“I’m still the goddamn police chief around here. You want to talk with me, then you come to my office.”
“We were already there. One of your boys told us we could find you here,” Detective Smith said.
“Well, hell.” Becca’s father ran his hand over his head. “You want the case? No problem. It’s yours. But don’t come to my home the next time and bother my family, you hear?”
The detectives exchanged a look, shrugged.
“Give me an hour, and I’ll meet you downtown.” Her father walked back toward the house, pointing his finger in Becca’s direction. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to her.
She was back on the detectives’ radar. Instead of getting into their car and driving away, they called her over.
“Do you play in these woods around here along the river?” Detective Smith motioned to the area around her house. Her house was the only one on the street, if you didn’t count the farm five miles up the road or Russell’s farmhouse a mile down the road in the other direction.
“Yes, sir.” The woods were her playground, along with the farmers’ cornfields. The river was her watering hole.
“You didn’t happen to see anyone in the woods in the last few days or by the river, did you? Maybe it was someone you knew, or someone who looked like they might be hunting when they shouldn’t be?” Detective Smith asked.
She looked Detective Smith in the eye. She was angry at the detectives for forcing her to go into the house to get her father, madder still at her father for all the ways he hurt her.
“No, sir,” she said. “I didn’t see anything like that.”
She lied.
Becca looked over her shoulder. She waited until the retired detective was gone before she spoke. “I know him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Parker smelled of aftershave and a hint of the outdoors, the damp, earthy scent she recognized from the river.
“How do you know him?” Parker asked.
She looked around the bar, sizing up the men and the handful of women. Most of them looked like cops. They looked like her father and Toby and the retired detective. And Parker. They all had an air about them, their clipped, neat hair, their shoulders squared, their eyes attentive even in a relaxed setting of a bar. The job never left them. She wondered if that was one of the reasons why the divorce rate was so high. They didn’t know how to relate to their families once they were home, as though they were constantly on guard, talking to loved ones as though they were interrogating them. Or at least that had been Becca’s experience.
“I met him once a long time ago,” she said. “He came to the house looking for my dad.” She stopped, unsure how or if she should continue. The day the detective and his partner had pulled into her driveway had been the same day her father had chased her outside, the same day her father had brought a strange woman to their house, to their home, and twenty years later Becca still felt the sting of what he’d done.
“What did he want with your dad?” Parker asked.
She looked Parker in the eyes, searching for her friend, the one she’d trusted completely when she’d been a kid. He looked back at her, and for a second, she was lost in his stare, seeing the same old Parker and something more. Her heart beat a little faster. “I’m not sure,” she said. “My father had kicked me out of the house.” She looked at her hands in her lap.
Parker didn’t say anything. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he tossed money onto the bar to cover the tab and more. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Where should we go?” she asked.
“My place?”
Becca followed Parker in her Jeep, anticipation and nervousness knotting her stomach. She told herself repeatedly on the twenty-minute drive back to Portland, back to the river, she was being ridiculous, getting herself all worked up. But she hadn’t been alone with another man, in another man’s home, in the last five years. Fishing was one thing. This was something else. “Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered and gripped the steering wheel. “It’s just Parker.”
She pulled in behind him and cut the lights. It was darker than pitch, and she stumbled trying to find the path to his front door.
“Hang on,” he said, his voice coming from somewhere in front of her.
“I forgot how dark it gets underneath the trees around here.” The condo where she and Matt lived was always lit, motion detectors turning on the second you stepped outside. But here along the river at the edge of the woods, you could put your hand in front of your face and not see it. Only when you stood along the riverbank could you look up at the night sky and see the light of the moon and stars. She had forgotten this, forgotten the sights, smells, and sounds of the place she’d once loved.
Parker flipped a switch from somewhere inside, turning on small lanterns that lit the walkway to the porch. Each step she took on the lit path felt almost magical, as though she were walking on her very own yellow brick road.
“I’m just going to change out of these clothes,” he said, loosening the tie around his neck and what she thought of as his detective uniform. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a second.”
She looked around his place, surprised to find the cabin open and spacious and what she considered rustic chic. The hardwood floors, the leather furniture, the wood fixtures, all various shades of brown, but intertwined were pops of cherry red, a throw pillow, a small area rug. She touched the blanket tossed on the back of the couch, a patchwork that looked to be handmade. A stack of magazines teetered on the floor next to what looked to be Parker’s favorite chair, the remote control resting on top of the armrest. She picked up a magazine, Field & Stream. She sifted through a couple more, Fly Fisherman, Bassin’. He was the boy she remembered from high school, and in a good way. She smiled, thinking about how much he enjoyed fishing. She put the magazines back the way she’d found them and wandered into the kitchen, running her hand over the wood-block table, pausing next to a large island with a granite countertop, taking in the stainless steel appliances.
Parker appeared from the back bedroom, wearing jeans and a rumpled T-shirt with the decal GONE FISHING. She almost laughed, immediately at ease now that he wasn’t wearing the detective suit. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to seeing him in a jacket and tie.
