by K. A. Tucker
“Sounds familiar.”
“His daughter lives in Tucson. My mom left something for her, and I had to bring it to her in person. Plus I figured it’d be good to get away for a bit.”
“You could have told me.”
“Sorry, man. It was last minute.”
“Alright. Well, I guess I’m taking Craig with me. See you tonight?”
“Actually, I’m gonna crash at home.”
“Noah . . . you know you shouldn’t be sitting in that house alone.”
“I won’t be. Gracie’s coming back to Texas for a while and she needed a place to stay, so she’s staying there too.”
“Oh yeah?” A pause. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a firecracker, is what she is.” It would have been so much less complicated for me had I left her in Tucson.
“As hot as one, too?”
I chuckle. “It’s not like that.”
“So . . . she’s hot, then.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “How hot? Scale of one to your-hand-is-getting-sore.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Come on . . .”
I grin. “She’s hot as hell. She’s got this wild, curly hair, and these green eyes. And a body—”
The passenger door behind me opens, startling me.
“What about her body?” Jenson presses.
“I’ve gotta go.”
“You’ll be at tomorrow’s pickup game, right?”
“Probably not.” I hang up before he has a chance to bust my balls.
Cyclops jumps up onto the backseat, his tail wagging as he peers at me through his one eye.
“He’s getting used to his leash.” Gracie gives his head a scratch.
“He’s a whole new dog.” His once matted fur is soft and fluffy and almost inviting to touch.
I watch her round the hood of my Jeep. Maybe she didn’t hear me talking to Jenson.
“Are you sure you can drive?” she asks as she climbs in. “That five-hour nap may not have been enough for you.”
I smile at her sarcasm. “I feel great. You should grab a few hours, too.”
“This body doesn’t need it.”
I crank the engine and take a few extra seconds to check my side-view mirror, waiting for my cheeks to cool.
She heard me talking to Jenson alright.
* * *
A twelve-hour road trip with any one person can feel like an eternity, especially when you’re driving hundreds of miles through uncivilized desert and forced to either talk or listen to a static-filled country-music radio station.
And yet hundreds of miles with Gracie hasn’t been painful at all. Maybe that’s because we’ve taken turns being unconscious through most of it.
It’s only now that we’re attempting conversation.
“This is a whole lot of nothing,” Gracie murmurs, taking in the strip of gas stations as we make our way through another sleepy town.
“It’s not the most exciting drive.”
She groans and stretches her legs out on the dashboard. “Forget the drive. I don’t know how anyone could live out here. What do you do with your time besides sleep and drink?” She nods at a derelict-looking Mexican restaurant. “And eat tacos.”
Each time we pass a streetlight, it casts a glow over her shapely bare legs. “Not much,” I agree, stealing a glance every chance I get.
“I won’t miss serving queso and chips, that’s for sure.”
“How’d you leave the job situation, by the way?”
“I told them I’m going out of town.”
“And?” Sometimes getting Gracie to answer questions is like pulling teeth. I can’t tell if it’s because she can’t be bothered to talk about herself, or she doesn’t trust me with personal information, or her head is too wrapped up in other thoughts.
“They said to come by and see them when I’m back in Tucson. If they haven’t filled my spot, then it’s mine.” She snorts. “So much for being a highly valued employee. QuikTrip even gave me a raise last month. A whole fifteen cents more per hour.”
I whistle mockingly. “I’m sure you’ll find something new easily enough.”
“Yeah, I’m not worried. I mean, there are Aunt Chilada’s everywhere. Did you know my mom worked at one in Austin? Wouldn’t that be funny? If I decided to stay in Texas and worked at the same one?”
Gracie, staying in Texas? What would make her want to do that? Especially with everything that happened to her father. Though I can see why she doesn’t hold much love for Tucson, either.
“How did Dina end up in Texas, anyway?”
