Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “Like military ones,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, although I’d prefer you don’t single those out.”

  Cassie nodded. If Grant was known to be targeting veterans, he wouldn’t be very popular locally, even if he had served, too.

  He eyed her. “I suppose I can’t expect you to ignore the obvious connections between victims.”

  “No. I’d look incompetent if I didn’t, because half the citizens of Hayes County knows those three went to school together and were on the glorious, all-triumphant football team.”

  Grant winced. “Go easy with the headline, okay?”

  Her grin was weak. “If only I wrote for one of those supermarket tabloids.”

  He sighed and pushed his plate away. “Off the record, Jed and I have talked to half of my former teammates. Given my history, I should step back from the investigation and let him handle it, but that’s not possible. It’s too big. We have nobody qualified to assist him. On top of everything else, I had to fire one of my deputies today, after I was able to confirm he’d called in sick Friday to hit the slopes at Mount Bachelor.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “FHPD is short an officer, too, thanks to the murdering son of a bitch.”

  He told her about some of his conversations today, and she shared more of what she’d learned and the impressions she’d gathered.

  Grant shook his head when she offered coffee. “I’ve been swilling it all day, and I’d never get to sleep if I had another cup.”

  “I had more coffee today than I ever remember drinking,” Cassie agreed. “I met a bunch of people at the coffee shop. By late afternoon, I felt like I should offer to replace at least a roll of toilet paper for their bathroom.”

  Grant’s laugh transformed his face, deepening some lines, smoothing others that had been more deeply scored than they ought to be. A smile lingered when he said, “You’re good for me, Cassie. I wish—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “I’m not good at never-minding.”

  His mouth quirked again. “I don’t suppose you are. In the absence of my wish, can we cuddle?” He pushed his chair back and held out a hand.

  “The couch is comfier.”

  “I can go for that.”

  A muted thump followed by a harsh voice turned both their heads. Cassie recognized the angry voice and jumped up.

  She shushed Grant with a finger to her lips and went to her father’s bedroom. It stood open only because she’d peeked in at him earlier; he closed it firmly every night when he went to bed. His bed was empty, light showing beneath the bathroom door.

  She held her breath, listening hard but not hearing anything until the toilet flushed. At least he was still on his feet. Dad wouldn’t like finding her hovering out here, but tough. A couple of times when he’d fallen or run into a doorframe, she’d found him later with a lump on his head or blood running down his face.

  The door opened, and she said, “You okay, Dad?”

  “What the hell are you doing in here? None of your damn business when I take a leak!”

  At least, that was the gist of what he said. “You’re right. It isn’t. But I thought you might have fallen.”

  “Dark. Bumped into the damn door. Now, get out of here.”

  “Okay.” Cassie hesitated; almost said, I love you. But those weren’t words they ever used. The way he glared at him, she was far from certain he felt even fondness for her, far less love. She’d wondered sometimes—

  Nope. Not the time to speculate about her parents’ relationship.

  She gently closed the bedroom door, lingered until she thought her father must have made it safely back to bed, then went to the living room where she found Grant studying the display on the mantel.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. Cassie didn’t want to think that was pity she saw in his eyes.

  “Most people display their family photos here.”

  Did she and Dad qualify as a family? Only technically, she decided.

  She shrugged to show she didn’t mind. “Dad’s proud of the newspaper.” His real baby, the one that had never disappointed him.

  The mantel held editorials and articles with his byline, all handsomely framed. Full front pages, matted to fit poster frames, hung on the wall in his home office as well as at the newspaper office in town.

  “I was hoping to see some pictures of you,” Grant said gently. “Little girl, prom, high school and college graduation.”

  Her eyes stung. She hated that he could do this to her. “Back in Portland, I have graduation pictures. I didn’t go to my prom. Little girl…” She turned her head. “There’s an album here somewhere.” Or used to be.

  Grant wandered to a bookcase, as unerring as a bloodhound. “This it?”

  Dark red, fake gilt trim. “Yes.”

  Cassie couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked through the album. In recent years, she’d been afraid to find that Dad had eradicated her mother from the scant pages. In fact, she didn’t understand why he hadn’t thrown the whole thing out. The likeliest explanation was that he’d forgotten it even existed. Sad to say, she might have been glad to find it was gone.

  Carrying it, Grant turned on a lamp, sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him.

  Her feet felt rooted to the floor. Didn’t he understand how different a childhood like hers was from his? Why would he want to do this? They were in the middle of a murder investigation, and he wanted to see a picture of her in cap and gown? Really?

  Steady and kind, his eyes didn’t waver. “I need to think about something else,” he said huskily. “You’re a different kind of mystery.”

  “Oh, good, you want me crack me open,” she muttered, finally persuading her feet to move. Don’t make a big deal out of this. There was nothing wrong with her childhood photos. He was unlikely to notice anything but how few there were, and with luck would assume most hadn’t made it into the album, that there had to be a box filled with loose photos in a closet.

  Cassie plopped gracelessly down beside him. Of course, the couch was big enough and deep enough that her feet wouldn’t touch the floor if she didn’t perch on the very edge, so she kicked off her shoes and folded her legs under her.

