by Debra Cowan
"Yes, I know. But it's true."
For a long moment, Captain Price stared at her. The air conditioner groaned with a grating, nasal sound. "But you said that you heard nothing, saw nothing. So did your mother."
"Mom was telling the truth."
"You lied?"
"Not deliberately."
"I don't understand." Suspicion edged the captain's words.
"I wasn't lying—not intentionally, anyway."
Captain Price shook her head. "Devon—"
"It sounds like I'm crazy," she rushed on. "Believe me, I know. But I saw two men that night. And I can identify them."
Maggie Price contemplated Devon for several long seconds. "Go on."
Feeling suffocated, Devon shifted in the chair, then surged to her feet and moved behind the chair as if it were a shield. "I saw the whole thing, but I blocked it out. Repressed it. That's what my psychiatrist said. I have a report…" She reached for her purse and removed two folded sheets of paper. "I'm sure you'd like to see it."
"Yes, I would."
She passed the papers to the other woman and clutched the back of the chair to steady her shaking legs.
After a few moments, Captain Price looked up. "I'm sorry, Devon. It looks like you've had a rough go of it."
She swallowed, getting a grip on her rioting emotions—dread, uncertainty. Her heartbeat wheeled crazily and her chest felt tight, as if it would burst. "Strangely, this seems to be as hard as anything."
"Yes, I imagine," the other woman murmured, her eyes full of compassion.
"Thank you." She fingered the side of her neck, then wrapped her arms around her waist. "Could we … get started?"
Captain Price nodded. "I'll need to keep a copy of this report for the file."
Devon nodded back.
The other woman's brown gaze measured her. "If you'll wait here, I'll get Detective Garrett. He'll be the one to take your statement."
"I thought—couldn't you…" She squared her shoulders. "Couldn't someone else take it?"
"We need to follow procedure, Devon. Especially on this case. Your statement is the responsibility of the officer in charge of the investigation and that officer is—"
"Mace," Devon finished, sinking into the chair before her legs folded under her.
A mix of dread and anticipation assaulted her. She had hoped to completely avoid him, but it looked as if she would face all the demons from her past today.
She'd known instinctively, despite her foolish wish to the contrary, that the case would still be open and Mace would be in charge. But she hadn't wanted to consider that she would probably see him. She had simply wanted to come in, tell Captain Price she could identify the men who had murdered her father.
"Devon, are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine." Her voice wobbled only slightly, but her insides felt as if they'd been churned by a blender.
Captain Price eyed her carefully. "I'll be right back. We'll make this as quick and painless as possible."
"Thanks." She forced a smile. Mace's captain probably thought she was a basket case. And faced with the thought of seeing Mace, she was.
She had finally reached the point where she could admit seeing Dad's murder. Dr. Beasley said she was in the recovery stage of grief because she had begun to consider ways to take action about what she'd remembered.
Part of that included reporting her account to the police and identifying the men she'd seen execute her father in their kitchen.
But it didn't include seeing Mace, and Devon wondered if she could deal with that.
* * *
Mace slammed the door on Interview Room 3 and massaged the corded muscles in his neck. Maybe O'Kelly would have better luck convincing the hooker inside to roll over on her pimp. Mace knew she'd seen the murder, knew her pimp had offed the guy. But they needed her say-so.
Tension knotted his muscles and he leaned back against the grungy beige wall, closing his eyes for a second. He imagined drifting in his boat on Arbuckle Lake, reeling in a fat, sassy crappie, soaking up some sun. It was definitely a weekend for Aunt Micki's cabin.
"Garrett? Got something for you."
He grimaced and opened one eye to find his captain staring at him with a strange combination of uncertainty and apprehension. "What's up, Cap? You find Jimmy Hoffa?"
Mace chuckled at his own joke, but Captain Price's eyes never changed from a flat, worried brown. Mace had worked with her for several years now. Maggie Price was cool, efficient and sharp. Like the other guys in his division, Mace had been less than willing to give her a chance when she was promoted to Homicide.
