She hated it when the gallery had a gala.
Or maybe she was just jealous that her work was never a part of it.
At least she was done cleaning. Finally.
Even better, she’d finished in time to have lunch with Becca and Pete before her one o’clock class.
Bethany hurried down the empty halls of the art institute, out the main doors, and jogged across the parking lot to the institute’s on-campus daycare center.
She pushed through the front entrance of the center and showed her ID to the girl working the main desk, who buzzed her through the security door.
The sounds of children’s laughter and squealing brought a smile to her face.
She walked down the short hallway and stopped outside the three to five-year-old room. Resting her elbows on the top of the partition keeping the kids inside, she scanned the room. Her gaze locked on the curly brown-haired girl playing with blocks in the corner.
Oh, to be so young and innocent.
She shifted her attention to a little boy with straight brown hair. He and two other boys zoomed cars around an invisible track.
Neither Becca nor Pete noticed her presence.
There was something very satisfying about watching them play when they were unaware of her.
Olive, one of the childcare providers, spotted her. Weaving around the little bodies playing on the floor, she approached, a smile illuminating her tanned face. “Hi, Bethany. You here to join us for lunch?”
“If you’ll have me.”
Olive laughed. “Always.”
In spite of the fact that Olive was almost ten years younger, she’d become a good friend, even helping out with childcare after hours when Bethany had to return to the institute to clean the building for the upcoming day.
Across the room, Keeton, Olive’s cohort in childcare, hunched on the floor next to a couple boys building a monstrous tower with oversized building blocks. His dark skin and curly hair contrasted with the broad, white smile that always seemed affixed to his face.
“How’s the art theory class coming?” Olive asked, opening the gate so Bethany could enter.
Bethany crossed her eyes. “Ugh. I want to create art, not know all the theories behind it. Seriously, how is this ever going to help me?”
Although lately she’d been wondering how any of it would help her. What would she do with an art degree, anyway? She loved art, always had, but it wasn’t the most lucrative field and she had three kids to think about.
If she was smart, she’d drop out and pursue a real career. Office manager or something.
It was a depressing thought.
She prayed about it every night but had yet to hear a voice coming from that bush in front of her apartment complex.
All she could do was hope God would give her some direction soon.
“Mommy!” Becca catapulted herself across the room, smacking against Bethany’s legs and wrapping her scrawny little arms around them.
She knelt and pulled her daughter close. “Hi, sweetie.”
Pete glanced up at the sound of her voice but went back to playing with his cars.
Ah, yes. Five and independent.
As Becca chattered on about the blocks and a picture she’d drawn earlier, Keeton rang the bell. Becca abruptly stopped talking and grabbed her hand. “Come, mommy.”
She followed Becca to the door, where the kids formed a rough line. Keeton uncoiled a length of red yarn and gave the bell at one end to the kid at the front of the line. Little hands latched onto the yarn as he walked past them.
Once everyone was holding a section of the yarn, Keeton opened the gate and led the group down the hallway to the small cafeteria. Bethany fell into step beside Becca, but kept an eye on the kids around her. While the string was designed to keep everyone in check and usually did a good job, kids were still kids.
Trays containing mini sandwiches, with an apple and carrot slices on the side, were set in front of each child. Olive handed Bethany a tray with a whole sandwich before taking the seat beside her.
“So what time you want me there tonight?” Olive asked before taking a bite of her turkey sandwich.
“I have to be to work at eight, so maybe around seven?” She hated that she wasn’t home most nights to put the kids to bed, but what else could she do? Single parenting was a hard job.
At least Becca and Pete didn’t know any differently. JJ was old enough to remember the old days, before James had walked out, but the other two didn’t. They couldn’t miss what they’d never had.
“Okay y’all. Five more minutes. Finish up.” Keeton’s voice carried over the din of little voices, his Texas accent pronounced.
“So.” Olive brushed crumbs from the table in front of her onto her empty food tray. “Keeton asked me out.”
“Really?”
Rose tinged Olive’s cheeks. “Yeah. We’re going to a concert down by the bay tomorrow night.”
“That sounds fun.”
Bethany glanced at Keeton, his solid frame in stark contrast to Olive’s almost anorexic-looking build. Keeton’s gaze strayed toward them. Or, more specifically, to Olive, and a slow grin spread across his dark features.
Oh, yeah. Definitely smitten.
And if the way Olive fiddled with the ends of her shoulder length brown hair was any indication, he wasn’t the only one.
“I’m happy for you. He’s a nice guy.” And seemed like he had his head on straight.
Then again, so had James.
Olive placed a hand over hers. “Why don’t you meet someone? You’re so pretty and there have got to be lots of guys who’re interested.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Lots who are interested in a single mom with three young kids?”
Olive shrugged. “So what?”
Bethany shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ve got my hands full just keeping food in their tummies.”
