All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Some idiot ran over my bike—and almost me—on purpose. He got away before I could get the license, but I’m pretty sure I know who can give it to me.”

  It took a second for Trish to understand. “You think it was Sarah’s cousin?”

  “One and the same.”

  A campus police officer arrived on a bicycle and came over to get Jay’s information. He looked down at the wrecked motorcycle. “Wow. You okay?”

  “I wasn’t on it at the time,” Jay assured him.

  “Good thing,” the officer said. He took out a notepad and pen.

  “He thinks he knows who did it,” Trish piped up. “And the guy’s a creep. He should—”

  “I didn’t get a license plate, so there’s no point in making accusations.” On the other side of the officer, Jay shook his head.

  “But—” Trish protested.

  “What I really need is to do is get this cut taken care of and call my insurance company.” Jay looked around for his backpack and spotted it, still intact, on the sidewalk a few feet away.

  “Can you describe the vehicle that hit your bike?” the officer asked.

  “It was an old truck—Ford, I think,” Jay said. “The way the guy was swerving, he might have been drunk.”

  “But no license?”

  “Nah. The guy was too fast. Though maybe somebody else caught it.”

  Jay groaned as an ambulance roared up the street. He looked around to see if anyone else was injured and spotted two girls sitting together on the curb about twenty feet away. “Hey, I think you should go see if they’re all right,” he said to the officer. “Some of the pieces flew pretty far, and one of those girls might be hurt.”

  “Fill this out,” the officer said, handing him a small clipboard. “And don’t leave yet.”

  “No worries. My mode of transportation has been slightly altered.” Jay attempted a lighthearted remark, but looking at the wreck all he could think of was Sarah. He scrawled his information across the form as a sense of urgency filled him. He needed to know she was okay.

  “You’re still bleeding.” Trish leaned up on her tiptoes, wiping the drops of blood that had escaped the scarf and trickled down the side of his face.

  Jay grabbed her hand, annoyed with the attention when Sarah was likely hurt as well or in continued danger. “I’m fine.”

  Trish looked up at him, her honey-colored eyes brimming with tears. “I know, but a second earlier, a foot closer, and you’d have been”—she gulped but was unable to stop the tide of emotion—“killed.” She brought her hands to her face.

  Trying to set his annoyance and worry aside, Jay pulled her close with his free hand. He held her as she cried. “I’m fine,” he reiterated. “It’s a scratch. Nothing serious.” He patted her back awkwardly.

  Down the street the officer was talking with other students. One of the two girls Jay had seen sitting on the curb was being attended to by a paramedic. Jay glanced the other direction and saw several people milling around, but no sign of Sarah.

  Where did you go so fast? Are you okay? He didn’t want to think about her getting in the truck with that maniac.

  The officer returned. He took the clipboard from Jay. “You didn’t write a time down,” he said as his eyes scanned the paper.

  “Sorry,” Jay said. “It was—” He glanced at his watch. “About seven minutes ago. It happened so fast. One second we were talking, the next the truck was practically on top of us.”

  “It jumped the curb?”

  “Yeah. See the tire marks?” Jay tried to move toward the sidewalk, but Trish was still clinging to him.

  “You say the driver might have been intoxicated. Any chance he’d blacked out? Did you get a look at him at all?”

  “No,” Jay said. “But he was awake enough to know what he was doing. After he hit the bike, he backed up and came in for another pass, but the second time he swerved close by and then went on down the street.”

  “And this young lady was with you?” The officer looked at Trish, who was quickly going into meltdown mode.

  “Uh, no,” Jay said. “She’s just upset.” About this, and what else? he wondered. It didn’t seem normal for a girl to go on like this over her boyfriend’s roommate’s near-death experience.

  The officer made some additional notes, and Trish continued to cry all over Jay’s shirt while he stood there worrying about Sarah. It seemed to take forever before Jay was free of them both and could finally collect his backpack and call his insurance company. After that the paramedics insisted on checking him, and it took another ten minutes to get both his head and foot looked at and bandaged. Fortunately the cut on his foot wasn’t too bad, but it looked like he’d be heading to the medical center to get a tetanus shot and stitches for his head. He’d do that as soon as his bike had been hauled away. And by then . . . well, Sarah was already long gone. The best he could do was hope she was okay—and worry.

  Once the paramedics left, he walked over to Trish, who was sitting on the sidewalk near his bike.

  “You okay now?” He hoped he wasn’t going to inspire a new flood with that question.

  “Yeah.” She gave him a shaky smile. “Girls always feel better after they cry.”

  “That’s because all their angst transfers to the guys they’re with.” He thought suddenly of Jane and all the crying she’d done—both happy and sad—last September during the day and a half they’d spent together in Washington, D.C. “I feel awful right now,” Jay said. “Didn’t know you had so much water in you. I’d hate to see you at a funeral, Trish.”

  “Sorry.” She looked down at the ground, nudging a leaf with the toe of her shoe. “It’s been a rough week.”

  “You and Arch?” Jay guessed.

  She nodded. “You’re pretty perceptive for a guy.”

