It will be okay, she told herself as she gathered her things and stood. But she knew it wouldn’t. No matter what she did, it was never enough to win her father’s approval.
And she was tired of trying.
* * *
Grant started in on her as soon as she walked through the door. “Where have you been? I waited over an hour.”
“Carl never came to get me. I had to walk.” Sarah limped over to the couch, sat down, and began unbuckling the straps of the offensive heels. Her fingers moved slowly, as if that might somehow delay the inevitable.
“So you walked home?” Grant’s eyes bulged with anger. “Tell me you’re smart enough to remember we meet at the rear entrance of the warehouse after a job.”
“Home was closer,” Sarah said, gingerly probing a newly formed blister.
“Well, where is it?” The old sofa sank beneath her father’s weight.
Sarah braced herself to stay upright. “Preece never came.”
“What do you mean? And look at me when you’re talking.”
She turned to her father. “It was a new guy, and this is all he had.” She took the bag from her purse. “I pushed for more—”
“You bought from the wrong guy?” Her father’s voice rose. “Of all the stupid—”
“He was the only one who came,” Sarah insisted, cringing at the verbal tirade she knew was coming. Though her father never physically harmed her, he was often angry, and the lashings he gave with his tongue left their own scars. “He knew the code, so I figured he was the replacement. I tried to get more, but he didn’t have it. Of course I didn’t give him all the money . . .” Her voice trailed off as she pulled the remaining wads of bills from her shirt, holding them out as a desperate peace offering.
Her father grabbed the money and threw it aside. A few bills came loose, and Sarah watched as they fluttered to the carpet. Grant’s eyes narrowed as he took the bag and examined it, muttering a string of expletives under his breath.
“Where’s Carl?” he demanded, looking up suddenly.
“I told you I don’t know,” Sarah said. “He talked to me before the job, but—”
“At the park?”
“Yes.” Sarah rose from the couch. Kicking her shoes aside, she edged toward the hall. “He sat next to me for a minute—so I’d feel safe.” She wasn’t entirely successful at keeping the sarcasm from her voice. “Then he forgot to pick me up afterward. I waited for him by the convenience store, but he never came, so I finally walked home.”
Several unreadable expressions crossed her father’s face.
Sarah knew better than to ask what was wrong. Her dad was always on edge when she had a job. If things went wrong—as they had tonight—that edge could get scary. If he was going to blame Carl for her failure with Preece . . . so much the better.
Her father stood and began pacing. “Tell me about this new contact.”
“I’ve never seen him before.” Sarah was surprised at the worry on her father’s face. “He was older than the typical dealers. Kind of stocky. Thin hair.” She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled as she remembered the hard look in his eyes. “Was it Martin?”
“No.” Her father shook his head. “What else? Did he say anything unusual?”
“He told me it was pure—the best I could get around here. And I said that was good, because I had to share with my man . . .” Her forehead wrinkled. “And then I think—he said to tell my old man ‘hi.’”
Alarm flashed in her father’s eyes for the briefest second. “Your room,” he ordered, pointing down the hall. “The rest of the weekend. Not even church on Sunday.”
“But I’m supposed to sing . . .” The feeble protest died on her lips.
“Do you know—” A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You were set up tonight, Sarah. Don’t be so foolish as to worry about something paltry like choir.”
“But, Dad.” Her voice caught. Singing wasn’t paltry. Music was her life, and church was the one place she felt comfortable around others, felt a measure of peace.
Her father grasped her shoulders. “Didn’t you hear a word I just said? You’re lucky to be here, to be alive.” He pulled her close in a fierce hug.
Sarah stiffened in his arms, wishing he’d let her go. Physical displays of affection were a rarity in their home, and this one, following so quickly on the heels of her father’s anger, seemed especially strange. She pulled back from his embrace.
“Dad, I want to quit. I know you think it’s good for me to see firsthand how awful drugs—and the people who use and sell them—are, but I’ve seen enough. It’s great you’ve dedicated your life to the war against drugs, but I don’t want to dedicate my life to it. It scares me.” She paused, looking into his eyes. “And I think it scares you too. Haven’t we both paid enough for Mother’s mistake?”
Her father stepped back. He looked at Sarah for several seconds, as if seeing her for the first time in a long time. “It wasn’t her mistake.”
Sarah frowned. He’d spoken so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
He looked away. “Nothing—I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.”
She wanted to grasp his shoulders as he’d grasped hers a moment ago and tell him that he did know, that she’d waited for years for him to tell her the whole story of what had happened to her mother. But something in his countenance kept Sarah silent. Unable to stop herself, she felt her frustrations dissipating, replaced by guilt that she’d failed him and sympathy for the man who’d lost his wife so long ago.
“Go get cleaned up. We can talk about this later.”
But we never do, she thought. He would shut her out again. How she wished she understood her father. It was like he was two people, and she never knew if Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde was going to come home from work. She’d never quite figured out what it was that would set him off and when it would happen.
