Razed

by Shiloh Walker

The guy had Dionne’s tattooed around his neck.

  The vacuous little blonde clinging to him was terribly sweet. But her name wasn’t Dionne.

  “I want it to last forever,” Channing said, smiling up at the brick wall. So far, he hadn’t said anything. He seemed to be riveted to Channing’s cleavage.

  Said cleavage was pretty impressive, Keelie had to admit. Sighing, she looked down and read the neatly printed words through once more. My hart belongs to Jason. She’d brought in a picture of an anatomical heart, pierced with a dagger. Pretty enough—a little weirder than she would have picked for Channing, although the spelling thing seemed totally on key. She looked back at the girl. “You know you spelled heart wrong. Is that how you want it?”

  “Oh!” Channing’s baby blue eyes widened and a blush spread across her cheeks. “Oh, I feel like an idiot. Jason, I almost ruined your birthday present to me.”

  He brushed his knuckles down the back of her cheek and Keelie found herself studying them, re-evaluating. Yeah, the guy was fascinated by the girl’s boobs, but she had seen Javi that entranced by his wife’s butt. There was a look in that kid’s eyes that made Keelie’s heart sigh.

  Maybe there was more to this.

  “It’s okay, Chan. She saw it, right?” He leaned and rubbed his cheek against the girl’s and something about that tender little gesture had Keelie looking away. It was almost too personal, she thought. Something that belonged just to the two of them.

  Seeing something from the corner of her eye, she looked up, spied Zach in the doorway.

  “Oh! Hey!” A wide, happy grin crossed the girl’s face when she looked at Zach. “I know you. I saw you in that magazine—you run this place, right? You used to be on TV.”

  “Ages ago.” Zach had that easy, smooth-as-sugar tone in his voice.

  “Ages ago.” Keelie snorted. “If people had their way, he’d have his face on the screen all the time. He still gets nagged for interviews.” She slit her eyes at him when he shot her a quelling look. Figuring he still owed her a bit for that night at the restaurant, she looked at Channing. “You know, before he got married, the producers of The Bachelor were always calling him—wanted to get him on their show.”

  Channing wrinkled her nose. “That stuff is so fake. Nobody finds love on a TV show.”

  “True.” Zach’s blue eyes promised retribution. “I’d be a lousy guy for them anyway. My heart’s always belonged to Abby.”

  “She was your costar.” Channing sighed, her breasts threatening the decency of her tank top. “That’s so sweet.”

  Then she beamed at Keelie. “You’ve got great people working here. Especially her. I almost had a word misspelled on my tits forever.”

  Keelie bit back a snort of laughter and flicked the girl a look. “That’s why we check these things, sweetheart. We try to avoid just that.”

  “Keelie’s not just a worker here,” Zach said. “She’s my partner. You and . . . ah, your tattoo are in very good hands, ma’am.”

  Keelie bit back a snort of laughter as Zach disappeared. A few minutes later, she finished and turned out the roughed-out font she wanted to go with for the tattoo.

  “It’s kinda . . . plain.” Channing stared at it.

  “It’s going to be in color, on your skin. And you said you didn’t want it too big. The fancier we go, the harder it will be to read.”

  “Oh.” After a quick look at her boyfriend, Channing nodded. “So are we ready now?”

  “No.” Keelie smiled. “I need a few minutes to get the design and everything ready. If you want to grab yourself some coffee or something from across the street, that would be great. That will give me time to get this finished and get set up.”

  * * *

  Shortly thereafter, she was alone in her work area, bent over the design, everything blocked out as she worked. It wasn’t too long before she wasn’t alone, though, and she glanced up to see Zach loitering in the door.

  “So what was she going to have misspelled on her cute self for the rest of forever?”

  Pursing her lips, she picked up the design and turned it around for him to see. He came closer, squinted his eyes. “Hart. Nice. Well . . . she could have a thing for deer or something.” He settled against the work counter on the far side of her space, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out in front of him.

  Keelie snorted, then slid him a glance. “I need to get the font done, superstar.”

  “That will take you all of ten minutes.” He shrugged, looking unconcerned. His gaze slid away from her to focus on her walls. Unlike his work area or Javi’s, hers was decorated with framed sketches she’d done—nothing she’d do for a client, and she had been asked, often—and a few framed prints. She tensed as Zach paused in front of one, cocking his head to study it. “This is Zane’s.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve had these up awhile.”

  She jerked a shoulder. “He’s talented. I like pictures. Why stare at tattoos I’ve done? I know what my work looks like.”

  When he didn’t answer, she shot him another glance, but he had just moved over to another picture, studying it.

  She managed to get halfway through the design before he came to stand in front of her. “He hasn’t bugged you about doing any shots for him, has he?”

  She didn’t let the tension overtake her body.

  It had been years. She shouldn’t worry about it so much.

  It wasn’t that big a deal and she was a different person now, she knew that.

  The uneasiness she felt was just a kneejerk reaction and even that was starting to piss her off.

  Slowly, she pushed the design aside, checking the time. She could take a few minutes. “No,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “He hasn’t. If he says anything, I’ll decide then. It’s no big deal, Zach.”

