“Leave now,” he told the reporters. “You can’t come within fifty yards of my daughter—which means you’ll be reporting from the middle of the creek.”
He slammed the door in their faces. Out of their sight, he turned his back to the solid oak door and slid down to the slate floor, burying his face in his hands. He heard them drive off but didn’t look up.
It was happening. All over again. He’d barely survived it the first time. How was he going to find the strength to do this again—and protect Nellie?
A knock came at the door and he jumped up, adrenaline fueling his rage, ready to do serious harm to any reporter on the other side. He yanked the door open. “I told you—”
It was Gloria and Peter.
“Oh. Sorry. I thought you were reporters.”
“They were here? At the house?” Peter said as Tommy let them in. “What about the judge’s order?”
“Apparently reporters have a short memory. Don’t worry, I got rid of them.”
“You know there’ll be more,” Gloria said, straightening the rumpled couch pillows. She glanced back at Tommy. “Where’s your friend?”
He frowned. “Who? Lucy? She left hours ago to check on the state police and their progress.”
Her frown matched his. “No. Your special lady friend. Sarah.”
“Gloria,” Peter said, clearly uncomfortable with his wife’s insinuations.
“She’s not a friend of any kind,” Tommy protested. “She’s a client. We were just both exhausted and fell asleep on the couch. There’s nothing more. Besides, with everything going on, I’ll probably never see her again. Lucy and the others will deal with her case. It’ll all be over by the time I get back to work.”
Gloria twisted her lips in suspicion. “Okay. It’s just that Nellie seemed especially attached to her and I don’t want to see her hurt.”
How could Tommy argue with that? Impulsively he gave his mother-in-law a quick peck on the cheek. “That makes two of us.”
<><><>
LUCY SHUFFLED BLEARY-EYED
into the kitchen. Nick wordlessly handed her a cup of coffee. She’d stayed up with Tommy until around three, then spent another hour talking things through with Nick once she’d arrived home. After that, she’d tried to get some sleep while Nick had left for a pre-dawn run. He was now freshly showered and appeared ready for anything.
Unlike Lucy. Resilience. That was maybe the greatest hidden damage her leg injury had cost her. More than the pain or the inability to trust her balance was the new realization that she simply couldn’t bounce back the way she had before. As if agreeing with her, her foot dragged, catching on the floorboards, sending a fresh strike of pain racing from her toes up to her teeth.
She sank into the nearest chair, her breath escaping in a rush while she tried to pretend that she was simply blowing to cool her coffee. Didn’t fool anyone. Megan, who was eating a bowl of cereal while watching a video on her phone, glanced up.
“Want me to run up and get your brace, Mom?”
Before Lucy could tell her no, she was gone. Leaving her with Nick, who leaned against the counter, observing her over his own cup of coffee.
“Don’t say it,” she muttered. Her coffee was still a touch too hot, but she needed it, so she gulped down a scalding mouthful, feeling the burn tangle with the pain from her leg. Funny how pain worked—sometimes different types blocked each other; sometimes one would swallow the other, growing and multiplying; sometimes they’d spar and end up shattering, ricochets spraying out across her entire body.
“Say what?” Nick asked after she’d taken a second sip of coffee.
“That I should stay home and take it easy. That I was foolish to climb that mountain yesterday.” Although the climb wasn’t strenuous at all, and her ankle had been fine on the way up—it was coming down that had done it in. “That I’m getting too involved.”
He rocked his head as if considering her words. Then he set his mug on the counter and came over to wrap his arms around her from behind, leaning down to rest his head against hers. “I was only going to say that I’ll be working at the VA today, and if you need me, just call.”
“Why do you put up with me?” she asked with a sigh.
He kissed her, then straightened, his back sounding tiny creaks that made her feel better—petty, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “It’s your cooking,” he answered. “I’ll never have to worry about getting fat.”
“If you didn’t make such good coffee I’d throw this cup at you.”
He held his hands up in surrender.
