A Deep and Dark December

by Beth Yarnall

  “Greg…”

  Tears lined his face, falling in fat drops like the rain just beginning outside. “She was going to leave me.” He sank back down on his haunches. Deidre stared blankly at the ceiling as her husband caressed her once again. “I don’t blame you, baby. I was an asshole. I can’t believe you stayed as long as you did. God, you’re so beautiful. What am I going to do without you?”

  Erin spoke quietly into her phone, her heart beating so hard she could hardly get the words out. “Can you send the sheriff to—”

  Greg whipped his head toward her, jerking back as if she’d slapped him.

  “—321 Amiable Lane.”

  Erin recognized the police dispatcher’s voice. Mabel Johnson was a lot of things, including a good friend of her aunt’s, but discreet wasn’t one of them. Erin would set the phone tree ablaze with her next words.

  “There’s been a…murder.”

  “A murder!” Mabel exclaimed.

  Erin could hear Jessica, the sheriff’s secretary, in the background, rushing over to where Mabel sat at the dispatcher’s desk. “Who’s murdered?” Jessica asked Mabel.

  “I don’t know yet,” Mabel told Jessica. “Let me ask Erin. Erin, honey, who’s been murdered?”

  Erin didn’t like the glee in Mabel’s voice or the fact that Jessica probably had her ear pressed to Mabel’s so she could hear everything Erin said.

  Erin’s gaze fell to the woman on the floor. She was so young. “Deidre Lasiter.”

  Greg stood, glaring at her as though she’d betrayed him, the gun balanced in his shaky palm. She’d managed to keep the panic from her voice, but it made her lightheaded and sick.

  “Are you sure she’s dead, honey?”

  “Yes.” Erin wanted to scream. “Can you please just send the sheriff?” She punched the off button on her phone and shoved it into her coat pocket, trying to hide her trembling hands.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Greg said, inching closer.

  “I’m sorry. I-I had to.”

  “Deidre’s killer will go free.”

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  “No, it’s not! You don’t get it.” His eyes held wild violence, like the sky churning and spitting outside. He put the barrel of the gun to his head and cocked it. Snot dripped down his lips and chin. “All you Decembers are supposed to be some kind of fucking clairvoyants, aren’t you?”

  “No. Not me.”

  “Did you predict this?”

  Shaking her head, she put her palms up. “No, Greg. Don’t. Please don’t.”

  He held her gaze for a moment and then he closed his eyes.

  “Noooo!”

  He pulled the trigger. Blood shot out, splattering everywhere. Erin knocked into the doorframe behind her. Greg crashed to the floor next to his wife. His blood mixed with hers. A fine red mist covered Erin from head to toe. She gasped for air—her head reeling—and almost dropped to her hands and knees. Righting herself, she scampered backwards. Into the living room with its grayed walls and orphaned furniture. To the porch with its pumpkins that no one would carve. Over the walk to the rotting gate. And out onto the deserted sidewalk.

  Lightning flashed overhead. Rain pelted as if a thousand accusing fingers poked at her, each one blaming. She lurched into the street and turned to look at the house. It glared back with its black-windowed eyes and fat, picketed mouth. It, too, condemned her. She should have seen this. Why hadn’t she seen this? Her chest heaved, her skin prickling in the cold damp air. In the distance, a siren wailed over the pounding of the rain.

  The house blurred and she swiped at her eyes. Pink tinged water mixed with the black of mascara on her hands. The shaking started with a jolt. She wrapped her arms around herself to control it. Greg. Bile bubbled at the back of her throat until she bent over and let it all out, heaving into the cracks in the pavement.

  She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, stumbled over to the curb, and dropped onto the wet cement. The trembling wouldn’t stop. Why didn’t I see this? She slammed her fists on her thighs. Damn it! Why had the vision been so wrong? What could she have done differently?

