Don't Close Your Eyes

by Christie Craig

  “Yeah,” Annie said. But good doesn’t mean it was right.

  The fried rice arrived, and they ate and talked.

  “Have you spoken with your mom?” Isabella asked.

  Annie swallowed and spilled. “I’m worried, Isabella. I don’t believe my mom could have done anything, but…”

  “You did the right thing,” Isabella said. “You have to remember that while the right thing might suck, the wrong thing would suck more. I know.”

  Emotion flashed across her friend’s face. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the spill-your-guts mood, but Isabella appeared willing to talk. “You’re talking about your divorce?”

  “Yeah.” She refilled her glass.

  “How did you know the divorce was the right thing?”

  Isabella stared at her wine. “Because I couldn’t look at him without knowing how much I let him down. How much I let myself down.”

  “You had a miscarriage. It’s not your fault.”

  Regret and what looked like shame filled Isabella’s eyes. “Yes it is. I had an abortion when I was seventeen. I was young, scared, and ignorant. I asked the doctor if that could have been the reason I lost my babies, he said it was possible. I never told Jose about the abortion. I was ashamed, then to learn it could have caused…This is my punishment, not his.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  Annie stood and hugged her. “It’s still not your fault.”

  They held each other tightly, like good friends do when life hurts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Adam had finished his tea when the knock sounded. “That’s probably the detective from Anniston. He’ll probably need to talk to you as well.”

  Ms. Roberts downed the tea but made no move to go open her door.

  “Mind if I get that?”

  “Fine.” She grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “I hope it won’t take too long.”

  Adam set his glass in the sink and went to answer the knock.

  Door opened and he locked gazes with the tall, dark-haired man.

  “Sutton, I suppose,” Adam said.

  “Sheriff,” the man said.

  Adam motioned Sutton to follow him outside. They moved toward the car to make sure no one was eavesdropping. But Adam still gave the sister working in the flower garden a glance.

  “Is Fran here?” Sutton asked.

  “That’s where it gets interesting,” Adam said.

  “Just tell me,” Sutton insisted.

  So impatient. “The mom doesn’t know I spotted the car in her garage. I asked about her daughter and she told me her daughter drove off after the funeral.”

  “That’s what she told me, too.”

  A ring sounded. Sutton pulled his phone out and eyed the number. “Sorry. It’s about another case, I’ve got to take this. Give me a minute.”

  Adam started to the porch when he heard another car. A gold Toyota pulled down the drive and parked beside his cruiser.

  The blonde stepped out of the car, JoAnne Lakes, if he recalled her name correctly. Adam found himself sucking in his gut, and wishing he wasn’t so sweaty. Lakes? So this was the mother to Sutton’s witness.

  If the daughter looked half as good as her mother, Adam didn’t blame Sutton for being interested in the case.

  “Sheriff.” Her lips pursed. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am. Just here to talk to Ms. Roberts.” He stepped closer.

  Ms. Lakes glanced at Sutton.

  “That’s the detective from Anniston,” Adam said.

  A frown pulled at her eyes.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, since you’re here?” Adam asked.

  Her posture tightened. “I guess.” Locking her car, she started toward the house.

  “In my car. I’ll turn the air on.”

  She flinched. “Are you arresting me?”

  “No ma’am. Just to talk.”

  “Stop!” The sister working in the yard came running over. “Leave her alone.”

  “It’s okay, Sarah,” Ms. Lakes said. “Why don’t you go inside?”

  “Doris said I could work in the flower beds.”

  “Okay,” Ms. Lakes said. The sister went back to pulling weeds.

  Opening the passenger door, Ms. Lakes hesitantly got in.

  Adam crawled behind the wheel and started the engine and air. He saw Sutton shoot him a what-the-hell look but ignored it.

  Ms. Lakes glanced around. “I’ve never been in a police car.”

  “It’s not exciting,” he said, still holding in his gut.

