by Mary Burton
Unmindful of the nurses, doctors, their past or moving too fast, Brody pulled Jo into his arms. She didn’t resist but relaxed into him, accepting his touch easily. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, Jo. We’ll figure out why your mother did this.”
She sighed. “This isn’t your problem, Brody. It’s mine, Ellie’s and Mom’s.”
He pulled her back and looked into her eyes. “I want to help, Jo. We’re in this together.”
Her brows furrowed as she searched his gaze. She didn’t want to believe.
“That statement is a long time coming, Jo, but I mean it.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t speak but simply relaxed back into his embrace.
He tightened his hold, his mind quickly turning to the problems circling around Jo. Dayton. Smith’s apprentice. And the secret her mother believed unforgivable.
The cops had found Sheila’s body.
Dayton dropped his gaze to his manicured fingers as he sat in the hospital coffee shop, his latte untouched. He ducked his head to the side as he saw Ranger Winchester stride out of the elevator toward the hospital’s main exit.
Dayton checked his phone and noted the GPS tracker in Jo’s car still placed her at the hospital. Good. At least she remained close by.
The cops would be turning the heat up on him soon, and he was a fool to follow Jo. But he couldn’t let her go.
All his well-laid plans were unraveling, and he didn’t know how to fix them.
Never in a million years had he thought Sheila would be found. He’d been planning her murder for months. He’d purchased supplies with cash in another town and scouted disposal sites. He’d been extra kind to her, especially in public.
And when she’d planned her trip to that expensive resort he knew his opportunity had arrived. On the premise of painting, he’d lined the den with plastic and unloaded cans of beige paint.
Bags packed and loaded, she’d moved to kiss him goodbye when he’d driven a knife into her chest. The look of pure astonishment and fear in her eyes had been thrilling. She’d clawed and kicked but he’d plunged the knife in again and again until her eyes had rolled back in her head and she’d stopped breathing.
He’d taken extra care to cut her body up into small pieces and load her into thick plastic bags, heavily weighted with rocks. He’d waited until midnight to row onto Sweeney Lake and dump the bags, including the canvas one that had held her torso.
Dayton could now see the lake was a bad choice. He should have put her deep in the ground. There’d have been no accidental discoveries if he’d buried her well below the earth’s surface. But hubris had guided him to the lake. The lake. It would have been the last place Sheila would have gone because she’d hated the water. Feared it. But the final resting place was so fitting he couldn’t resist.
Dayton traced his thumb over the flecked pattern on the café table. The cops had a body, but they didn’t have a link between him and the day Sheila had disappeared. They could have all the theories in the world but without proof they didn’t have anything.
Yet.
Winchester was smart. Like a dog with a scent he wasn’t going to give up easily.
Panic rose in Dayton. He thought about his wife and all the trouble she’d caused him and the trouble she was still causing. So like Sheila not to do what was expected. All she’d had to do was stay at the bottom of that bloody lake.
Bitch deserved all that she got. If she walked in here today, alive and well, he’d kill her again. His fingertips trembled as he thought about squeezing the life from her. He balled his hands into fists and slowed his breathing.
Killing Sheila had been worth it, and if he were careful, he would get away with it all.
For now, he’d stay away from Jo Granger. As much as he wanted to follow her, to watch and to terrorize, he had to pull back. When the current situation cooled, he’d circle back. She was arrogant. Thought she knew all the answers. Like Sheila.
He’d enjoy watching her die.
Scott Connors shifted the gears of his Mercedes, grinding from second to third as he headed toward downtown Austin. Cursing, he shoved the gear into fourth and revved the engine. He was angry, upset and wanted a pound of flesh.
He had creditors up his ass. There was a repo man out there looking to take the Mercedes, and his credit cards were about at their limit. And to add a cherry on top of this pile of crap, his firm had fired him, by text, an hour after he’d left the office today. His boss’s message had been terse and abrupt. You have been terminated. I’ll deliver your belongings to your house. If you show up again at the office you will be arrested for trespassing.
He’d considered driving straight back to the office and having it out with his boss. The ass had no idea of the pressure he’d been under this last month. No, he’d not done a great job, but shit, he didn’t deserve to be tossed aside.
As tempted as he was to go by the office, he kept driving. He didn’t need the cops breathing down his neck. Between the local cops and the Rangers, he’d had no peace in weeks, and he knew they weren’t finished with him yet.
How had his life gone to shit so fast? Two months ago, he’d been on top of the world. He had it all. And now Christa was gone. The job was gone. Dee still lingered around, but it now made him sick to look at her.
A red light ahead, he slowed and reread the handwritten note. Police saying Dusty knows who killed Christa. Tall, red hair. Works Sixth and Congress.
Scott shoved the paper in his pocket and studied the girls working on the street corner. First Hanna. Now Dusty.
A tall African American woman dressed in a leather skirt and halter top walked toward him. “Want to party?”
He couldn’t manage a smile. “I heard from a friend Dusty is good.”
She grinned as her eyes assessed. “Depends on what you want.”
Nerves and anger clawed at his gut. “You Dusty?”