  When she went to turn away, he caught her elbow.

  “You sure about that?”

  She looked back at him, studied his blue eyes.

  There was something there.

  Did he know?

  He watched, for a long, long minute and she wondered, the entire time.

  But she couldn’t tell.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said mildly. Then she smiled. “But if he tries to bully me into it, I’ll be sure to knock him down to size.”

  * * *

  Hours later, she slid out of her car and studied the ramshackle apartment where she’d lived for the past few years. If books and poetry and all that bullshit could be believed, she should be hearing birdsong and looking at everything through rose-tinted glasses.

  That meant her piece of shit accommodations should look a little less shitty. The patchy yard would look like there were possibilities to be had. Windows she’d just cleaned over the weekend should sparkle under the sun, but instead, she only saw how small they were.

  Grimly, she shifted her attention to the apartment next door where Nolan had lived with his little girls. He’d promised to call her, and she knew he would.

  The apartment where he’d tried to make it work with the girls’ mama was still empty but it wouldn’t be for long.

  Soon, somebody else would move in and Keelie knew she’d watch that cycle of despair start up again.

  She’d watched it all play out over and over again for years.

  Up until recently, it hadn’t bothered her too much, living here, or in other places just like it. But now . . .

  “What’s wrong with me?” she muttered.

  There wasn’t an answer. Shoving away from the car, she strode toward her place. She’d only worked until four and now she was off until Monday. It was Zach’s weekend to cover the shop and that meant she could just relax.

  They were talking about hiring somebody to cover the place on weekends, because Zach wanted more time with Abby, and while she didn’t mind working some weekends, she wasn’t doing all of them—not in a college town.

  And Javi had kids, a family.

  So that only meant finding somebody e
lse. An assistant manager, maybe, someone they could trust with the place. But they’d have to look for a person, interview. Hire. Train. Decide if they could trust said person . . .

  Man.

  She didn’t even want to think about it.

  For now, she’d just think about her weekend off.

  And Zane.

  Would he call?

  Come over?

  She headed to the door, suddenly anxious to get inside.

  If he did come by, she needed to get the place picked up. She should get her laundry done. There were other things she needed to do, but that would wait until tomorrow.

  For the next two hours, she lost herself to the monotonous, mindless tasks. Sweeping, cleaning out the tub, dusting the shelves that held the few items she considered worth anything in her house. She studied the camera resting on the top shelf, stroked a finger down it, smiling in memory. Then she checked it, made sure the cap was on tight over the lens.

  After she’d finished cleaning, she gave herself a manicure, removing the deep red and replacing it with a glittery black—the silver flecks shone like stars in the desert sky. Nice.

  Nails done, she brooded until the polish was dry and then moved on to her hair. She trimmed it, standing in front of the sink in panties and a tank, handling the task with a familiarity born of practice. While she worked, she debated yet again on dying her hair. She’d had the platinum and black locks for a while and she needed to decide what she was going to do. Soon, because the roots were really starting to show.

  Maybe she’d go back to her natural . . .

  The phone rang.

  Scowling, she brushed the loose bits of hair from her shoulders and walked out of the postage-stamp square that served as a bathroom, down through the hall.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  It was the landline and, for some reason, her gut twisted with dread. Less than five people had this number.

  Staring at the caller ID, she curled her hand into a fist.

  859. She knew that area code. Like the back of her hand. She almost turned away, but then, she grabbed the phone and lifted it up, answered in a voice so cool and calm she didn’t even recognize it.

  “Hello.”

  There was a pause, and then a man’s voice flowed out. He had a good voice. Soft and low, a faint Southern accent—just a faint one, but familiar all the same.

  “Hello. I’m trying to contact Katherine Ann Vissing.”

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t let anything come flying out of her mouth. She’d always suspected somebody would track her down one day. What was really excellent was that she could do this without lying. With a slow smile, she slumped against the wall. “Sorry, man. There’s no Katherine Vissing here.”

  “Do you by any chance know her? I was certain this was the right number.”

  Yeah. I bet you were. Some of the hair she’d cut had settled down inside her tank and she brushed it away as she answered, “Afraid I don’t know her. Can’t help you.”

  She went to lower the phone and then stopped as he said, “What about Katie Lord?”

  I love you, Katie-did. I’ll see you soon, okay?

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. “No. Nobody here by that name, either,” she said. Then she hung up the phone. Carefully, she put it back down in the cradle.

  Stripping off the shirt and her panties, she strode into the bathroom. She turned up the water to high and climbed in, bracing her hands on the wall.

  I love you, Katie-did.

  Dad.

  After twenty years, Michael Jessup Lord’s face wasn’t very clear to her. But sometimes, some things would bring her father’s face into sharp, almost brittle clarity. A certain scent—he’d never smelled fake to her . . . he loved to work with his hands and had spent a lot of time in the workshop he’d had built on the back of the house. He’d often smelled of leather or wood, and more than once, he’d had bandages or stitches, because he was also a capital klutz. That’s what he’d called himself: a capital klutz. The smell of leather would bring him into focus, or fresh cut wood. Freshly cut grass, because he loved to spend an afternoon on a riding lawn mower.

