by Lainey Reese
“It was,” he told her. “Thank you.” Before he could ask, Kiki’s watery voice broke in and beat him to it.
“Can we see her?”
“Yes. She’s resting and a little loopy still, but she’s alert.”
Kiki was out the door first, her murmured thank you barely audible. Luke was right on her heels.
When they reached the doorway, Luke hesitated. Andie lay on sheets as pale and washed-out as she was. Her face was expressionless, and the lack of displayed emotion made her appear shell-shocked. Her eyes were empty, glassy orbs, and when she turned them his way, he wondered if she actually saw anything at all, because her expression remained as vacant as a mannequin’s. The sight nearly broke him in two.
Kiki didn’t hesitate. The tiny artist let out a half-muffled sob, strode right to the bed, and climbed on. She should have looked awkward or ridiculous, clamoring onto Andie’s bed like a child, but she looked as natural and comforting as a puppy when she wrapped around her friend. Once settled, Kiki had Andie’s head cradled to her heart, one arm under her rubbing soothing circles on her back while the other stroked the grieving mother’s hair. She spoke softly, words of comfort and love, and Luke watched Andie’s icy-cold remoteness begin to melt under the onslaught of love and compassion. A moment ago, Luke would’ve given anything to see animation of any kind in Andie. Now, as her face filled with emotions too deep and terrible for words, he wished to send her mind back to wherever it had found refuge. Because watching anguish burst through that protective numbness about brought him to his knees.
“I had a girl,” Andie sobbed out. “It was a-a g-g-girl.”
“Shh,” Kiki soothed, “I know. Shhh. I love you. Oh, sweetie, it’s so awful. I’m so, so sorry. Shhh, it’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. I know. I know it hurts. It hurts so fucking much.” She was kissing Andie on the temple, forehead, and on top of her sweat-soaked curls repeatedly, like she was trying to force comfort into her. Luke loved her then and knew whatever strange, outlandish, or awkwardly naked things she did in the future, he would never again have a problem with the quirky artist. She loved Andie, and so now, Luke loved her.
He was rooted to the spot, unable to move forward. What could he say to her? What could he do? How in the hell could he offer her any comfort when he felt hollowed out by his own loss and grief? Then Andie’s drenched, bloodshot eyes met his, and when she looked at him this time, he saw she was there. The vacant stare was no longer. Luke clearly saw that the pain she was engulfed in equaled his own, and he found he could move forward after all. Like Kiki, he couldn’t fix what hurt, but he could hurt with her. He sat on the bedside opposite Kiki, took Andie’s free hand in both his, braced his elbows next to her hip, bent his head to press his lips against the back of her hand, and held there. Tears—God, would they ever dry up?—dripped steadily down his cheeks, and he let them come.
“Dad?” Logan stood in the doorway, looking as forlorn as a lost toddler, and Jax was just behind him with a supportive hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, son,” Luke told him, knowing the inner struggle his son was contending with. “It’s good you came, but you don’t need to stay. Go home, see to the chores that can’t wait, and I’ll keep you posted about what’s happening here. Okay?”
“Okay.” Relief wilted his shoulders as the tension left him. Logan looked directly at Andie for the first time, and Luke felt a new stab of pain when he saw his son’s own heartbreak reflected in his expression. “Andie? I’m so s-s-sorry. I really am.”
A sob caught in the back of Andie’s throat, and she didn’t seem to be able to speak, but she nodded at him, and Logan quietly backed away and left.
Jax looked after him for a moment then entered the room to stand at the foot of the bed. He snagged one of the nearby chairs with a foot and sat in it, holding Andie’s foot, because her hands were taken, and Luke watched as he offered what comfort he could. The two men’s eyes met over the woman they both hung onto, and something shifted between them. As Luke gazed into her former friend’s eyes, he felt the years and old hurts melt further away and knew that going forward Jax was back in his life.
