A Family Secret

by Cross, Kennedy

  “He can’t let go of things,” I echo with mocking contempt. “Originally he was only here for my dad’s funeral, but last night I found him waiting outside the house. I told him that if he slept on the couch we could talk in the morning and said that it would be our last conversation.”

  “He was waiting outside the house?”

  I bob my eyebrows and nod. “Did he forget to mention that?”

  “No, well not entirely,” he says. “But he said he came by out of concern for you.” I scoff, but Barlow holds his expression, our eyes locked. “And you think he shot her without knowing who it was?” he asks.

  Not for the first time, I consider the alternative—that Ethan shot her knowing he was killing his lover—but there’s no reason to think that. Especially given the way Ethan reacted when we realized it was Anna lying on the ground. He was shaken. It was a drastic contrast to the self-assured, arrogant persona he wears like a crown.

  “It looked like he shot her without any idea who she was,” I say. “He was surprised it was her.” I’m not defending him, that’s my honest judgement, but the bitter taste of the words isn’t lost on me.

  Barlow leans forward. “I don’t like the pieces of this,” he says. “I’m not ready to overlook the fact that Ms. Maxwell happened upon your location here, thirty-five miles away from Cardinal Creek.”

  Neither am I. I certainly haven’t overlooked it, but I also haven’t allowed it to eat at me. I refuse to. Anna’s dead. That’s the unfortunate truth, and it’s on Ethan to come to terms with the fact that he was the one to encourage such a dangerous obsession, he was the one who allowed her the ability to find us, and he was the one who ended her young life.

  * * *

  Before we finished up, Barlow asked if there was anything he could do to help, and I told him no, which wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. I can tell that the investigation means more to him than to me, and I understand that.

  It’s an odd irony in law enforcement, but sometimes we’re more invested in a case than the victims are. Sometimes the hunger to bring justice is heightened when you sympathize for someone more than they sympathize for themselves.

  It’s not that I think Barlow’s wrong about the holes in Ethan’s story, it’s that I don’t think they have any relevance moving forward. Ethan’s persistent lies are not worth our resources, and he certainly isn’t worth my time. And perhaps this is me speaking as someone separated from the department and consumed in my own circumstances instead of as a detective, but the damage has already been done. It’s incredibly unfortunate, but it’s the reality.

  At first, I’m not sure if I’m hearing his voice as an intrusive figment of my frustration, but as I take another step through the parking lot, it comes again. I turn to see Ethan approaching from his parked car, shouting my name.

  “Nope!” I shout. “Walk away from me or I’ll go right back in there and grab some of the friends you made last night.”

  “Claire, stop!” he protests. I’ve veered away from him while still heading to my car, but he catches up. “I’m worried about you, where have you been?”

  I stop so suddenly that we almost collide.

  “Where I was, where I’ll be tomorrow, or the day after, or any day in the future is no longer your concern, do you hear me?” The intensity of my stare knocks the poise right off his face. “I am not going to tolerate you following me around. Either you leave Fort Martin, or I will pursue legal action, and that’s not something I want to deal with.”

  I continue forward again, taking several long strides to distance myself.

  “And what would’ve happened if I wasn’t with you last night?” he calls from behind me.

  That makes me stop again, furious heat prickling up my arms. I tell myself not to, but I spin around anyway.

  “Would she have killed me, Ethan? Is that what you’re suggesting?” I ask. “That I would’ve been helpless without you?” He begins to object but I speak over him. “You’re right, thank God you were there,” I say. “Thank God she knew where to find me and thank God you were there to kill your lover before she killed me.”

  “Why do you blame me for what she did instead of recognizing what I did?” he seethes. “Tell me, how does that make any sense to you?”

  “Oh, believe me Ethan, I haven’t forgotten a thing,” I say. “I can only imagine that poor girl’s family, but what a loss for you.”

  He narrows his eyes. For a long and silent beat, we’re at a stand-off.