“She took off for Austin with a friend when she was seventeen. She had these grand plans of marrying into a Texas oil family. You know, get far away from her trailer-trash childhood. Anyway, my dad pulled her over for speeding one day. She cried and told him that they’d fire her if she was late to work again. She promised she’d never speed again if he let her go. It actually worked. He let her go with a warning.
“That same night, he showed up at the restaurant after his shift and asked to sit in her section. He wanted to make sure she hadn’t been fired. They got to talking and . . . by the end of her shift, she knew he was the one. She got pregnant with me three months later, and they got married straightaway.”
“That’s a great story.”
“Yeah.” She picks at a thread on her shirt. “When I was little, my mom would hold me in her arms at night and tell me all kinds of great stories about him. Those were the good old days, when I thought he’d died in an accident.”
Meanwhile Dina buried the dark, scary truths deep inside, until they began rotting away at her.
We pass a highway road sign for Austin.
“Only two more hours, right?” Gracie asks, and I swear I hear a tremor in her voice.
* * *
I navigate the familiar streets, a conflicting sense of emptiness and relief building as I turn into our neighborhood, and then into our quiet cul-de-sac. My quiet cul-de-sac soon. It’s strange to say that.
“Home sweet home.”
Gracie’s gaze rolls over my darkened house, which by comparison to what she came from is a palace. “It’s nice.”
I turn off the engine and rest my hands on my lap for a moment, staring at the covered front porch. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at it again without seeing yellow police tape around it.
From the backseat, Cyclops gets to his feet, having spent most of the ride belly up and snoring like a lap dog. “So there are a couple of neighborhood cats around here . . .”
“He’s never actually killed a cat, as far as I know.” Gracie sees the look on my face and huffs. “I’ll keep him on the leash.”
“He can run free in the backyard, as long as he doesn’t dig under the fence.” I slide out of the driver’s seat and stretch my sore legs. I collect our bags from the back.
“I’m capable of carrying my own bag.” Gracie holds her hand out.
I put on an extra-heavy Texas drawl to mock her. “Not in Texas you aren’t, little lady.” That earns me an eye roll, but also a ghost of a smile. She doesn’t argue further, trailing me along the stone path, her shoes dragging. I can’t tell if that’s due to weariness or reluctance.
“My mom said our house in Austin was nice.”
“You had a deep backyard,” I confirm, my keys jangling in the quiet night. “And a big-ass Texas state flag—”
“Hanging from the porch. He hung it before they even stepped inside, the day the Realtor gave them the keys. He was so proud to be a Texan. She took it with us when we moved.” Gracie adds in a softer voice, “It’s gone now.”
I sense the melancholy slipping in and I’m desperate to chase it away. “He had a basketball net on the garage door. That’s where I learned how to play. And there was this one day, I was dribbling the ball out there after school and the neighbors called the cops for a noise complaint. Your dad showed up with his partner, and then my mom showed up, along with another cruiser of cops.
They all started playing in the driveway, in their uniforms.” I smile at the memory. “Three on three. Even my mom, who couldn’t dribble a ball to save her life.”
“Did the neighbors ever complain again?”
“If they did, I never heard about it. Abe told me to keep on playing because it meant I was staying out of trouble.” Every once in a while I still hear his booming voice, telling me to keep my eyes up, to dribble low, to use my body to block.
I climb the front steps to the porch and unlock the door. I step aside so she can let Cyclops off his leash. He takes off through the house as I disarm the alarm system, his nose to the tile. “Go ahead, make yourself at home,” I say mockingly, but to be honest, it’s nice to have a dog in the house again. Mom and I had talked about getting another dog when I moved back, but neither of us could commit to the kind of schedule it would need.
I wonder what he smells. The forty or so boots and shoes that have traipsed through here in the last few weeks? The bleach mixture used to scour the kitchen and remove the blood?
Or maybe it’s the faint scent of lilac—my mother’s favorite—from the plug-in air fresheners. It still lingers, even weeks after the oil has burned up.
