Her Best Friend's Keeper (Finley Creek Book 1)

by Calle J. Brookes

  Surrounded by her stuff, in her own personal space. She’d asked for an apartment with as few windows—entry points—as possible. On an upper floor, which had ended up being the sixth. Jarrod was two floors up and two doors over. She could reach him from the fire escape in less than a minute. They’d timed it. Rehearsed it.

  It made her feel a little better when the sun went down.

  Her friends knew about her fears, and they understood. She hadn’t exactly broadcast the fact that she was an almost twenty-seven-year-old woman who was still afraid of the dark.

  Only Mel had suggested Gabby seek therapy after a particularly bad panic attack late one night in a theater parking lot. A group of men had crossed the parking lot, hooting and catcalling, directly after she, Mel, and Brynna had exited the theater. Gabby had totally freaked. Mel had thought she might have PTSD. And thought that she needed more help than she was getting.

  Gabby didn’t disagree.

  She just wasn’t sure she wanted to go the therapy route again. Her mother and step-father had insisted she go to weekly sessions those first two years after the tragedy. And it had gotten her through. But she was in a good place now. She knew that. Well, maybe a better place than she had been in.

  She’d come a long way from the girl who’d refused to leave her mother’s side for two years.

  She was in a good place, wasn’t she?

  Gabby still checked out the window of her bedroom four times before finally closing the blinds.

  Sometimes, sometimes she was convinced there were eyes out there. Watching her. That was pretty much one of the definitions of crazy, wasn’t it?

  It was so tempting to go up two floors and crash on Jarrod’s couch.

  Again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  ***

  JARROD was called out on a case fifteen minutes before she was scheduled to go off the clock the next day. That meant Gabby was pretty well stranded, unless she caught a ride with Benny. She’d done that a time or two before. Mel used to drive her and Brynna in each day, but that ended when Mel retired. Brynna was just as against driving as Gabby, for her own reasons.

  Brynna was paged to the Commander of Major Crimes’ office to work on a cold case that had suddenly opened up again. She was one of the man’s favorite technicians and he always asked for her. Brynna would be getting some serious overtime in the next few days which meant more comp-time. The TSP didn’t pay overtime to its employees, but when they had to work past their regular shift, they earned paid time off. Brynna liked to save her comp-time and visit her sister in St. Louis whenever she could. That left a taxi for Gabby—not her preferred method of transportation, but one she’d used before. She’d survive.

  She used her cell to call the service she always used, then waited by the window.

  One day, she’d have to get her driver’s license, wouldn’t she? For self-sufficiency’s sake, if nothing else. Independence.

  It was an argument she’d had with herself on multiple occasions. She’d never really resolved the argument satisfactorily.

  She wasn’t entirely certain why she’d developed a weird fear of driving a car. Probably because she’d spent most of her sixteenth year in therapy addressing some very real fears, and hadn’t wanted to get her license. She hadn’t been able to deal with the pressure of having other people’s lives in her hands.

  Sara had received her driver’s permit the week she had been killed. She’d been so excited, and had driven Gabby home from school twice.

  Something else that had probably left a deep impression. Sometimes she felt she’d never unravel the ties Sara’s death had wrapped around her.

  “Waiting for the bus?” A male voice asked from directly behind her. Gabby spun around, bumbling half the personal notebooks in her hands. She narrowly managed to keep the half full fountain drink in her left hand from hitting the Chief of the Finley Creek TSP smack dab in the center of his broad chest.

  Elliot Marshall had always had one of the best guy-chests she’d ever seen.

  And—come to think of it—she’d seen that chest naked once. When she’d been fifteen, Sara’s family had taken her on vacation with them to the Gulf. Elliot and Chance—and their girlfriends—had surprised their parents on their wedding anniversary by showing up at the small vacation bungalow. The next two days had been filled with festivities and swimming.

  That was the first time she’d seen Slade without his shirt, too.

  That had been the weekend she got her first real kiss. All of her attention had been focused on Elliot’s youngest brother, but that hadn’t stopped her from noticing how nice Elliot and Chance had looked in their swim trunks and nothing else. From noticing how strong and perfectly made the Marshall brothers all were. She’d never forget the look that had been in Slade’s green eyes when he’d smiled at her.

  Eyes that had been so much like the brother’s now looking right at her. That’s when she realized she hadn’t answered him. “Yeah…well, a cab. I don’t drive.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “Never got my license. I’d delayed Drivers’ Ed. And I never bothered getting it when I was sixteen. I had too much else going on.”

  His face tightened for a moment as they both remembered what it was that had happened. “Let me give you a ride. An officer is bringing my car around.”

  “I…”

  “It’ll be no trouble.”

  “You know what people will think?” She darted a quick look around the lobby. Yeah, people—people she worked with, knew and had for the last almost five years—were pretending not to watch them.

  Yeah, real subtle there, TSP people.

  “What? That I’m giving an old family friend a ride home? Unless you’re afraid to be in a car with me. It’s a simple ride, Gabby. Nothing more. A safe way for you to get home.”

