by Mari Manning
A cunning gleam flashed behind Brandon’s contact lenses. “It’s that guy in the photo, isn’t it? He’s trying to break us up.”
She flexed her shoulders to break his grip, but he held her tight. “You left me first, Brandon.”
“I didn’t leave you. I just had to get away for awhile, babe. You know how depressed I’ve been lately. You’ve always supported my acting, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“If you didn’t think I’d mind, why didn’t you ask me?”
“Di. Babe.” He jerked her against him and locked his arms around her waist. His over-developed chest, pressing against her breasts, repulsed her, and his aftershave, a cloying potion that reminded her of camphor, turned her stomach. His mouth found her ear and whined, “You’re my whole world, my everything.” Straight from a TV pilot that was never picked up.
“Am I interrupting?” Rafe’s deep voice slapped against her.
Dinah’s head spun around so fast, her nose clipped Brandon’s overly sharp cheekbone. Rafe was watching them from the hallway. His face was the color of his gray uniform, his expression stony, his mouth down-turned and tight. He was the picture of wretched loss. Is this how you treat people who love you?
Yes.
“Rafe.” She croaked his name.
Brandon pushed her aside. “You’re that guy in the picture all over the internet, aren’t you?” His head swung around to Dinah. “He’s a cop?”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her eyes from Rafe. She yearned to touch his skin, press her lips against his, feel his approval. But the fury—and hurt—in his eyes stopped her cold. He didn’t want her. Not now.
Brandon stepped closer. “You’re full of shit if you think my girlfriend would be interested in you. She hates cops. Her dad was one and got corrupted and had to go to jail. Practically ruined her life. Right, babe?”
Rafe’s chest heaved. Dinah watched his shirt rise and settle back, then raised her eyes to his flint-like face. He tipped his Stetson at Brandon. “Just a routine check-in, sir. Sorry to bother you and Miss Dinah.” His voice was cold, dead.
The door clicked softly behind him, the familiar clatter of his boots against the porch steps vibrated in the thick air, then a car roared to life and squealed off. What had she done? But she knew. Exactly what she’d told him—and Esme—she would do. She’d hurt him. Never had someone else’s wounds ached in her like Rafe’s did now. His devastation clawed at her heart as if it was her own. Maybe it was her own. The one good thing in her life, and she’d destroyed it in two days. That must be some kind of record.
She punched Brandon’s shoulder. “Get out. Go back to L.A.”
Brandon’s expression turned to outrage, and for once it didn’t seem to be an act. He grabbed her arm again. “What is going on? Is this because I took a little vacation?”
Her skin crawled where he touched her. She stared down at his hand. “Get your cotton pickin’ hands off me.” That really twanged, and she was glad.
His fingers released her, and she pushed away from him. Taking the stairs two at a time she tried to run from the misery he’d dragged in from L.A., the years of carelessness and desolation she’d embraced, his entitlement and selfishness that fit her sense of worthlessness.
Slamming the bedroom door behind her, she threw her herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. The smell of Rafe’s hair and skin lingered on the sheets. She breathed deeply, ravenous for his scent. He would never give her another chance, never hold her, never lie beside her in this bed. It was for the best. Really. But it still hurt.
Brandon’s fist pounded against her door. “Dinah? Are you in there?”
“Get out.”
The door squeaked opened. She twisted around on her bed and gazed at him. His head was tilted and his chin pushed forward as if he was unsure of his reception. That was a first.
He smiled until the white caps on his teeth sparkled. “Di, are you all right?”
She hauled herself to her feet. “What are you really doing here?”
“Nothing.” His voice was a high, vigorous protest.
She folded her arms. “You know what I think?”
“Di, don’t—”
“I think you saw Rafe holding me in that picture, and you got worried you were losing your gravy train.”
A bolt of alarm skittered across his face, then it was erased by an arrangement of facial features expressing patronizing hurt. But the bright eyes were wary and his mouth tight and serious. Brandon was a crappy actor.