A strange silence settles over us as Gracie’s eyes travel down the long hall toward the kitchen, her arms folding tightly as if she feels a chill. “Does it feel weird being here, after . . . ?” She drifts off.
“I can’t stand being here,” I answer honestly. “Being in the kitchen is the worst, especially at night. I’ve only been back three times since she died.”
Gracie bites her bottom lip. “So if I hadn’t come, where would you have stayed?”
“I was supposed to move to my uncle Silas’s this week.” He’s going to have a thing or two to say about me bringing Gracie back with me. I’m not looking forward to that conversation. Then again, I’m sure he’ll be easily distracted when I tell him about Klein.
“So I messed up your plans.”
“Not at all. Follow me.” I show her to her room upstairs, setting her bag inside the door. “The guest bathroom is there.” I nod to the bedroom opposite hers. “And that’s mine.”
She eyes my door, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m gonna crash. Do you need anything?”
“A glass of water.”
I open my mouth to offer to get it for her, even though I’d rather run headfirst into a wall than go into that kitchen right now.
“It’s okay. I can get it for myself. Remember? Independent woman.”
“Right.” I watch her descend the stairs with slow, measured steps.
But I don’t have the guts to follow her.
* * *
Mom kept meticulous records—paperwork filed neatly, spending tracked thoroughly.
How thoroughly, though, I wonder, as I’ve just spent two hours sifting through the tall filing cabinet in her office.
Did she account for all her money?
Will there be something in these folders that explains the ninety-eight thousand dollars that she left to Gracie? Something that proves it isn’t tied to that drug bust?
If there is, I haven’t found it. All I’ve found are tax returns that look legitimate and three years of her personal spending records that match her salary on the police force.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Grace’s voice cuts into the eerie silence, startling me enough that I jump. “Sorry.” She leans against the door frame, her smooth legs crossing at the ankles, her arms crossing at her chest. Her shorts and tank top leave just enough to the imagination. Even at three a.m., my blood begins to race.
It doesn’t help that I can feel her intense gaze drag over my body. Had I known she was going to show up, I would have thrown on pants over my boxer briefs.
I smoothly slide Klein’s business cards into the top drawer. I’ll tell her about him after I talk to Silas. “I thought I’d do a few quick online searches for your aunt. Get those out of the way.” The same rudimentary steps I take when I’m searching for people in my job. I hit up Google, all the major social media sites, a few people-search databases. Two Betsy Richardses and two dozen Elizabeth Richardses turned up, but nothing promising yet.
She nods toward the file folder in my hand marked Visa, a knowing smile touching her lips. “You’re still holding out hope about that money, aren’t you?”
“I was just looking for . . . I don’t know what I was looking for.” I sigh, flipping it open. Every month reads mostly the same—weekly grocery shopping, gas, maintenance on her BMW, stops at local restaurants to grab lunches. Mom paid for everything on her card. She liked to collect points for that big trip she talked about taking one day. Where to, she couldn’t decide.
A line item catches my notice.
A charge at a gas station in El Paso.
I keep scrolling through the statement—from two months ago—to find a hotel charge in Tucson.
“What is it?” Gracie asks, stepping farther into the room.
“Did your mother mention my mom coming to see her?”
Gracie frowns in thought. “No.”
“You sure? Maybe when she was high and you assumed she was making up things?”
“I wasn’t the one who was high.” Understanding passes over Gracie’s face. “Your mom came to Tucson, didn’t she?”
“For one night, back in February.” The same weekend that Jenson and I flew to Colorado Springs to go snowboarding.
“Why didn’t she give us the money then?”
“I tried to make it right. But I couldn’t even face her. I couldn’t face what I’d done to her; what I’d made her become.”
“Because she was a coward,” I whisper, sliding the bill back where it was and shutting the filing cabinet. So far, everything she said that last night, though seemingly incoherent, ties to the truth.
