Читать книгу Unraveling the Past - Beth Andrews - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

“I DON’T KNOW HOW the Boston P.D. does things,” Ross’s secretary Donna Holliday said in her precise tone, “but in Mystic Point we tend to start our workday at 8:00 a.m. Sharp.”

Ross tucked his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he climbed out of his car and shut the door. Donna, like the car, the beat-up metal desk in his office and the animosity from his entire department, had come with the police-chief position.

He’d love nothing more than to give all of them back.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he told Donna, deciding not to mention how he’d been working all night—which she damn well knew—because she’d probably point out how most of the department had been up all night and were already at work. “Twenty, tops.”

“Better stick with fifteen. Between that body popping up and you busting a kiddie party, we’ve been inundated with calls and visitors. We’ve had everyone from conspiracy theorists who are certain the bones belong to Jimmy Hoffa, to parents calling for your badge for having their little darlings brought home in a police car. And if that’s not enough to light a fire under your rear—”

“As always, I’m astounded by your professionalism,” he said dryly.

“The mayor’s assistant called,” she continued, ignoring him—nothing new there, “to say His Honor will be gracing us with his presence at nine sharp.”

“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

He ended the call, slid the phone into his pocket and jogged up the steps to the back door, the bushy, overgrown shrubs on either side of the stairs scratching his arms. Inside, he tossed his keys on the counter and headed straight to the refrigerator. Mustard, ketchup, a carton of eggs he didn’t remember buying, milk and leftover pizza from two nights ago. Or was it three?

With a shrug, he pulled out the box, grabbed the slice inside and bit into it. And almost ripped his teeth out in the process. Definitely three nights ago.

He took another bite as he hurried upstairs to his bedroom. Holding the pizza in his mouth, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it toward the open hamper in the corner of the room where it landed on the edge to dangle by a sleeve. He took out the last uniform shirt in his closet and shoved his arms in, leaving it hanging open while he finished his breakfast.

He needed groceries. And to throw a couple of loads of laundry in the washing machine. The yard hadn’t been mowed in two weeks. He threw the pizza crust into the plastic garbage can next to his bed and buttoned his shirt. He’d put them all on his To-Do List, right after Identify Remains, Solve Mystery of Yet Unknown Person’s Death and Straighten Out Rebellious Niece.

At least he could cross one item off this morning—though it was the last thing on the list he wanted to tackle.

Tucking in his shirt, he went out into the hall. Jessica’s bedroom door, as usual, was closed, the whiteboard hanging off it sporting her flowing script in red: Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

Ross squeezed the back of his neck. Guess a Keep Out sign would be too subtle.

He knocked. “Jess?” Nothing. No sound of any kind from the room. He tapped his forehead against the door several times. He really didn’t have time for his niece’s games. Lifting his head, he used the side of his fist to pound against the wood. “Jess! Open the door.”

Still nothing. Trying the lock, he raised his eyebrows when it turned easily. As with it usually being closed, the door was also often locked. He opened it wide enough to see inside. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds covering the two windows, illuminating a lump on the single bed.

“Get up,” he said, flipping on the overhead light. Jess stirred then snuggled deeper into her pillow. Ross shoved the door open. It hit the wall with a resounding bang.

Jessica jackknifed into a sitting position with a gasp. Breathing heavily she twisted from side to side as if to locate what had woken her. She shoved her tangled, dirty hair from her eyes and blinked rapidly.

Ross leaned against the doorjamb. “Good morning, sunshine.”

She hit the bed with both hands. “What is wrong with you? Were you raised by psychopaths or something?”

“Is that any way to talk about your papa and Grammy?” And if his active, sixty-year-old mother ever heard him call her Grammy, she’d hit him upside the head with her tennis racket. “It’s time to get up.”

“It’s not even nine!”

“From now on, you’ll be up and out of bed each morning by eight,” he said, kicking clothes out of his way as he crossed the floor to one of the windows. He opened the blinds. “Which shouldn’t be a problem since your new bedtime is 9:00 p.m.”

“You’re kidding,” she said flatly.

“Not even a little.” He opened the second set of blinds and she winced, holding her hands up like some vampire trying to ward off the brightness.