Besides, she’d learned her lesson.
James had been a great teacher. It’d be a while before she could trust a man again.
She accompanied the kids back to the classroom, said goodbye to Becca and Pete, and headed for class.
Art theory may not be her idea of fun, but it was a requirement for her degree, so she’d get as much out of it as she could.
Merging with the other students hurrying across campus, she passed the Monet building and turned toward DaVinci Hall.
“Mrs. Summers?”
She started, almost tripping over the curb, at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice behind her. She whipped around.
Two men, dressed in slacks and button-down shirts, approached. They were older than most of the students around her. One, a Hispanic man with spiky hair, appeared to be in his late thirties; the other, a solidly built man with a shaved head, was probably in his fifties.
Who were they and how did they know who she was? And that she was married? To her knowledge, no one at the school knew that detail.
Not even Olive.
“Actually, it’s Ms.” Ugh. That came out more than a little defensive.
“My apologies.” The older man, tone smooth as silk, extended his badge. “Detective Morgan, SFPD. This is my partner Salinas. Are you Bethany Summers?”
Detective. San Francisco Police Department. The thoughts crashed through her mind.
What could the police want with her?
Two
Was it one of her kids?
She’d just left Becca and Pete so she knew they were okay. Had something happened at JJ’s school?
Or was it… James?
She shook off the questions and worked to compose an answer. “Yes. That’s me.”
Returning his badge to his pocket, Morgan nodded at the textbook clutched against her chest. “We’re sorry to keep you from your studies, but it’s rather urgent. Is there someplace we could talk?”
Who cared about class when there were two police detectives facing her? “Is it my kids? Are they okay?”
“As far as we know.” The
Hispanic man… was his name Salinas?... spoke up.
That left James.
Maybe. It could always be something else. Maybe her apartment burned down or something.
That’d be all she needed.
“Howsabout we have a seat on those benches over there.” Morgan pointed to a small cluster of benches under a canopy of trees.
Wooden legs carried her across the grass as thoughts swirled inside her head like fog rolling off the bay. A tremor worked up her legs. Something had happened. Something that would change everything. She knew it just like she knew she wouldn’t spend a second in her art theory class today.
She sank down onto the bench and stared at the gurgling fountain a few feet away.
Morgan dropped on the bench beside her and Salinas took a spot on the one across from them.
Dragging her eyes from the water, she fixed them on Morgan and pulled in a deep breath. “It’s James, isn’t it?”
A tight nod. “He was murdered this morning.”
Murdered.
Not overdosed, as she’d always thought might happen. Murdered.
She swallowed. “What happened?”
Morgan studied her, his sharp eyes like razors across her face. “He was beaten. Down by the homeless shelter. A volunteer found him.”
Beaten.
A shudder rocked down her spine.
How awful. Never had she imagined it’d end that way.
“When was the last time you saw your husband?” Salinas asked, drawing her attention to him.
Husband. What a joke. “Over three years ago. He never even met our daughter.”
And now he never would. She didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.
“And you’ve had no contact with him during that time?”
She shook her head. “Not since the day he chose his drug habit over his family.”
“You’re taking this better than I expected.” Morgan’s tone was light, but hints of suspicion lingered around his eyes.
“He’s been dead to me for years.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “You have to understand. He cleaned out the bank accounts to support his habit. Left us penniless. The bank foreclosed on our house and I’ve been scraping to make ends meet ever since, all the while expecting you to show up at my door and tell me something happened to him.”
She shifted her attention between Morgan and Salinas as she spoke. “Would I have wished this on him? No way. But am I surprised?”
“I see your point.” Sympathy laced Salinas’ words. “He left you in a pretty tough place.”
“That’s an understatement. But God has provided.” Often His provision came when she saw no way to keep food on the table.
“Did you know he was in prison?”
Prison? James?
She tried to imagine him in an orange jumpsuit but the image wouldn’t come. How had things gotten so screwed up?
What if he’d killed someone? The James she’d known never would have done such a thing, but the James she’d known never would have left his family either. Drugs had made him a stranger.
She slumped back against the bench. “No. Was it because of the drugs?”
“Possession with intent to distribute. He didn’t serve much time.”
As if that made it all better. What was next? Would they tell her he had another family somewhere?
She wanted to ask but couldn’t find the words.
“Do you know any of his friends? Has anyone reached out to you asking about him?”
“No. When he walked out on us, he cut ties with our mutual friends.” Unfortunately, as hard times fell on her, most of those friends had disappeared from her life, too.
Not that she could blame them. No one liked the reminder that such a thing could happen to someone like them.
“Did James have any other family?” Salinas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Siblings, parents, grandparents?”
She shook her head. “He was raised by his dad after his mom died but his dad is gone now. No siblings. If he had any distant relatives, I never met them.”
