”

  Drew shook his uncle’s hand and continued to stare darkly at his dad.

  Finally realizing he wasn’t going to get that hug, his dad dropped his arms. “Your sister invited me in.”

  “Yeah.” Peyton shoved her takeout carton at Uncle Grady like she was thinking of throwing a punch or two. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I missed you, too,” Drew said tightly.

  “What’d they do to you?” his dad demanded. “What’d they say?”

  Drew choked out a laugh. “So it is true. You’d already started seeing Sarah.”

  “What?” Looking like he’d gotten a whiff of the entire soccer team’s laundry after a game, Uncle Grady tossed Peyton’s leftovers on the hall table, ordered Matt upstairs, and rounded on his ex-brother-in-law. “Scott, what the hell?”

  His dad
had gone pale. “Let me explain.”

  He had to be frickin’ kidding. But before Drew could tell his dad to go to hell, he heard the clacking scurry of high heels.

  His mom rushed into the room and got right up in his dad’s face.

  Everyone except Uncle Grady took a cautious step back.

  Chapter Nine

  “What are you doing here?” Drew’s mom demanded. “You know damned well you’re not welcome in this house.”

  “This is your fault,” his dad growled at his mom. “My son hates me because that liquor-logged head of yours is so far up your advantaged ass you couldn’t keep him from screwing a woman twice his age.”

  “You’re busting my balls? Please. Sarah was two-timing you with your own son and you didn’t have a clue. She must have figured out what I already knew—a teenage boy is more man than you are.”

  “What?” Peyton shrieked. “Dad and Drew were both—? Eww.” She punched Drew in the shoulder. “What is wrong with you? You couldn’t just let him have her? You had Allison. Why did you need anyone else?”

  “Pey.” He rubbed his shoulder with one hand and reached out with the other. She dodged him and ran up the stairs, legs pumping like a football player running a tire drill.

  “Follow her,” Uncle Grady urged, and Drew knew it was more about getting him away from his parents than getting him to make things right with his sister. Fine by him. Hearing his parents whale on each other always sucked ass.

  “You sour little bitch.” His dad’s voice followed him up the stairs. “At least I had the pleasure of fucking something other than a puddle of gin for once. And you know what’s pathetic? You’re a better lay than you are a parent.”

  “That’s enough,” roared Uncle Grady. “You think this is over for him? It’s not. Far from it. You’re his parents. He needs you. Suck it up and be there for him.”

  His mom said something, too low for Drew to hear. Probably just as well. He paused outside Peyton’s door, then barged in without knocking. Something else she’d never forgive him for.

  “Leave me alone,” she mumbled. She was tucked up against the headboard, forehead to her knees. No tears in her voice. He didn’t know if that should make him feel better or worse.

  He settled at the foot of the bed, glancing around at the ruffles and polka dots and purple sparkly junk that made Peyton’s room uniquely hers. A unique and inviting trap. Just like his own room.

  “It was a bad idea, moving in with our grandparents,” he said. “They’re only making things worse.”

  Her head snapped up. “What are you talking about? They look out for us. They love us. We have everything we need.” She grabbed a round purple pillow and hugged it to her chest.

  “They’re not looking out for Mom. They got her started on those pills and now she’s hooked.”

  “How can you talk about them like that? They’re our grandparents.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re perfect. C’mon, Pey. You’re not stupid. You know Mom hasn’t been right since we got here.”

  “She’s been through a lot, what with Dad leaving and then losing her job. God, Drew, she was willing to go to jail for you. Why can’t you cut her a break?”

  “You love her, right? You want her to be around for a long time?” When she rolled her eyes he pulled his knee up on the bed and turned to face her. “She keeps this up and she’ll die.”

  “You’re trying to manipulate me. I hate that. I hate you.”

  He exhaled, and slowly got to his feet. He’d heard it before. Still it shook him. “Sometimes I hate myself, too,” he said.

  That shut her up, but only for a second. “Anyway, you’re lying. Why are you trying to upset everyone? It’s not our fault you were arrested.”

  “They didn’t arrest me. Not yet.”

  Her eyes went round. “You think they will?”

  “I’m their best suspect.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, snatched up her iPod and slid onto her side, face to the wall. “Turn off the light on your way out.”

  He watched her untangle her ear buds. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “Ask you what?”

  “If I did it.”

  “Go away.” She jammed the ear buds into her ears.

  Once in his own room, Drew sank down onto his bed. He needed that shower but lacked the energy to undress.

  Sarah had been screwing both him and his old man. When she’d broken things off, she’d told Drew she’d developed feelings for his father. Feelings she couldn’t help. Feelings she’d wanted the space to explore. She’d said she wouldn’t have felt right doing it while seeing Drew.

  She’d lied.

  Had that been some kind of kinky turn-on, taking turns with father and son? Hell, maybe she’d even hoped to talk them into a threesome.

