On the other hand Sarah may not take too well to Jud irking one of her bosses. She was finding herself in a rather awkward position between him and McNeil.
Jud weighed his options, then leaned forward to snatch up the receiver. Rather than searching for McNeil's direct number, Jud punched in the digits he knew so well.
"Department of Medicine, this is Sarah."
"Hello, gorgeous." He pictured his wife at her desk, brown eyes dancing. She got those little crinkles around her eyes when she smiled.
"Oh, you say that to all your wives."
He laughed. "Can you put me through to McNeil?"
"If you insist." Her voice lowered. "Don't be a pill, you hear? I'd like to keep my job."
"You know he left his wife last night?"
Sarah drew in a breath. "He actually did that? Now?"
"Yup. Moved in with Alicia."
Shocked silence. "Oh. That's just . . . awful."
Jud could imagine his wife's concern running from Janessa McNeil to her coworkers. With McNeil and Alicia living together, their relationship couldn't remain secret for long. Everyone in the department would learn of their affair. There would be upheaval. Sarah hated upheaval.
"Okay, forget everything I said." Sarah sounded disgusted. "Bug him all you want. I have another call coming in. Talk to you tonight."
She clicked off, and a phone rang in Jud's ear. No answer. Eventually Sarah picked up again. "No good, huh?
"Nope."
She sighed. "I was gone from my desk for about fifteen minutes, so for all I know he left." She still sounded upset. Jud wished he hadn't told her until tonight. "But let me try the lab."
More rings—two, three. The fourth one cut off.
"Lab. Dane Melford."
Jud's chin sank. "Oh, hi, Mr. Melford. Detective Maxwell here. I was trying to reach Dr. McNeil."
"He had to leave. Sorry. Is there something I can do for you?"
"No, thanks. I'll try reaching him on his cell phone."
"I don't . . . Uh, do you think it could wait awhile?"
"Wait?"
"Perhaps now is not the best time. He left in a hurry. Said he had something at home to take care of."
Really. "Home meaning . . . ?"
Dane hesitated, as if the question confused him. "Where his family lives. His house."
Ah. Apparently Dane didn't know his boss had moved in with Alicia either. McNeil sure knew how to keep his secrets. "Everything all right at his house?"
"I didn't want to ask. I just supposed Mrs. McNeil needed his help doing something."
McNeil helping his wife? Now there was a switch.
Jud shifted in his chair. "I see. All right, I'll give it some time before I call him, then. While I have you, Dane—you have any other thoughts for me concerning the case?"
"Not really. Well, maybe one thing I thought of this morning, for what it's worth. You might try going online and seeing if there are any chat rooms where people talk about Lyme. Maybe you'd find someone who's vocal and upset. I know that's a long shot . . ."
"Not a bad idea. I actually heard the same thing from someone else. But he called them forums, not chat rooms."
"Forums, okay. Tell you what, when I go home tonight I'll get on my computer and help you look. If I find anything I'll let you know."
So McNeil was hiding more than one secret from his lab assistant. If Dane Melford knew his boss wanted this case closed, he wouldn't be offering his help. "Appreciate that."
Jud hung up the phone and sat back, thinking. This case continued to get more strange by the minute. But his impulse to call the doctor had ebbed. Last thing he wanted to do was get between Mr. and Mrs. McNeil. That poor woman needed all the help she could wring from her jerk of a husband.
He dropped the receiver back in its cradle.
Chapter 28
AT THE SOUND OF BROCK'S ARRIVAL, EVERYTHING WITHIN clamped down. If there was an ounce of adrenalin left in my body, I needed it now.
"Lauren, I need to get up."
She stood and retreated a few steps, giving me room to edge my legs around till my feet touched the floor. Her back remained stiff, her jaw set. She'd heard the garage door too, but she was not about to turn around to face her father as he stepped into the room.
The kitchen door opened and closed. I leaned over, fumbling for my cane. Lauren picked it up and handed it to me.
Brock appeared at the threshold of the den.
Sensing his presence, Lauren tensed and folded her arms. Her stubborn head would not turn.
I fought to stand. To be the epitome of that old saying "I'm not going to take this lying down." Never before had I known so deeply what that meant. Lying down meant weakness, acceptance. Nothing within me accepted what my husband was trying to do. Feeling Brock's eyes on me, the disgusted curl of his lips, I positioned my feet, my cane. Scooted myself toward the edge of the couch. With valiant effort—and a thudding, sickening hurt in my joints—I tried to rise. The first time I fell back. And the second. Lauren stepped forward to help. I waved her away. Fact is, I hurt too much for her to pull me up this time.
Third time's charm. I ended up on my unbalanced feet.
Brock glared at me. Did any compassion exist somewhere in his anger? I thought I saw a flicker, something in his eyes.
He walked forward, annoyed gaze sweeping the room. "Lauren, where's your suitcase?"
Just like that—"Lauren, where's your suitcase?" No explanation to his daughter, no apology for ripping her from her home. My heart folded in on itself. A week ago Brock would never have imagined treating his beloved child this way. He wasn't really like this. He wasn't.