  Grant laid the album across his thighs and opened it.

  The very first picture had been taken at the hospital, of her mother holding a nearly bald Cassie who probably hadn’t been more than few hours old. She liked to think both of her parents had been excited, happy, that they had at least started sort of normal.

  Of course, the first thing Grant said was, “She looks like you.”

  Cassie inched closer, unable to take her eyes from her mother, smiling down at the baby in her arms. “Well, I sure don’t look like Dad.” That, she often thought, was part of the problem. Along with not having a penis, of course.

  “No, I guess you don’t, but you could have gotten the hair from a grandparent or even great-grandparent.”

  No such luck. Mom’s had been long, the same deep, almost Bing cherry red as Cassie’s. Most redheads had a coppery glow, or their hair really was more of an orange. People often thought Cassie had dyed hers, not just the streak that changed color every few weeks.

  “Her eyes weren’t brown,” she heard herself say. “They were a greenish hazel.”

  He turned the page. This photo was a professional job, a three or four month old Cassie alone, dressed in an awful, frilly dress that gave her hives to look at. Still not much hair. She was old enough here to smile at the camera, or at her mommy.

  Grant kept turning pages. Since neither of her parents had ever taken a lot of pictures, it went fast. Toddler Cassie, padded butt inside, eew, pink overalls. Her sitting on the top rail of a fence, her father holding her steady as he directed her hand to pat a horse’s nose. Mom must have taken that one. Cassie on the first day of kindergarten. Oddly, she remembered that dress, which exposed her ridiculously skinny legs and patent leather Mary Jane’s. Her face had been too thin, her ey
es too big, and her expression solemn. Had the parent holding the camera even tried to get her to smile?

  Her stomach balled in a greasy knot.

  Mom and she roller-skating when she might have been five or six, probably part of another kid’s birthday party. Oh, and there she was on a horse, looking astonished and alarmed, using both hands in a death grip on the saddle horn. Mom stood at the horse’s head gripping the bridle. She wasn’t smiling, either.

  First grade school picture. Cassie studied herself, seeing the deep anxiety in her eyes.

  Grant hadn’t commented or asked a question in a while. She sneaked a peek to see muscles bulging in his jaw. Maybe she’d underestimated how observant he was.

  Only one photo included the whole family. It had been taken outdoors at the creek-front picnic area near the old fort. Desperation Creek. Wow, that would be where her only family photo had been taken. The irony had never struck her before.

  The newspaper used to put on a summer picnic for employees and all the people who distributed the paper, too. Her father looked distant, a noticeable space between him and his wife and daughter. Her mother held Cassie’s hand, but seemed to be watching her husband, something bitter and dark in that gaze.

  Desperation indeed.

  “Didn’t anybody ever notice?” Grant sounded angry.

  “Not really. It wasn’t as if either of my parents was hitting me, or each other.” She thought. “We were just…” Unhappy. Sad.

  He looked fully at her, his gray eyes turbulent. “What?”

  “Like stars everyone assumes are in the same constellation, when really they’re billions of miles apart.” Cassie considered it for a minute, still studying that revealing family portrait. “It felt like Dad had washed his hands of both of us. Mom was alternately weepy or angry. And I tiptoed around both. I wanted to be noticed, but I also didn’t.”

  “Christ,” he said explosively. With a jerky motion, he turned the page.

  The next one was blank. All the remaining pages – probably two-thirds of the album – were blank.

  No wonder she never wanted to pull out the album and take a stroll down memory lane, she thought. It was such fun.

  He carefully closed it, set it on the coffee table, and wrapped his arms around her. Cassie let herself lean, just for these few minutes, risky though it was to lower her guard. His body radiated heat and strength. With her head resting just there, she could hear his heartbeat, a little fast right now, but steady.

  “That’s when she killed herself,” he said after a minute, his voice rough.

  “Not right then. That was summer. I’d started second grade. It happened a few weeks into the school year.”

  He closed his hands on her upper arms and eased her away from him, just enough to allow him to see her face. She wished he hadn’t done that. She wasn’t crying or anything like that, but Cassie had a bad feeling she wasn’t covering up very well, either.

  He stared down at her. “I shouldn’t stir this up, but I can’t stand not knowing.”

  Oh God, oh God.

  “Did you find her body?”

  Lie. Shake your head. Or nod. Don’t tell him. Cassie had never told anyone. Not even her father or the police. Why start now?

  To her shock, she heard this voice, so dull, flat, that it didn’t sound at all like her. “I saw her do it.”

  Grant swore. Vehemently, desperately. He lifted her onto his lap, wrapping her with his arms, seeming to curl his big body around hers as if he could shield her even from this long-ago horror.

  And then he began to rock her, the movement subtle but comforting for some obscure reason. She was all grown up now. Except maybe, for this instance, she wasn’t. Cassie hardly ever let herself even skate too close to this memory.

  She still wasn’t crying, just…soaking him in. He wouldn’t ask anymore, but she’d come this far. So she started talking.

  *****

  “That morning, I told Mommy I didn’t feel very good, but she said I had to go to school, anyway. She yelled at me.”