But he'd grudgingly come to first respect, then like her. She wasn't an alarmist or given to drama like some other women he'd worked with, which made the concern clouding her brown eyes even more disturbing.
That spot between his shoulder blades suddenly prickled and he straightened, pushing away from the wall.
Captain Price shoved her hands into the pockets of her navy jacket and cocked her head toward the opposite wall, indicating for Mace to join her there.
Frowning, he followed. Whatever the news, it was bad. His folks? His brothers?
Price shook her head and her frown deepened.
Concern carved a hole in Mace's gut. "Give it up, Cap. I'm startin' to worry."
"I need you to take a statement."
Mace frowned. Was that it? He tunneled a hand through his hair. "Jeez, I thought you'd seen a ghost. Which case? Wadley? Broughton?"
Price's gaze sliced to him. "I just talked to someone who claims to have witnessed Bill Landry's murder."
"A witness? For Bill!" He let out a bark of skeptical laughter. "We can't have a witness. There was no one there. Except Marilee and Devon, and they were asleep upstairs."
"We've got a witness. And that witness was in the house."
Price's slam-dunk tone lashed new tension across Mace's shoulders. In spite of needing to finish this case, put a lid on the past, he suddenly feared what he was about to hear.
"How can that be, Cap? We didn't find prints or anything to indicate there was anyone there besides Marilee and Devon."
"That's right."
A raw current of pain zapped him. His voice was hoarse with dread. "Which one is it?"
Price's shrewd brown eyes softened. "It's Devon, Mace."
"Damn." He stared at his captain for a full minute, his gut clenching as if he'd been sledgehammered. Then he spun to face the other wall. "Damn damn damn."
* * *
Had he forgiven her yet?
She'd never forgive herself for hurting him the way she had, but she had done the right thing. The horror and agony she'd endured in the last three weeks was more proof than she'd ever needed. If they'd stayed together, he would've come to resent her for her paranoia of the last year, and if he hadn't resented her by then, the last few weeks would've changed that.
Devon waited for Mace in a boxy, windowless, airless room, dread ticking against her nerves as she tried to sidestep the memories of her last visit here.
She held the pain, the anguish, the pleas at bay by focusing on the bland room, the basic, no-frills furniture. The putty beige color of the walls was in direct contrast to the violent reds and blacks and blues of her rioting emotions. Would he believe her? Could she get through another retelling of that horrible night without completely falling apart?
Two metal chairs were shoved haphazardly up to a nondescript rectangular table in the center of the room. Another chair sat in the far corner, and a folding one rested behind the door. On the wall next to the door was a smaller table holding foam cups, a coffeemaker, creamer and pink packets of sweetener.
Sugar crystals sparkled in the dim light, and a crushed cigarette butt lay under the table. Hints of cologne and dirt and smoke hovered in the still air. The grungy, veined linoleum floor was dull and cracked.
Though the room was a comfortable temperature, a chill scuttled over her and she wrapped her arms around her waist. Behind her
the door opened, then clicked shut.
Her head came up and her shoulders tightened. Mace.
The room grew smaller, tight. Tension hummed. She pressed her lips together and turned to face him,
Her gaze crashed into his, midnight blue, direct and grim with memories of the past. He looked casual and hard-edged. A navy-and-green-striped rugby shirt stretched taut across his deep, muscular chest. Her gaze skimmed over the lean flex of his biceps, the corded forearms dusted with dark hair. Faded Levi's, worn white at the seams and pockets, hugged long, powerful legs and the frayed hems skimmed the tops of his silver, ostrich boots.
A deep, secret part of her softened at the sight of him. She hadn't forgotten what a physically beautiful man Mace Garrett was, but when she thought of him—and she had over the past year—it was of the whole man, not just the window dressing. When she thought of those full, sculpted lips, she recalled his lazy smile and the heated glide of them against hers.