“You’ve been mooching off me forever, and you thank me by stealing every last penny I have and going off to Mexico. Don’t think I didn’t hear that bimbo giggling in the background when you called me.”
His neatly posed expression twitched. “What are you saying?”
“I’m breaking up with you. Go back to L.A. Move in with the girl you took to Mexico. Mooch off her for a change, and forget you ever knew me.”
“You found the money, didn’t you?” His eyes narrowed.
“The money?”
“The article said there was a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for finding the money your father stole.”
Her jaw dropped. She could barely get her head around his meaning. “You came here because you thought I had come into some money, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did!” She threw another punch at the bubble of shoulder muscle pressing against his T-shirt.
“Ouch.” He rubbed his shoulder. “That’s not cool.”
“I’ll hit you again if you don’t get out of my house.”
“I deserve some of that money. We’ve been together for two years.”
Disgust at herself and the way she’d been living and what she’d settled for welled up in her. She pushed him aside.
“If I give you everything I have, will you go?” She picked up the small pile of coins lying on her dresser. Two dimes, six pennies, two quarters. Seventy-six cents. Her inheritance.
She thrust the change at him. “Here take it.”
“What is this? What are you doing?”
“It’s what’s left of my inheritance. Seventy-six cents. The rest—eight dollars—got snatched by a thief.”
“You are fricking crazy.” The green contacts darkened, reminding her of frog skin.
She threw the coins at him. “Go on, take it all. Then get the hell out of my house.”
He pushed past her. “Crazy bitch. I should’ve known you’d be too dumb to get the reward.”
His footsteps thumped angrily down the stairs, and the front door slammed shut behind him.
As the last, dim echo of his shoes faded, relief poured through Dinah. Then a wave of despair drowned it out. Rafe. She’d been fooling herself about him. He was not going to be easy to forget.
She began picking up the scattered coins, counting as she dropped them in her palm. They clinked together as they fell…the quarters, the dimes, one penny, then two more, then another and another. She was missing one. Bending over, she tilted her head and looked under the bed. The outlier lay among the dust motes. She grabbed it.
Holding it between her finger and thumb, she studied it. Her daddy’s last penny. She should frame it, or encase it in something. A memorial. She squinted at the date. 1943. Not many coins last sixty years.
God’s kingdom…is a vinyard [sp?]…and each [indecipherable] penny a day. Then think… historic [indecipherable] where [sounded like] moon [indecipherable].
Penny. Historic. Was her father talking about this coin? But it wasn’t gold, and her father had said to take the gold. Still, he also said penny. But pennies weren’t gold, and they didn’t bear an image of the moon.
She studied the coin. It was worth looking into.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Too depressed and hot to move, Dinah draped herself across her bed. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning, and the air was already damp and swollen with heat. If she ever had money again, she’d buy an a
ir conditioner first thing.
Out of nowhere, a ringing started up in her ears. She frowned, and the sounded faded away, leaving behind a sense of unease. Something felt out-of-whack, wrong. Get up. Hurry.
She raised her head and studied the bedroom. Her eyes went to the penny on her dresser. Maybe that stupid old coin was bugging her. She should have gone to the library yesterday and looked it up on the computer, but she’d been too depressed. She’d go today…as soon as she got up the energy.
Hurry.
She sat up again. The heat must be making her crazy. That feeling she got when Lonnie died was back. In spades. She pulled out Rafe’s gun and slinked along her bedroom wall to the window. She peeked out. The cruiser was at the curb, and her guard—the lecherous Swope—was pacing the strip of sidewalk in front of her house.
The gun felt cold and hard against her damp skin. Playing cowboys and Indians in this heat was a dangerous game. Put the gun away.
But the feeling wouldn’t go away. She checked the safety on the gun, stuck it in the waistband of her cut-offs and pulled her shirt over it. Then she crept out of her room, opening the door slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound.