Megan returned with Lucy’s ankle brace. It was designed to keep her foot from dragging and to support her ankle where she’d lost the muscles meant to do the job. Lucy had a love-hate relationship with it—it was hot and chafed, and she could only wear certain shoes, but it did its job and she couldn’t do without it. The last was probably the biggest reason why she despised it. Not only was the brace a constant reminder of what she’d lost, it was also a reminder of how powerless she was. Her rehab had helped her to regain far more than the doctors had anticipated, but she was nowhere near her old idea of normal.
“Thanks, honey.” Lucy strapped on the brace. “I saw Oshiro yesterday.”
“I know. June texted me. She was wondering if I could babysit for them this weekend.”
“Don’t you have that English paper due? The one that’s a third of your grade?”
“Already finished. Just need to polish it—and I can do that there after the baby goes to sleep.”
“All right, then.”
“Great, thanks.” In a flash of movement Megan took her bowl to the sink and rinsed it, put it in the dishwasher, and was gone, clattering back up the stairs to finish getting ready for school.
Lucy watched her go with wistful eyes. “I can’t believe she’s so excited about taking care of someone else’s baby. She never even liked playing with baby dolls.”
“I think it’s the money,” Nick said with a laugh. “Not to mention the feeling of responsibility, independence.”
“Getting away from us, you mean.”
“I think, given our jobs, we both tend to be a bit overprotective. She’s a good kid, though.”
Lucy thought back to the stupid stunts she’d pulled when she was Megan’s age, rebelling against her own mother. Miracle she’d lived past that tumultuous stage. “We are so lucky.”
The phone rang. Nick handed it to her.
It was TK. “Sarah’s gone.”
DESPITE TOMMY’S PROTESTS
—he actually enjoyed cooking—Gloria fixed breakfast for all of them. He couldn’t help but notice that Nellie didn’t ask for Sugar Loops, not even once. And she cleaned her plate.
Ah, the way a mercurial five-year-old could play mind games. It was as if she sensed exactly where he was vulnerable and pushed at those soft spots without mercy. Not because of any overarching well-considered plan to manipulate him. No. It was simply that Nellie was screaming in silent pain and needed to know he heard her.
As he moved to get coffee refills for the adults, he paused behind Nellie and brushed her hair with his hand.
“What?” she asked, squirming to look up at him.
“Nothing. Just I love you.”
That earned him a squinched nose. He pinched it, twisted his fingers in the age-old “got your nose” gesture, and she smiled. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
“After you put your dishes in the dishwasher,” Gloria told Nellie, “I’ll help you pack. Are you excited about coming to the farm for the week?”
Nellie loved Gloria and Peter’s farm with the horses—including a pony they’d bought for her, over Tommy’s protests—and the land to run free. Not to mention the shopping trips that invariably happened and the other assorted spoiling. But lately she’d been reluctant to leave Tommy’s side, whether for school or overnight visits with her grandparents. “Is Daddy coming, too?”
“Of course. He deserves a vacation, doesn’t he?”
Nellie leapt off her chair and took her plate to the dishwasher without prompting. “Daddy, can we bring apples for the horses? And Misty?” Misty was the pony, or as Nellie liked to call her, “my horse.”
“If we have any. Go look.”
She opened the refrigerator and began removing apples and other potential horse treats, like the baby carrots he’d bought for her lunches, and placing them on the counter.
“You’ll want to empty the fridge anyway,” Peter said. “Don’t want to come back to spoiled milk.”
The doorbell rang, startling them all. Nellie dropped an apple and it rolled under the table. “Are the monsters back, Daddy?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.”
He marched to the door, Peter behind him. But when he looked through the sidelight, it wasn’t a reporter, it was Burroughs. Tommy opened the door, a feeling of dread sloshing the scrambled eggs he’d just eaten, dissolving them to sour acid. With it came a strange feeling of déjà vu as well.
During the initial investigation, once it had become clear that the job would require multiple investigators from several jurisdictions and the state police, Burroughs had been assigned as the main point of contact for Tommy and the family. He’d been the one keeping them updated when the staties dragged the river. And again each time another body or lead surfaced that required follow-up.
But this time, it felt different. Final.
“Detective. Have they found anything more?”
Burroughs glanced past Tommy to where Peter stood. “We should talk in private.”
Peter stepped forward, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the kitchen. “Is it her? Is it my daughter?”