  The sheriff’s patrol car slammed to a halt in front of 321 Amiable Lane. She watched him climb out and look around. A second patrol car screeched to a stop at the curb, then another and another. San Rey’s entire police force had shown up. This was big news. There hadn’t been a murder in this town since 1943 when one brother had accidentally run over his twin, knocking him into a ditch where he’d hit his head and died.

  The sheriff directed his men to search the property, guns drawn. Three went to the back while the sheriff picked two more to go with him through the front. The leftover few stood around, looking at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Moments later, the sheriff came back out and scanned the street. His gaze halted on Erin sitting on the curb across the street. She stood up, careful to avoid the mess she’d made. Shoulders hunched against the downpour, she retraced her steps to the house.

  The closer she came to Sheriff Graham Doran, the deeper his frown grew. She came even with him, then just stood there, not knowing what to do or say.

  “You called it in?” he asked, taking in her appearance.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you have an umbrella?”

  She looked up at his curt tone into eyes a shade or two bluer than the blackened sky. He was annoyed with her, and not hiding it. What was wrong with him? What had she done to irritate him?

  “Sorry.” She was on the verge of crying, but she’d be damned if she’d cry in front of him.

  He made a rough noise at the back of his throat, then stomped off toward his cruiser, muttering under his breath. He came back with an umbrella, popped it open and thrust it at her.

  She frowned. “I’m already soaked.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. Rain dripped off the bill of his sheriff insignia baseball cap into the space between them. He wasn’t the sheriff his father had been, opting for a more casual look than his father’s brass-buttoned jacket and flat-rimmed Mountie hat.

  “Why did you come here?” he demanded.

  “To do my job.”

  “Yeah, I’d heard Cadaver Investments was circling Greg’s house. Come to pick the bones clean?”

  She pulled in a breath. “It’s Kavender Investments and I came here to give Greg a check. We had an appointment.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you did.” He looked around at the other empty houses. “You’ve had a lot of appointments in this neighborhood already.”

  “My company has, yes. It’s what we do.”

  “You came here to take the man’s house away from him right after he lost his job and his wife left him. You’re doing God’s work, for sure.”

  She knew his anger wasn’t directed at her specifically. Greg had been his friend and a reminder of what might have been his fate, had he stayed. Her job sucked. So did his. Seeing Greg like that shook her and she couldn’t stand the man. She could only imagine how Graham felt.

  She knew all that and yet his words still stung. “We all have our jobs to do even if we don’t like them.”

  He inclined his head toward the house. “Just give me the brief on what happened in there.”

  She looked back at the house and the flashing rage Graham had ignited dulled to a simmering roar. The other officers had all gone inside, no doubt so they would have something to tell folks over breakfast tomorrow down at The Do or Dine Diner. She closed her eyes on the images that flashed across her mind of Deidre and Greg lying on the kitchen floor. If only she could scrub it from her memory.

  Opening her eyes, she turned to Graham. “I went into the house, looking for Greg—”

  “You just waltzed in.”

  “No. I found a key in the pot by the door. Kavender owns this house now. I had every right to go in as their agent.”

  “Right. So you went in, then what?”

  She couldn’t tell him about her vision. She’d been so careful, keepi
ng her ability a secret all these years. Even so, she knew there was something about her that marked her as different, something that set her apart. It was more than her quirky aunt and her motherlessness. She made people uneasy, their gazes connecting briefly, then skittering away. They didn’t stand too close to her or draw her into idle conversations. Maybe it was something inherent like some kind of silent signal, making them wary of her. She didn’t know. She’d spent too long trying to overcome whatever it was, to no avail. Revealing her secret wouldn’t change anything.

  “When I walked into the kitchen, Greg was standing over Deidre with a gun in his hand.” Erin exhaled hard. “She was dead.”

  “He was alive when you arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “He was upset. He said he didn’t kill her.”

  “They all say that.”

  “Yeah, but I really don’t think he did it.”

  His posture changed subtlety, shifting toward her. “Go on.”