She offered a half smile. “Yeah, baby. I’m Dusty.”
Scott pulled three hundred dollars from his coat pocket. “Heard good things about you.”
Her grin softened. “Now you’re talking.”
“Get in.”
Chapter Twenty
Thursday, April 18, 5:00 A.M.
Jo had been at her mother’s side most of the night while Ellie had sat and finally dozed in the room’s corner chair. The sisters had managed to suspend their anger for now. Ellie had gone to get coffee for both of them. But it was only a matter of time before the bell dinged, and they came out of their corners swinging.
Candace opened her eyes and for a moment stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
Jo sat forward in her chair, her gaze zeroing in on her mother. “Mom. Mom, can you hear me?”
Her mother turned toward her. Without makeup and her hair done, Candace looked a decade older. Jo had always figured her mother to be eternally young, but now could see that life’s hardships had left their mark. She smoothed her hand over her mother’s hair. “Jo?”
“Hey,” she said, forcing a smile. “You gave us a scare.”
Her mother moistened her lips and closed her eyes. Failed suicide attempts often led to a deepening depression. More attempts. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
Jo cupped her mother’s hand. “I’m glad you are. I’d hate to lose you.”
Candace shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You don’t know me that well.”
Jo wiped the tears away with her fingertips. “Mom, don’t worry about anything right now. I want you to get better and stronger so we can talk.”
“Does Ellie know?” Her voice sounded hoarse and raw, a side effect of the tube the medical personnel had stuck down her throat to pump out the pills.
“Yes. She went to get coffee, but she’ll be right back. She’s as worried about you as I am.”
Her mother shook her head. “I didn’t want you girls to know. I wanted to leave.”
Her mother’s hand looked pale and fragile against her own. “Why did you want
to leave us? What could be that bad?”
Candace swallowed and turned her head away from Jo. “I want to leave.”
She straightened the covers over her mom. “I saw the letter from Smith, Mom. I know he contacted you.”
Her mother, her face still turned away, closed her eyes. She didn’t speak.
“Mom, he sent me letters, too. They came a few days ago.” She squeezed her mother’s hands. “If it turns out he’s my biological father I can survive that. I know you did what you did to protect me.”
“Smith.” She spoke the word as if it were a curse. “I regret the day I ever met that man.”
Jo sat quietly by her mother’s bed, letting the silence prod the story from her.
Candace let the breath trickle from her lips. “I was seventeen when I first met him. He was substituting in my high school. He was my English teacher.” A bitter smile tipped the edge of her lips. “I thought he was so handsome. Dashing. And he made all those dry novels sound romantic. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I was dating your daddy at the time but I was taken with Smith.”
“Smith would have been in his late thirties.”
“That was part of his charm. So much older and knowing. Made the high school boys look foolish.” She swallowed. “I made sure that Smith noticed me. I asked lots of questions in class, and I was always offering to help. He liked it when I wanted to help.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Months. He substituted at the school from October until April. Your daddy noticed how much I talked about Smith. He was on the football team. Big, hulking boy. Strong as an ox. Not much sense, or so I thought. But he was smarter than I ever realized. When Cody said Smith was trouble, I wouldn’t listen to him or my friends. I wanted what I thought was a real grown-up man.”
“Smith.”
“Yes. I heard Smith talking to another teacher about a party he was having. I asked my parents if I could go. Of course, they said no. I argued. They forbade me. Nothing tastes as sweet as forbidden to a wild teen girl.” She moistened her lips as if parched.
Jo turned to the plastic pitcher by the bed and poured water into a matching cup. She put a straw in the cup and held it to her mother’s mouth. Candace drank deeply.
When Jo had set the cup aside and leaned back, her mother continued. “I snuck out of my parents’ house. I thought I was all grown up at seventeen. Thought I understood the world and how it worked.”
Seventeen. A baby.
“When I saw him at the party he saw me immediately. He watched me as I talked to other people . . . men. Even in those days I looked mature for my age. Finally, when he could break away he motioned toward the kitchen. We met there, and he pulled me outside. The night was cold. And he took off his jacket and draped it on my shoulders.”
“What happened?”
“He told me I was beautiful, and I fell for it all. I drank up his lies as if I’d been lost in the desert.” She closed her eyes, but the tears spilled free. “He took me to his room that night. I was scared. But he kept asking me if I was as grown up as I claimed.” Her mother swallowed. “In the morning before he woke up, I left and snuck back in my bedroom window. I never told anybody.”
“Smith didn’t let it go after the one night.”
“No. He kept giving me looks at school. Kept telling me I was pretty when no one was looking. I snuck out with him a few more times.” Candace cleared her throat. “I had no shame.”
Jo sat silently for a long moment waiting for her mother to finish the story. There was more. There had to be. Finally, as gently as she could, she said, “What happened? How did it finally end between you two?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m tired.”
“Mom, please tell me.”
Her mother turned her face away from Jo. “Not now. I can’t talk now.”
The truth was but millimeters from her fingertips and yet it remained out of her reach. “Was Smith my biological father?”