Tommy noted that he also shied away from using Charlotte’s name in conjunction with a dead body. Guess even engineers weren’t immune to magical thinking.
They both waited for Burroughs’ answer. The detective shook his head. “No positive ID. They’re going slow so they don’t miss anything.”
“Did they call in a forensic anthropologist?” Tommy asked.
“A team from Pitt are starting later this morning. As soon as we’ve finished retrieving the other evidence.”
“What other evidence?”
“Artifacts found near the scene. Most of it debris left by hikers, but we’re collecting it all.” He hesitated, again glancing at Peter. “That’s actually why I’m here. I brought a crime scene unit tech. We’d like to examine your vehicle, if you’ll give us permission.”
Tommy frowned. “Of course. But the state police already went over it.”
After Charlotte’s Pathfinder had been found abandoned, the police had impounded it as evidence and kept it for months before returning it to Tommy. It had sat in Charlotte’s spot in the single-car garage ever since, while Tommy kept the Volvo outside on the driveway. He still started the SUV occasionally to keep the battery charged, and often he’d sit in it, trying to absorb any essence of Charlotte remaining, but he hadn’t had the heart to drive it, despite the fact that it was almost two decades newer than his Volvo.
“I’ll just be a minute,” Tommy told Peter as he grabbed his keys. He escorted Burroughs outside via the front door, taking the long way around to the garage instead of going through the kitchen to the inside door.
As they walked down the path, he saw that Burroughs had not just brought the crime scene tech but also a flatbed tow truck. He also spotted two news vans parked down the street, just beyond the fifty-yard limit. A few neighbors watched from their windows. Tommy turned away from their questioning glances. He knew from experience that engaging curiosity only created more grist for the neighborhood rumor mill.
He raised the garage door and handed Burroughs his keys, selecting Charlotte’s electronic key fob. But to his surprise, Burroughs chose the key to the Volvo instead.
“Actually, it’s your car I’d like to examine. With your permission, of course.”
“Sure, but why? What are you looking for?” He’d driven the Volvo to Fiddler’s Knob yesterday; was there something they thought he might have picked up while there?
Burroughs handed the keys back to Tommy. “If you wouldn’t mind opening it?”
Tommy opened the driver’s door and gestured to Burroughs, who in turn waved the tech over to join them. They both stood aside as the tech, clad in overalls and wearing gloves, climbed into the car.
“And the rear compartment?”
“Sure, but it’s a mess.” Tommy lifted the latch. The back of the station wagon was cluttered; it was where everything ended up when he had no time to return it to its proper place inside the house.
Burroughs leaned in, looking without touching. “Do you have a spare tire?”
“It’s under everything.” Tommy pushed aside his first aid kit, Nellie’s bag of toys, books, and puzzles that she kept for “emergencies” like getting stuck waiting for Tommy with nothing to do, a blanket, tarp, box of garbage bags, and a box of wet wipes, and was finally able to raise the top of the spare tire compartment. “There you go.”
Burroughs craned his head in, scrutinizing the spare tire and jack. “What about the tire iron? And the lug nut wrench?”
Tommy lowered the lid to the spare tire compartment. “Volvo included a tool box, here in this side compartment.” He opened the compartment to reveal the tool kit.
“Okay if I open it?” Burroughs asked.
“Sure.”
To Tommy’s surprise, the detective donned nitrile gloves—the same type Tommy used to wear in the ER. A cold feeling in the pit of his stomach warned him that he’d made a mistake, that this was all wrong, but there was no going back now. All he could do was maintain a facade of normality. Even though it was clear from the way Burroughs was acting that everything was very much not normal.
Burroughs unclipped the lid of the tool kit and opened it. The kit had molded inserts to keep each tool in its proper place. While the crescent wrenches and a pair of screwdrivers were secured in their compartments, there was a gaping void slashing diagonally across the tool kit. “Looks like the tire iron is missing.”
“Should be in there.”
“When’s the last time you saw it?” Burroughs asked.
“I don’t know. Years? I’ve never had a flat, so I’ve never used it. Want to tell me why you’re so interested?” He had a sinking feeling but could not admit the possibility, not even as a question—best to let Burroughs do the talking. Anything Tommy asked would just be misconstrued and used against him.