Don't Close Your Eyes

by Christie Craig

  Mark watched the detective take off. Swallowing a mouthful of hopeless air, he told himself to hold his temper. His bank account couldn’t take another hit. Who knew film cameras cost that much? Thankfully, the city had picked up that first one. But when APD stuck him in the Cold Case Unit, they’d made it clear. Any further destruction of news-media property would come out of his pocket. So the tripod he’d used to dent the bumper of the Channel 6 van a few months back had been on him.

  He started back to the street, away from the crowd, but like hungry piranhas they followed. With Anniston’s population encroaching on a hundred and thirty thousand, they had plenty of piranhas.

  “Detective Sutton?” They pushed toward him.

  “We don’t know anything yet.” He quickened his pace.

  “But Detective—” one of the newspaper reporters started.

  “No comment!” He got about two feet past them.

  Someone snagged his arm. Unfortunately, he’d know the feel of Judith’s nails anywhere. “Was Brittany Talbot’s body in the drum? Isn’t that what the Cold Case Unit is working on?”

  She shoved her mic in his face. Damn it! Didn’t she realize how hearing and seeing this on the local news would make the kid’s mother feel? Sure it’d been four years, but hurting from losing someone you love didn’t have time limits. He knew firsthand. It was the scar he carried with him.

  “No comment!” he growled.

  “Can you confirm that this is about the Talbot case?”

  “Go chase another ambulance!” He started off. He heard her say something to the camera. Another reporter blocked his path and then Judith grabbed his arm again.

  He stopped. Stared at her nails biting into his forearm. He’d never been into scratchers.

  She cut off her mic, lowered it to her side. “Just because we didn’t pan out—”

  “This has nothing to do with us.” He shot forward.

  The wish-wush of her expensive heels sinking in and out of the wet ground as she chased after him ratcheted up his frustration.

  “You got that right!” she said to his back. “It’s about my career. And if you think—”

  He swung around so fast the heels of his shoes cut divots in the ground. Then, because he didn’t care to air his dirty laundry—and fuck yeah, he considered their relationship to be dirty laundry—he pulled her away from the crowd of reporters. Scowling, he held out his hand in warning that no one should follow.

  Once he got out of earshot, he swerved and faced her. “This may be a hell of a shock to you, Judith, but it’s not always about you.” The muscles in his neck knotted.

  Her eyes glittered with determination. The kind that didn’t let up. The kind he didn’t admire. The kind that stemmed from selfish ambition.

  “I’m just doing my job,” she said with a jab.

  “And it doesn’t matter who you step on as long as you come out looking good. I’m still dusting off your footprints myself.”

  “Just because I don’t have to drink myself into oblivion when bad things happen doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

  Okay, that poke was personal. Too personal.

  “I don’t have to drink myself into oblivion.” He yanked off his sunglasses. “I choose to. But the difference between you and me is that I do my job to catch sorry sons of bitches. You do your job so you can prance your little ass up the career ladder.”

  He stormed off, not caring if his words struck a nerve. Not even feeling better for delivering them because, like he’d told her, this wasn’t about her. Or him.

  He had to go see Bethany Talbot now, the kid’s mom, hoping like hell she wouldn’t see the news report before he got to her.

  Mark hadn’t made it to the road when another reporter and his cameraman blocked his path. It was Matthew Kelly from Channel 6, one of Judith’s on-again, off-again lovers, who’d been pissed that Judith had taken a shine to Mark. So this approach was likely to be just as personal, but probably more fun. Call him a male chauvinist pig, but he couldn’t completely unleash on a woman. Even when they deserved it.

  “No comment.” Mark gave it a good college try.

  Matthew stuck his mic in Mark’s face. “Is it true that the Cold Case Unit is the police department’s dumping ground for cops who don’t play well with others?”

  Yup, personal! Mark hoped this was a live feed. “Is it true you still fuck Ju— a certain Channel Two reporter even though you got married last year?”

  The cameraman let out a burst of laughter. But before Matthew could react, Mark yanked the microphone from the man’s hand and chucked it. The splashing sound in the lake was as good as a big-mouth bass slapping against the water.