  “You’re nothing but a stubborn bitch,” he murmurs. “I don’t need you. And I hope you know that I never fucking did.” He turns around, but not before spitting at the pavement beside his foot.

  My lips fall open, but I bring them back together and soothe my entire expression. There is something terrifically pleasing about watching him retreat back to his stupid Mercedes.

  I start back toward my own car with a new feeling of relief. I still owe Alison a call, but I’m calling Liam right after.

  14

  Liam

  My eyes dart to the front door of the bar every time it opens until Claire finally walks into Pinkie’s a little before 10:00 PM. Her eyes sweep the room before meeting mine. Her face slips into a smile.

  Part of me was skeptical that she’d actually show up. She called just a few hours after leaving my place yesterday morning to go into the police station and work on the break-in. Which didn’t go well, evidently. At least it didn’t sound like it. I didn’t probe much, but she was heated on the phone. There wasn’t much I could do to soothe it, but I offered her to come by the Drunk Pinkie tonight and blow off some steam. And once again, despite me doubting she’d take me up on it, she did.

  There’s only three other people seated at the bar. Claire slides onto a stool near the center of the counter beside an elder couple.

  “Welcome-welcome,” I say, wiping the counter in front of her.

  “Hey.” She smiles at me, then briefly greets the couple on the stools beside her. They’re folks I’ve seen only once before, two retirees splitting their time between here and up north, in my guess. Not our normal clientele.

  “It’s dead in here.” She looks up at me with a playful smirk. Somehow, the shitty bar lighting takes none of the soft and irresistible smoothness from her skin.

  I shrug. “It’s a weekday. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Just whatever you’ve got on tap.”

  I shoot her a sarcastic look of annoyance. “Did you notice all of the taps in here?”

  “A Corona then,” she says. “And you can keep my tab open.” She bobs her eyebrows.

  “Okay, Detective—” I take her card while reaching for an empty glass from the chilled bucket below the counter. “—don’t get too rowdy.”

  “Or what? You’ll call the police?”

  “Are you always this friendly to your bartender?”

  “Be careful with that attitude,” she taunts, “each comment is knocking your tip down.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that, sliding her Corona across the dark wood of the bar.

  She takes a quick sip. “Hey so what’s with the name?” she asks, licking beads off her lips and thumbing absently at the front door. “The Drunk Pinkie?”

  “One of the owners is named Carl Pinkie.”

  “Very nice guy,” adds the woman sitting to the left of Claire, the same one she’d greeted after sitting down. “He’s been our neighbor for fifteen years.”

  There we go, that explains it. Not our typical clientele, but supporting a neighbor, that makes sense.

  “Used to be Jack’s Bar & Grill, didn’t it?” Claire asks.

  The woman nods. She reminds me of my dad’s mom the way her eyebrows perk at friendly conversation. “Carl retired from the Navy—” She glances at her husband. “—about eight years ago,” she guesses. “Bought the Bar & Grill with a partner shortly after and changed the name.”

  “I like it,” Claire says.

  “I’m Cora, by
the way.” The woman offers Claire her hand in a polite shake. “Cora and Horace.”

  “Claire.” She shakes with a friendly smile of her own.

  “Claire,” Cora echoes. “We have a granddaughter named Claire.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Middle name,” Cora says. “Isabella Claire Diaz.”

  “That’s pretty.” Claire tilts her head, softens her smile, and Cora replies with that tender grandmother-pride of approval. “How old?” Claire asks.

  “She’s two, and she’s just like her dad was, she won’t let you carry her,” Cora says. “She’s got a little engine in her diaper.”

  Claire laughs. “How cute.”

  I tilt another glass under the Corona tap. Claire’s only three-quarters of the way through her drink, but she’s not going to have to ask for another.

  She lifts her gaze to me when I slide it over. “Trying to win back some of that tip?”