  “Dad,” she whispered, curling her hand into a fist and pressing her brow to the cool, slick tile.

  The water beat down on her as the memories—sad and bittersweet—rolled through her.

  * * *

  She didn’t climb out until the water ran cold.

  Standing in front of the mirror, she stared at her reflection, at the pale oval of her face. Right now, with her hair darker from the water and her eyes grim and serious, she could almost see the echo of somebody she’d spent years trying to forget.

  Absently, she reached up, stroked her fingers through some of the pale hair.

  If somebody had tracked down her number, then it wasn’t going to be long before one of them showed up to actually look for her.

  She got that.

  She suspected she even knew why.

  But she wanted to be sure.

  Forewarned, after all, was forearmed.

  With that in mind, she dried her hair and wrapped a thin robe around her body. Her stomach growled demandingly but she ignored it. She wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t eaten much since dinner last night. Coffee wasn’t really a food group, something she’d finally figured out, and all she’d done was peck at the food Zane had offered that morning.

  She took a minute to grab her bag, an army-green purse she’d bought at a flea market, and a diet Coke from the fridge. Then she settled down on the couch with her laptop and her cellphone.

  She started the search even as the phone started to ring.

  When he came on the phone, she had to smile.

  She hadn’t heard his voice in almost five years.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Jenkins.”

  There was a pause and then, “Well, hello, Miss Katie.”

  To her complete and utter humiliation, tears sprung to her eyes. Pressing her lips together, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to will them away.

  “Katie?” Paul Jenkins said softly. “Are you okay?”

  “I . . . I’m okay. It’s really good to hear your voice.”

  * * *

  It was almost an hour before Paul Jenkins hung up the phone. It was past seven. When his wife came in and saw him sitting at his desk, she stroked a hand across his naked scalp and sighed. “Now, honey, we talked about this. You might still work on Mondays and Thursdays, but the rest of the time, you’re mine, remember? You’re retiring soon.”

  He smiled, nodded. “This one . . . well. It’s a special circumstance.” Then he tapped the legal pad in front of him. “I’m going to have to get in touch with J. P.”

  Delia squinted at the paper, read Katie’s name. She sighed. “That poor girl. What’s going on, baby?”

  “Somebody called her, looking for her. She played it cool, acted like she had no idea who they wanted. But sooner or later, somebody will show up. It’s her mother.”

  “Of course it is.” Delia rested her hip against the chair, sliding an arm around Paul’s shoulders. “Nobody else it could be. It’s been well over ten years. Why would they be bothering her now?”

  He just gave her a smile.

  She slid off the arm and studied him for a minute. “You have one hour,” she warned him. “We’ve got dinner plans and you need to take a shower. I’ll be in here to drag you out if you aren’t ready.”

  He was tapping away at the keyboard before she slid out of the room.

  He had a good idea of why they were bothering Katie after all this time. More than likely, they’d been looking for quite some time, too. News traveled fast in this area and when it concerned certain families, it traveled even faster.

  He still kept his ear to the ground, too. Especially with some people.

  Paul had always had a soft spot for Katie.

  * * *

  The call had left her smiling.

  If s
he’d left it alone there, she could have happily gone about her day.

  Happily.

  Easily.

  Paul could have taken care of all of this and turned everything over to her in a nice, neat, impersonal report. It probably wouldn’t even take that much time. She knew his son, J. P., and J. P. was every bit as thorough and methodical as his father.

  But Keelie had stopped letting other people handle things for her a long time ago.

  The one time she’d tried to let somebody handle something, a nightmare had ensued and she still couldn’t quite deal with the guilt.

  No.

  She couldn’t just let her lawyer take over things for her. She had to poke around by herself and that was why she was huddled on the bathroom floor, nearly thirty minutes later, puking her guts out.

  Now, Sheriff Deluca, you understand how it is, surely . . .

  She gripped the toilet seat as her head pounded. The echo of her stepfather’s voice seemed to come from within her, and all around her.

  You know how this sort of thing can happen. Boys will be boys. It just got out of control.

  Cool assessing eyes, settling on her. Katie, can you tell me what happened?

  Her voice breaking, I already did.

  Katie, let me handle this . . .

  Her legs shook as she stood up and made her way over to the sink. She washed her hands, scrubbing them until her skin was pink and then she did the same to her face. She brushed her teeth until she saw blood on the toothbrush and that was a smack in the face. She wasn’t going down that road again.

  They’d made her feel dirty, because of what they’d done.

  She wasn’t doing this again.

  Carefully, she put the toothbrush back in its place and then she rinsed her mouth out.

  She left the bathroom, feeling like her legs were going to give out under her, but she refused to cling to the wall or reach for any other form of support.

  She was stronger now.

  She’d made herself stronger and she had to remember that.

  Once she was back on the couch, she reached for the laptop and started to read. This time, she made it all the way through and then she read it a third time.

  When she was done, she scrolled back to the top, but instead of reading, she stared at the image of her stepbrother.