Luke found he was grateful for it. He wished it had been the happy birth of his child that brought about this reconciliation instead of the loss of her, but he was grateful nonetheless. As these years had passed, he missed Jax, not Christy, and underneath all the pain, there had always been a yearning for his best friend. After some time—and it was going to take a long time, he knew—he was going to be happy again. He looked back at Andie; they all were.
Chapter 18
Agent Max Shimmer was going blind. When his supervisor first tapped him for this case, he’d been elated. Get out of the city for a while, take on an interesting country case, and work with a small local police department that had a reputation for cooperation. If he was honest with himself—and he was always honest with himself—he thought of this as a working holiday. Arrogance had convinced him he’d be able to solve this case within a few hours and then take a weekend to explore the countryside.
“Asshole,” he muttered, then muttered again when he went to take a glug of the coffee that was keeping him upright and found the cup empty, “Fuck.” He set down the mug with a snap and scrubbed his hands over his face as if he could rub the fog from his brain.
He'd expected slap dash notes and half-assed interviews. What he found was meticulous notes, interviews with people connected to each of the girls to the tenth degree in some places, and every crime scene photographed and documented down to the soil and mineral samples. That damn sheriff hadn’t missed a step, and every time Max opened the files, that fact was again pounded into him as he poured over the other man’s notes.
He'd been called into other county cases in his jurisdiction to help out, and in those—almost without fail—he spotted the holes in the previous investigator’s work within a few short hours. He’d been able to solve each case by process of elimination. It’d been his practice to study the existing work, lay it all out, identify where the leads had not been followed or the dots that had not been connected, and then it had been as simple as tidying up. In the smaller communities, it had been even easier. Most of the local forces knew who the guilty party was. They would give him their “unsubstantiated” hunches then point him after the suspect for the confession familiarity made impossible for local law enforcement to get. It wasn’t easy to get a confession out of a man who bullied you since second grade.
But Derek hadn’t missed a step or had any qualms about going for the interviews that had even the most remote connection to the case. And there wasn’t a single lead he left dangling or a hole he’d yet to fill either. Now, Max’s head throbbed, his back and neck ached like he’d grown a hunch as big as Igor’s, and he was no closer to a suspect than the sheriff had been.
Unable to stare at his files a minute longer, Max shoved up from his seat and stalked to the closet on the other side of his hotel room. Contrary to popular television, the FBI provided a decent stipend for his daily needs while on a case. He opted for a local bed-and-breakfast here, since the community was so small, and the only motel left a lot to be desired. His room was spacious and came with a decent-sized table and relatively comfortable chairs. He’d been able to set up a respectable “war room” corner with his own white board on an easel. Surprisingly, it didn’t make the space feel cramped, even with the king-sized bed, the flat screen TV, and a bathroom fancy enough to pass for a spa. But right now, he felt hemmed in by it all and needed out. As he stared at the names in his files, he worked to put faces to them all. He hoped to hell one of them would be the face of his killer.
Four hours later, he had re-interviewed with three of the names from the sheriff’s interview list and was no closer to a solid suspect than when he started. Max slid into a diner booth and reached for a menu. Maybe some coffee and a decent meal would refuel his tank and help him get a little perspective.
“Evenin’.” Sheriff Derek took
a seat opposite him and reached for his own menu.
“Good evening to you too,” Max told him, unsure of whether or not he was up for company. “Grab a seat and join me,” he added sardonically. When the other man only chuckled and continued to scan his dinner options, Max let it go. He had questions and clarifications about the case anyway. Now was as good a time as any to address those.
“I hear you talked to old Melvin again. I haven’t seen him since he got sprung from the hospital. How is he?”
“He’s tough as an old work boot. His wife and about a dozen kids and grandkids were fussing over him when I got there. I think he saw me as his savior when I asked to speak with him alone.” Max smiled wryly as he said it. He enjoyed Melvin and his family immensely. They were exactly what he pictured when he thought of wholesome countryfolk. Like a modern-day Waltons.