  “That’s what you think. Don’t you know you were dropped right into the middle of Finley Creek TSP—Texas’s real life soap opera? We leave here together and rumor will have us together in the morning, too.” Babble, babble, babble, Gabby. Sometimes she just needed to stop talking. “Probably engaged with six kids on the way.”

  Had she really just said that? To the chief?

  “I don’t care, if you don’t. We’ll work out the wedding details later. And half a dozen baby names. But I get to pick the honeymoon destination, though. How do you feel about silk sheets? Decision time; here’s my car.”

  Taxi or him?

  His hand wrapped around her elbow, warm and strong. And there were enough people close by for their conversation to have been overheard.

  If she turned him down that fact would go through the rumor mill faster than water over the Hoover Dam. Yeah, that wouldn’t be a good thing, for either of them, would it? “Let me cancel my taxi.”

  Sometimes she thought she really was crazy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  ***

  THE ride lasted far too long, even though it was only sixteen blocks between her apartment and the TSP. He dropped her off after she’d thanked him and that had been the end of it. No mountain. Not even a molehill. Just a simple ride home.

  There wasn’t anything Gabby liked more than coming home. To her reinforced door with three extra deadbolts, thanks to Jarrod and his handiness.

  Today was no different. She needed time to think, to figure just how she felt about having Sara’s brother so close. Why did he disconcert her so darned much? Was it because of how much he resembled his father? Or because having him there had brought every fear and hurt she’d experienced at the loss of the Marshall family back up to the surface?

  Or was it something else?

  Whatever it was, she was just glad that she wasn’t looking at him straight on, wondering what to say or what to do and feeling like a tongued-tied dork.

  The cat greeted her when she unlocked the door, like always. She picked him up and snuggled him against her chest. He wasn’t very big and one of his ears was slightly smaller than the other; his tail has a
kink in it. It had always hung slightly to the left. He was her baby and she wasn’t ashamed to admit that she was fast turning into the crazy cat lady of the sixth floor.

  Most of her evenings included a short reheated dinner, a few television shows, some internet surfing, chatting online with friends, and reading.

  She was one of the most boring people she’d ever met and Gabby liked it that way. Boring was less likely to get murdered in her own home.

  Sometimes when the boring got to be too much she’d head up to Jarrod’s apartment and he’d feed her something other than cheap frozen dinners or canned soup. She very rarely cooked for herself, though her mother—and Sara’s—had spent many hours teaching her how. She cooked when she wanted to—she just didn’t want to all that often.

  Elliot’s mother had been one of the best cooks Gabby had ever met. When she’d been killed Gabby had sort of lost the desire to cook much at all.

  Maybe she should try again?

  She would. There had been a chocolate oatmeal raisin cookie that she used to love. She probably still had the recipe somewhere in the old cookbook Anne Marshall had been making for her.

  Sara’s mother had been a cookbook author. She’d been designing one specifically targeted to young girls just about to go out on their own. She’d had Gabby and Sara try recipe after recipe and Gabby had loved being with her. Sara would act all embarrassed by it, but Gabby knew her friend had loved it, too. And they’d gotten paid for it.

  But the time they’d spent together would be what Gabby always remembered. Always.

  It took her a few moments of digging, but she finally found Anne’s last project.

  Gabby’s stepfather had brought it to Gabby right after the funerals. She’d always appreciated it, although it had been four or five years since she’d really looked at the handwritten notes and photos.

  There had been several photos of her and Sara, as well as quite a few of Sara and her mother. And all three of them together. Slade had hung out in the kitchen some times, and he’d always had a camera around his neck.

  A small curl of heat went through her stomach when the idea that Elliot might like to have copies of the photos hit her. The least she could do was scan the pictures into her computer and give him a zip drive or something. What he did with the photos after that was up to him.

  It wasn’t as hard this time to look at the photos; not like it was the last time. Maybe time did dull some of the pain? She would always miss Sara’s smile, how it turned in at one end just like her mother’s had.

  Like Elliot’s still did.

  The only thing he’d gotten from his mother was that smile.

  He was in one of the photos, one taken when he’d stopped by for a few hours about four weeks before the murders. She had been more consumed with Slade than Elliot so she hadn’t done much more than say hello.

  Now she studied the photo a bit more closely.

  He was already in his twenties when the photo was taken. His hair was longer now than it had been then. He’d worn it militarily short back then and he had his dark green TSP uniform neatly tucked and pressed.

  He wore the TSP uniform so well. She’d seen many an officer and detective whose shoulders didn’t fill their uniforms quite as well as Elliot Marshall, Jr.’s had—even ten years ago. She bet he looked awesome in his dress uniform now, too.

  She finished scanning all of the photos onto a spare memory card then turned to the more personal items in the file box. Art had grabbed her everything Anne had been working on back then. And she’d never been able to get through the entirety.

  It had hurt too much. Even five years ago.

  Elliot’s presence was what had brought it all up, wasn’t it? But instead of being quite as painful, she felt more nostalgic.

  Perhaps ten years was long enough? Maybe it was time she went through it all.

  She dug through the notecards with recipes and alterations and everything paper clipped together, then grabbed the purple binder that held all of Sara’s mother’s personal notes and observations. The small leather journal that Elliot’s father had given her to keep as a record of her progress rested in the bottom of the box.