In fact, that was what had made his abandonment so hard to take. His lack of family had made him pour everything into her and the kids. For him to choose his addiction over them… It still hurt.
“Who did you say found him?” Why it mattered, she wasn’t sure, but she wanted to know.
“A guy named Zeke. He volunteers at one of the homeless shelters.”
She stared at Salinas as she thought about his answer. Zeke. From a homeless shelter. “Had James been staying there?”
“According to Zeke, no. James came by sometimes for some food.”
He had to have been staying somewhere. “Do you know where he was when he wasn’t there? Was there… another woman?”
Did she really want to know?
Probably not, but the question was out there now.
“We don’t really know. Do you have reason to suspect there was someone else?”
Her eyes landed on her paint splattered canvas shoes. “No, but James was always popular with women. I remember a few times when they’d hit on him right in front of me, but he never rose to the bait.”
Not then. Hard to say what’d happened in the nearly four years they’d been separated.
“We have to ask.” Apology laced Morgan’s words. “Where were you this morning around nine?”
They really thought she’d beat her husband to death in an alley? “Here. I work as a janitor and was cleaning up after last night’s new artist gala. Am I a suspect?”
“It’s standard to start with those who knew the victim best and work outward.”
Funny how Morgan didn’t really answer her question. “Then you’re in the wrong place. I used to know James, but not anymore. Besides, I have three kids. I’m working full time and going to school part time. You really think I had time to track James down and kill him?”
“No,” Salinas replied immediately. Morgan shot his partner a look, but Salinas continued on anyway, “I don’t. Like Morgan said, it’s just standard procedure.”
Good. She didn’t like feeling like a murder suspect.
“How long has James been out of prison?”
“A few weeks. We’re working to piece together his activities and whereabouts from that point on.”
“Was he still using?” Why did she even care?
He probably had been, otherwise wouldn’t he have come home?
Then again, he didn’t even know where home was anymore. Someone else owned their old house now.
“We’ll have to wait for the toxicology results.” Morgan looked at his watch. “We’ve taken enough of your time. We’ll need your contact information in case we have more questions. Or have information to pass along.”
The last one was said almost like an afterthought. Meaning she likely wouldn’t get that information unless she sought it out.
And maybe she would.
James had been her husband, after all. She had a right to know what he’d been doing and with whom.
Even if she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.
The detectives walked away, but she didn’t move.
James was dead.
After years of wondering if he’d come back, questioning whether or not she’d take him back if he did, worrying that he’d replaced her and the kids, she now had closure.
Closure. What a horrible way to think of the end of someone’s life.
Pressure pricked her eyes. A tear escaped the confines of her eyelids.
The fountain in front of her swirled as her eyes filled.
She swiped at the moisture.
Why was she even crying? After all James had done to her, to his own kids, why would she mourn him?
He didn’t deserve it.
Do you deserve grace?
The thought shafted through her heart, followed immediately by the answer.
No. She didn’t deserve grace, but God gave it to her anyway. The least she could do was exte
nd the same to another.
Aside from that, it was okay to mourn.
The knowledge opened a valve. Tears flowed down her face. A sob wrenched from her chest. Whether she was mourning James’ death or the death of the dreams she’d once had for them, she wasn’t sure.
Never had she been so grateful that classes were in session and she could be alone. No one walked by, no one approached, no one tried to help.
Even when her tears dried up, she didn’t move. The gurgle of the fountain soothed her in a way words never could.
In the midst of this, God was still faithful.
And He certainly wasn’t surprised by today’s events, even if she was. He’d known what today would bring for her and her kids.
Only thirty years old and she was already a widow.
₪ ₪ ₪
South Bay Gym stood like a decrepit behemoth amid a sea of similar monsters. Zeke assessed the building in front of him.
Cracks marred the ancient brick and the neon sign above the door flickered and buzzed. Most of the letters had burned out so the sign boasted “Out Ba G.”
Sounded like a rap song.
Not a single window graced the front of the building and the door was tinted so dark he couldn’t see inside.
He reached for the handle on the glass door and pulled it open.
A wave of cold blasted him.
The outside might not look like much, but the air conditioner worked well. He stepped inside.
The room smelled of body odor and sweat.
Bright florescent lighting illuminated the room. Two boxing rings stood dead center. Punching bags hung from the ceiling off to the left of the ring, weight benches to the right. Beyond the last boxing ring, he could see a cluster of workout machines.
Men faced off in both rings, gloves raised as they bobbed and weaved. One man parried, the other dodged.
It was like a strange dance, graceful and elegant in its own way.
Unfortunately, the elegance ended there. Zeke didn’t have to watch the fight to know the damage those gloves could wreak.
“You need somethin’, man?”
Zeke turned to find a man, probably in his late forties, standing a few feet away. Muscular arms crossed over the man’s solid chest and stubble darkened his shaved head.
Broken is the Grave Page 2