  I scoff. “Don’t start thinking you can play me for free drinks, all right? I’ve seen all the tricks.”

  That cracks her shell of sarcasm and draws an animated laugh. She swallows the remainder of her drink and exchanges the empty glass.

  The only other guest sitting at the bar signals two fingers in the air. He comes in a lot, (not last Thursday night, though) usually alone. There was a late NBA game playing on the tv that had him wordlessly absorbed, but it’s ended. He pays his tab and supplements his exit with a comment about the piss-poor Knicks defense.

  It’s only Claire, Cora, and Horace now left at the bar, and two unfamiliars at the pool tables in the back. Neither were in on Thursday night—that’s something I’ve determined out of every customer tonight.

  Cora declines a refill of her martini as I shuffle back. Claire is grinning at me when I meet her eyes. She takes a swig from her glass.

  “Any progress?” I ask. I glance at Cora, but her attention has shifted onto another matter, a conversation with her husband.

  “I talked to Jim today,” Claire says.

  “And?”

  “I went over unannounced, said I wanted to thank him for helping the police.” She brings her hands together on the bar. “He asked me to come inside for some coffee, so I took him up on that. We sat in his kitchen and talked for a while.”

  “How’d he seem?”

  She considers that for a moment. “It was tough to tell. His wife Millie got home about ten minutes after I came in, which didn’t help. Millie knows me from years back and she wanted to chat. I would’ve preferred to have Jim alone, but Millie did confirm his alibi before I even had to ask.”

  I nod.

  “He hasn’t been around this evening, has he?” she asks.

  “Not since I got in.”

  “Is that odd?”

  I debate, then shrug. “He’s in here a lot, but three or four days will pass without him just the same.”

  Our conversation breaks when Cora and Horace get up to leave. Horace has a military ID, retired Air Force, which entitles him to a 10% discount. He leaves a tip larger than their total check.

  “Do they come in much?” Claire asks, her eyes following them out.

  “Only met them once before.”

  “Seem like nice people,” she says.

  “Very.”

  “And how about them in the back?” She bobs her head at the pool tables. “They regulars?”

  I shake my head, unable to stop myself from envisioning the guys that were in on the night Mabel was shot standing next to them. They haven’t been in since. I also haven’t heard anything from the police, which means they probably haven’t made an arrest yet.

  “And are they the ones playing this music?” Claire asks. “Or is that you?”

  I lean over the bar. “That better not be sarcasm I hear in your voice. Not for Guns N’ Roses.”

  She bobs her eyebrows and takes a coy sip from her glass.

  “That’s it, you’re done.” I set my palms on the counter. “I’m sorry, Detective, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  She drops her head and laughs. It resonates in the air between us, in my chest. Her laugh is one of my favorite things about her; it makes her glow. It softens her entire expression, especially her eyes.

  With all the turmoil poking holes in her life, it’s incredible that she can muster this kind of composure, this kind of willingness to remain present in the world instead of hiding from it. Like I have. She has an admirable, beautiful poise.

  I’m absorbed in her smile when the two men from the back pool table meander over and settle into stools beside Claire. They order a round.

  “Hey, you don’t know an Ethan Black, do you?” one of them asks Claire as I tilt the first glass under the tap.

  “I do.”

  “I knew you looked familiar.” He sets his hand on the shoulder of his friend. They look like twins, though the one sitting directly beside Claire has a thin scar slicing up from under his chin.

  “We work for Black & Williams,” he says by way of explanation, reaching for his beer immediately after I set it down. “There’s pictures of you all over his office.”

  I’m searching Claire’s face for context, but I can feel her avoiding my eyes. She shoots the two men a glaringly fake smile. “I’d imagine those will be coming down soon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” The man tilts his head in a pathetic look of disappointment. He points his pinkie at me. “You the new boyfriend?”

  “No.” Claire answers before I have the chance.

  “You wish you were though, don’t you?” he adds, rolling his eyebrows at me with a smirk that pulls his scar up to his lips.