  “That was a five-hundred-dollar piece of equipment,” Matthew seethed.

  “I know,” Mark said. “But it was a lot cheaper than paying to have your nose fixed.”

  Mark took off to his car. Juan, in the driver’s seat, had the engine running as if he expected the worst.

  Climbing into the passenger seat of his racing-green Mustang, stepping into a week’s worth of fast-food bags, he looked at Juan.

  A touch of humor reflected in his partner’s brown eyes. “I think you enjoy that.”

  “Yeah, but it’s an expensive hobby.”

  Juan chuckled, but his smile faded fast. “I’ll go help Connor look for Cash. You going to see Bethany Talbot?”

  “Yeah.” He’d have loved to push that job over to either Connor or Juan, but he’d drawn the short straw.

  Mark snatched his file from the backseat to get the Talbots’ address.

  “Do you still like the dad for this?” Juan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

  Mark reached back and squeezed his knotted right shoulder. He’d only spoken with Brian Talbot once. He didn’t think he was behind this, but the guy’s alibi had been shakier than a drug addict needing a fix.

  “I don’t know.” Mark wanted to believe no father could do that to his child, but he knew better. Being a parent didn’t stop someone from being a sick bastard. He let out a gulp of frustrated air. “When I’m done, I’ll call you and hit any shelters you haven’t.”

  “You know finding him is going to be almost impossible. It was four years ago, and Johnny Cash probably isn’t even the guy’s name.”

  “I know,” Mark said. “But I’m hoping if he picked that name, it means he actually sings, and that might help us find him.”

  Juan turned into the precinct and parked. Mark set the file on the dash. A picture of the dark-haired little girl slipped out. He saw the toothy, gotta-love-me grin and the sweet life in her freckled face. But mostly he saw the innocence.

  There went another chunk of his soul.

  * * *

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry.” Annie meant it. She wasn’t heartless. She just…

  “How could you not want to go?” Her mom’s arms crossed over the front of her yellow tailored suit. Then Annie got the you-disappoint-me sigh.

  Annie hated that sigh. Hated disappointing her mom.

  “You’ve turned me down to go see them three times since you’ve lived here.”

  Yeah, her move to Anniston five months before—for a job—had put her only an hour drive from her mother’s family. She’d worried her mom would use her location to push Annie closer to the Reeds. She’d been right.

  She met her mom’s woeful gaze and felt heartless, like she’d feared. Her mom’s visit was a surprise, but after she’d called yesterday morning to inform Annie that her uncle had died, she should have expected it.

  “I said I’d go.”

  Her mom popped up from the living room chair. “After you said you preferred not to.”

  Well, there was that. “I was thinking about work when I said it.” Lie. The truth—it was hard going to the funeral of someone you didn’t know. Okay, maybe it was harder to go to the funeral of someone you did know. Someone you loved.

  Like her dad’s. And if he were still alive,
he wouldn’t let her mom put her through this. Annie stared at the papers she’d been grading in her lap.

  “He was your uncle.” The grief in her mom’s voice drew Annie’s gaze up.

  The emotion echoed inside Annie. “I’m going.”

  “How could you be so uncaring?”

  Uncaring? No! Annie had lost two jobs because she cared too much. She had to give up teaching elementary school because she cared too much. She couldn’t watch the news because she cared too much.

  “I didn’t know him. He wasn’t even at the reunion I went to. It makes it awkward.”

  “We lived in the same town until you were almost five.”

  “I don’t remember him.” Nada. Zip. She refocused on her papers. Her sketchy childhood memories had created interesting discussions in her therapy sessions. Sessions Annie no longer indulged in. After more than a year of getting nowhere, and doubting herself even more, she decided to keep her distance from shrinks and got herself a cat instead. And frankly, she was better. Or had been until…

  “It’s because of your dad, isn’t it?”

  Maybe. Not completely. “No.” Annie ran a finger over the scar right below her kneecap.