  He studied her as she studied the dashboard. The similarities between her and Ms. Roberts were there, but the differences were more noticeable. One appeared hard, one soft. One appeared worn out, one fresh. One guilty. One…innocent.

  Yup, his gut said JoAnne Lakes wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. But gut instinct wasn’t enough. “The main reason I’m here is that your niece, your sister’s daughter, Francyne Roberts, is missing.”

  “Yes, but my sister told me Fran often goes off to be by herself.”

  He nodded. “Were you at the funeral?”

  “Of course. He was my brother.” Her quick intake of air sounded emotional.

  His chest tightened in response. “I heard your niece was drinking and upset when she left.”

  Ms. Lakes folded her hands in her lap. “Unfortunately, she does that sometimes.”

  “And no one had a problem with her driving while under the influence?”

  “We’d never let her do that,” Ms. Lakes insisted. “My brother George drove her home.”

  And there it was. The truth. Confirmation his gut was right about JoAnne Lakes. But why would Ms. Roberts lie?

  * * *

  “Thank you for returning my call,” Mark told Johnny Harden again, feeling successful at finding a man no one thought could be found. His sense of accomplishment peaked when Johnny claimed he could identify the man he’d seen pushing a barrel into the lake where his victim had been found. Yeah, Johnny had been drunk, but considering the barrel had been found, it might hold up in court.

  “Yes. Two o’clock tomorrow would be fine. I’ll see you then.”

  Mark hung up, trying to hang on to the feeling of success. His conversation with Juan about the morgue visit on the ride up here had darkened his mood. The kid had died from a head injury. Worse yet, the results hadn’t offered any leads. And while Mark might have skipped the meeting, saving himself from seeing it, hearing about it had still taken its toll on him.

  No way in hell was he letting the killer get away with this.

  Pocketing his phone, his pain, and the desire for whiskey, he switched gears and cases. He spotted the woman working the flower beds looking at him. When he’d pulled up, she’d refused to speak to him. He’d figured this was the mentally challenged sister, Jenny Reed’s mother, who’d taken a gun to the sheriff.

  Unsure why he did it, he walked over to where she worked. “You enjoy gardening?”

  She looked up. “I like making things pretty.”

  “I’ll bet your daughter was pretty. Her name was Jenny, right?”

  She didn’t say anything. Her hands stopped moving in the soil. He almost walked away when she spoke. “She was pretty. But I’m not supposed to talk about her. George gets mad.”

  “Why can’t you talk about her? Why does he get mad?” He held his breath.

  Looking up from the ground, she put a dirty finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  Focusing back on the mulch, she started spreading it, and commenced humming as if the conversation was over.

  He took one step when she spoke again. “Sometimes I can almost hear them singing.” She went back to gardening.

  “Who?”

  “The flowers.”

  “Right.” He walked toward the police cruiser, now occupied by the sheriff and the woman who’d shown up. A woman who’d looked almost familiar. Almost.

  When the sheriff saw Mark approaching the car, he got out of his car.r />
  “Who’s that?” Mark asked, following the sheriff a few steps away.

  Adam reared back on his heels. “That’s JoAnne Lakes. Isn’t she the mom of your witness?”

  Shit. Mark dipped his head down to see Ms. Lakes. She looked up. Their gazes met. Held. She had blue eyes and a pretty face. But she frowned. Mark barely held his back. Face it, he was sleeping with her daughter, and getting on her bad side wasn’t smart. Neither was dating a witness. So he wasn’t smart, but he still had a job to do.

  But keeping his relationship with Annie low-key would serve him and the case well. “What did she say?”

  “It’s interesting.”

  “Then tell me.” Mark’s impatience punctuated the sentence.

  The sheriff stiffened.

  Remembering his manners, and kicking himself for the lack of respect for a man who was helping him, Mark said, “Sorry. What do we have?”

  “When I asked Ms. Lakes about her niece leaving the funeral while drinking, she told me that her brother George drove Francyne home.”

