The priest gazed over the rims of his glasses. "Certainly not."
Snowden stuck his hand out across the messy desk. "I appreciate you seeing us on a Saturday, especially a holiday weekend."
"I don't know that I was any help." He handed off the photocopy, rising.
"We'll see ourselves out."
Snowden and Delilah were silent until they reached the vestibule, and then she halted, glancing down the steps in the direction they'd come. "Strange duck," she murmured in her charming southern drawl. "Quack."
* * *
Rachel had no idea what made her toss her bag from the drugstore into the car the following Wednesday morning and then walk up the street to the police station. She hadn't been there in ages. Not since she and Snowden stopped seeing each other. Maybe that was why she wanted to see him... just to be sure she'd made the right decision.
Since Noah's arrival home, she found herself questioning many of her decisions, having a lot of conflicting feelings.
When Rachel walked into the reception area, the young woman behind the glass wall asked her to wait while she checked to see if Chief Calloway was available.
Rachel had barely taken a seat in one of the hard, plastic chairs when Snowden appeared at the door to the inner offices. "Rachel." He smiled. "Come on in." He held the automatically locking door open for her until she passed in front of him, and then he walked past her, leading her down the hallway to his office.
"Nice," she said, having a look around as he took a seat in a black leather executive's chair behind a massive cherry desk. The last time she had been here to see him he hadn't been promoted to the chief of police yet and they'd chatted in a room set aside for questioning suspects. Here, the walls were painted an eggshell color and the drapes were in neutral tones, classy but subdued... much like Snowden. The only things hanging on the walls were a large-dial institutional clock, his college diploma, and the certificates of commendation he had earned over the years, first as a Delaware state policeman, then a member of Stephen Kill's local force.
"Everything okay?" Snowden asked. "With Noah? I know he's staying at the house."
"Yes, of course. Everything's fine." She walked up behind one of the two black leather chairs in front of his desk and placed her hands on the back. "I just came by..." She laughed at herself. "I don't know why I came by, Snowden. I didn't mean to intrude. I guess I was just thinking about you." She glanced up at him; he was as handsome as ever. "This thing with Johnny Leager is awful and I know what this job means to you."
He offered a meager smile. "I'm fine, Rachel, but it's nice to think that you would care."
"Of course I care." She wandered away from the chair to the wall to study one of his commendations.
"Hey, Chief. We got the handwriting preliminary analysis back on the note left at the Leager crime scene," a voice said from the doorway.
Rachel couldn't see who was standing there, and he couldn't see her because she was near the far wall, the door between them.
"It's definitely not a match to the widow's, like you said. The lab said there's something weird about the way the word adultery was written, though. Doesn't quite match the rest of the handwriting or something. The tech told me it was a pretty fascinating specimen. Doesn't follow any of the rules."
Snowden had placed his hands on his desk and risen when the police officer started to speak. Obviously the conversation hadn't been intended for her to overhear, but by the time Snowden got his mouth open, it was too late.
She turned to Snowden. The newspapers hadn't said anything about a note being left behind or that the murder had something to do with adultery. Nor had the local news.
The officer on the other side of the door, still unaware Rachel was there, made a sound in his throat. "Um, you want this now, Chief, or you want it added to the file?"
"Just put it in the file."
"You got it."
"And close my door, will you, Lopez?"
Rachel didn't move until the door was shut, and then she glanced over at Snowden. "Sorry about that," she said a little sheepishly. "I guess he didn't realize I was here."
"No. I'm sorry. We're all a little rattled around here." Snowden sat down again. "Obviously you can't share that information with anyone, Rachel. When investigating a case like this, the police don't always release all the details to the public."
"I understand. Of course." She started to move toward the door, definitely feeling as if she was intruding now. "I won't say anything." She rested her hand on the doorknob. "Well, glad you're doing okay. Good luck with the case."
He rose from his desk. "Want me to walk you out?"
