Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “So, what are you going to do?” The overhead light in the parking lot illuminated the compassionate look in her eyes.

  “I have no idea . . . she said like someone who was hopelessly lost and dim-witted.” And self-loathing. I didn’t say that part out loud, though.

  “First of all, take your forehead off of the dash.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d put it back there. I sat up and let my head drop behind me instead.

  “Now, you’ve got to make a decision. What are you going to do? Doing nothing isn’t an option. You’ve got to get a handle on this.”

  A handle . . . handles made me think of buckets, and buckets made me realize—

  “I left my cleaning supplies at the house. Oh my lands, Jamie. All of my stuff is still at the house!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jamie slowly rolled toward the street where Katrina’s house was located.

  I could do this. I could run inside the house, grab my stuff, and leave. Then I’d figure out the next plan of action. I’d figure out how to let the police know what had happened.

  I’d repent, vow to never do this again, and beg God to somehow allow things would work out.

  I let out a long breath, praying I wouldn’t throw up again. My hands—all of my bones, for that matter—shook so badly that I nearly jiggled out of my seat.

  I’d messed up big-time. I’d been in my little idealist daze, thinking I could float in, do a good deed, and never be found out. This was the very thing my family always rode my case about. They told me I needed to come back down to earth, that I needed to think things through using my head instead of my heart. My diagnosis had stirred something in me, though—a new kind of boldness, fearlessness.

  “Check this out, girlfriend.” Jamie pressed on the brakes.

  I held my breath, unsure how to read her voice. Check out good? Check out bad?

  I had my answer quickly. Flashing lights lit the sky at the end of the street.

  The police were at Katrina’s house.

  They’d somehow discovered the dead body in the hour since we’d driven away.

  How had they done that? Had someone seen the van there and called the police? I had no idea.

  I only knew that a bad situation had just gotten ten thousand times worse.

  “Keep going,” I whispered. “Moral obligation done.”

  “Yeah, the moral obligation of reporting a dead body has been covered. But how are you going to handle it when the police find your supplies, and you’re their first suspect?”

  ***

  The next morning I glanced into my rearview mirror. I ignored the fluffy pink dice dangling there, beckoning for carefree days of driving through the countryside with the windows down and Peggy Lee’s version of “Fever” blaring through the speakers.

  Instead, I focused on the circles under my eyes. Were they from the fact that I hadn’t slept a wink last night due to my increasing worry over what had happened? Or were they from the disease that was slowly ravaging my body?

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered right now was that I did my job as a social worker; I had to concentrate on that and forget about the dead body.

  All evening I’d waited for the police to knock on my door and take me down to the station. I thought about what I’d tell my family. I imagined the unflattering headlines, splashed across every newspaper in Cincinnati. Maybe all of Ohio.

  Dim-witted social worker breaks into client’s home in moment of lunacy.

  Idiotic nonprofit employee spends her final days on earth rotting in jail.

  Daughter of prominent family ruins the reputation of relatives and makes them the laughingstock of community.

  I let out a sigh and tried to put it out of my mind. People and their children were depending on me to do my job today, and I had no intention of letting them down, especially not the children.

  I’d recently started working for a private foster care agency called Caring Hands. I did home visits and tried to make sure I wasn’t taking children from one dangerous situation and putting them into a new one. Sometimes all they needed was one voice, crying out for justice on their behalf. I wanted to be that voice.

  I ran my hand under my eyes one more time. My skin was getting paler; I was sure of it. But I wouldn’t waste time tanning, even if I’d be dead by the time skin cancer could do any damage. I had too much to do in the little time I had left. Things that would make a difference after I was dead.

  Looking on the bright side kept despair from claiming me and swallowing me whole. I wasn’t going to let that happen. After all, I had been voted “Most Optimistic” by my high school class. Some had called me perky; others had said annoying. I supposed it was all in how you looked at it. Of course, I was an optimist, so I stuck with the positive definitions.

  I’d pulled curbside to an old shanty of a house located in the Price Hill area of Cincinnati. The place, skinny and tall, was three levels and looked like it could fall over if a strong wind hit the burgundy shingles hard enough.

  I stepped out of the car and into the sunshine. Price Hill stood in its glory all around me. I’d grown up on the outskirts of this Cincinnati neighborhood, and, despite its reputation, I loved it here. Parts of the community were nicer than others, but the area, with all of its steep hills and skinny houses, bordered downtown Cincinnati. The view from some of the hilltops was simply breathtaking. One could see the Ohio River, the stadium—including fireworks on certain nights—and Union Station, a place that looked like something straight out of Gotham City.

  Folks from Appalachia had moved into Price Hill to get jobs several decades back. Some of them had spread out to the suburbs in recent years, and the inner-city poor as well as Mexican immigrants had moved into the area, creating a strange mix of people all sharing the same community.

  Most of the homes in the area wouldn’t win any awards for “Best-Kept Yard.” Far from it, truth be told. But the neighborhood had character. It had gone downhill further in recent years. At least, that’s what some people said. To me, the area was like family. It was imperfect and sometimes messy, but it was home.