When she thought of his mesmerizing blue eyes she thought of them flecked with gold and hot with desire for her. And every thought was colored with the wistful memory of his gentle strength and how he'd cradled her against that strong chest after Dad's death.
His seal-dark hair was longer now, curling just below his ears and reaching midnape. The normal laugh lines in his face were now creases in an unreadable mask.
For long seconds, neither spoke.
His gaze slid over her with the same thoroughness she'd employed, but she could determine nothing of his impressions. She swallowed, her heartbeat kicking into a high rhythm.
It was he who finally broke the silence. "I'll try to make this as brief as possible."
"What—where should I be?" She glanced around uncertainly. "What would you like me to do?"
Pain flickered in his eyes, then disappeared as he indicated the chair at the table. "Just have a seat and we'll get started."
He stayed by the door, a polite, nonthreatening distance away, with his legs braced apart as though he held his ground in preparation for a struggle.
She stepped toward the table and asked softly, "How are you?"
His features hardened.
Inwardly she winced at the wistfulness in her voice and wished she hadn't asked. She placed her purse on the table and looked up at him, waiting.
Longing flitted across his features, then his lips flattened. "Let's just stick to the business at hand, all right?"
At his brisk, impersonal manner, pain lanced her. She wanted to ask about his parents, his brothers, his aunt, but instead she nodded and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, gripping her fingers tightly.
He stepped toward her, then leaned back against the table along the wall. Reaching into the back pocket of his Levi's for a small notebook, he flipped it open and glanced at her. "Now, why don't you tell me what you saw?"
Leashed anger and skepticism underlined his words. She couldn't expect him to welcome her with open arms. Not after what had happened between them. But she did expect him to believe her, despite her own wish that what she was about to tell him was a lie.
She closed her eyes for a second, composing herself, tamping down the regret and defensiveness that was already seething due to seeing Mace. "I was staying with my parents. I have my own house, but I was getting married. The next day."
"Your parents had recently reconciled?"
"Yes." Devon knew his question was strictly routine. Mace had known that her mom and dad were trying their relationship again. She couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see if the agony on his face was the same that ripped her insides as she relayed details he already knew, details he'd lived with her. "That night … I couldn't sleep. I was excited about our—my wedding."
Did she imagine that he flinched? He continued to write without looking at her, although she saw a muscle jump in his neck. "I went downstairs for a snack. And to finish some laundry. Dad was already in the kitchen. He said he couldn't sleep. He fixed us each a sandwich, but never touched his. He kept looking at the clock and going to the window. I knew something was bothering him, but I didn't ask what."
"Why not?" Mace's voice grated harshly in the small room.
"He wouldn't have told me. He never did."
Mace nodded in wry agreement.
"I ate a piece of Mom's chocolate pie, then he asked if I remembered the time we all went to Yellowstone. When I was eleven."
A chill unfurled along her spine. She crossed her arms and pulled them against her body, huddling into herself as if the action could ward off the cold and loss she knew was coming. "Anyway, we were laughing and talking about the trip, but I could tell he was preoccupied." Devon stopped, smiling fondly even as she blinked back tears. "I teased him about always bringing home his work."
She glanced into the corner of the room, searching for a neutral focal point as Dr. Beasley had coached her. "It was after midnight. I'm not sure of the exact time, but I went into the laundry room. I thought Dad was cleaning up the sandwich mess. I—I opened the dryer…"
Her voice sounded thin and far away. She squeezed her eyes shut, chills scraping over her. The memory crystallized and she saw her father facedown in a pool of blood, with two men standing over him.
Tears burned her cheeks and she swiped at them, rocking herself. She took a deep breath, trying in vain to steady her wobbling voice. "He said—Daddy said 'What the hell'—" Her voice broke and she hugged herself tighter. Mace hadn't moved from his place against the table, but she could feel the tension lash his body. He leaned toward her, gripping the edge of the table.