The house was a vacuum of sound and movement. Where was Hollyn? Dinah sidled over to Hollyn’s room and stretched her neck around the corner. The room was empty, the bed neatly made. Across the hall, momma and daddy’s room was silent and shrouded in darkness from the drawn shades. She tamped down the panicky urge to holler out Hollyn’s name and crept carefully down the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps as best she could.
The first floor was deathly still, tomb-like. A tiny animal-like sound vibrated through the back window. She pulled the gun from her shorts before heading to the dining room.
“Hollyn?” She set the gun down on the kitchen table. “Where are you?”
Silence vibrated around her. Sweat trickled between her breasts and over her belly. The kitchen felt hotter than a first day in hell. So why was the back door closed? She picked up the Beretta again before swinging open the door. It banged against the wall, and she waited, gun drawn, heart in her throat for an explosion of force or gunfire or something. More silence.
She peered through the screen. Daisy lay prostrate near the door, long legs stiff and trembling. Her liquid brown eyes met Dinah’s, and fear trembled in their depths.
Dinah dropped the gun and push open the back door. “Officer Swope!” She screamed his name, praying it would travel to the street. She screeched his name again, dropping all pretense of civility. “Swope, goddammit. Where the hell are you?”
The faraway clack of running boots floated into the back yard. “Miss Dinah? Where are you?”
“In the back.”
Dinah dropped to her knees beside Daisy and laid her hand against the dog’s ribs. A faint heartbeat echoed in her chest cavity. Dinah touched her nose. Hot and dry. Not good. She ran her hand across the dog’s back.
“Hang on, girl. Help is coming.”
The back gate crashed open and Swope, blue eyes bulging, gun drawn, barreled into the yard.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s the dog. There’s something wrong with her.”
Swope ran his eyes over Daisy’s prone body. “She been sick?”
“No! You saw her this morning when I walked her.”
Swope nodded. “Guess I was looking at you.” He eyed the dog again. “She might have been poisoned.”
“Whatever. We need to get her to a vet.”
Swope stuck his gun back in its holster and spoke into the radio on his shoulder. “Hey, Morales. Trouble at Miss Dinah’s house.”
“Swope, no.”
But it was too late. Dinah’s heart sank as Rafe’s voice sputtered over the walkie-talkie. “Morales here.”
“Looks like Miss Dinah’s dog was poisoned.”
“Where are you?”
“Backyard.”
“Anyone else there besides you and Miss Dinah?”
“No.”
“I’m two minutes away.”
“10-4.”
Swope’s fat lips curled into a gotcha grin. “You and Morales having some trouble?”
“I just don’t want to disturb him.”
“Sure.” A siren began to wail nearby. Swope sniffed. “Maybe I’ll take a look around the yard just in case.”
Daisy’s body shuddered and convulsed. A whimper forced itself from her mouth. Dinah smoothed her head and cooed at her. “Good girl. Help is coming.”
A car door slammed, and Rafe’s footsteps raced around the house. He wore his uniform, and his face was obscured by the brim of his Stetson, which he’d pushed low on his forehead.
He stopped when he saw Daisy. “Mierda. How long?” He didn’t look at her.
“I-I don’t know. I found her like this, and then Swope called you.”
He bent and gently lifted the dog into his arms. “It’s going to be okay, girl,” he said softly.
His voice brushed against Dinah like a lover’s hand, and against her will, her body tightened.
“Rafe, I’m coming, too. Daisy needs someone.”
He kept his eyes on the dog. “She’ll be fine. My sister’s at the shelter, waiting.”
“Please.” The word stuck in her throat and came out as a whisper.
He lifted his head. His gaze swung from Daisy, past Dinah, to Swope. “Where’s Hollyn?”
“That pregnant girl?”
“That’s the one.”
“Never saw her.”
“If she shows up, call me. In the meantime…” His gaze flickered to Dinah and back to Swope. “See if you can find any poison in the house, and don’t let Miss Dinah out of your sight.”