  “He kept saying that the police wouldn’t believe him. I told him that I believed him. He started crying and knelt down… he, ah…” She paused, not knowing where to look, tears brimming her eyes.

  Graham moved closer, dropping his voice to where only she could hear him under the umbrella. “You’re doing fine. Go on.” His nearness brought back old memories and the thousands of times she’d wished for him to get this close.

  “Greg knelt down beside her, his knees in her…in her blood. And he stroked her hair. It was kind of sweet. He told her he loved her and that she was right to leave him. He apologized.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything. I guess. He was saying goodbye to his wife. I think he really loved her.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I called 9-1-1. He didn’t want me to. But we needed help. He kept saying that no one would believe he didn’t kill her. And then he…he…he put the gun to his head.”

  Graham made a move to pat her shoulder, but pulled the gesture last minute. There was something in his gaze, something unguarded and searching. “I’m sorry.”

  Glancing at the house, she shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t let herself think about how much she wanted his comfort, his arms around her, holding her. Having him back in San Rey after all these years… She shook her head. She couldn’t let those thoughts get any further. They’d never be what she wanted them to be.

  A sky blue 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood rolled to a stop at the curb next to Graham’s cruiser. A burl of a man unfolded from the driver’s seat and plunked a gray fedora on his head. Ham Doran still carried himself like the sheriff even though his son had replaced him. He adjusted the collar of his raincoat, nodded at Graham, then turned toward the house. There was a jerk in his stride as his gaze snagged on Erin, but he quickly covered and continued on into the house.

  She followed Ham’s movements until he disappeared inside, unable to pull her gaze away from the old sheriff. His dislike for her family ran deeper than her memories. As many times as she questioned her father and aunt about it, the harsher their reaction to her inquiry became until she stopped asking altogether. Whatever had happened between Ham Doran and her family would stay a secret.

  “Shit,” Graham grumbled.

  “Looks like someone forgot to tell your dad he’s not sheriff anymore,” Erin said.

  “He’s not supposed to be straining himself. I’m going to have to take a baseball bat to his damn police radio.”

  “Old habits are hard to break.”

  “Maybe.” He frowned at her. If he knew how badly the fullness of his lips ruined the expression, he probably wouldn’t bother with it. Drops of rain dotted his beard and Erin tried to remember what he looked like without it. Was it soft? What would it feel like on her skin?

  “Look,” he said, breaking into her thoughts and eyeing the new cars driving up the street. Mabel had obviously spread the word. “You’re covered in evidence and you need to come to the station to make a formal statement.”

  Erin glanced down at her rain and blood soaked coat. Sparring with Graham had distracted her. Maybe he’d intended that by baiting her about her job, but his words brought back the horror of the situation. She was literally covered in pieces of Greg. Her mouth filled with saliva. She pulled in sharp, cold air through her nose, trying to quell her queasy stomach. He watched her, no doubt taking in the fact that she was barely holding on. She managed a brief nod.

  “I’ll need to take your clothes in as evidence. Do you have any others you can change into?”

  “Not with me, but I can have my aunt bring me some. You really have to take my clothes?”

  More cars arrived and people began to set up tailgate-style, with lawn chairs and Easy-up tents. Ice chests were opened, beers passed and one enterprising voyeur set up a Hibachi grill. Greg and Deidre’s deaths would be the event of the century and no one wanted to miss it. She liked a great many things about the town she grew up in. But sometimes—like now—the smallness of it suffocated her.

  Graham looked a little sorry for her and a lot pissed off at their audience. “Let’s get you in the car. I’ve got to get this crime scene secured.” He took the umbrella and held it up as he guided her to his car. He covered her as she climbed into the backseat of the cruiser, then leaned in. “Don’t talk to anyone. No phone calls, nothing. Got it? I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded and he closed the door. He didn’t look back at her as he made his way into the house. She leaned against the hard, molded plastic seat and closed her eyes. The shaking started again, this time a combination of cold, fear, and being too damn close to Graham Doran.