Derek laughed. “Yeah, Mel is a fixture ‘round here. The whole town loves him. Hell, half the town is related to the old badger. He has some close ties to a few of the Amish ‘round here too. And that says a lot about his character. That’s a closed off community; they don’t make a habit out of befriending outsiders. Like to keep to themselves for the most part.”
The waitress approached then, and they ordered two of the specials, Derek’s with black coffee and Max ordered his with sweet tea.
“I gotta tell you,” Max said when they were alone again, “I can’t find a single hole in your file to try to plug up. Nor any leads to pick up where you left off. You sure as hell didn’t give me any jumping point. This case is a son of a bitch.”
“Tell me about it,” Derek replied with a quirked brow. “Why do you think I was so happy to call you in?”
“So someone else can take the brunt of an unsolved? Thanks.” He said it without rancor, and the sheriff gave him a mock-salute in welcome.
“Seriously though, I went over every note and scribble of your case. Plus, I’ve got nowhere new to go either.” Their plates came, heaping with crispy chicken fried steaks, creamy mashed potatoes, steamed fresh vegetables, buttermilk biscuits that were light enough to float, and enough gravy to drown in. “Now, tell me what’s not in the files. Give me your gut instincts and your best guess for which rock to turn over next. Because honestly, after the first three repeat interviews, I haven’t found a single new thread to tug.
The sheriff took his sweet time answering. He chewed thoughtfully between each of the two bites he took while Max waited and ate his own meal. He respected the cop for not pouncing on this chance to spew. Too many cops—in his experience, especially small-town cops—threw far too much weight behind their hunches, and in far too many cases, that blinded them from seeing the facts of a case. Prejudiced them and colored everything they saw in a light that only proved their theory, and they started rejecting or ignoring clues that disproved the solution they were set upon. It was a dangerous and slippery slope. He was glad to see the man sitting across from him wasn’t one of those.
“Well, shit.” Derek sighed heavily around a mouthful of potatoes; he looked uneasy. “I hate going here, but if you really wanted to know where I was intending to look next, I was going to take another swing at Logan. I tried to let it go, but it’s the only string I got left to tug.”
“The kid who went to the rave with the last vic?” Max asked, bringing what was in the files to the forefront of his mind. “How does he tie in with this? What did you leave out of the file?”
“Nothing concrete,” he hedged, obviously reluctant.
“That’s a given. Come on, Sheriff, spill. I know we’re leaving the land of facts and evidence. I asked for your gut, and I’ll take whatever you tell me as such.”
Derek took another bite, chewed, then wiped his mouth with his napkin before letting out a hearty sigh and sitting back. “That’s the problem. I don’t see Logan for this, but he’s lying to me about something, and I keep circling back to him. I don’t see him connected, but he’s got me distracted.”
“Why haven’t you pressed him on it?”
“Because my guess is that him and his buddy Abram might be a hell of a lot closer than Abram’s religion allows, and I’d feel like a damn fool if that’s what Logan is hiding.”
“Oh.” Max sat back, understanding.
“Yeah, oh,” Derek said, sipping his coffee. “I’m not expecting Logan to be our perp, but I’m a methodical kinda man, and it bugs me that he’s hiding something when he knows what’s at stake here.” They both sat back as their plates were cleared, and the friendly neighborhood sheriff Derek smiled warmly at the young girl, called her by name, and asked after her momma. Max shook his head in bemusement; guy was straight out of a classic western. Lone Ranger all the way.
“I’m planning to take another pass at Logan tomorrow—” Derek broke off midsentence when Max lifted his hand in a questioning gesture.
“Why don’t you let me do it?” Max asked him. “They don’t know me so won’t expect me to go light on ‘em like they would you. If I get them separately and act ignorant to their laws, maybe the Amish kid will fess up. He won’t feel like he’s being judged if he’s talking to someone who doesn’t know the rules he’s supposed to be following.”