  “For a guy.” Jay smiled. “Don’t give up on him yet. Arch’s been moping around the apartment the last couple of days. I figured something might be out of sorts with you two.”

  “He has?” Trish looked up, a hopeful smile lighting her face.

  “Yep. He’s been a real crab. So kiss and make up already,” Jay teased.

  “Wish we could.” Trish sighed. “But I did a terrible thing.”

  “Let me guess.” Jay stroked his chin. “Did you suggest he might make his own dinner?”

  “Worse,” Trish said.

  Jay raised his eyebrows. “Come on. Spill it.”

  “I threw away his moose steak and lied about it.”

  “You did?” Jay held his hand out for a high-five as he laughed out loud.

  Trish slapped his hand.

  “Heck. Arch ought to be thanking you. You probably saved both your lives by not eating that thing.”

  “That’s what I thought. You should have seen it—completely green. And the smell.”

  “You actually opened the package?” Jay asked.

  Trish nodded. “I was going to try to cook it, but it was soooo bad. I bought a steak from the store instead and told Archer it was the moose. I should have known he’d be able to tell the difference since he’s hunted and eaten so many different animals.”

  Jay nodded in agreement. “I can see where you got in trouble there.”

  “The worst part is that Archer was out working on my car all afternoon. He was trying to do something nice for me, and I threw away his moose. Oh, Jay. He was so furious with me.”

  “This is bad,” Jay agreed. “But if anyone can soften Archer’s heart, it’s you. I know he misses you, and I bet if you planned a nice evening for just the two of you, all would be forgiven. Oh, and you might have to go hunting with him.”

  Trish rolled her eyes. “I was afraid of that.” But her smile was back. “Thanks, Jay. For letting me cry about everything, and for listening. You’re a great friend.” She stood up, leaned in, and gave him a hug.

  “Anytime,” Jay said.

  “And this is for you.” Trish pulled some papers from her bag. “I found these on the ground over by tha
t tree. I thought maybe they belonged to Sarah. There’s an address on the back.” She placed the papers in Jay’s hand and turned to go. “See ya.”

  Jay turned the papers—a choral arrangement—over and looked at the gold sticker on the back.

  Summerfield Community Church

  359 W. Mallory Avenue

  Summerfield, MA 98110

  “Thanks,” he called to Trish.

  She turned and waved.

  Pulling his eyes from the paper to his wrecked motorcycle, Jay thought again of the close call with the truck. Sarah had likely saved his life. But what of hers? He kicked at a bent tire and stared at the scattered scraps of metal—evidence that something in Sarah’s life was very, very wrong.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anger fueling her courage, Sarah marched up the steps of the Summerfield Police Station. She pushed open the first set of glass doors, then the second, and went straight to the front desk. Chief’s daughter or not, she couldn’t just go back to her father’s office. Though with the storm that had been building inside her the past few hours, she had no doubt she could have easily jumped over the counter and started running for it before anyone caught her.

  Common sense prevailed. “I need to speak to Chief Morgan, please.” She forced her voice to remain calm as she addressed the woman at the front counter. She was new—or at least new since Sarah had last been in to see her dad at work. That didn’t surprise her. The turnover rate for those working under her father was high. Wish I had the luxury of leaving too.

  “Name?” the woman asked.

  “Sarah Morgan. I’m his daughter. It’s urgent,” she added.

  The woman picked up the phone, and Sarah went to the door, expecting to be buzzed back immediately. Her father didn’t like her coming to the station—something to do with a few employees who had hard feelings about the “good” position she’d been given—and he always whisked her into his office and out of sight as quickly as possible.

  This time was no different. The buzzer sounded; she pushed the door open and walked through, heading down the short hall. Her father’s door wasn’t open, but she didn’t bother knocking, and instead went right inside, starting in with her complaint before he could lecture her about being there.

  “Carl tried to kill me on campus this afternoon.” She stepped aside so the door could close behind her. “He drove straight at me with his truck, ran over the curb, over a student’s motorcycle, and onto the sidewalk. He was within two feet of hitting me. He’s dangerous, and I won’t have him following me around anymore.” There. I said it.

  Her father’s face was surprisingly calm, though she detected anger boiling beneath the surface.

  “Sarah, I’d like you to meet Detective Anderson. He joined our department earlier this year.” Grant Morgan swiveled toward the far side of the room and the before-unnoticed detective.

  Sarah swallowed back her mortification as she slowly turned to follow her father’s gaze to the man rising from his chair. “Nice to meet you, Detective,” she somehow managed to say.

  “Pleasure,” he said, nodding at her. “Looks like you two need to talk, so I’ll come back later, Chief.”

  Sarah backed away from the door as Detective Anderson left the room. She closed her eyes, unable to fully grasp how incredibly angry her father was going to be. Well, I’m angry too. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned back to her father.

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea someone else was in here with you. But everything I said about Carl is true. He’s snapped or something. What he did today is inexcusable. What if he had hit someone?”

  “Haven’t I taught you to knock on a door when it is closed?” her father asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

  “Yes, but—”

  “How many times have I told you I don’t like you coming here?”