“Is this a gourmet kitchen?” she asked.
“I like to cook.” He looked a little embarrassed about it.
“What do you cook?”
“Mostly whatever I catch in the river or what I pick up at the farmers market.”
“Do they still have the open market on Wednesdays and Saturdays?” Twice a week Becca and her mother had driven to town to pick up fresh fruit and produce from the stands lined all along the street near the pedestrian bridge in the center of town. They’d made a morning of it, picking out strawberries and sweet corn and tomatoes. Sometimes they’d bumped into Becca’s father. He’d be standing outside his patrol car talking with the locals and tourists. He’d make a big production out of seeing them, doting on her mother, putting his arm around Becca’s shoulder as though he were a politician running for office, showcasing what a wonderful husband and father he was to his family. It had been an act. It had been bullshit.
“Nothing ever changes around here. You should know that,” Parker said about the market. He gazed at her for a long moment before turning away. “Do you want a drink?” He pulled open the refrigerator door. “I don’t keep alcohol in the house. But I have root beer.”
He put ice in two glasses and poured from the can. They sat across from each other at the table with their drinks.
“Your place is really great,” she said and meant it. Not only did the decor suit her taste, but to wake up every morning and step out the back door to the sun rising over the river, well, this was the dream house she’d always imagined herself in. It was perfect.
The mask he’d been wearing in the bar, the one he’d worn with the retired detective, had been completely remove
d from his face. “I’m happy here,” he said in such a way as though he were asking if she was happy too.
Was she? No, she didn’t think she was. The pristine condo and its secure walls had always made it hard for her to breathe. The gated community caused her throat to close.
“Why no alcohol?” she asked to redirect the conversation away from her happiness, or rather, unhappiness. “You used to drink beer, as I recall.” She remembered the partying they’d done in high school. Not all of her memories of home were bad ones. Some of her best times had been with Parker fishing, partying, hanging out.
He turned the glass around in his hands. “I did a lot of partying when I was in college. I started waking up not remembering anything that happened the night before. I couldn’t remember conversations I’d had or where I’d been.” He paused. “And then one morning in my junior year, I woke up next to some girl I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know her name or how I ended up in her bed. She was a complete stranger to me. And I didn’t like not knowing the person I’d spent the night with. It felt wrong. I didn’t like who I was.” He drank from his glass and set it down, keeping his eyes on the table in front of him. “So I stopped drinking, and I never looked back.”
“One night with a stranger was enough to turn you around?” Becca had done some partying in college but not enough for her to wake up in bed with some strange guy. Mostly she’d focused her energy on her studies, her eye on veterinary school.
Parker smiled a little. “Well, there was a couple more nights of partying after that.”
“And girls?”
“Them too.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed in some way. Why did she care how many girls he’d been with? What did it matter now?
“But eventually, I stopped drinking, and the rest took care of itself. Apparently when I’m sober, I’m not as charming with the ladies as I am when I’m drunk.” He continued. “But that didn’t matter to me. Besides, I started to see a pattern. All the girls I’d been hooking up with had something in common.”
She’d only ever been with Matt. She had no one else to compare him to. “What did they have in common?”
He drank the rest of the soda in his glass and set it on the table, staring at her with that intensity again that had made her uncomfortable. “They all resembled you,” he said.
“Me?” She was confused at first, but in her confusion, she knew it was what she wanted to hear. She’d waited all those years in high school for him to see her as more than a friend. “What are you saying?” she asked to be clear, gripping the seat of her chair with both hands.
“I was missing you, and I was drinking. I guess I was searching for a substitute. But they weren’t you. All I kept thinking was they weren’t you.”
She touched her forehead. Her hand was shaking. She didn’t know what to say, or if she could even talk if she found the words. He didn’t move. He kept staring at her, waiting for her to do something. He looked hopeful and vulnerable.
“I missed you too.” She touched her neck. “I didn’t realize how much until I saw you the other day.” She furrowed her brow. What was she trying to say? Did she feel something more? She didn’t know. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he cut her off.
“Did you know that I searched for you the summer you left? I looked for you everywhere. And then your dad told me you went to boarding school. He said you didn’t want any contact with me and that I should stay away from you.”
“I never told him that I didn’t want any contact with you.” Of course her father had manipulated them both. She should’ve known. “I never knew you came looking for me. He never told me.” Her brow furrowed. If what Parker was saying was true, she needed to be honest with him too. “When I left, things at home weren’t good, and things between us weren’t the same. Everything felt different. I was confused about so much. I needed a clean break. I just . . .”
“Becca, listen, the thing between us, I was a stupid sixteen-year-old boy. I was afraid of my own feelings. And the other girls.” He shrugged. “I guess they felt safe.”