Her mother’s head snapped back. Her gaze blistered Jo. “Never use the word father and Smith in the same sentence. The man was a monster.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Be grateful he is dead. Be grateful.”
“Mom, you can tell me anything.”
“I read all the newspaper stories about him. People tried to figure out why he did what he did. The truth was he didn’t need a reason. He craved fear like a drunk craves booze.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “I thought if I worked hard enough and was a good enough mother to you and your sister and a wife to your daddy, I could make up for that time. But I’ve never been able to work hard enough to forget.”
Her mother wept, drawing herself up into a tight ball. What had happened? What had Smith done to her mother? As much as Jo wanted to push for answers, she knew they’d not come right here and now. Soon, she told herself. Soon her mother would release her terrible secrets. “It’s okay, Mom.”
Jo kissed her mother on her head and let her sleep. Out of the room and to the waiting area, she sat and buried her face in her hands. Her mother hadn’t said the words but she knew. Smith was her father.
A solid night’s sleep had calmed Dayton. He’d now realized how news of Sheila’s death had left him frazzled. But this morning, he felt like a million bucks. As if he could tackle the world.
Dressed for a run, he cut through the kitchen and into the garage. He took two steps toward his car when he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned as the pop, pop, pop of suppressed gunfire ripped into his chest. For a moment, Dayton stared at the man, stunned, as a bloom of blood blossomed, a growing patch on his white shirt.
He stumbled back against his car. “What the hell?”
“I don’t appreciate poachers.”
Dayton listed sideways and slid down the side of his car. Blood oozed from the holes in his chest and pooled on the floor.
The man glanced at his gun. “I’ve always liked the .22. It’s not expensive, easy to hide and not fancy. But low-caliber bullets can bounce around a man’s insides like a Ping-Pong ball, tearing up organs and smashing bone. It’s a good caliber.”
Air bubbles gurgled from Dayton as he gasped for air. He was drowning in his own blood. Like Sheila.
“It won’t take long.” The man replaced the gun in his coat pocket. “And you aren’t going to kill Jo Granger.”
Dayton rolled on his side. He tried to claw his way across the cement garage floor but he couldn’t summon the air to move. “Why?”
The man smiled. “You’ve been watching Jo Granger. And you’re smart enough to get around the law. I see the way you look at her. You want to kill her. Like you killed your wife.”
Dayton swallowed. “No.”
He smiled. “Just us here now, Dayton. No need to lie. You want to kill her. But you’re not going to. I am.”
Knowing Jo would be at the hospital all night and safe, Brody had spent most of the night watching surveillance footage of Hanna’s street corner. He’d caught images of “Robbie” but nothing concrete. He was determined to find the needle in this wretched haystack.
He’d taken a break after dawn to go home, shower and grab a quick bite before heading to the hospital to see Jo. He found her in the waiting room, alone, her eyes closed and her head tipped back against the wall.
“Jo,” he said.
She opened her eyes immediately and looked up at him. She stood and he pulled her into his arms. She clung to his shirt.
“How’s she doing?”
Jo nestled close to him. “She’s going to be okay. Physically.”
He stroked her hair, savoring the soft scents. “Did she say why?”
Jo hesitated a moment. “Something happened between my mother and Smith, but she won’t tell me. I asked her again if Smith was my father but she wouldn’t answer.”
Silence stretched between them. “Biology doesn’t change anything, Jo.”
She searched his gaze. “It can be a huge predictor.”
&
nbsp; He stroked the hair off her face. “Jo, you are a good, kind woman. You are not him.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I know.” She sighed. “I just want all the missing pieces to come together. Mom’s not telling me everything.”
“What could she be holding back?”
“I don’t know. But I’m thinking it’s pretty awful.”
Brody hated leaving Jo at the hospital, but she’d insisted she’d be fine, and she needed to spend more time with her mother.
Now he sat at his desk and pushed yet another surveillance disk CD into his computer. The tapes were taken from the store that overlooked Hanna’s street corner.
A dark Mercedes pulled up to her street corner, and she walked over to the window. She was smiling as the driver leaned toward her. And then her smile vanished, and she stepped back from the car door. A male driver got out of the car. He flipped a dark hoodie over his head as he hurried toward Hanna. He pulled money from his pocket and tried to shove it in her hand. For several tense seconds they stood, his arms wrapped around hers. She took the money and got into the car.
He closed her passenger door and hurried to the driver’s side.
“Turn around, you son of a bitch.” From this camera angle, Brody had never seen the man’s face before he drove away with Hanna.
Brody popped the disk out and searched his stack, finding the footage from a camera mounted at a light two blocks away. He loaded the disk, tapping his fingers on the desk as he waited for the image. He fast-forwarded to the moments where the other tape stopped.
The Mercedes stopped at a light. And this time he could see the driver’s face. In that instant, the camera caught him in profile.
There was no mistaking the man’s identity.
Scott Connors.
Brody and Santos quickly discovered that Connors had been fired yesterday. He’d not only missed huge blocks of time in the last five weeks, but he’d screwed up several key stock trades.