Going by how many times she’d puked last night, she probably had one hell of a hangover. She groaned and flopped back onto the bed, one arm covering her eyes, her face pale. Sweat dotted her upper lip, dampened the hair along her forehead. Sympathy stirred. If he was a good uncle, a more caring guardian, he wouldn’t want her to suffer. Would offer her pain meds to stop the pounding in her head. Ginger ale to soothe the dryness of her mouth and ease the churning in her stomach.

A good uncle wouldn’t think she’d gotten exactly what she deserved for not only disobeying him and breaking the law, but following in her mother’s footsteps.

He stood at the foot of her bed, his hands on the curved wooden footboard. “You have piss-poor decision-making skills, no sense of right and wrong and way too much unstructured free time.”

She lowered the arm from her face. “Go. Away.”

“And while I can’t do anything about the first two, I’m taking control of the third.” He checked his watch, saw he had less than ten minutes to get to the station. If he used his lights and siren, he could make it there in three. “Which is why today you will mow the grass, sweep and mop the kitchen floor and do the laundry. And since all that shouldn’t take long, you can also clean out the garage.”

“Screw you,” she spat. “I’m not your servant.”

“This isn’t about servitude. It’s about taking responsibility and doing your fair share around your home.”

“This isn’t a home. It’s a prison!”

Ross scratched the side of his neck. Sweet God but she was as dramatic and rebellious as her mother had been at that age. And he was as clueless now as he’d been then as an eighteen-year-old watching his kid sister spiral out of control.

“Fine.” You couldn’t argue with certain segments of people. Stoners, sociopaths and teenagers. None of them listened to reason. “It’s a prison. And after today it’s going to be a clean prison with a neatly mowed yard.”

“That’s why you took me in, isn’t it? So you could have someone to clean up after you.”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t expect much from her. Obedience. Respect. Maybe a bit of gratitude for how he’d rearranged his entire life for her.

He’d settle for one out of three, and at this point, he didn’t even care which one it was.

“I took you in,” he pointed out, “because it was the right thing to do. And because you had nowhere else to go.”

Her lower lip trembled. Great. What the hell had he said now?

Before he could figure it out, her mouth flattened and she went back to glaring at him as if she wanted to carve his heart out with a spoon.

“After you’re done with the chores I’ve assigned you,” he said, “you are to spend the afternoon pounding the pavement.”

She pressed both hands against her head. Probably trying to keep it from exploding. “What?”

He headed toward the door. “Get a job.”

She scrambled onto her knees, tugging the material of her oversize T-shirt out from under her. “It’s summer vacation.”

“It’s summer,” he agreed, his hand on the handle as he stood in the doorway, “but vacation time for you is over. Working will help you realize what it’s like out there in the real world. Plus, last night’s little adventure proved how much you need some structure to your life.”

“You should be thanking me instead of being such a di—”

“Careful,” he warned darkly.

“—douche bag,” she spat. Not exactly a term of respect but better than what she’d started to call him. “I found that body,” she pointed out. “If it wasn’t for me, you never would’ve even known it was out there.”

This must be why some animals ate their young. So they didn’t turn into teenagers.

“Part of the reason we moved here was so you could get a fresh start. Instead you snuck out of the house and disobeyed my direct order not to engage in any reckless or criminal activity.” Though his hand tensed on the handle, he kept his voice mild. “But you’re right about one thing. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know about the body. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be in Boston, not trying so damned hard to make things work for us here.”

She looked so stricken he immediately wished he could take his words back. That he could tell her he didn’t mean them. But while Jessica was rebellious and mouthy, she was also bright and had a way of seeing through people’s bullshit. No way she’d buy an apology from him. One he wasn’t even sure he’d mean.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be home for dinner at six. Seven,” he amended, figuring he’d have to put in a hellishly long day. “Be here.”

He stepped into the hall and had no sooner closed the door when something hit the other side of it with a loud crash. He tipped his head back and blew out a heavy breath. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to get through to her. If he’d ever be able to save her from herself.

Some days he wondered why he even bothered trying.

* * *

LAYNE BACKED INTO HER SPOT in the police station’s paved parking lot. She stepped out of her cruiser only to reach back in for her aviators. The dark lenses hiding her eyes, she shut them long enough for the edginess in her stomach to smooth out. For her nerves to calm and her scattered thoughts to settle.