Instead of following his order, she hesitated, sorrowful as she looked at him, seeing only a broken, lonely man. A man who’d never recovered from his loss and had dedicated his life to fighting the evil that had claimed his wife.
At last Sarah turned away and walked slowly down the hall. Going into the bathroom, she closed and locked the door and made sure the light was off. Grabbing an extra towel from the vanity, she reached up to the window and worked the towel into the corners until no light came through. Satisfied it was dark enough, she stepped in the shower and pulled the heavy curtain. Only then, in almost complete darkness, did she begin removing the distasteful clothes.
Her father had said they were always watching, and she wasn’t taking any chances.
Chapter Five
“Do you have a death wish? Or do you want to go back to jail?” Grant asked, blocking the way to the kitchen, getting in Carl’s face.
Carl moved around him, dropping his keys on the counter. “I’m sorry I forgot to pick up the princess,” he muttered, unapologetic. “I met this woman at the park, and we got busy.”
“I’m not talking about Sarah walking a couple of miles alone, in the dark—unprotected.” Grant grabbed Carl’s jacket and shoved him against the wall. “Though that’d be bad enough. But you sat with her at the park.”
His nephew pushed back, but Grant was ready and caught him in the gut with a solid punch. “So you left her after that, while you were ‘getting busy’ with some woman?”
“The guy—wasn’t—coming.” Doubled over, Carl clutched his stomach. “I waited forever, and then this woman . . .” He tried to stand, then staggered across the linoleum, rolling his eyes and head at the same time.
“You’re drunk,” Grant said. He grabbed Carl’s arm and hauled him into the kitchen, shoving him into a chair. He made a cup of instant coffee while he watched Carl—slumped across the table—from the corner of his eye.
A few minutes later Grant set the steaming cup in front of him. “Drink this.” When Carl didn’t raise his head
, Grant lifted it for him, pulling back on his hair.
“Ouch!” Carl rubbed his head.
Grant nodded toward the coffee. “Drink it.”
Carl picked up the mug, took a sip and spit it out, making a face as he stuck the tip of his tongue between his lips.
“Hot?” Grant asked.
Carl glared at him.
“Get drunk again while you’re supposed to be watching my daughter, and you’ll wake up in jail—or worse.”
“Don’t threaten me, old man.”
“I’m not the one threatening.” Grant leaned over the table, his face close to Carl’s. “One of Rossi’s men happened to be watching tonight—checking up on me. Then Preece never showed up. Guess where he is now?”
Carl closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “I dunno.”
“Fished out of the river about an hour ago. He never met with Sarah.” Grant watched Carl’s face as he digested this information. “One of Rossi’s men did. I know because she described him to me—that was about half an hour before he called me personally. I don’t like personal phone calls.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Carl asked, sitting up straight in his chair.
Grant knew his nephew was wide awake now. He could see the criminal glint lighting his eyes. “You’re no match for them. Not in a million years.”
Carl scoffed. “That’s what you think. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Tonight you proved you’re incapable of protecting my daughter.”
“She’s all right, ain’t she?” Carl asked.
“No thanks to you,” Grant snapped. “You’re supposed to protect her, not put her in more danger. Now Rossi suspects she wasn’t alone. He thinks I haven’t kept my end of the deal.”
Carl picked up the mug and took a careful sip. “So what? Pay him off or something.”
“As if any amount of money I could ever give him would matter.” Grant drummed his fingers on the table. “But something is exactly what he wants.”
“What’s that?” Carl asked, suddenly wary.
“Not you,” Grant said, a malicious smile forming on his lips. “Not yet, anyway. I might have convinced him that you’re some druggie who’s been harassing Sarah in the park. But if he sees you there again . . .” He left the statement and its implications hanging in the air. “And, of course, he requires further proof of my loyalty. He wants Martin off the street—now.”
Carl leaned back in his chair, relief evident on his face. “What do you want me to do?”
* * *
Sarah put a CD in her player and turned up the volume. A few seconds later the soothing strains of Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 2 drowned out the sounds of her father and Carl fighting.
Pulling her desk chair over to the window, she sat down, hugging her knees to her chest to ward off the cold draft seeping through the poorly sealed panes. So many things in their house needed repairing, but her father didn’t seem to care about fixing them—even when she’d offered to help. A few years ago she’d stopped offering and instead spent her energy dreaming of and planning for the day when she could leave.
Tilting her head back, she peered through the barred glass out to the night sky. A handful of stars sprinkled across it, adding their light to the lone star she’d seen earlier. Sarah thought of the endless constellations hidden from view by the city lights. An entire universe was out there, but she could only glimpse the tiniest portion of it. Her life was much the same. Though she’d finally been allowed out of the house, had stepped on the hallowed grounds of Harvard, she was only allowed to peek at all that was offered there. Just as the lights blocked the stars she loved from her view, her father and Carl were keeping her from the opportunities she craved. The cultural world she longed for lay at her fingertips, but she wasn’t allowed to touch.