She nodded. They’d both been so young. It had happened so long ago. She didn’t know what made her do it, but she reached across the table, took his hand. She saw the yearning in his eyes. And all she knew was right then, right there, she wanted to touch him. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted his body close. There was no other place she wanted to be. He must’ve read her mind, because he stood, pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. He was so tall she had to stand on tiptoes to reach around his neck. She pressed against him. He squeezed her tight as though he never wanted to let her go.
They held each other for a long time. Her body responded to his touch in ways she never would’ve guessed. If she leaned back even a little, she would kiss him, and if she kissed him, she didn’t think she would be able to stop. Her body ached for more of him, for him to touch her in all the places that made her weak and out of breath. But there was Matt. He didn’t know about Matt. And he didn’t know about John being at the river, what she may or may not have seen, what it might mean to his case. It was the reason she’d searched for him in the first place. But she couldn’t bring it up now. She didn’t know how.
Her muscles constricted, and she felt tense suddenly. Parker must’ve sensed the change in her. He pulled away.
They separated. He looked a little embarrassed, apologetic. He was trembling.
“I . . . I,” she stuttered. “I should go.”
He ran his hand through his hair, nodded.
But she couldn’t get her feet to move, and when she met his gaze, she found herself reaching for him again—she couldn’t help it—and he pulled her into his arms. This time she kissed him long and hard. Before she could stop herself from going any further, not that she wanted to stop, they’d moved into the bedroom, fumbling with each other’s clothes. She didn’t have time to catch her breath, to think.
She’d forgotten who she was, where she came from, but in Parker’s arms, in his bed, it all came rushing back. His skin, his touch, the smell of his sweat, the sweetness in his breath as though he’d been sipping honeysuckle that grew wild along the riverbank, it all reminded her of what was once good, what was once home. There wasn’t any of the anger or the guilt or the apology of another woman between them. Becca wasn’t trying to reclaim what was hers or stake a claim of any kind. It was just her and Parker and no one else.
But there were other things there too, darker things, slithering on the periphery of her mind, things she had promised to never talk about, things she’d kept hidden even from herself.
Becca sat up abruptly. This was a mistake. But how could a mistake feel so right? No, this was wrong. She was no better than Matt. Or her father.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Now?” Parker leaned on his elbows. His chest bare, his abs sculpted. But it was his strong thighs between her legs that she was thinking about that made the heat on her neck rise as she pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could.
“I wasn’t supposed to be gone this long.” She made up the first excuse she could think of. “I have to get back to my dad.” She kept talking while she zipped her jeans, clasped her bra, tugged her sweatshirt on. “I’m supposed to be helping Jackie.”
“Okay,” he said, a little put off. “Are you okay? I mean, are you okay with what happened?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Totally. I’m fine.” She pointed to the bedroom door. “Can we talk about this later? I really have to go.”
“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
She raced through his cabin, threw herself out the front door and into the dark night. She hurried along the enchanted walkway, as she had come to think of it now. It wasn’t until she was in her Jeep and a few miles up the road that she pulled over to collect herself. What did she think she was doing? She looked over her shoulder.
Maybe she should turn around, fall back into Parker’s arms, burrow deep in his warmth, a place wh
ere she could hide before the outside world inserted itself between them, tore them apart. But she had run out on him for reasons that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.
She rolled the windows down, in need of fresh air. The sound of rapids rushed by; she had to be close to Dead Man’s Curve.
Tangled with the noise of the river was the rumbling of an engine growing louder and louder as it came closer and closer. Her breath caught as the single headlight of a motorcycle approached from behind. The biker slowed, the engine purring alongside the Jeep, the rider stopping long enough to look inside the driver’s-side window. She couldn’t make out his face in the dark, but she knew it was John. Was he following her? Spying on her? Or was this some kind of warning, because she knew something she shouldn’t? He nodded ever so slightly, revving the engine, then speeding away. In the next second, he was gone.
She pulled from the curb and back onto the road, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
John parked his father’s chopper in the barn. He removed his helmet, but he stayed on the bike, not wanting to get off just yet. Ever since he’d gotten it up and running, all he’d wanted to do was ride it. It was as though he was channeling his father through the bike, hearing his father’s advice, following his imaginary orders. John’s own motorcycle sat idle on the side of the house.
He continued sitting on Russell’s chopper in the barn in the dark. Nearby, an owl screeched into the night. The light from the moon crept through the opened double doors, casting shadows on the dirt floor. The autumn air was cool and crisp, but he was sweating underneath the leather cut, his thoughts on Becca.
He’d followed her first to the police station and then to Benny’s Bar, where cops congregated off duty. He knew the bar, knew of the owner, Benny, but he’d never been inside. The Scions kept their distance from such places for obvious reasons. She hadn’t been aware he was following her. She hadn’t noticed him, not until he’d wanted her to notice, when he’d pulled alongside her Jeep. He’d meant it to serve as a warning. I’m watching you, he’d wanted to say. He’d been able to get a glimpse of her face from the dim lights of the dashboard. She’d looked scared, and after her actions tonight, she should’ve been.
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 16