"No, no, I know my way. Thanks." She slipped out the door, closing it behind her, and hurried down the corridor.
The killer had left a note accusing Johnny Leager of adultery? How could that be? Her heart beat a little faster. She thought it had been a secret no one had known.
Which made her wonder what other secrets had been told in this town... and to whom.
Chapter 4
Noah sat in his father's rocking chair on the porch, listening to the sound of Mattie playing the organ in the living room and of Mrs. Santori making dinner—pot lids rattling, her muttering in Spanish good-naturedly at Chester, who was apparently underfoot. He could hear the hiss of a steaming pot and smell the fragrant scent of tomatoes and fresh orégano. He found the familiar household sounds comforting, from this perspective on the porch at least. Once she called everyone for dinner and he was forced to go inside and face them, it would be another matter. That's when he would begin to wish he had a glass of wine or maybe a beer. Just a small one. Just enough to take off the edge.
He wouldn't have it, of course. He'd take his own life before he ever drank again, but it didn't make the desire any less keen.
It was difficult for him to sit at the table with Rachel and Mattie and the little girl, all of them looking at him, or worse, trying not to. No one knew what to say to him or each other when he was around. What was there to say?
It had been almost a week since he'd been released, and if nothing, there was more tension in the household than the afternoon he'd arrived. He felt as if he and Rachel were tiptoeing around each other on dark ice. He knew she was angry that he had decided to keep the vineyard, but she refused to talk about it. When they were married, she had been the talker and he the grunter, but now it seemed as if their roles were reversed. Twice this week he'd tried to discuss the matter with her, to try to explain to her why he had to stay, why he had no choice, but she wouldn't even stay in the room long enough to hear him out.
The screen door slapped and Noah heard small footsteps. A moment later, Mallory appeared, peeking around the corner of the house at him.
"Hewwo," she said shyly.
It was impossible for him not to smile at the angelic face. The little girl fascinated him and scared the hell out of him at the same time. "Hello," he answered, enunciating carefully. He had noticed that there was some tension between her and her mother over her mispronunciation of words, but he wasn't certain that Rachel was going about it in the best way. He was certainly no expert in speech impediments, or children, but he wondered if there wasn't a less stressful way for both of them than Rachel constantly correcting her.
"Whatcha doin'?" she asked, slowly coming around the corner, dragging her fingers along the wall, testing the waters between them.
She was wearing a pink polka-dotted skirt, a plaid sleeveless shirt, and a pink fuzzy boa tied around her head. In the last couple of days, Noah had found himself waiting in anticipation to see what new outfit she would come out of the house in.
"I'm sitting in my daddy's rocking chair watching that chicken in the garden." He pointed to the hen scratching at the potato peels Mrs. Santori had thrown into the yard half an hour ago.
Mallory lowered her hands to her hips, studying the hen rather seriously. "Mama tewls Senawa not to frow scwaps in the yawd. Not sani-tawy. But she does it anyway."
&nb
sp; He looked away so she wouldn't see him grin. "I think the señora and her people in Mexico have been throwing scraps in the yard for the last thousand years or so. Hard habit to break."
Mallory crossed in front of him and hopped up into the other rocker, setting it in motion. Her dusty bare feet dangled as she rocked. Her toenails were painted blue. "Can I ask you a question, Mistah Noah?"
"Sure, Mallory."
"Why was you in pwison?"
He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He never saw it coming, not from a four-year-old. He cleared his throat, his gaze settling on the red hen again. "I think you need to ask your mother that."
"You said I couwd ask you a question."
"Maybe one a little less personal."
She thought for a moment. "What kind of ice cream do you wike?"
He was amazed by her comprehension of language and the words she knew. "Hmmmm." This one was definitely a lot easier to handle. "Butter pecan."
"I wike chocowate."
"I would have guessed that." He glanced sideways in her direction. She was still rocking, throwing her little body forward and back to keep up the motion of the big chair. "Now my turn for a question."
