“Someone might join you tonight. Just to make sure you’re okay while you snooze.”
“Poppy’s used to the twin bed,” she said, but her grandmother’s look was far too smug to mean the dog. Ah. Sam. That would certainly make her feel better...and maybe she should take the chance before he got to ask his questions. Before she had to tell him something about her past.
The prospect wearied her.
She didn’t bother undressing; her shorts and T-shirt could double as pajamas. With help, she climbed into the bed, scooted into the middle so Gramma could stack pillows to support her arm, then swallowed a pain pill. She hesitated when Gramma offered a second tablet. “What’s that?”
“A muscle relaxant. The doctor said your back, shoulders and midsection will likely be sore from wrestling underwater with that son of a bitch. Next time we swim, we’re both taking knives, and don’t you argue with me.”
Mila swallowed the second pill. “I’m not arguing.” She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Lord, if she could go back to this morning and have this day never happen. She’d known she loved Poppy, of course, but she hadn’t realized the depth and the pain of it until this afternoon.
Gramma closed the blinds, turned off the light, then crossed back to the bed to turn on the tiny beaded lamp on the night table. Giving in to fatigue or the medications, Mila smiled, then closed her eyes, shut off her brain and closed off her fears.
She had no idea how much time had passed when she next opened her eyes. The sky outside the window was dark but for streetlights, and her wrist was cold and achy. She tried to draw it under the covers, but something weighted it down. An ice pack, she realized. The splint rested on the night table, and an ice pack had been secured with a rolled towel so she couldn’t wiggle it loose.
She made a sound, half frustration, half self-pity, and a shadow moved in the chair in the corner. Sam came into the dim light cast by the lamp, smiling at her. “You’ve been sleeping like the—”
She brushed her hair back from her face. “Like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet?”
“Aw, you’re prettier than any horse I’ve ever seen.” He checked the ice pack, for iciness, she supposed, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Dr. Andrea brought her mobile clinic over and said Poppy’s fine. Did you know that dog’s afraid of needles?”
“She needs ice cream to make sure all is right with her world again.” Relief sagged through her, making everything from her eyes to her limbs feel heavy. “He didn’t poison her?”
“There’s no sign he did anything but take her for a ride.”
“I hope she threw up in his car.”
Sam’s laugh was warm and reassuring. “I was hoping for worse myself.”
She tried to change positions, but the throbbing starting in her fingertips and working its way to her shoulder made her decide she was okay where she was. After a broad yawn that she didn’t even bother to cover, she murmured, “I know you wanted to talk, but I can’t remember about what... My mind is kind of...”
He picked up her good hand and squeezed it gently. “Your mind is exactly the way it should be. Sleep is the best thing for you. Take advantage of it.”
When he started to stand, she roused enough to hold onto his hand. “Will you stay...?”
“I’m thinking of having my jailer lock us both in a cell so I can always be there.”
She wanted to say something nice but couldn’t remember for the moment how to put the words together. Before she could tap that part of her brain for a reminder, sleep returned, easy and soothing. For the second time in her life, she had a protector, and she felt safe.
* * *
Sunday morning started hotter than hell—Hades, Sam corrected, in deference to the day—but by eight o’clock, the sky had turned dark. Sam stood at one of Jessica’s windows, gazing out as the thunderheads started to build. There was a chance they’d break up and move on without delivering even a drop of rain—Mother Nature loved to tease them that way—but it was just as possible they would solidify and try to wash the whole town down the creek in a few minutes flat.
“Glad you’re not in the farm business?” Mila came to stand beside him. She’d brought him a cup of coffee before returning for her own, iced in a tall glass, cream added until it was the color of caramel.
“I am. People need cops regardless of drought or flood.” He nodded at her glass. “You don’t drink hot coffee.”
“The only drink that gets served hot in my world is cocoa, and only if there’s snow on the ground.”
“Coffee’s meant to be hot. That’s how it gives its kick.”
“No, it gives its kick through its strength. Taste.”
It was intimate, taking her glass, brushing her fingers, placing his mouth on the rim where she’d drunk. A swallow smashed that intimacy away. “Whoa. That’s, what, twice as strong as regular coffee?”
“Three times. Or so. People who consider iced coffee froufrou have never tasted mine.”
“No wonder you have the energy to do physical labor eight or ten hours a day outside in this weather.” He’d been thinking about her work, and now seemed a good time to ask. “How many days did the doctor tell you to take off work?”
“Until the swelling goes down.”
“Three, he said. Or four.” Sam had been standing beside her when the doctor made his recommendation. “I’m pretty sure Happy Grass doesn’t give paid sick time.”
“Or even unpaid sick time.”
“A one-handed crew member’s not very effective. I don’t want you going to work for a few days. Do you think Lawrence will agree to that?”
“I think he’d rather—” she drew a breath, but the next word came out shaky anyway “—fire me.”
There were ways to get around someone like Lawrence if buddying up to him didn’t work. Sam had seen a number of his business vehicles over the past few weeks, and it would take a blind cop to not find a short list of minor safety violations on every one of them. And there were noise ordinances in town that generally got ignored when it was a yard service company making the noise. But generally was no guarantee of always.