  I straightened my snow-white sundress. I tried to appease my supervisor by wearing a tailored brown blazer over my dress to make it look more professional and less I-should-be-dancing-through-a-field-of-flowers, as Doris liked to say. I always said I should have been born in the fifties, when women were applauded for looking feminine and soft and ladylike.

  I reached into the backseat and grabbed my briefcase. As I started to stand, I heard footfalls behind me. Before I could look back, someone said, “You’re supposed to wait in the car.”

  I jumped, hitting my head on the roof. I kept my head lowered, rubbing what was sure to become a knot. Before I could straighten, I saw the shiny black shoes on the grass beside me and recognized the standard-issue footwear.

  A police officer.

  Was he coming to arrest me? Had my fingerprints already been run through the system? I mean, sure, I’d worn gloves. But my prints could still be on my bucket or the mop. I could have left a hair, a shoe print, or a drop of sweat! I’d seen those crime shows on TV; I knew how it worked. Investigators would find anything they could to frame me and lock me up for the rest of my short life.

  I glanced up, trepidation coursing through me. But I froze when I saw the officer’s face. I knew this man.

  Oh. My. Sweet. Goodness.

  I knew this man.

  And I didn’t want to. I was never, ever supposed to see him again. That humiliating time of my life was supposed to be far, far behind me.

  He was even taller than before—if that was possible. Even broader than before—if that was fathomable. And he was even more handsome than I remembered—and I was pretty sure that was impossible.

  “Chase Dexter,” I muttered, a hand going to my hip.

  Recognition spread across his perfect face, and a satisfied grin curled half of his lips. “If it isn’t Holly Anna Paladin.” His grin widened. “Long ti
me no see.”

  I scowled, forgetting all about trying to be ladylike. “What are you doing here?” My voice came out with a little more hiss than I intended.

  One of his eyebrows casually flickered upward. “I’m supposed to escort you on this visit as a safety precaution. I heard you had some trouble with the children’s birth father. The director wanted an officer to be here with you.”

  I straightened my jacket again and raised my chin, totally forgetting—or was it not caring?—about being professional and the epitome of well mannered. “I don’t need you to escort me.”

  He raised his eyebrows in that arrogant manner that was exactly how I remembered. I’d seen it many, many times in our encounters during high school. “Do I need to remind you about the situation regarding these children’s father? Weapons charges? Domestic disputes?”

  I bit back a sigh and finally nodded. The whole custody situation with this family was rather scary. I’d worked as a CPS investigator until a couple of months ago. I’d determined that the three children needed to be taken away from their mom and dad for safety reasons.

  “What are you still doing in this area? I thought you left?” I finally asked.

  “Been back a couple of months now. Got a knee injury and had to give up football. Worked in Louisville a few years in the police department, and now I’m here.”

  How lucky for Cincinnati . . . and for me. He’d fooled everyone else in the community into thinking he was some kind of saint. I knew the truth. He was stuck on himself and the master of disguising his true nature, a nature that lent itself to belittling people who didn’t meet his superficial standards. “Well, isn’t that . . . splendid.”

  I started climbing the cracked cement steps that stretched up the front lawn of the house and toward the front door. It would be safer to climb up cinder blocks randomly placed on a hillside than these crumbling stairs that wiggled and teetered with each step.

  Chase’s long strides quickly caught up with me. He tugged at one of my wavy curls. “You look nice, Holly Anna.”

  I tried not to be vain, but I did love my hair. I spent too much time smoothing and then curling it. The look took me back in time, and if I was honest with myself, I’d give anything to go back. I wanted to be a little girl again, so full of hope about the future. I wanted to sit in my daddy’s lap and listen to his stories and feel safe.

  Most days, I felt alone, like no one understood me and like I’d drawn the short straw. Sometimes I felt like I needed to just give up my job and start traveling across Europe or something. But my mom needed me now that Dad had died. My brother was running for office, and my sister was getting married. Besides, these kids needed me to be their voice.

  I felt Chase’s gaze on me, and I scowled.

  “I still get under your skin, don’t I?” He laughed, deep and bellowing and sure of himself, just like the brute he was. “Even after all of this time.”

  “Why would you get under my skin?” I could list a million reasons and still keep going.

  He shifted his weight at the doorway. The action reminded me of a giant about to go to war. “Look, high school was . . . it was high school. A different lifetime ago.”

  “You can say that again. I’ve practically forgotten all about high school. What was our mascot again? What was that class they insisted we’d use later on in life? Calculus or some other nonsense?”

  He chuckled and tugged at one of my curls again. “You’re funny.”

  I swatted his hand away. “There’s a difference between being funny and being made fun of.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Of course, you wouldn’t realize that.”

  Chase had been Mr. Cool, and I’d been the pathetic geek who’d had a crush on him. He’d found out about it and made me miserable.