A particularly bright star seemed to wink at her, and Sarah thought about crossing her room to the shelf where her astronomy book lay. With a bit of research, she could probably figure out which star it was or which constellation it belonged to. But she was too cold to move, and her thoughts drifted back to campus, this time to the library instead of the concert hall. A wistful smile touched her lips as she thought of Jay and the conversation they’d had. Was it possible he really wanted to hear her play again?
The telltale floorboards in the hall squeaked loudly, and Sarah stiffened, knowing her father was coming to check on her. It wouldn’t matter if Jay did want to see her again. A friend was yet another thing she could not have.
Easing herself from the chair, she tiptoed across the room and climbed into bed. She rolled to her side, eyes closed in pretend sleep, as she’d been doing since she was a little girl.
She heard the door open and sensed her father’s presence. His footsteps were heavy across her carpet, and he stood over her.
“Thank goodness you’re safe.” He bent and brushed her skin with a light kiss.
Sarah forced herself to lay still, though part of her longed to sit up and hug him.
When she heard the click of her door shutting, she opened her eyes, blinking back unexpected tears. Her father had both hugged and kissed her and spoken of her mother all in the same night. Yearning swept through her, and Sarah struggled to cope with a tide of emotion.
Somehow, in the past few hours, the barrier holding all of her hurt and emptiness in place had cracked. And though she tried her best to patch it up, a lifetime of sorrowful memories began to leak through.
In the wee hours of the morning, she finally gave up and gave into exhaustion, knowing in her heart that, sooner or later, a flood was inevitable.
Chapter Six
Detective Brandt of the Summerfield, Massachusetts, Police Department stopped in front of his colleague’s desk. “Ned’s bringing in a DUI.”
“Good for him.” Kirk Anderson glanced at the clock on the far side of the room. It was nearly seven a.m. One hour left until he could go home and crawl into bed—with his wife maybe, if she could be persuaded to leave her projects until later and climb under the covers with him for a little while, since the boys would be at school.
He looked up at Mitchell Brandt, still lingering in front of his desk. “One more nut off the road before the school buses start rolling.”
Brandt nodded slowly as a corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah. And fortunately this guy had just finished his grocery shopping.”
“What? Did he bring donuts?” Kirk’s voice was laced with sarcasm as he looked pointedly at the paunch hanging over Brandt’s belt. “Listen, I’ve got a report to finish.” He returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him. “So unless it’s something important—”
Brandt leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk. “Not donuts. He had a carton of milk.”
Kirk’s head snapped up. “Not Eddie,” he breathed.
“Yep. And he’d been shopping at the meth lab. He’s moved from quarts to half gallons. Had fifteen bags jammed in one carton. We’ve finally caught the Milk Man.”
“Meth Martin,” Kirk said, excitement in his voice, though he still couldn’t quite believe the news. They’d been after this guy a long time. Kirk rose from his desk. “Where is he?”
“Having his photo taken and nails done as we speak,” Brandt said. “I already told Ned you’d want to be in on the questioning.”
“Absolutely.” Kirk pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked his bottom file drawer. “We’ll have to get him sober first, or whatever he says won’t hold up in court.”
“A strong pot’s already brewing.” Brandt watched as Kirk flipped through his files. “What’s all that? I’ve already pulled Eddie’s folder.”
Kirk took a manila envelope from his drawer. “My own copies,” he explained. “A few too many things have gone missing around here since I started, and I’m not taking chances with something as important as this. I’ve got enlargements of the photos and transcript from the tape that kid turned in last June.”
Brand
t pushed off the desk. “This guy’s going down.”
“And if we do it right, so is his supplier.” Envelope held tight, Kirk walked toward the hall, thoughts of going home on time having fled with the possibility that one of Massachusetts’s most well-known meth traffickers would soon be behind bars.
* * *
Christa Anderson looked at her watch as she heard her husband walk through the front door. It was 9:10, an hour later than expected. “I was getting worried about you. Rough night?” she called from the kitchen as she poured him a glass of juice.
“Not too bad.” Kirk came into the room. He removed his holster and gun, checked that the safety was on, then reached to put them on top of the kitchen cupboard. He sat down and picked up the juice Christa had set out. He took a drink and leaned forward, elbows on the table, a faraway look on his face.
Christa slid into the seat beside him. “Want to talk about it?” She moved his glass aside. Taking one of his hands in her two, she shivered and began rubbing his fingers. “You’re freezing. Is it that cold out already?”
Kirk turned to her. “Getting there. You’re still my Southern California girl, I see.” He smiled, then leaned forward to give her a kiss. “How was your night?”
“Fine. I let the boys watch a half hour of Winnie the Pooh, and they both went to bed without complaint.”
Kirk’s eyebrows rose. “How come we don’t have those kind of nights when I’m home?”
“Because you’re the one who gets them all wild.” Christa gave him a knowing smile. “What about your night?”
The faraway look returned. “Nothing much—a minor traffic accident on main, an eighty-five-year-old woman locked herself out of her house when she took out the trash, and Ned brought in Eddie Martin this morning.”
All The Stars In Heaven Page 4