  “A lot, but this was an emergency. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?” For the first time that she could remember, her voice was louder than her father’s. “Carl tried to kill me. He almost ran me over. Look at my glasses.” She thrust the broken frames toward him. “And my elbow. I cut it when I fell. And I’ve got a huge bump on the back of my head. He—”

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting,” Grant interrupted.

  “He almost hit me with his truck!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Grant answered quickly, then pressed his lips together as if he were biting back an additional remark.

  Sarah took a step back, feeling a physical pain in her chest as she tried to digest the hurt his one word caused.

  Her father clenched and unclenched his jaw a couple of times before speaking again. “Right now you mean inconvenience and expense. This very minute you’re costing me valuable time and money. I was in the middle of an important briefing with Detective Anderson, and now we’ll have to start over.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered. Tears burned the back of her eyes, and she prayed they wouldn’t fall. Crying only angered her father more.

  “Later, you’ll mean my dinner is ready and my clothes are ironed. And lest you think that’s harsh,” Grant continued. “I’ll remind you that I mean a roof over your head and food in your belly, and that expensive education you want so badly.”

  Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. His words burned in her chest—worse than the fall that had stolen her breath this afternoon. She tried to edge toward the door without staggering, tried to mask the pain her father’s callous words brought. She’d guessed their relationship wasn’t what other fathers and daughters shared, but she’d never known she was only tolerated. There had been times throughout the years—the other night even—when she honestly would have said she thought her father loved her.

  But no more.

  Wordlessly she backed out of the office and walked down the hall, through the door to the lobby, and left the station. Somehow she cleared both sets of glass doors and was halfway down the steps outside before the first tear fell. She brushed it away and walked faster. She had to get to the house, to her piano. Her fingers flexed with unexpressed emotion. They would cry for her. They would pound out her frustrations, fears, sorrow. Already the notes of a new composition filtered through her mind. She grasped onto them, onto the vision of the piano beneath her fingertips, notes ringing out as fast as she could play them. This melody would not be happy, light, or carefree, but a dark piece in A-sharp minor, as full of sour notes as her life was.

  The leaves crunched, unnoticed, beneath her feet. Near-bare trees shaded her way in the already-cool afternoon. The few neighbors who watched her walk by in her trance thought nothing of it—she’d been the chief’s recluse daughter for so long. The children out playing gave her wide berth as they rode their bicycles down the street.

  Sarah turned up the drive to her house, the only one on the street not sporting Halloween decorations. There was no paper skeleton hanging from the door, no carved pumpkins on the porch, no autumn centerpiece on the table when she unlocked the door and went inside.

  Her book bag fell from her hands, and the shoes slid from her feet as she collapsed on the bench in front of the old piano. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let her fingers rest on the keys. One note to start. Followed by a low chord. A series of chords. A seventh. Her right hand joined in the solemn march that slowly built in fervor and anger. Minutes ticked past on the clock in the kitchen. Violent music filled the house; she was pounding on the keys now, abusing the instrument as she almost never did.

  Finally the notes softened. They were sad. Worse than the funeral march she’d played for old Mrs. Newell last month. She tried to make them happier, tried to force her fingers to keys she knew would sound more harmonious. They wouldn’t go. Her right hand never went an octave above middle C. High notes were too unbearable right now—there were none in her life. And her own small attempt to grasp at one—to have a friendship—had plunged her to the lowest point she’d ever been.
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  Twenty minutes passed before the notes trickled to a stop and she felt calm enough to free her fingers from the ivory keys. Sarah went to the bathroom to wash her hands and was surprised at the red-rimmed eyes of the girl staring back at her from the mirror. She brought her hands to her cheeks and found them damp. Her throat was sore with the tears she’d held back, but it seemed they’d somehow escaped anyway. Grabbing a washcloth from the counter, she ran it under the cold water and pressed it to her face. She couldn’t let her father know.

  She would wash her face. She would fix his dinner. She would iron his shirts.

  And soon, very soon, she would find a way to leave.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Feeling extraordinarily grumpy, Jay trudged up the walk, into the house, and up the stairs to his apartment. After seeing his bike towed away for scrap metal, he’d gone to a nearby health clinic for stitches and a tetanus shot. By then he was late for work and not feeling too hot, so for the first time ever, he’d called in sick. An unexpected night off might have been great, except for the fact that his head was killing him and he couldn’t stop worrying about Sarah.

  Jay put his hand on the doorknob and was about to turn it when the door flew inward, yanking him with it.

  “Stay away from her,” Archer said, shoving Jay back out into the hall.

  “Don’t—touch—me,” Jay warned, eyes narrowing. He straightened and took a step toward Archer. “It’s been a bad day, and I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” He pushed past him into the living room.

  “Trish,” Archer said, grabbing Jay’s backpack as he walked by.

  “Hey! What do you think—”

  Archer pulled Trish’s soiled scarf from the mesh pocket on the side of the pack. He waved it in front of Jay’s face. “This is what I’m talking about. I saw you two today. You were all over her.”

  Jay groaned as he flopped back on the couch. “We’re not in high school, Arch.”

  “Stealing a guy’s girl is plenty immature.”