  “I never made fun of you, Holly Anna.” His voice sounded smooth and serious. But he’d just called me Holly Anna again, so any points he’d won with his supposed sincerity immediately disappeared . . . and then some.

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “It’s your name.”

  “A very ill-fated name. My parents had a twisted sense of humor.”

  “I’ve always thought it fit you.”

  I gripped my briefcase with one hand and knocked at the door with the other. “I don’t view life through rose-colored glasses, thank you very little.”

  “A little testy today, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” So much for going the mature route. I banged on the door again, a little harder than I intended, which was especially noticeable since my knuckles throbbed. “Why aren’t they answering? I told them I was coming today. You’d think—”

  Before I had the chance to finish my statement, a loud pop sounded.

  “Get down!” Chase threw me on the rough cement slab of the porch.

  I looked up just in time to see a gun peeking through the window of an old Cadillac on the street in front of us. The gun was aimed . . . at me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Once the drive-by shooter emptied four bullets and squealed away, Chase and I both pulled ourselves back to our feet and faced each other on the lopsided porch. Reality hadn’t quite sunk in yet. What had just happened?

  “Are you okay?” Chase asked, concern filling his eyes.

  I nodded, although I wasn’t nearly that certain. “Yes.”

  “You have a cut on your forehead.”

  I reached into my purse and pulled out a handkerchief with an H embroidered on the corner. I tried to find my injury when Chase reached out to help. I flinched when his fingers touched mine.

  “Hold that there a moment,” he instructed, pressing the handkerchief into my temple.

  He radioed the incident in before turning back to me.

  Chase’s steely gaze latched onto mine. “Why in the world would someone shoot at you?”

  I shook my head, erasing the fog in my head like a picture from an Etch A Sketch. I pictured Katrina’s house. I remembered what I’d done. Was this somehow connected? “I don’t know. Coincidence?”

  “Is there anyone who might want to hurt you?”

  “My sister is an assistant district attorney who’s put countless criminals behind bars. My brother is running for state senate, where his viewpoints have angered about half of the people in the state. And in my former job as a CPS investigator, I routinely took children away from homes where their parents were violent. You narrow it down.”

  He shifted his weight and sighed. “Is there anyone specifically that you can think of?”

  I shook my head and took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down and act like the lady I knew I was. “No. I haven’t been threatened directly, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  A couple of forensic techs arrived on the scene. Chase patted my arm and excused himself to go talk to them. I watched him interact and realized something seemed different about him. Had he grown up? It was doubtful.

  He wrapped up the conversation, and the techs began collecting and documenting evidence—evidence like bullets, shell casings, and skid marks. A couple more officers showed up, as well as a detective who got a statement from me before questioning neighbors. In the meantime, the homeowners still weren’t here, and if they’d merely told me in the first place they weren’t available, all of this mayhem could have been avoided.

  Mainly, Chase could have been avoided.

  I wiped the dirt from my dress again, an exercise in futility if there ever was one. The clothing was ruined, and I just needed to accept that. I needed to accept a lot of things, for that matter, but sometimes issues should just be ignored for sanity’s sake.

  “Can I go now?”

  He stared at me like the big brooding beast that he was. “How will you get home?”

  I stared at my windshield. He was right. Sally was in no position to cruise down the road right now. Apparently, the shooter had also pierced one of my tires with his bullets. I’d need to call a tow truck.

  I
looked back at Chase. Part of his lip looked like it wanted to tug upward in a smile. He knew I was running out of options, which meant that I’d need to depend on him.

  I crossed my arms. “I’ll call a cab.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll give you a ride.” He flicked his hand toward his police cruiser, which was parked behind Sally.

  I considered my options and came up short. Sure, I could call a cab. I could call someone in my family. I really didn’t want to do either of those things, however. I knew my family. They’d worry. They’d call me naïve. They’d tell me to give up this job and do something more reliable and advantageous. You know, something more like what they did, a job where my name could make the papers or I could be named Woman of the Year.

  Chase was waiting for my response. I let out a very unladylike sigh. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “We’ve done all we can do here.” He put his hand on my back. I mentally cursed the shivers that raced through me at his touch. My body just seemed to be working against me lately—in more than one way. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Somehow, I found myself being led down those cement stairs again, over the cracked sidewalk, and into his police car. Chase climbed in a moment later, his form filling the space with more than his fair share. I guess that’s what happened when you were six foot five and built like a gladiator.

  Not that I’d noticed.

  I expected him to start the car, make some snide remarks about my name, and then pull away to begin his obligatory duty. Instead, he turned toward me. “That was probably more excitement than you’re used to. I’m glad you’re okay, Holly.”

  I sent some mental telepathy down to my cheeks, begging them not to redden. They did anyway. Again, everything about my body was revolting.

  I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”

  “Where to, ma’am?” He turned the keys in the ignition.

  I swallowed, anticipating how the rest of this conversation would play out. “Elwood Street.”

  His head jerked toward me, his blue eyes widening. “Elwood Street? Isn’t that where you grew up?”