Then there was Lawrence and the workers themselves. It was common knowledge that at least some of his employees lacked the proper papers to even be in the country, much less hold a job. That detail almost always brought an investigation into how the employees were treated: whether they’d been underpaid, overworked or abused because of their legal status.
A guy as likable as Ed Lawrence, it would be real easy and legal to put him in the crosshairs of a federal investigation.
Sam didn’t know what showed on his face—he suspected some pleasure at the thought of a well-delivered smack to a man who’d treated so many so badly—but Mila gave him a chastising look. “I can talk to Mr. Lawrence.”
“You willing to let him ogle you and call you that li’l Mexican gal Maria?”
She grimaced. “I’ll call him.”
“What if he tells you to work or you’re fired?”
That word, fired, brought a reaction from her again. “I can find another job.” She didn’t look excited by the possibility, or even convinced of it, but he didn’t have any doubts.
“How...” This was one of the hard parts of conversations like this. “What is your financial situation like? Can you afford to miss a few days?”
Her gaze shifted past him to the street, and he became aware of the raindrops hitting the glass. “I’ve got some money saved.”
Define some, he wanted to say. Enough to cover her living expenses for a month or a year? Enough to pay for her hospital visit and Poppy’s safe-from-the-bad-guy checkup? He had some saved, too, quite a bit considering what he was paid, but if he lost his job tomorrow, he would get antsy pretty fast.
She laid her hand against the glass as if she could feel the drop in temperature the rain
brought, the rise in humidity, the sticky start of the drops that would turn sweet and fresh soon. “I’ll be okay. I have some savings, and Gramma would never let me starve.” She said the last with a smile.
“You’re lucky to have your gramma.”
“More than you know.”
Amid the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, Jessica spoke for the first time. “What time did you tell your boys to be here, Sam? Everything’s ready except the eggs, and I only do eggs to order.”
He glanced at his watch. “They should be here—” A rap sounded at the door, and he headed that way. “I told you, Jessica, don’t go to any trouble.”
“I love cooking, so it’s no trouble at all.”
He opened the door to Ben Little Bear, Daniel Harper and Lois Gideon. The detectives both wore T-shirts and cargo shorts, the baggy pockets providing plenty of carrying space for pepper spray, handcuffs, extra magazines and anything else they didn’t carry on their belts. Lois, the only one actually on the schedule for today, was in uniform. She wore her department-issue slicker, while the guys were splattered with rain.
Sam provided introductions, then gathered them around the table. Jessica had already laid out platters of hash browns, pancakes, bacon and sausage patties, biscuits, and toast. On the island were glasses, coffee mugs, creamer, milk and juice. “Jessica, this is too much,” he protested.
“There’s no such thing as too much. How do you want your eggs?”
“Over easy,” Daniel answered, and Ben’s “Sunny-side up” was right behind. Daniel caught Sam rolling his eyes and said, “Hey, my many talents do not extend to cooking. I’ll take an over easy egg wherever I can get it.”
“Yeah, Sam,” Lois jumped in. “Your mom still cooks for you whenever you want. Most of us don’t have that pleasure. Mine over easy, too, Jessica, please.”
Sam wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, inviting the team for a meeting. Maybe it would have been better to talk to Mila alone, to press her about the note left on Poppy’s collar and its meaning. But he wasn’t the most unbiased soul in the room, and he also wasn’t the detective in charge of the investigations. His role was on the periphery, and he liked it that way.
He waited until most of the food had disappeared as if a horde of hungry vultures had fallen on it. Jessica cleared the dishes, and Daniel refilled everyone’s coffee, then expectant silence fell over the table. Mila, sitting between him and Jessica, looked acutely uncomfortable. She’d drawn into herself, her head ducked, her shoulders rounded. He was half-surprised she didn’t draw her feet onto the chair, hug her knees and try to squeeze into an even smaller space, the very picture of forlorn.
Sam nodded to Ben, who cleared his throat. “We went by the house yesterday, secured the window temporarily, made sure everything was locked up. Daniel stopped by this morning to get some clothes—” Sam had forgotten all about those “—so if nothing matches, it’s his fault.”
Daniel frowned. “I dress myself every day. I can tell what matches. Besides, I was the only one not afraid of the underwear drawer.”
Sam watched Mila’s lips press together, as if her mouth wanted to smile even if her head thought it shouldn’t.
“Okay,” Ben went on. “Let’s start with the note on the dog’s collar. The paper was standard notepaper, and the ink was common. There were no prints on the paper—no prints anywhere at the house, either—but we know he likes gloves. The paper came from a larger sheet; it had been folded and creased, then torn, and it was tied to the collar with a length of cotton twine you can buy everywhere in town. The message was ‘Next time I won’t go so easy on you.’”
Beside Sam, Mila tensed, nothing overt, just a quick tightening of her jaw, her shoulders. Daniel, seated across from her, said, “Obviously, that means something to you. Who’s told you that before?”
“I—I—” She sounded like she was starved for air but couldn’t even make the effort to breathe in. Her gaze, still directed down, darted side to side before she gulped ungracefully. “It just—just scared me. If he’d hurt Poppy, if he came back and took her again, I—I wouldn’t... I was...”