  2

  Graham had seen some shit in his days on the LAPD, but nothing as dismal as the sight of his old high school buddy lying in a pool of blood, bits of the left side of his head floating in his wife’s blood.

  No—there’d been one worse.

  The one he couldn’t talk or think about.

  He pushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the scene before him.

  He and Greg had double-dated at their senior prom and played on the football team together. He didn’t recognize the woman Erin had said was Greg’s wife, but then he hadn’t seen Greg much since Graham had left for the police academy in Los Angeles.

  He hadn’t seen much of anyone from San Rey and had preferred it that way. In the weeks since he’d come back, at least temporarily, he’d run into everyone everywhere. He couldn’t turn around in this godforsaken small town without bumping into his first grade teacher, his old pediatrician, the girl he lost his virginity with. Or Erin December.

  He hated seeing Erin like that, pale and afraid. The gore she’d witnessed… He’d known hardened police officers who couldn’t handle what she’d seen. Hell, two of San Rey’s finest had already lost their lunches in the bushes outside the house. He’d pushed her buttons trying to stop her shivering. It had worked. She’d taken the bait and damned if she hadn’t warmed him up, too.

  She’d changed a lot since the last time he’d seen her. Or maybe it was him who had changed. In any case, something had changed, making him take note of little things about her like the way her eyes sparked when challenged and the small mole near the corner of her mouth that drew his attention to her lips. Once he’d noticed it, he’d had a hard time looking away and not imagining what it would be like to kiss her. Totally inappropriate thoughts at a thoroughly inappropriate time, but there they were. They’d taken root and he doubted he’d be able to still them or keep them from following completely inappropriate paths.

  “The coroner and crime techs are on their way over from San Luis Obispo,” Paxton Riggs said, his voice muffled by the hand he had over his mouth, no doubt to block the stench of death. “Might take them awhile to get here with this weather.”

  Pax should’ve been elected sheriff. Instead he’d been overlooked in favor of Ham Doran’s son. Small town politics. Pax was older and had been a deputy longer. Graham
expected him to be bitter. Instead he got something completely unexpected from Pax—respect and acceptance.

  Pax leaned over the woman’s body, his shoes millimeters from the edge of the blood pool, his face going a couple shades paler. “Murder/suicide, ya think?”

  “We don’t get to decide. We collect evidence,” Graham replied. He could see how it could’ve gone down that way though. The difficult thing would be determining whether or not Erin’s version of events matched the evidence or if they told a different story altogether. Graham turned to two other sheriff deputies who looked greener than the wallpaper behind them. “Wrap the yard in police tape and keep the crowd to the other side of the street. And whatever you do, don’t talk to them. I don’t care if they’re your sister, your wife or your mother. Got it?”

  They mumbled their yes sir’s and practically ran outside.

  “Dexter, I want you to stand at the door and keep the log. Everyone who comes inside the house signs it. When the Crime Scene team and Coroner get here, they’ll sign it. Station yourself on the porch. I want a tight record on this one.”

  Dexter bobbed his head, clearly grateful to be far away from the kitchen. “Yes, sir.”

  Graham turned back to Pax who was doing a good job of holding himself together. “Make sure the team tests both victims’ hands for gunshot residue, then have them come over to the station when they’re done with the house. I have a witness whose clothes will also have to be tested.”

  “Erin December? What’d she say happened?”

  “She said the woman was already dead when she got here and that Gre— Mr. Lasiter killed himself in front of her.”

  “Rough.”

  “Where’s my pop?”

  Pax jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, his gaze glued to the couple on the floor. “Out back looking for clues. He noticed the backdoor was ajar when we got here.”

  “Damn it.” Graham started for the door. “Don’t touch anything and get those other guys out of here. Send a couple of them out to knock on doors. I want to know if anyone left in this neighborhood saw or heard anything. I want the rest of the deputies outside, protecting the scene. Anyone who was off duty is officially on.”