She whirled on him. "I'm not going with you! I want to stay with Mom!"
His face softened. "You can't stay here, Peanut. Your mom's not well enough to take care of you."
"So who's gonna take care of her?"
Brock spread his hands. "Come on, Lauren. We can talk about this later. Right now we just need to get you packed. I don't want you to be without something you'd miss. Bring your stuffed animals, your blankets, whatever you want."
"I don't like Alicia!"
Brock recoiled. He shot a dark, accusing look at me. "Go upstairs and pack." His voice hardened. "Now. If you don't, I'll do it for you, and you might not like the clothes I pick."
The bottoms of my feet burned, and my ankles trembled. With both hands I gripped my cane for support, but their finite strength was already waning. And holding myself up hurt every joint. I began to sway. "B-Brock . . ."
I wasn't going to manage this. It was either sit down or tumble over. I backed up to the couch, bent my knees, and let myself fall. My body smacked the back of the couch, lifting my legs off the floor. My feet landed with a thud, stunning my legs with pain. Air gushed from my mouth.
"Lauren." My throat closed, tears biting my eyes. I didn't want her to see what was to come between me and Brock. "Get some . . . things together, okay? Then we'll talk."
She shook her head, her mouth flattened and pulling wide. "I don't want to."
"I know. But please. For me."
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. She looked from me to her dad. He nodded. Lauren's gaze dropped to the floor. With a giant sigh she turned to walk around the couch. She went around my end, keeping a distance from her father.
We waited until her footsteps faded up the stairs.
Something in the air shifted. Brock regarded me as if suddenly unsure of himself. He walked to his armchair and dropped into it. "Are you really sick?"
I nodded. My eyes wouldn't rise to his.
He drew in a long breath. "If you are, we need to get you some help. Maybe you should go back to the hospital."
"For what? More negative tests?"
/> His mouth opened, then shut. "Maybe you could get your mother out here to stay with you."
"My mother? Sure. That would be an immense relief."
"Maybe some friends then. They could take turns."
While you ignore my needs. "I'm going to a d-doctor tomorrow. One who treats Lyme."
He tipped his head back and regarded the ceiling. All remnants of sympathy for me melted from his face. "So we're back to that."
"We n-never left."
"Who's the doctor?"
"Carol Johannis."
"Carol Johannis." Brock sneered. "Of course. Who else?" He narrowed his eyes at me. "You know she's publicly testified against my findings." He shook his head. "Of course you do. That's why you chose her."
I looked at my lap. Why even fight his accusations?
"How do you even know her, Janessa?"
"I don't. I found her online."
"Ah. Sure. Great way to find a doctor."
My insides were trembling like a gelatin unmolded. I sagged deeper into the couch cushions. "Brock. That m-man. He put the tick in her . . ." I waved a hand in the air. "Her thing. You have to believe me."
"And now that tick is here. Somewhere loose in the kitchen."
I said nothing. I knew how crazy it sounded.
"Janessa. If your story is true, and there is an infected tick loose in this house, why in the world would you want to keep Lauren here?"
His question shot to the core of me. I felt the blood drain from my face. No answer would come, because Brock was right. He was right. I could only stare at him as the horrible realization spread over me. I could not fight his logic. He'd trapped me.
Lauren was really leaving. I was really going to lose her.
I'd get her back, of course. This was just temporary. Until this nightmare ended.
When my mouth finally moved my jaw creaked, as if it didn't want to form the words. "You'll have to w-watch her, Brock."
Even then I couldn't stand the thought of it. Maybe I could still stop him from taking Lauren. If I went to an attorney, fought him in court. But how to answer the accusation that she was in more danger here than with her father? If my story was real. And if it wasn't . . . why should the court allow her to stay with such a vengeful mother?
Grief bored into my heart. I fixed my eyes upon the coffee table, seeing nothing, unable to move. Any moment now I would just dry up and blow away. I could. Not. Do this.
"All the more reason for me to take her," Brock said. "Since you claim your 'man' got into this house at night. Like I said before, at least now he won't know where to find her."
He let the sarcastic words fly like arrows. Amazingly, they bounced off. I simply couldn't hurt any more deeply than I already did.
"Jud's going to t-talk to her principal at school." I still stared at the table. "The teachers will . . . know."
Brock drummed his fingers on the edge of the armchair. "Great. So he's intent on pursuing this. Sounds like you've covered all the bases. All you need now is that Lyme diagnosis. Which no doubt Carol Johannis will be all too happy to give you." He snorted. "Just wait till she tells her colleagues you're her patient. The Lyme advocates will be all over you."
I raised my gaze to him. Bitterness accentuated the planes of his face. Did he think so little of Dr. Johannis to believe she'd breach doctor/patient confidentiality? And even if he did—what about my bitterness, my anger? He'd walked away from me into some other woman's arms. He was taking my child. What did I have left?
"Brock, please. Just check Lauren when she . . . gets home from school. For ticks."
"Jannie, I am not scaring her any more with this nonsense. She'll be fine."
"What if she's not?"
"She will be!"