She doubted herself, the decisions she’d made, which she’d never done before. Couldn’t afford to do now. So she stood there, the bright, midmorning sun warming the top of her head as she inhaled deeply, the familiar briny scent of the sea filling her senses. She held her breath. When she exhaled, she opened her eyes and strode toward the entrance as if her moment of weakness had never happened.

She didn’t do weak. She had too many people depending on her. Counting on her to take care of them.

Sure, sometimes she wondered what it would be like to worry only about herself. To put her own needs first without thought or care for anyone else. To be manipulative and selfish and egocentric.

Like her mother.

But she was so much stronger than Valerie Sullivan had ever been. So much better.

And if she kept telling herself that, if she pretended that this morning had never happened, that she’d never seen that necklace, maybe she’d actually start believing it.

For the first time in her life, she had no idea what was real and what was fiction. What if her suspicions were right? What if the past eighteen years were nothing but a lie? Worse, what if she was to blame?

She pressed her lips together and yanked open the door so she could step into the dimly lit, cool hallway. No. It wasn’t her fault. None of it was. The blame lay with one and only one person—Valerie. All Layne had ever done was keep her family from falling apart.

She’d keep doing it. No matter what.

Before turning the corner that would take her to the squad room, Layne stopped long enough to crack the knuckles of each finger then shook her hands out. Her expression composed so none of her doubts, her guilt, showed, she entered the room and went straight to the desk she’d kept despite her promotion a year ago.

Across from her, Jimmy Meade glanced up from where he pecked at the keyboard of his computer. He frowned. “I thought you were going home to get cleaned up.”

“I got sidetracked,” she said, hooking her foot around her chair leg and pulling it out. As she sat, she felt him watching her. “What?”

He leaned back in his chair, linked his hands together on his protruding stomach—now half the size it had been thanks to his wife insisting he cut back on the sweets in case the new chief decided to fire anyone who could no longer fit into their uniform. “You have something on your mind?”

Her throat clogged. Jimmy had always been on her side, from the moment she’d first been hired. One of her uncle Kenny’s old school buddies, he’d kept an eye out for her, mentored her. And she was about to look him in the eye and lie.

God, she hated this.

“Nope.” She booted up her computer, watched the monitor as if her next breath depended on her wallpaper—a picture of her nephew Brandon in his baseball uniform—loading properly. “Any new developments in the case?”

“Haven’t heard of anything.” He straightened and reached for his favorite coffee cup. “Chief’s been in a meeting with the mayor for almost an hour now.”

Whatever happened in town, Mayor Seagren wanted to be involved.

“It must be my birthday,” Evan breathed as he came in from the break room—obviously the chief had him working overtime, too. “Because I’m about to get a present.” He nodded toward the double glass doors that overlooked the foyer.

The foyer where Layne’s sister Tori laughed at something Officer Wilber—currently manning the booth—said, her head back. All the better to show off her long, graceful neck.

“Oh, I am not in the mood for this,” Layne muttered as Tori sort of…slinked…toward the squad room, a plastic take-out box in her hand. Then again, her black skirt was so tight—and short—normal walking was probably out of the question. And how she waited tables all day in those strappy, high-heeled sandals, Layne had no idea.

Thankfully Tori’s bad attitude and questionable fashion sense weren’t Layne’s problems anymore.

Just a few of the many crosses she had to bear.

“For God’s sake, have some pride,” Layne told Evan. The kid was practically drooling. “And you—” She turned to Jimmy. “You’re a happily married man. And a grandfather.”

He didn’t even have the grace to look abashed that he’d been caught gawking. “Carrie and I have an agreement. I can look all I want. And she pretends I have a chance in hell of letting some beautiful young woman steal me away from her.”

Evan scrambled off his desk and practically tripped over his own feet to open the door. “Morning, Tori,” he said, sounding like a chipmunk going through puberty.

“Good morning,” Tori said, all bright and shiny as a new penny. “Hey, was that you I saw out on Old Boat Road a few days ago?” she asked Evan. “I didn’t know you had a bike.”

“It’s not a bike,” Jimmy and Layne said together, repeating what Evan had told them repeatedly. “It’s a Harley.”

“And his mom bought it for him,” Jimmy added.