  “My relationships don’t concern Ethan’s colleagues,” she snaps. “Thank you.” Another fake smile.

  He raises his hands in an exaggerated apology. “Hey now, I’m just playin’.”

  His buddy leans forward. “You’re a cop, aren’t ya?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  He nods, smirking. “Lot’a uniform pictures of you in that office.” His tone is unnervingly sensual and I’m just about to tell these pricks to screw off when he coughs a laugh. “I don’t mean to sound creepy,” he says. “I’m sorry you two had to split.”

  “Ethan’s a dick, anyway,” the scar-faced one adds.

  “It’s for the better,” Claire deadpans. I glance at her, but again she avoids my eyes.

  “Well, cheers to that!” His scar shifts with his expression. It’s a stark contrast to the rest of his hard, sun worn skin. Like it hasn’t aged with him.

  He sets his empty glass on the counter and points at his colleague. “He’ll take the check now,” he says. “We’ve got a shipment of granite coming in tomorrow morning that’s gonna break our backs all day.”

  They’re renovating the Hyatt on Mason Boulevard, he tells me as I print the check. I didn’t ask, and I don’t respond.

  Claire stands up a moment after they leave, trailing them to the door. I pour her a fresh Corona as she stalls by the entrance, peering through the front windows.

  “Just wanted to see what they were driving,” she says when she takes her seat again.

  “Anything nice?”

  “Just an Impala. I’m sorry about that. I’ve got—”

  “Don’t apologize.” I swipe my hand through the air to cut her off. “That’s on me, I should’ve asked them to leave.”

  She cocks her head at me, a faint smile on the edge of her lips. “You know that’s the first thing you said to me?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t apologize,” she echoes. Even as her lips curl up, her smile remains centered in her eyes. Deep, warm, self-assured.

  “You think you would’ve learned by now.”

  “I’ll work on it.” Her dimples make an appearance. “So, private service now?” she asks before I have the chance to reply, wrapping her hands around her glass. Her face takes on a new air of comfortability.

  I raise my hands in a shrug. “Looks like it. You don’t have to hang aro
und though.” I pull my phone half-out of my pocket to check the time. “It’s almost midnight. I just thought I’d offer you to come out for a little, don’t feel obligated to stay.”

  “Obligated?” she says. “You mean I could’ve left an hour ago?”

  I laugh, not only at that, but at her liveliness—her ability to bounce between sincerity and sarcasm without missing a beat. “I should’ve kicked you out at that Guns N’ Roses comment, so consider yourself lucky.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” She smirks. “No, but honestly, you don’t know long nights until you’ve worked a career in law enforcement.”

  “I am not going to argue with that,” I concede. “Takes a better person than me to work that job.”

  Truthfully, it’s hard to imagine her aiming a gun or interrogating a murderer. The demeanor in front of me doesn’t align with someone who chases killers for a living, but that’s part of her magnetism. She’s devotedly intense while still tender and feminine without either one governing the other. I tilt my expression at her.

  “All right then,” I say, “how about a different suggestion?”

  “And what’s that?”

  “What if I close up early and we can move the conversation to my place?”

  A revived smirk flicks across her lips. “You have that authority, huh?”

  “Believe me, there is not a soul who is going to come in for the rest of the night.”

  “Maybe…” she hums, “but you still have at least one customer who needs to close her tab.”

  “Shoot. I think I might have forgotten to log your drinks in the system.” I turn around before she has the chance to argue, tapping absently at the screen of the register before shaking my head. “Yeah, I don’t see them.”

  I hand over her card and click my tongue in mock disappointment.

  “You’re going to get yourself fired,” she says with a spark in her eyes that betrays her stern poker-face.

  “They already hate me here anyway. Just give me a few minutes to clean up, I can drive.” And she’s not wrong, this could be the move that does me in.

  But I couldn’t care less.