  “That’s not what Ms. Roberts told me.” Mark mentally rehashed the short conversation they’d had. She hadn’t claimed her daughter had driven her car home, but she’d insinuated it when she’d said she didn’t know where she’d gone.

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said. “When I spoke with her, I asked about letting her daughter drive drunk and she responded, ‘She’s a big girl.’”

  “Okay.” Mark’s mind wrapped around that info. “Now we have to figure out why Doris would lie about her brother taking her daughter home.”

  “Yup.” The sheriff glanced back at his car. “I don’t think Ms. Lakes is behind this.”

  “She might not be behind her niece’s disappearance, but her daughter believes she’s lying about some things. Did you ask Ms. Lakes about Jenny?”

  “No.”

  Mark glanced at the house. “Did you ask Ms. Roberts about Jenny?”

  “Just briefly. She gave me the same answer as before. Drowned or some motorcycle gangster grabbed her.”

  “Why don’t we each take one and question them again. See if their stories match. Ask for specific details.”

  “I’ve got Ms. Lakes,” the sheriff said.

  That had been Mark’s plan, but…“What’s wrong with Ms. Roberts?”

  Adam spoke in a low voice. “She’s got the hots for my body.”

  Mark chuckled. “Fine.” He started toward the porch and saw Jenny Reed’s mother watching him.

  * * *

  “Let’s go over it one more time.” Mark jotted down notes in the pad he carried in his pocket. “What do you remember about the day Jenny disappeared?”

  “This is ridiculous!” Ms. Roberts looked out the window where she’d been keeping an eye on the police cruiser.

  Turning, she glared at Mark. He actually preferred this look to the one of lust she’d had when he first walked in. But damn, he understood the sheriff’s issues. Not a good feeling.

  “Why is the sheriff keeping my sister in his car?”

  “He’s simply asking her questions.”

  She lifted up her chin. “How many times do we have to tell the story?”

  “Until we get to the truth.” Mark’s voice remained even, but this woman raked across every nerve he had. He supposed he raked across a few of hers, too. And he hadn’t even approached the fact that she lied to him about how her daughter left the funeral.

  “We were about to leave when we realized Jenny wasn’t around.” She lifted her drink that looked like iced tea, but Mark smelled whiskey. He was tempted to ask her to pour him one. “So we called the police,” she said, her tone a decibel too high.

  “Wasn’t Jenny with her two cousins?”

  “Yes. Earlier.”

  “What did they say about Jenny’s disappearance?”

  “They were young. They didn’t know what to say.”

  “Did the police talk to them?” Mark prayed Mildred found those files. Without them, the case wouldn’t make.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “But considering your niece went missing, I’d presume you’d be able to recall if the police spoke with your daughter.”

  “Well, I can’t!”

  Her attitude only fueled him. “What time did you report her missing?”

  “Enough already. I told you, it was eight in the morning. I can’t remember more.”

  Mark rubbed his hand over his chin. “But your mind is fine, right? You’re not suffering from any kind of ailment? Dementia?”

  Her eyes became two slits, her left palm found her hip, and her right hand shook her glass, rattling the ice. “My mind is a steel trap. I’m not elderly.”

  “I didn’t mean to insinuate that,” he lied. Sometimes rattling a witness would shake something loose. “Maybe Jenny’s mom would remember. Would you mind if I—”

  “No. Leave Sarah alone. She’s mentally disabled.”

  “So let me ask you about your missing daughter.”

  “I told you everything over the phone!”

  He held out one hand. “Just so I’m straight. You told me your daughter left in a huff and didn’t let you know where she was going. Correct?”

  “Congratulations!” the woman snapped. “You don’t have dementia, either.”

  “So the statement is correct?”

  “Yes! Now leave. And tell the sheriff to let my sister go.”

  “Not so fast,” Mark said. “You see, my problem is that I know your daughter’s car is parked in your garage. And I’m having a hard time figuring out why you’d lie about that.”

  Her face reddened, her eyes tightened, her hand landed back on her hip. He could see her wheels spinning, trying to find a way out of the corner she’d backed herself into.