Evan flushed. “She loaned me the down payment. That’s all.”

“A Harley?” Tori asked, seemingly impressed. Though with her, you never knew what was truth and what was for show. She shook back her dark, chin-length hair and winked at him. “Moving up to the big leagues, huh? Who knows what you’ll be ready to tackle next.”

“Okay,” Layne said, pushing her chair back and standing, “I just threw up in my mouth a little, so if you don’t mind could you please play Cougar and Innocent Cub somewhere else? We’re trying to work here.”

“That’s why I’m here. I heard you pulled an all-nighter out at the quarry.” She raised the take-out container. “Thought you all could use some sugar to help get you through the rest of the morning.”

Layne picked up a pencil from her desk. Squeezed it. “You heard about that?”

“About the body?” Tori set the box on Layne’s desk and flipped up the top exposing neatly packaged blueberry scones and cinnamon rolls. “Sure. It’s all everyone’s been able to talk about.”

Tori worked as a waitress at the Ludlow Street Café, Mystic Point’s most popular restaurant.

Layne scraped at the paint on the pencil with her thumbnail. “Really?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral. “I figured it’d take at least until lunchtime for word to get around.”

Tori stepped aside while Jimmy helped himself to both a scone and cinnamon roll. “In this town? Please. People are already taking bets about who it is.”

Jimmy harrumphed but Layne’s blood ran cold.

“Who…who do they think it is?” she couldn’t help asking.

Jimmy shot her a questioning look but she ignored it, watching her sister’s face, so similar to her own, carefully. If Tori suspected, Layne couldn’t tell. Then again, her sister had always been excellent at hiding her true feelings.

“Most people think it’s that hiker that went missing a few years back,” Tori said, picking up Layne’s nameplate then setting it back down. “A couple people insist it’s the gangbanger who escaped prison back in ’08. Me, I have ten bucks on the hiker theory.”

“It wasn’t a hiker,” Evan said around a mouthful of scone. He swallowed. “The body was found—”

“I hadn’t realized we were at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” Layne snapped.

Evan looking at her as if she’d slashed the tires of his new Harley only made her feel crappier. Perfect. She sighed. “What do you want?” she asked Tori.

Her sister laid a hand over her heart. “Can’t a grateful citizen bring a few treats to Mystic Point’s finest without being accused of wanting something in return?”

“A grateful citizen can, sure. But you? No.”

“That hurts.” She hitched a hip onto Layne’s desk, causing her skirt to rise up, showing several more inches of her toned, tanned thigh.

“Get your ass off my desk before I’m forced to arrest you for indecent exposure,” Layne said. “And if that’s what you wear to work, Celeste needs to seriously consider instituting a dress code at the café. It is a family restaurant after all.”

Tori slowly slid to her feet, her grin razor-sharp. “Funny, but no one else complains about my clothing.” She looked down at Layne—only because those stupid shoes of hers added several inches to her height—and sneered. “At least mine are clean.”

Layne didn’t have to glance down at herself to know she had a streak of dried mud running from her right shoulder to her left hip. Or that her shirt was wrinkled and she had still-damp mud stains on both knees. “Yes, well, searching for human remains is a messy job. Unlike pouring coffee.”

“You have a dead leaf in your hair.”

Layne reached up and…yep…sure enough, found a leaf. She picked it out of her hair and let it float into the trash can. “Well, since you’ve done your good deed for the day and all, I guess you’ll be wanting to get on your way. I’m getting a soda.” She’d kill for some sugar and caffeine and she was afraid Tori would end up being her victim. “You want anything?” she asked Jimmy.

He lifted the last bite of his cinnamon roll. “I’m good.”

She picked out a scone. “Thanks for dropping by,” she said to Tori.

She circled her desk and walked down the short hallway to the break room. She’d no sooner popped the tab on her Coke when Tori came in.

She should’ve known her sister wouldn’t get the hint and go on her merry way. Tori was nothing if not stubborn. One of the few traits they shared.

“Can we expect the pleasure of your company tonight?” Tori asked. “Or are you planning on skipping it like you did last year?”

Crap. Now was probably not the time to admit she’d been so caught up in the investigation and the necklace that she’d forgotten today was Brandon’s twelfth birthday.