"I was standing behind the doors—oh, the kitchen is separated by…" Her thoughts clouded and she sniffed, trying to stem the tears that threatened to become uncontrollable. "The laundry room is separate from the kitchen, but—"
"Accordion doors with slats? So you can see out but not in?"
"Yes." He'd been inside the house many times and knew the answer, but she suspected he was trying to help her regain some composure.
She dragged in a deep breath, rocking, seeking comfort from the agony that peeled her nerves. "I looked around the door and saw them. Two men. One was short. Shorter than me. And the other was about five foot ten, medium build, long thin hair. Brown, in a ponytail. Balding on top."
She wiped at her wet cheeks. Her teeth chattered as if she stood naked in a biting Oklahoma wind. "So I moved away. Looked through the slats. I didn't know what they wanted. No one—no one like that ever came to the house." She paused for a breath, her chest tight as she fought for another breath. Her temples pounded, and she massaged her left one. "They weren't cops. I knew that."
A breath shuddered out of her and a sob escaped. She took deep breaths the way Dr. Beasley had taught her. She rubbed her arms, invaded by a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Devon?" Mace's voice ached and intensified her own pain.
He stepped toward her, causing her to place a protective hand on her chest. She wanted his touch, his strength and yet if he touched her, she would fall apart. "I'm … okay. I just need—a minute."
He eased closer—stealthily, as if afraid she might bolt. "Can I do something? Get you something? Water? Coffee?"
"No. No." She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stop her lips from trembling, trying to keep her horror manageable. Allow only a little memory at a time. You're in control. Move on only when you're ready.
She'd recounted this story aloud for her doctor more than once, and silently more times than she could count. Why was she having such trouble telling Mace?
The realization unfolded on a wing of sadness. Because he was a part, not just of her, but also of her father. And he had shared a relationship with her father that she hadn't been privy to—that of a colleague, a man who faced the same kind of danger in his job.
"Devon?" He stood in front of her now, close enough so she could see a pen mark on his faded jeans, smell the spicy warmth of his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his body.
Surpri
singly, his presence calmed her, and she took another deep breath. "I'm okay. I just need to finish. I heard Dad and I looked out… The taller one had a mole." She touched the left side of her face where the upper corner of her cheek joined her eye socket. "Here. And he wore gloves. And a silencer. There was a silencer on his gun.
"They both had guns and made Dad—made him…" In an effort to purge the poisonous memory, she tried to rush the words. Tears flowed unheeded down her face now and she choked out a sob. "It was horrible. They made him—get on his knees. They stood behind him."
She rocked back and forth, focusing on the sound of creaking chair vinyl as if it were her only tie to sanity. She kept her eyes closed, trying to escape some part of the pain, not able to watch the agony in Mace's eyes as she replayed the murder of his friend.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, sobbing now, wishing for her mother or for Mace's strong arms around her. "And they shot him … in the head. Twice."
She buried her face in her hands and felt a strong, solid palm squeeze her knee. After a few seconds, she drew a deep breath, feeling more composed. Mace's hand moved away, but his heat lingered through the thin denim of her skirt.
He pushed a tissue into her hand and she wiped her eyes. "Thanks," she said shakily. She could barely meet his gaze, afraid he would see how much she wanted to be held and comforted.
Only then did she become aware that he knelt in front of her, his chest at her eye level, his strong arms at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as though he wanted to reach for her.
She ached for him to hold her, but she couldn't allow that. He was an investigating officer on her father's murder, and because of that murder and their past, she should be nothing more than a witness to him. She was nothing more than that.
He squeezed her knee again briefly, as though he couldn't help himself. His voice was gravelly, rusty with tears. "Take as much time as you need."
She glanced up to find his blue eyes bright with pain and she ached at putting him through the torture of hearing about his friend. "I'm sorry, Mace."
"I pieced together how it must have happened, Dev. It's just hard to hear, you know?"