  Bile bubbled up into his throat. Joining the nausea was a savage resentment that lit up his chest like too much Tabasco on a chili dog. He lunged toward his bathroom, landed on his knees in front of his toilet and let loose. Minutes later, kneecaps throbbing, stomach sore, he staggered over to his mini fridge and snagged a soda, flipped the tab with shaking fingers and took a desperate swig.

  Had he loved Sarah? No. But she’d made him feel good. Made him think he was special.

  Made him forget the shit waiting for him at home.

  He set the soda on his desk, dropped sideways onto his mattress, and pulled his knees up against his chest. Stared in the direction of his Fast and Furious poster and let loose a wave of dumbass tears.

  * * *

  As Charity slid into a back booth at Sweeney’s, she snagged a French fry off Mo’s plate. A bump of her hip forced Dix to the wall. “Thanks a lot for waiting, guys.”

  Dix had drunk almost all of what looked like a whiskey, and Mo was halfway through a beer and his fries. Charity reached across Dix and grabbed the pepper out of the caddy at the end of the table. She straightened back up, only to find Mo had spread both hands over his plate.

  “My fries are fine the way they are. And we did wait for you. Appetizers don’t count.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How about drinks?”

  “Thanks.” Mo brightened. “We’re good for now, but you can get the next round.”

  “My ass.”

  Big Mike brought over an iced tea. She smiled her thanks. Once upon a time the bartender had figured big in her fantasies—so delightfully big. Who could blame her? With his bulky muscles, ocean-deep voice, and slow Southern drawl, the erotic dream version of Big Mike was the perfect orgasm donor. Dolan Sweeney, who co-owned the bar with his sister, wasn’t half bad, either. And she still had fond memories of a certain volunteer firefighter who’d been the most fun she’d ever had in bed.

  But sooner or later, no matter who she envisioned as she writhed against her own hand, they always ended up wearing Grady West’s face.

  “Y’all ready to order?” Big Mike asked, and Charity cursed Grady West to hell when her thigh muscles didn’t even quiver.

  They ordered sandwiches, and Mo asked for another plate of fries. “You can pepper half,” he told Charity.

  She was distracted by Dix asking for a refill of his drink. At least he’d ordered something to eat. After Big Mike moved away from the table, she elbowed her lead detective.

  Well, her lead detective for the next thirty days.

  “I didn’t think you were going to make it tonight.” They’d planned dinner to catch up on the case and to make peace after the drama at lunchtime, but Dix’s wife had needed him at home.

  “Sheila has a migraine.” Slowly Dix rotated his glass. “She said I was making too much noise.”

  “I’m sorry she’s not feeling well. I’m glad you’re here, though. Someone has to pick up the check.”

  Instead of giving her the half grin she expected, he raised his glass and drained it. She glanced at Mo, who shrugged and crammed two ketchup-coated fries into his mouth. Bless Riley Morrissey and his uncomplicated view of life. Seemed he reall
y had decided not to hold that anonymous note against her.

  “How’d it go with Drew?” she asked Dix quietly.

  They’d released the teen that evening. Dix had ended up driving him home, since Justine wasn’t picking up her phone, and Scott couldn’t pull himself away from…whatever. Or whoever.

  After a couple of beats Dix inhaled and looked up. There came the half grin. “Before he got in the car he asked for Mo. Guess I make him nervous.”

  Mo gave Charity a told-you-so nod. “See? Smart kid.”

  “Then he asked for Allison Young.”

  Charity sat back. “He wanted to see Allison before going home?”

  “That took balls,” Mo said grudgingly. “Did her mother let him in?”

  “No. Allison did come out on the porch, and the two of them talked. And no, I don’t know what about. Kid didn’t say a word until we got to Pill Hill.”

  Mo leaned forward. “What’d he say then?”

  “‘Thanks for the ride.’”

  Charity poked at the lemon bobbing in her tea. “He really is afraid she’ll hurt herself.”

  Silence. Crap. For what seemed like forever, Dix had worried the same about Sheila. Could she be any more insensitive? “Dix,” she began.

  “Kwanta,” he said. “Don’t go there.” He spoke lightly, but it was obvious he was upset. It was the only time he used Cree.

  More silence. Mo’s gaze flicked from Charity to Dix, and he gave his empty plate a shove. “You two ready to tell me why we’re here? ’Cause it’s obviously not about the case.”

  Dix glanced at the bar, and Charity spotted the desperation in his gaze. Misery squeezed her heart. This was about more than not wanting to tell Mo.

  Dix didn’t want to leave Becker County.

  “Fuck me,” breathed Mo, when no one spoke. “You were sleeping with her, too.”

  Charity squawked a No! while Dix shook his head in disgust.

  “I’m married,” he gritted.

  Mo threw himself back against his seat. The booth trembled. “What, then?”