Jessica laid her hand on Mila’s arm, and Mila’s words stopped flowing instantly. After a long, tense moment, Jessica spoke with carefully controlled anger and scorn that sounded like tears were just a heartbeat away. “My son-in-law used to tell her that. He and my—my own daughter abused Mila. By the time I found out...”
Every part of Sam felt raw, like skin scraped roughly away, leaving an open mass of burning nerve endings. He’d suspected it, but suspecting it and hearing it confirmed... If there was any justice, people who hurt kids were punished ten times worse. He hoped to God her parents suffered for all eternity.
Everyone was watching Jessica now, with only brief glances at Mila. Sam could guess by the emptiness sliding across her features how much she hated having her secret known, how exposed she felt, how...please, God, not as if she’d deserved it. He couldn’t bear it if she blamed herself for some sick bastard’s violence.
His hand shaking, he reached across to take her uninjured hand. Her fingers remained limp for a moment, but then he felt the faintest clench.
“Could...” Daniel cleared his throat. “Could the man who attacked you yesterday—” He didn’t seem to know whether to talk to Mila, who looked as if she’d gone away and left nothing but a shell behind, so he turned his attention to Jessica. “Could it have been her father?”
“Oh, dear God, no. My daughter and her husband died fifteen years ago. I’d been searching for them for years, and I finally found them outside Phoenix. I went there. I stole my grandbaby away from them, and they chased us.” She abruptly dragged in a deep, unsteady breath. “They died in a horrific crash right before our eyes.”
Now the tears came. Sam knew Ben and Daniel were as uncomfortable as he was, but not Lois. She left her chair, moved behind Jessica’s seat and wrapped her arms around her, pressing her mouth near Jessica’s ear, murmuring softly.
After a couple long minutes, Ben asked, “Were their bodies positively identified?”
Mila raised her head and her gaze, meeting Ben’s. Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her make eye contact with anyone but Jessica and him. “There was nothing left to identify.” Her voice was chilled, flat and emotionless. “They hit a concrete abutment at speeds estimated in excess of a hundred miles per hour. The car exploded. There was barely enough left of it to identify. They found parts of bodies. That was all.”
Poppy trotted in from the hall, pushed in between her and Sam and laid her head on Mila’s thigh. She squeezed his hand a moment longer, then let go and buried her fingers in the dog’s fuzzy coat.
Sam had thought it a little sad before that she took such comfort from a dog. Now he was just damn glad she had the dog.
Chapter 9
It was more than twelve hours before we stopped running. Gramma checked in to a shabby motel, parking her car in the farthest corner, holding tightly to me as we sneaked into our room. She’d bought food at a drive-through, and we sat side by side on the bed and ate in silence.
We hadn’t talked beyond “Are you hungry?” and “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I was used to the quiet. It was the way I lived. Gramma was in shock. She had burst into tears at odd moments, given me queasy smiles, squeezed my hand tightly, but words were harder for her to come by.
When the food was gone, I was too tired to hold up my head, but I needed a shower. I needed to scrub the rain and the mud and the ugliness from my skin, and wished I could do the same to my brain. I’d rather forget everything than remember those minutes in the barn.
When I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel with my hair dripping down my back, Gramma took hold of my shoulders, stared at me with grief-stricken eyes and whispered, “Oh, baby girl. We can’t talk about this, okay? It didn’t happen. It’s always been just you and me, living
together for as long as you can remember. No Mama, no Daddy. Just you and me.”
Then she wrapped her arms around me and cried, great heaving sobs of sorrow and guilt and anger and hate. She cried until only hiccups remained and then they disappeared, too.
Even at eleven, I understood her message. Life was filled with secrets, and the fewer people who knew your secrets, the safer you were. Telling secrets could get you in trouble, get you hurt.
Telling secrets could get you dead.
—Excerpt, The Unlucky Ones by Jane Gama
For years Mila had imagined what it would be like if any part of her background came out. She’d thought people would be horrified, and these four police officers were. She’d thought they would be disgusted by what an awful child she’d been. They weren’t, but the biggest secrets of all were still secrets.
She was horrified. She’d known the question of the message would come up this morning, and she’d figured she would explain it away the way she’d tried: that it scared her. She hadn’t discussed it with Gramma. In her wildest nightmares—or were they dreams?—she had never thought Gramma would be the one to answer truthfully. Secrets, she had so often reminded Mila.
But now, at least some of them were out there, and no one was looking at her with pity or disdain or blame. Sam and the other two men were frustrated and grim, like they wanted to hit something. They were protectors; they looked out for people who couldn’t protect themselves. God, she wished she’d had a protector back then.
Her gaze went sideways to Sam. She had one now. Could that have been part of Gramma’s reason for telling the truth? She thought Sam needed to know and didn’t believe Mila would tell him? The quaver in Gramma’s voice when she said my own daughter... Gramma had never gotten over the fact that the baby girl she’d birthed, the one she’d raised and loved and taught to be good, had turned out so evil. It had been as hard for her to talk about it as it had been for Mila. She must have thought this was the day for publicly breaking her own heart by telling them.
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