“I don’t know.” Derek sounded unconvinced. “I’m not sure you’ve got all their reasons for keeping quiet accounted for here. It’s a lot deeper than embarrassment, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not embarrassment, no. Well, not only. There will be some element to that for him, considering his upbringing. But I’m banking on hitting as a different species under his radar. If I come off as completely alien to him—all the while managing to get across the life-and-death weightiness of the situation—he might confide in me in order to clear his friend. See, I’ll be so foreign to his way of living it’d be like making his confession to a dog. Or a Martian. Whatever, you get the picture.” He motioned with his glass. “The point is, what will it matter to him if some outsider from the big, bad city knows his dirty little secret? Telling me won’t touch his world. Telling you, a regular and permanent part of said world, definitely would.”
“Well,” Derek conceded, “you make a pretty good argument. That being said, just because I see your point doesn’t mean they will.”
“We’ll just have to give it a try and find out. In the meantime, got any more hunches you wanna share, Sheriff?”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Christy sat in the driver seat with a two-handed, white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
“Well, good idea or not, we’re here, so we might as well see it through.” They were back at the big farm where Logan worked, and Sharon cradled the still warm casserole in her lap with nervous fingers. “You made them this dish like a good country neighbor. It was sweet of you, and all we’re doing is dropping it off. It’s a nice thing to do. So let’s go do the nice thing. It’s on them if they don’t accept it.”
“I know.” Christy took a couple deep, fast breaths like she was getting ready to dive underwater. “Let’s just do it fast. God, Shar, what if my boy answers? What if I’m about to see him? What if I don’t recognize him? What if—”
“Okay, time to get out of the car. Quick, before you talk yourself into a nuthouse.” Sharon had her door open and was out of the car before she finished talking. She headed for the house without giving Christy a chance to stall with more talk. Christy had no choice but to follow or get left behind.
Sharon mounted the steps with Christy hot on her heels and was about to knock when she finally noticed there was someone curled up in the porch swing.
“Oh, hey,” Sharon said, uncomfortable at the thought that she’d been watched all this time. “We didn’t see you there. Do you remember us? We met a couple months ago? Outside your—well, on the sidewalk, downtown.”
The woman who sat solemn-eyed and silent wrapped in a downy comforter looked nothing like the vivacious and laughing woman she met not too long ago. Her skin was as pale as the blanket she was wrapped in, and there was a dejection
in her expression that had tears biting at the backs of Sharon’s eyes.
Andie didn’t speak; she just nodded then looked away as if they weren’t still standing in front of her holding a big pan of food.
“Andie?” Christy used her wounded animal voice on her, and Sharon looked at her quizzically, wondering what she was up to. “Andie honey? You’re not here alone, are you? Here, can I sit next to you for a spell? We brought you something to eat. Baked potato casserole. It’s my signature dish; everybody loves it. It’s got everything in there you’d ever imagine putting on a spud and then some.” As she chattered on, Christy sat gingerly next to Andie and subtly began to fuss. She tucked the blanket more securely around her, brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and then rubbed soothingly along the curl of the other woman’s back. “You’re not here alone, are you?”
“No, we wouldn’t leave her alone.”
A woman walked out the front door with a sketchpad under one arm and two cups of coffee in her hands. “Here you go, sweetie. It’s hot and sweet enough to rot your teeth. Drink up.” But Andie only took the cup and cradled it in her hands, forgotten the moment her eyes swung back to the horizon.
Sharon didn’t know what else to do, so she thrust the dish at the newcomer. “Here, we made this. Well, Christy made it. I can’t cook for shit. It’s potatoes. They’re good.”
“Thanks. This smells delicious. Andie? You want a scoop?” She lifted the cover and waved the pan temptingly under Andie’s chin. Then she sighed heavily when the only response was a small shake of her head.
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday at the hospital. You’re gonna lose your curves if you keep this up. I’m going to set this right here where you can smell it and see all that melted cheese and crumbled bacon. I got ten bucks that says you’ll be scarfing it in under an hour.” Then she did just that. She plopped the steaming pan on the table right in front of Andie, and Sharon hoped the trick worked; the shadowed eyes and hollowed out cheeks were hauntingly sad.