Based on her call to Klein, my mother knew Mantis killed Abe and she did nothing about it. The question is, why? If I figure that out, then maybe I can distract the feds from wondering why I lied to the police in the first place. Maybe I can keep my mother’s name—and her own admissions of guilt—out of this. But in order to do that, I need information.
Tomorrow . . . I’ve had enough truth for today. “Let’s go to bed.”
Gracie’s eyebrow lifts with surprise, making me replay my choice of words and then cringe, as I brace myself for the sharp-tongued rejection I’ve come to expect from her.
“Good night, Noah.” She disappears down the hall, into her room.
I shake my head, the smile slipping out despite the somber mood. “ ’Night, Gracie.”
CHAPTER 28
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 24, 2003
“Mike!” I clasp hands with the officer sitting behind the desk. “Where have you been all summer, besides not on the court?”
“In hell.” He gestures to the brace around his knee, frustration filling his round face.
“Still?” Mike Rhoades tore his MCL chasing down punks who’d robbed a convenience store months ago and, it appears, is still on light administrative duty.
“It was this place or answering phones. Either way . . . great for the waistline.” He pats his growing stomach to emphasize his sarcasm.
“So? How is it down here?” I rattle the fence partition that surrounds the desk. It’s part of the evidence room’s security measures.
He shrugs, then offers a wan smile. “They let me out to see daylight every once in a while.”
“Damn, man. Hope you’re back on the road soon.”
“You and me both. Definitely before they upgrade this computer system. I don’t want anything to do with that mess.” He sees that I’ve come empty-handed. “So what are you doing down here?”
I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s behind me. “You know that big bust over at The Lucky Nine the other night?”
“Who doesn’t? Canning wants to give Mantis a commendation for that one.”
“Yeah, I heard.” I hesitate.
“Can you tell me what was logged in for evidence?”
His bushy eyebrow pops up, making me think that I’m overstepping our long-standing friendship.
“Or, at least, how much cash came in with the drugs?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
After a long pause, Mike shifts his attention to his computer and begins tapping the keys. I wait quietly, watching his gaze as it scrolls down the screen.
His head shakes slightly. “No cash. A shit-ton of drugs, four guns . . . no cash.” His green eyes flicker to me. “Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
More like a glaring understanding about how Canning’s prize-winning hounds are operating.
CHAPTER 29
Grace
Cyclops growls at the strange bird caw.
I scratch behind his ear to settle him, and he relaxes against my side once again. “I know, buddy. Weird, right?” I snuck out to the back porch to huddle in this wicker chair and watch the sunrise half an hour ago and in that time we’ve listened to ten of the bluish-black crows singing back and forth to each other, Cyclops’s mangled ear twitching this way and that.
Otherwise, it’s been peacefully quiet out here, giving me a chance to gather my thoughts with a view of Jackie Marshall’s backyard, an urban oasis of large trees and border gardens surrounding a kidney-shaped pool, and a gate in the fence to a park beyond. It’s paradise.
What would my life have been like, had my father not died? Would I have grown up in a quiet suburb with gardens and trees?
I’ve often wondered that through the years.
“Who were you, really, Jackie Marshall?” I whisper into the morning quiet.
Everything is so meticulous. The gardens are cared for and bursting with spring blooms; the pool is crystal clear, the stone around it pristine. Inside is a house full of order, a palette of beige, creams, and coral, everything from the clean-line furniture to the knickknacks flowing seamlessly. Cookbooks sit in neat stacks on shelves, the spines barely cracked. Cute “hearth and home” signs hang from hooks on the wall, welcoming family and friends. It all makes me conjure a version of the blonde Texan woman who doesn’t leave the house without a pristinely made face and a stylish outfit, who offers sweet tea to every guest before they have a chance to cross the door’s threshold, who hums while she putters in the kitchen, her apron on to protect her clothes.