  This wasn’t the all grown-up Cassie he was hearing. The voice was a little too high, too perplexed. He could almost hear the sting she’d felt, sharp enough to raise a welt on her small, skinny self.

  “I walked out to catch the bus, but before I got all the way to the road, I threw up in the grass. So I ran home.”

  Grant murmured something, or maybe it was only a reassuring sound. Even he wasn’t sure.

  “My mother hadn’t locked the kitchen door behind me.” This was no longer the child speaking. Cassie was looking back, not entirely immersed in the tragedy. “I went in, and she was sitting on the floor with her back to the counter. She had Dad’s gun, with the barrel in her mouth.”

  He said a raw “Damn, Cassie.”

  Eyes wide and dry, staring at the scene she’d never forget, she said, “Mom saw me and took the barrel out. She said—” Cassie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She—”

  “Stop.”

  Startled, she lifted her head.

  “Tell me,” he said grimly. “What did your mother say?”

  The flicker of her pupils dilating and then shrinking gave him warning.

  “She said, ‘What are you doing back here?’ I told her I puked. She shook her head and said, ‘Well, I tried. Turn your back.’”

  “Did you?” Grant whispered.

  Cassie shook her head. “I kept saying, ‘Mommy? Mommy, what are you doing?’ and she stuck the barrel of that gun back in her mouth. She was looking at me when she—” A shudder wracked her.

  “Jesus.” Grant’s arms tightened until he feared he was hurting her. He felt as if his sternum had just cracked so that it no longer protected his heart. “How could she do that to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I will never understand.”

  “No.” His hand moved over her back, rose to knead her shoulders and nape, to cup the back of her head, his fingers working tight muscles wherever he found them. It took awhile, but he felt her muscles gradually unknot until even her head sagged forward as if her neck could no longer support it. With her leaning on him, Grant rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. Short, silky strands clung to his evening stubble. Even the purple ones. He didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that painting the bright streak in her hair was an act of bravery. It said a lot about her, served as a warning to the world. Never much for weird dye jobs, Grant could love that purple streak.

  Maybe he already did.

  Eventually, he cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye.

  He stiffened. “You’re not crying.”

  “No.” Cassie straightened and began to separate herself. “It’s too late. I hardly ever think about her anymore. Mostly, I don’t even acknowledge her. Why should I?”

  He didn’t want to let her go, but had a bad feeling she’d fight if he tried to hold on. He studied her closely, determined to see beneath the façade she assumed so easily to hide any vulnerability at all. That he’d been the person she told…well, that stunned him, left him feeling as if she’d put something incredibly fragile into his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Depressed people can be astonishingly self-centered, but what happened to you may be the worst I’ve ever heard. There’s a theory that someone depressed enough to commit suicide finds comfort in knowing a loved one is near, but doing it right in front of a kid?” He shook his head. “That you’ve turned into the gutsy woman you are is amazing. I hope you know that.”

  Her richly colored eyes met his, her gaze as searching as his had been. After a moment, she gave a tiny nod. “Thank you for listening. I…think I actually feel better for having told someone.”

  “Someone? Your father must—”

  Cassie shook her head. “He knows I found her. I never told anyone that I was here when she killed herself, or what she said. Not him, and not the police.”

  He made an inarticulate sound, knowing she wouldn’t want to hear
what he was thinking. You break my heart.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Grant wanted to stay, but that couldn’t happen with Cassie’s father home. Henry might be slow moving, but it didn’t appear the stroke had impacted his thinking, only his mood, and who could blame him? His hearing was likely as sharp as ever. No, the first time Grant made love with Cassie would be in better circumstances than this. He had no doubt there’d be a first time, and soon.

  With her watching him, Grant shrugged on his parka, zipped it up, and shoved his hands into gloves before reaching for the door knob. Damn, he didn’t want to go.

  No choice.

  Not giving himself time to manufacture an excuse to linger, he opened the door and stepped out onto the concrete stoop beneath the bright white glare of the porchlight. The bitter cold stung his cheeks and ears. He turned back to Cassie, hovering just inside. Her face still looked pinched, her eyes shadowed.

  “Sleep tight,” he murmured.

  Seeing the wry smile she offered, it was all he could do not to step right back inside.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what? I’m the one who should be saying that, since you fed me again.”

  “I keep telling you, it’s Susan you should be thanking for the meals.” Cassie was trying hard to be her usual brash self, but completely failing. “Me…I appreciate you listening.”

  Damn. He’d be mad if he believed she’d never had anyone to do something as commonplace as listen when she needed to talk, but he knew that’s not how it was. For all her charm, her gift for earning trust from people she interviewed, the empathy that shone through her writing, she was still that abandoned, solitary child. She had refused to bare herself to anyone, friend or lover.

  Grant couldn’t deny a spark of pleasure because she’d chosen him, although that didn’t mean he had any idea how to read her feelings for him.

  He gusted a sigh that formed a white cloud. “You’re welcome.” The door had been open too long already, letting heat out and cold in. Grant saw her shiver, but compelled by his tangle of emotions, he snatched her into his arms for a possessive kiss that wasn’t as brief as it should have been. She blinked at him when he lifted his head.