"But—"
"Janessa, stop it! Stop it right now!" Brock leapt to his feet. "I'm not hearing any more of your lies." He strode out of the room into the hallway. "Lauren!" He shouted up the stairs. "What's taking you so long?"
Her voice floated down. "I have all this stuff to bring."
"Just pack a few things. We can come back later. Get down here."
"I have to—"
"Get down here now!"
I huddled on the couch, hands in my lap. Thinking if I tried real hard to wake up from this nightmare, maybe I would.
Brock returned to pace the room.
"Who's going to take her to s-school?" I glared up at him.
"I will."
"What about picking her up?"
"Don't worry, I'll handle it."
"You're at w-work. You're never available in the m-middle of the afternoon."
"I'll figure it out."
I glared at him. "Don't you dare send that Alicia to get Lauren at school. Lauren will hate you for it."
"Jannie. Stop it."
"Who's she going to stay with until you're done with work? Huh, Brock? Your little mistress?"
He stomped to the couch and towered over me, his face crimson. "Jannie, shut up." He glared at me, fire in his eyes.
I drew in my shoulders. Was he going to hit me? My heart hammered, but I couldn't stop. This was my child at stake. "Y-you have no idea what it m-means to take care of Lauren by yourself."
"I said I'll handle it, all right?"
"No, you—"
He slapped both hands against my shoulders and shook me. Hard. My head flopped and rattled. Pain coursed from my neck to my toes. "Unhh." A strangled cry erupted from my throat.
"Stop talking, you hear?" His teeth gritted, a vein pulsing in his neck. He was a Brock I didn't know, a man I'd never seen. "Don't you say another word!"
He pushed me back against the couch and stalked out of the room. His footfalls smacked against the hardwood floor. "Lauren! Get down here right now!"
The years fell away, and I flew back to the house of my childhood. Back to cringing on the bed after my father had beaten me. How had I gotten here? How had my life spun so out of control?
I started to shake. I was going to lose it, right here, right now. Jannie, pull yourself together. But I had not an ounce of strength left. The voice within me spoke louder. Yes, you can. For Lauren's sake.
My limbs pulsed. I pushed down a sob. Brock hadn't meant to shake me. He'd just . . . snapped. He'd never touched me like that before. Never.
I brought trembling hands to my cheeks. Wiped away the tears. The voice inside me was right. I couldn't let Lauren watch me fall apart.
Minutes later she came downstairs, toting her stuffed animal and favorite blanket. Brock carried her suitcase. With a force beyond myself I managed to give her a weak smile, tell her she'd be all right. Lauren put down her things and bent to give me a hug. She buried her face against my neck, and I smelled the lingering strawberry of her last shampoo.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, sweetie."
"Get well."
"I will. I'll be fine." She pulled back, and I tried to smile again. "Call me after s-school tomorrow."
This wasn't happening. It wasn't.
She nodded, eyes welling.
Brock moved to the kitchen threshold. "Come on, Lauren, let's go."
Mouth trembling, she picked up her stuffed animal and blanket. Followed her dad, shoulders slumping.
"L-Lauren." She turned. "Be careful of strangers."
"Oh, for—" Brock shot me a look of scorn.
Lauren's widened eyes slid from him to me. Her chin raised in a semblance of a nod.
Next thing I knew—they were gone.
Chapter 29
IN THE SUDDEN STILLNESS THE HOUSE FELT LIKE A VACUUM, snatching the air right out of my lungs. At first I thought it was my emotional state. Now with Lauren gone, I could lose it.
But no. It
was happening again, like before in the kitchen. I couldn't breathe.
I leaned back to give my chest room, gasping. No good. Why couldn't I feel any oxygen? My brain started screaming for it, the demented room devoid of even an ounce. I choked and pulled inward . . . choked again.
This was worse than before. Maybe a heart attack . . .
The walls spun. Dirt clods crowded into my vision.
Down, get down!
I wriggled my aching body until I lay prone, lungs sucking and blowing. Suffocation covered my face.
This is it. I'm going to die.
I dragged in another breath—and an ounce of oxygen radiated through my body. I grasped for more and felt it spread through my limbs, a living, preserving stream. It trickled, then flowed harder. I wanted more of it. A river. I wanted to drown in it.
Over a few minutes my breathing steadied. Still deep and hungry but evening out. I lay there and sucked in air, thinking of nothing but the rise and fall of my chest.
The sense of dying sank, then was swept away. I lay still, chest fluttering.
All the pain of Lauren's absence flooded back.
I cried then, sobs rattling in my throat and tears washing down my temples. I cried for my weakness, and my unrelenting pain, for Brock's hardness, and that tick in my kitchen. I cried for the detective who couldn't help me, for the fear of living in my own house, Stalking Man's utter lack of mercy. I cried until my head pounded, and my body shook, and the tears dried up.
Shaking, I lay there. Wasted.
Scenes from my childhood soon plowed into my head. My father hitting me, my mother doing nothing to stop him. Then Brock and his accusations, the cold stone of his face.
Anger set in.
I could not stay on the couch any longer. I needed . . . something. Comfort from somewhere, or my very soul would burst.
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