"Okay."
"Why don't you have any Rs?"
She scrunched up her cute, freckled nose. "What?"
"Rs. When you talk, you don't have any Rs. Ls either, but let's worry about the Rs today. I think you dropped them, maybe in the yard and then that little hen picked them up."
She scowled, ceasing her rocking motion. "Rs awe hawd to say when you'we fouw," she defended, crossing her arms over her chest.
Obviously it was a touchy subject.
"They sure are."
She looked at him suspiciously. "You think so?"
He nodded. "When I was four, I couldn't say Rs very well, either. I was supposed to be named Robert, but I called myself Wobert, so my parents had to change my name to Noah so I could say my own name."
She giggled and then looked at him seriously. "You say Rs now."
"Most of the time."
"How did you wearn?"
He shrugged. "I practiced moving my mouth right, I guess." He pressed his finger to his lips lightly making an R sound. "Like that."
She rose on her knees, studying his mouth carefully as she balanced herself on the arm of the rocking chair. "Do it again," she ordered as she drew her own finger to her mouth.
He made the sound again, leaning closer to her. "Robert, red, raccoon," he said.
She tried to make the sound with her own mouth, and when it didn't come out right, she stuck her little hand out to press her fingertips to his lips.
Her touch took him completely by surprise, like being struck by a lightning bolt... but just a tiny one. Her baby hand was so small, and she smelled so good, like shampoo and grass and grape juice. It was as if when she reached out to touch him, she didn't just touch his mouth, but his heart. One brush of her slightly sticky hand and he could feel his heart melting, a strange, protective sensation coming over him that he had never experienced in his life.
"Like this," he said, laying his hand over hers and opening his mouth slightly. "You have to do this with your lips."
She squinted, peering into his mouth, and then tried to imitate him. "WWwraccoon."
"That's right!" Noah grabbed her shoulders. "Raccoon. Say it again. Raccoon. Rabbit. Roller skate."
"Wwracoon... Wrabbit... Wwrollewskate!"
"That's it, Mallory! That's right. What a smart girl."
She sat back in the rocker, her hand still on her mouth. "W... red. W... rabbit. W... run. I can do it!" She laughed.
"I knew you could. It just takes practice." Noah pursed his lips. "Try this. Robert ran around the racetrack."
"W... Robert W... ran around the racetrack!"
He clapped and she clapped and leapt out of the chair, throwing herself into his arms. Before he had time to think, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She felt so good. It had been so long since he'd had another human being touch him. Too long.
The screen door slapped. "Mallory!" Rachel called.
Noah let go of the little girl, sensing Rachel wouldn't want him so near her daughter. Nothing had been said between them; Rachel hadn't said to leave her alone, but he could feel it, could see it in her eyes.
"I'm very proud of you, Mallory," he whispered.
"Mallory?" Rachel came around the corner.
"Mama! W... Robert W... ran over the rabbit!"
Rachel laughed and reached out to scoop up her daughter in her arms. "Oh my goodness! That's very good," she said as she looked from Mallory to Noah and back to Mallory again. There was a slight tension in her voice. "What have the two of you been doing out here?"
"Mistah Noah has been teaching me. Wisten." Mallory rested her hand on her mouth. "W... red robin. Run. Runny. Rubber band."
"Speech lessons?" Rachel asked looking down at Noah, disapproval in her tone now.
Noah rose from the rocking chair with a shrug. "We were just talking about how hard certain letters were to pronounce."
"Mr. Noah used to be Mr. W... Robert but he couldn't say it so now he's Mr. Noah."
"Is that right?" Rachel raised an eyebrow.
Mallory bobbed her head excitedly.
"Well, I'm so proud of you." Rachel kissed her daughter on the forehead, then each cheek, then the tip of her nose. "I really am," she murmured.
Noah felt a lump rise in his throat. It had once been his dream that he and Rachel would have a child together, that they would share the love he saw in her eyes now for a child. Their child.