  Harsh streaks of sunlight slashed through the miniblinds and brought with them the ugly memory of hearing her parents in the kitchen having a blowout. Her mom’s mother had died—a grandmother Annie hadn’t known she had. Her mom had wanted to take Annie to the funeral. She’d never heard her soft-spoken, choir minister of a father so outraged.

  The next day, worried about her mother, Annie confronted her dad. He didn’t hold back. They aren’t nice people. They’re angry and they’re alcoholics and they’ve spent more time in prison than they have in church.

  Since her dad’s death, Mom had reconnected with her family. Six months back, she’d begged Annie to go to a family reunion. Curious but leery, she went. And maybe her father’s opinion had tainted her view, but the Reed clan gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  Her mom’s blue eyes teared even more. Guilt took a few laps around Annie’s sore heart. No matter how she felt about the Reeds, her mother had lost someone she loved.

  Setting her papers down, Annie stood. “I’m sorry. Drive here tomorrow, and we’ll go together.” Annie hugged her.

  “Thank you.” Her mom ended the embrace a second earlier than a normal person.

  Funny how one second made a difference.

  Her mom, three inches taller than Annie, frowned down at her. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Are you…having sleeping issues again?”

  Sleeping issues? Mom always called it that as if it would make it less than it was. “I’m fine.” When twelve, she’d asked her mom about the recurring nightmare she’d been having. It had felt so real. Mom had blamed it on her watching The Blair Witch Project at a friend’s house. That could’ve explained things. Well, everything but the scar. Her mom, however, insisted Annie had fallen off her bike.

  Five minutes later, Annie stood by her apartment window, still longing for that extra second, and watched her mom drive off. Her dad had been the hug giver. Sometimes Annie missed him so much her toenails ached.

  All grown up and still a daddy’s girl. She’d have to discuss this with her cat.

  Speaking of Pirate: The one-eyed, three-legged orange tabby sashayed into the room. It wasn’t easy to sashay with a limp, but he pulled it off with charisma.

  She scooped him up. “Looks like I’m going to a funeral in Heebie-Jeebie Land.”

  Pirate bumped her nose with his scarred face. Annie moved toward the sofa. “I know, going makes me a pushover. But don’t rub it in. I brought you home, didn’t I?”

  Dropping into the soft leather cushions, Pirate in her lap, she clicked on the television.

  The screen flashed with a breaking news story. A perky blond reporter was saying, “We believe there may be news on the Brittany Talbot disappearance.”

  Emotion crowded Annie’s throat. Turn it off!

  She couldn’t. The image of the five-year-old ballerina shot straight to the heart.

  The screen again showed the reporter standing in front of a lake. “We’ve—” She turned, and the camera did, too. “Detective Sutton, can you give us a word?”

  Coffee-shop Sutton filled the screen. Once again, he wore Dockers and dark shades, but new to his apparel was a darker frown. Darker than usual.

  “No comment!” The camera focused on his face. Annie leaned in closer. What was he hiding behind his glasses?

  “Can you confirm that this is about the Talbot case?”

  “Go chase another ambulance.” He left the woman holding the microphone and a scowl.

  “A man of few words.” The reporter’s perky mask reappeared. “Sources tell us that the body of a child fitting the description of…”

  Eyes closed, Annie saw a little girl twirling in her tutu, clutching a white teddy bear.

  Annie’s eyes shot open. Brittany Talbot didn’t have a teddy bear.

  A shiver climbed her back. The news went to a commercial. She clicked off the TV.

  Her phone rang. The number belonging to Isabella, Annie’s neighbor and the one friend she had made in Anniston, showed on the screen.

  “Come over for wine,” Annie said in lieu of hello.

  “Sure. I just saw your coffee-buddy cop on TV.”

  “He’s not my buddy.” The teddy bear image flashed again.

  “Right. Was that your mom’s car I saw?”

  “Yes.” Annie stared at the blank TV screen, wishing she could cut off her mind.

  “You cratered, didn’t you? You’re going to the funeral.”

  Annie nipped on her lip. “You said I would.”