“I didn’t skip anything,” she said, adding ice to a plastic cup and pouring in half the soda. Took a long drink. “I was working. Just like I’ll be working tonight.” But she hated missing her nephew’s party. “Tell Brandon we’ll head into Boston sometime next month.” When, hopefully, her life would be settled again. When any and all investigation into the remains would be long completed. “Catch a Red Sox game.”

“I’ll do that. You know,” Tori said, one hand on her cocked hip, the other gesturing to Layne’s hair. “It wouldn’t kill you to use a brush once in a while. Especially since you have a new boss to impress and all.”

She bit into the scone. “I’m not out to impress anyone.”

“Obviously,” Tori drawled, staring pointedly at the crumbs collecting on Layne’s shirt.

Layne brushed them away. “What. Do. You. Want.”

Tori fluttered her eyelashes. “Your black boots.”

Layne slowly set her cup on the table. “You want my black boots? My designer, over-the-knee, cost-me-an-entire-paycheck black boots?”

“Just for tomorrow night. Randy Parker’s taking me out to dinner and your boots would be perfect with this great little black dress I—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“How about because it’s the middle of summer? Or hey, how about because you shouldn’t be dating already. The ink on your divorce papers is barely dry.”

Tori inhaled sharply. “First of all, I hardly think I’m going to take fashion advice from a woman who hasn’t worn lipstick in over ten years and usually dresses like a man.”

“I don’t dress like a man. I dress like a cop.” As the only woman on the force, she had to work twice as hard to be accepted. To be treated as an equal. To prove herself. And if that meant forgoing makeup and jewelry, then so be it. She’d gladly shove beauty off a steep cliff if it meant she’d be taken seriously at her job.

“Secondly,” Tori continued as if Layne hadn’t spoken—she’d always been good at ignoring things she didn’t want to hear, “my divorce was final six months ago. Six months. And obviously Greg didn’t get your little memo about the proper amount of time between divorcing and dating since he’s been seeing Colleen Gibbs for over a month now.”

“And whose fault is that? You’re the one who let him go.”

Tori edged closer until they were toe-to-toe. “My marriage, my divorce and my decisions, are just that. Mine.”

“Maybe, but you aren’t the only one affected by your decisions. Or did you plan on taking Brandon along on your date?”

“Brandon will be at his father’s house tomorrow night. God! What is your problem?”

“You want to know what my problem is?” Layne asked, her voice rising despite her best effort to keep her rioting emotions under control. She tried to hold back but the words poured out of her, fueled by her anger and resentment. Her fears. “You, Tori. You’re my problem. You and your selfish attitude. All you care about, all you’ve ever cared about is yourself. You were tired of being married so you got a divorce. You want to date so you leave your son with his father so you can go out and have a good time.”

Tori’s eyes, light brown like their mother’s, narrowed dangerously. “I’m not leaving him on the side of the highway sixty miles outside of town. It’s Greg’s weekend to have him. Why shouldn’t I go out and enjoy myself?”

“Because you’re a mother,” Layne cried, tossing her hands into the air. “You need to think about what’s best for Brandon, do what’s right for him.”

“Don’t you ever—” Tori jabbed her finger at Layne, stopping a hairbreadth from drilling a hole into her chest “—ever accuse me of not putting my son first.”

Layne laughed harshly. “You’ve never put anyone first but yourself. Your wants. Your needs. I mean, a prime example is how you were with Evan. Flirting with a kid who’s ten years younger than you, all for what? So you can feel good about yourself? So you can pretend you’re special? The way you dress…how you act… You’re…” She snapped her lips shut and shook her head in disgust.

“I’m what? A tramp? A slut?” Tori’s voice was low. Shaky. But under the tremble, Layne heard the resolve that told her to step carefully.

She heard it. She just chose to ignore it.

She was terrified. Scared of what the next few days would bring and while she and Tori weren’t exactly close in the best of circumstances, their snarky spats rarely took on this edge. She should shut up. Better yet, she needed to apologize. Blame the stress and her going over twenty-four hours without sleep for making her so bitchy.

But she couldn’t. Not when Tori stood there pushing Layne’s buttons simply by wearing her snug, revealing clothes and a bring-it-on smirk.

“Worse,” she said, meeting her sister’s eyes unflinchingly. “You’re just like our mother.”