  The first page had hand-drawn flower doodles and Gabby smiled. Elliot’s mother had doodled on everything. She’d always had a pen in her hand. A pen or a wooden spoon. She’d been forty-eight when she died.

  Gabby really missed her.

  Her cell rang and she set the journal aside.

  Only a handful of people ever called her, especially during the week. One quick look at the display told her it was Brynna.

  Exactly who she needed to talk to. Sara had been her best friend, no doubt about it; her loss had almost destroyed Gabby. Her mother and Art had helped Gabby heal, but Brynna had been the first real friend Gabby’d had since Sara’d died. Brynna made her be a friend again.

  Through Brynna had come Mel, and even Jarrod. Gabby hadn’t wanted another friend, but when she and Brynna had been assigned to work together the other woman was relentless. They were going to be friends, no matter what. Because Brynna had decided so.

  She’d cared about Gabby, and she’d somehow made Gabby care about her. She would always love Brynna for that. “What’s up?”

  “I’m checking on you. I don’t want you sitting in your cave brooding.” Brynna never sugar-coated anything, and Gabby had often wondered if that was because her friend was autistic, or simply because most of the Becks were straight-shooters on everything. Brynna’s sisters and her dad were the same. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m fine, Brynna. I promise. I’m going through Anne’s stuff right now. Her last cookbook project. I helped her with it. There’s quite a few pictures.”

  “Is it making you sad?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m coming over. You can show me and talk about her.”

  She thought about refusing, but she wanted the company. She just felt too alone right now. Bug the Cat just wasn’t enough right then. The cat meowed at her as if he knew what she was thinking. She pulled the phone away from her ear. “Don’t look at me like that, Bug. You know I love you.”

  “You’re talking to the cat again even though he can’t talk back. I’ll be right over. I’ll get Mel. She can get the pizzas. It’s her turn.”

  “No. I have a recipe here. I’ll make some. I still have some of your fake cheese and purple sauce here. I can make the pizza allergen free, too. Give me an hour.” Anne’s recipe. It seemed almost right, didn’t it? Sara’s mother’s recipe for pizza fed to her two best friends in the world. Who had both loved Anne, too. Fitting, wasn’t it?

  It would be the first recipe she’d made from that cookbook, and it was more than right that it would be shared with the best friends she had.

  CHAPTER NINE.

  ***

  BRYNNA’S older sister Mel had a look of fierce warrior bitch in her eyes when Gabby opened the door to her and Brynna half an hour later.

  Gabby got out of her way. She’d seen that look before. “Hey, Mel. Here, let me take that.”

  She held out her hand for the purple backpack that went with Mel everywhere. Mel was down to one forearm crutch now, but was still unsteady when carrying heavy objects. Or walking prolonged distances—like from the elevator to Gabby’s door near the end of the hallway.

  Mel waved her hand away. She was extremely stubborn, and determined to get herself as mobile as she possibly could. And Gaby thought she was doing a damned fine job, considering the doctors had predicted she’d most likely never walk again. She’d proven them wrong on that. “I’ve got it. I’m getting pretty good at swinging around with this thing. I’ve only fallen twice this week. It’s a record. Brynna tells me something’s going on. What is it?”

  Leave it to Mel to get right down to the heart of everything. She had no doubt her friend would march out and slay any dragons she had—if Mel had been able to march, anyway.

  The bullet had come so close to her spinal cord that she’d a
lmost died. It had been touch and go whether she’d be completely paralyzed, too. Mel had fought the odds and learned to walk again with assistance, but her entire future had changed. She was still adapting.

  Gabby was just thankful her friend was alive. She’d had to wait until Jarrod got off his shift before she’d been able to get a ride to St. Louis the night Mel had been hurt. That car trip had been the longest nine hours of her life. Mel had still been in recovery when she’d arrived. She’d never forget the terror at almost losing another friend. Mel’s dad had been beside himself—Mel had been on her way to visit her older sister Carrie, who was in labor. Just before Gabby had arrived Carrie had been taken back for an emergency cesarean. The sisters had been in surgery one right after the other. Their father and younger sisters had practically gone nuts waiting for news.

  Mel would most likely always need the forearm crutch, but she was getting steadier and stronger thanks to physical therapy.

  There had been many times when she’d witnessed Mel fall and pick herself right back up off the ground. Mel was the strongest woman—person—that Gabby had ever met. Sometimes she wanted to be Mel when she grew up. Her friend didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, and was smart and beautiful on top of strong and brave. Mel knew how to be in charge, that was for certain.

  “I want to make pizza first.” Mel had been Sara’s friend, too, though Mel was bit older. Some of the photos she’d found had pictures of the Marshall family with the Becks. There was even one photo with her, a ten-year-old Brynna, a thirteen-year-old Mel, a just turned twelve-year-old Sara, and a nine-year-old Jillian. Mel had been holding her two-year-old sister Sydney. She vaguely remembered that cookout—it was the first time she’d spent the night at the Marshalls, and she’d felt so awkward. She’d stared at that photo for a very long time. Anne had meticulously labeled the back with everyone’s name and age in her neat handwriting.