  “You didn’t have to prove me right. It’s not too late. The stomach virus is going around. Diarrhea works like a gem.”

  “I can’t. She’s hurting. Besides, it’s only two days. What could possibly happen in two days that I can’t survive?”

  Chapter Two

  When Bethany Talbot opened the door, Mark knew he was too late. She brushed her tear-streaked cheeks and looked up with the kind of sorrow he still saw in his own eyes. Judith Holt needed to see this.

  “Is it her?” Bethany asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  A moan of pure sadness slipped off her lips.

  “I’m sorry.” Mark fucking hated his job right now.

  “After all this time, I didn’t think it would hurt this much. I mean, I only held out the slightest hope that…” She swallowed.

  He heard the agony in that gulp. It was all too familiar to him.

  “If only I’d made her come inside with me when the phone rang.” Falling against him, her shoulders shook from heartfelt sobs.

  Mark wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy, but he wasn’t an asshole, either. So with awkward not-sure-how-to-do-this pats, he tried to comfort her. Just like he’d tried to comfort his mom and failed.

  “I’m sorry.” His sincerity echoed in his tone. Her pain was too damn familiar. Her sobs too close to those of his mom’s seventeen years before.

  He offered more words. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.” While true, he knew firsthand those words wouldn’t help. That kind of guilt couldn’t be consoled. You had to live with it.

  Obviously sensing his discomfort, she pulled back. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She wiped her pale cheeks. “No. Nothing about this is okay. Do you think my ex-husband did this?”

  “I don’t know. We called requesting he come to the station for another interview, but he’s not in town until Monday.”

  “You spoke with him, though. Did he sound guilty?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked at the woman, early thirties, probably his age. Yet she looked older. The despair in her face told him life hadn’t been kind to her. Men just carried the scars better.

  “What do you believe?” he asked, turning from consoler to cop.

  She pulled in another shaky breath. �
�I don’t want to believe it, but I wouldn’t swear on it.” Her head fell back onto his shoulder, and Mark resumed the awkward patting.

  * * *

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sgt. Tom Brown bellowed. He fell into pace with Mark as he made haste to his office.

  “My job.” It was five o’clock. Quitting time. He’d left Bethany Talbot to search for Johnny Cash and found nothing. But damn, he could use a stiff drink. More than one. The weekend couldn’t come fast enough.

  Brown’s short legs worked double time to keep up. Mark didn’t slow down. If the man was going to read him the riot act, let him do it in the privacy of Mark’s office. Not that it’d be private. Connor and Juan were back.

  “Do you have to be a dick doing that job? We got a call from Channel Six.”

  “Finding a murdered kid brings the dick out in me.” Mark sped up.

  “Damn it, Sutton! I’m going to get shit from the commissioner over this.”

  “And here I thought he’d be happy. We’re a step closer to finding who killed the kid.” Mark knew “the kid’s” name, but using it made it feel more personal.

  They arrived outside the opened door to the office, which was actually the file room where three on-probation cops had been assigned to do the department’s grunt work. Sift through endless cold case reports.

  APD didn’t have enough ammo to fire their asses, so they stuck them there and waited for them to quit. The Cold Case Unit was known as the exit route. They’d decided not to accommodate them. Of course, after the day he had, he could change his mind.

  Mark faced his sergeant. “Is that what’s really chapping your ass? That we did what you and your partner, Gomez, couldn’t do?”

  Brown’s nose grew red. A bad sign. Mark had watched too many older officers get pudgy, red nosed, and lost in a bottle. A heart attack always followed.

  Was that what he had to look forward to?

  “Watch it, Sutton,” his sergeant warned.

  “Or what?” Mark asked with jaded confidence.

  Brown’s jowls slapped shut, and he rushed off.

  Mark walked into the room. Connor and Juan, at their desks, clapped, a slow one-beat-at-a-time applause. Both of them had bones to pick with Brown. Mark’s bone wasn’t so much with Brown as it was with the political bureaucracy of the system. They wanted them to go out and solve crimes, then put so many friggin’ rules in place that they couldn’t.