  The front door opened. He looked back as the sheriff and Ms. Lakes walked inside. They entered the kitchen. Ms. Lakes looked a little pale, the sheriff a little pissed. Mark couldn’t help but wonder if Harper still thought the woman was innocent.

  “Don’t say another word,” Ms. Roberts snapped. “We need a lawyer.”

  * * *

  Mark didn’t get home until seven. He’d called Juan and Connor to inform them about Johnny. He wanted to call Annie. Was her window fixed? Was she still afraid? Mark kept backing-and-forthing on the amount of danger she was really in. Without anything else happening, a broken window and spray-painted car didn’t set off too many alarm bells, but her missing cousin was another story.

  He picked up his phone, then dropped it. She was probably still out with her friend. And how would he tell her he’d seen her mother? While Sheriff Harper wanted to believe Lakes was innocent, he’d admitted she’d behaved differently when questioned about Jenny’s disappearance.

  Was the whole family behind the murder?

  How was Annie going to take hearing his suspicions?

  How was he going to feel delivering them?

  Yeah, Annie admitted her mom appeared to be hiding something, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t want to shoot the messenger. He pushed thoughts of Annie to the back burner. He’d call her tomorrow, and maybe they’d do lunch again. Maybe by then, he’d figure out how to present the mother news.

  Unfortunately, with Annie off the front burner, the Talbot case got upgraded. He paced through his house—something he regularly did when digesting a case. His fast, moving-to-move pace landed him in his game room. In one corner was the pool table, in the other was the big special laminated table he used for both Ping-Pong and poker. Saturday was his day to host it, too.

  The saxophone in the corner of the room caught his eye. He remembered seeing the musician lose himself in the music at Buck’s Place.

  Every time he saw his own instrument, it called to him. Every time he walked away. He wasn’t even sure why.

  He did another walk through his house, concentrating on the Talbot case. Remembering the image he’d seen of the child on the news. Dressed in a ballerina outfit, twirling with a huge smile on h
er face. Looking so…alive.

  But damn, he needed a drink. He started to the kitchen, but stopped. Instead of reaching for the bottle, he reached for his tennis shoes and jogging clothes and took Bacon for a run. As his feet pounded against the concrete, he hoped the exertion would pound out the images.

  It worked. At least some.

  Forty-five minutes later, sweat dripping off of him and Bacon barely panting, he arrived back at his house. He went in the backyard, turned the hose on himself, and felt the cool water stream down his chest and abs.

  When his phone, on the patio table, dinged with a text, he set the hose down and grabbed it. From Annie. His heart took a jolt.

  A good one.

  A picture of a slice of Better than Sex Cheesecake appeared on his screen. He laughed, then read the text.

  I don’t know if I can eat all of this.

  Hope making his lungs expand, he texted back. Is that an invitation?

  He waited for what felt like forever for her answer.

  Yes.

  He pumped his fist in the air then texted back. Showering and leaving. Don’t take a bite until I get there.

  It better be a quick shower.

  Her reply brought on another laugh. The excitement, the sensation of being part of something with someone, the anticipation of spending another night with Annie, felt as refreshing as the hose water. He felt more alive than he had in years.

  Recalling the conversation they needed to have about her mom gave him pause, but it didn’t shadow his mood.

  He hurried inside, stripping down as he went, hopping on one foot to remove his shoes and shorts as he made his way into the bathroom. Bacon, thinking it was a game, snatched up his socks and followed him.

  Mark retrieved his socks out of the dog’s mouth, dropped them in the dirty clothes hamper, and made a mental note to pick up his shoes before he left so Bacon wouldn’t eat them. When he turned on the shower, the dog plopped down on the tiled floor and glanced up at Mark with sad, you’re-leaving-me eyes.

  “Hey. We made this deal when I brought you home from the shelter. I give you two squares a day, a run—and today you had two—and a big backyard to shit in that’s accessible to you twenty-four-seven, but I might be gone long hours.”