In one sharp move, he pivoted and marched away, taking with him not only the dog, but Dinah’s heart and a barrelful of his own hurt.
“Seems like Morales has a stick up his ass,” drawled Swope.
Dinah took a deep breath. Buck up, girl. No use feeling sorry for yourself for getting what you asked for. “Can I offer you a bit of sweet tea before you tear apart my house in search of poison?”
Swope tipped his hat, revealing a ring of sweat under his armpit. “Don’t mind if I do. Going to be a scorcher today.”
He wandered into the kitchen behind Dinah and took a seat without being invited. She felt his gaze on her as she took out a glass and filled it with ice. “I am not going to discuss my personal life, so don’t waste your breath asking about Rafe and me.”
She handed him his tea and was treated to a yellowish grin. “Just wondering why someone would want to hurt that old greyhound is all.” He met her eyes, mock innocence glowed in their pale depths.
Good question. “I don’t know.”
“Sometimes neighbors get mad. Especially if a dog is barking at night or maybe bit someone. That dog ever bite anyone?’
“No! Of course not. Daisy is as gentle—” She stopped.
Swope cocked his head. “You remember something?”
“It’s impossible.”
“If you’d ever been in the force for a spell like me”—His eyes narrowed into sly slits— “or Morales, you’d find out real quick about impossible. We see it every day.”
“Hollyn got bit last week. Daisy hates her.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“That old hound go after anybody else?”
“No, just Hollyn. The dog took a disliking to her the second it laid eyes on her.” Had Daisy been trying to tell her something?
“Dogs are smarter than you think. We had us a hound once, and that old cuss took a dislike to a certain lady in the next block. We thought it was just one of those things, you know? But later it turned out she was screwing the guy next door. That hound figured it out first.”
“Really, Officer Swope? I don’t think Hollyn is having an affair. She’s nine months pregnant.”
“Just saying, dogs take a dislike to certain people for a reason.”
He took a gulp o
f tea, and Dinah gazed out the screen door at the spot where Daisy had been. “That’s strange.”
Swope’s glass thumped against the kitchen table. “What’s that?”
“Daisy’s food bowl is gone. I usually leave it outside by the back door since she can’t be in the kitchen with Hollyn.”
Above their heads, a floorboard creaked.
Swope raised his head. “What’s up there?”
“My momma and daddy’s old room. Maybe the house is settling in the heat.”
“Maybe. Sounded like someone was up there, though. Maybe I should check.” He shot her a thick-lipped grin.
She didn’t want him tramping through her house, looking into her bedroom, seeing her rumpled, unmade bed. “There’s no one upstairs. I looked just before I found Daisy.”
Swope nodded. “Sure thing.” Then he pointed his chin at the Beretta, still lying on the table where she dropped it when she saw the dog. “You know how to use that?”
“My daddy taught me.”
“Better hang on to it. You might have to cover for your boyfriend.”
Anger rose so fast and so hot inside her, she didn’t have time to shut it down. “For your information, Rafe saved my life. He doesn’t have a cowardly bone in his body, and if you ever again imply he isn’t capable of defending me, you, this town, or himself, I’ll-I’ll—”
“Slow down there, Miss Dinah. I didn’t mean nothing. Just saying is all.” He stood. “I think I’ll take a little peek upstairs—just for my own satisfaction, mind you.”
An invisible force squeezed her head until it pounded. Something’s wrong. “What about the poison and food bowl?”
He gave her a furtive wink. “After I check out the bedrooms, I’m going right on out to the backyard to investigate the crime scene.”
Instructed to stay back, she massaged her temples and watched him climb the steps. He was surprisingly agile for a bumbling cop in heavy boots, and she had to strain to catch the creak above her head as he moved from room to room. A few moments later, he appeared at the top of the steps.
“All clear, Miss Dinah.”
“Wait.” She needed a cool shower and some aspirin. Why not give Swope something useful to do while she tried to shake her headache? Without his goat-like presence, she might even figure out what was bothering her.