Mallory giggled and tried to push her away.
"Okay, go get washed up for supper, giggle puss." Rachel lowered her to the porch. "And get Mattie. He's still playing the organ."
"Yes, Mama." Her bare feet hit the floorboards and she took off, racing around the corner and out of sight, the pink boa around her head, fluttering behind her.
Rachel and Noah stood there for a moment, watching her go. The little girl was so beautiful, so perfect, that she made his heart ache for what he knew he had lost, what he had given up for a bottle. The lump in his throat dissolved slowly. He had to ask... he just had to. "Rachel," he murmured, his voice sounding strange in his ears, "whose daughter is she?"
"She's mine," she answered, surprising him, her voice suddenly so full of emotion. They were standing only a foot apart, and she raised her hand as if she was going to take his.
Not once since he returned had she touched him, not a kiss on the cheek, not a hug, not even a handshake, and he felt himself tremble all over.
But her hand fell before it met his, and he didn't have the balls to reach out to her.
"You know what I mean," he said, his voice still a whisper. "Who's her father?"
"Why do you care?"
He was taken aback by the sudden change in her tone. One instant there had obviously been some connection from the past between them and the next it was gone. Now she was angry.
He glanced at the painted floorboards, then back up at her again. For the briefest moment there, when she had reached for his hand, he felt different than he had in a long time. Lighter, somehow. But the heaviness was weighing in again, falling across his shoulders, bringing him down. "I... I don't know. Of course, it's not any of my business, I just—"
"You're right, it's not." Rachel turned away, sounding tired when she spoke again. "Supper will be ready in five minutes. Mattie's still playing; I can hear him." She sighed. "Can you get him? Have him wash his hands."
She walked away without giving him a chance to respond.
* * *
Rachel drew a pink gingham sheet over Mallory's bare foot sticking out over the edge of the bed. She always kept her feet covered at night for fear the monsters might nibble at her toes. Rachel had given up trying to convince the four-year-old that there were no monsters under a little girl's bed in Stephen Kill, Delaware; it was easier just to stock up on sheets when they we
re on sale at the outlets.
Pushing back a lock of blond hair off her sleeping daughter's temple, her smile nearly turned into a sob before she was able to staunch it. Rachel turned out the light on the night-stand, dissolving the room into darkness.
For a moment she just stood there, her arms wrapped around her waist. She and Mallory had made the lamp themselves to go with the medieval theme of the bedroom; the lampshade looked like a damsel's cone-shaped hat, complete with pink veil. On the pink and lavender walls, they had painted a mural of a castle with a moat, and her bookcases looked like big, white, castle turrets... at least to a four-year-old.
Slipping out of the dark room, closing the door behind her, Rachel slowly made her way down the hall to her room, the familiar night sounds of the old house settling seeming to surround her.
She heard ice fall from the automatic icemaker into the tray, Chester roll over in the downstairs hallway, and the rattle of the loose gutter near the front door. Then an unfamiliar sound... footsteps... Noah's footsteps.
Rachel had to cover her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat and threatened to bubble up. She darted into her bedroom, closed the door and leaned against it, burying herself in the curtain of old flannel bathrobes and cotton pajamas that hung on the hooks on the back of the door. Tears streaming down her face, she slowly sank to the floor, her chest heaving as she tried to hold back the floodgate of tears, a floodgate she felt she'd been holding back for so long that if she opened it now, she might not ever be able to close it.
"Noah..." she whispered, her lower jaw trembling so that she stammered. "N-Noah, I-I'm s-so sorry. But I d-don't know what to do," she sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. "I don't know what to say to you."
She drew her knees up, hugging them against her, and began to rock back and forth, her head striking the door each time she leaned back. She felt as if her heart was breaking all over again.
It hurt so much.
But how? How could it hurt so much after all these years? After he'd been gone so long? After they'd all been gone and dead so long?
Unspoken Fear Page 5
