All The Stars In Heaven (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Anger fueling her courage, Sarah marched up the steps of the Summerfield Police Station. She pushed open the first set of glass doors, then the second, and went straight to the front desk. Chief’s daughter or not, she couldn’t just go back to her father’s office. Though with the storm that had been building inside her the past few hours, she had no doubt she could have easily jumped over the counter and started running for it before anyone caught her.

Common sense prevailed. “I need to speak to Chief Morgan, please.” She forced her voice to remain calm as she addressed the woman at the front counter. She was new—or at least new since Sarah had last been in to see her dad at work. That didn’t surprise her. The turnover rate for those working under her father was high.
Wish I had the luxury of leaving too.

“Name?” the woman asked.

“Sarah Morgan. I’m his daughter. It’s urgent,” she added.

The woman picked up the phone, and Sarah went to the door, expecting to be buzzed back immediately. Her father didn’t like her coming to the station—something to do with a few employees who had hard feelings about the “good” position she’d been given—and he always whisked her into his office and out of sight as quickly as possible.

This time was no different. The buzzer sounded; she pushed the door open and walked through, heading down the short hall. Her father’s door wasn’t open, but she didn’t bother knocking, and instead went right inside, starting in with her complaint before he could lecture her about being there.

“Carl tried to kill me on campus this afternoon.” She stepped aside so the door could close behind her. “He drove straight at me with his truck, ran over the curb, over a student’s motorcycle, and onto the sidewalk. He was within two feet of hitting me. He’s
dangerous,
and I won’t have him following me around anymore.”
There. I said it.

Her father’s face was surprisingly calm, though she detected anger boiling beneath the surface.

“Sarah, I’d like you to meet Detective Anderson. He joined our department earlier this year.” Grant Morgan swiveled toward the far side of the room and the before-unnoticed detective.

Sarah swallowed back her mortification as she slowly turned to follow her father’s gaze to the man rising from his chair. “Nice to meet you, Detective,” she somehow managed to say.

“Pleasure,” he said, nodding at her. “Looks like you two need to talk, so I’ll come back later, Chief.”

Sarah backed away from the door as Detective Anderson left the room. She closed her eyes, unable to fully grasp how incredibly angry her father was going to be.
Well, I’m angry too.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned back to her father.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea someone else was in here with you. But everything I said about Carl is true. He’s snapped or something. What he did today is inexcusable. What if he had hit someone?”

“Haven’t I taught you to knock on a door when it is closed?” her father asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

“Yes, but—”

“How many times have I told you I don’t like you coming here?”

“A lot, but this was an emergency. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?” For the first time that she could remember, her voice was louder than her father’s. “Carl tried to
kill
me. He almost ran me over. Look at my glasses.” She thrust the broken frames toward him. “And my elbow. I cut it when I fell. And I’ve got a huge bump on the back of my head. He—”

“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” Grant interrupted.

“He almost
hit me with his truck!
” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

“No,” Grant answered quickly, then pressed his lips together as if he were biting back an additional remark.

Sarah took a step back, feeling a physical pain in her chest as she tried to digest the hurt his one word caused.

Her father clenched and unclenched his jaw a couple of times before speaking again. “Right now you mean inconvenience and expense. This very minute you’re costing me valuable time and money. I was in the middle of an important briefing with Detective Anderson, and now we’ll have to start over.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered. Tears burned the back of her eyes, and she prayed they wouldn’t fall. Crying only angered her father more.

“Later, you’ll mean my dinner is ready and my clothes are ironed. And lest you think that’s harsh,” Grant continued. “I’ll remind you that I mean a roof over your head and food in your belly, and that expensive education you want so badly.”

Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. His words burned in her chest—worse than the fall that had stolen her breath this afternoon. She tried to edge toward the door without staggering, tried to mask the pain her father’s callous words brought. She’d guessed their relationship wasn’t what other fathers and daughters shared, but she’d never known she was only tolerated. There had been times throughout the years—the other night even—when she honestly would have said she thought her father loved her.

But no more.

Wordlessly she backed out of the office and walked down the hall, through the door to the lobby, and left the station. Somehow she cleared both sets of glass doors and was halfway down the steps outside before the first tear fell. She brushed it away and walked faster. She had to get to the house, to her piano. Her fingers flexed with unexpressed emotion. They would cry for her. They would pound out her frustrations, fears, sorrow. Already the notes of a new composition filtered through her mind. She grasped onto them, onto the vision of the piano beneath her fingertips, notes ringing out as fast as she could play them. This melody would not be happy, light, or carefree, but a dark piece in A-sharp minor, as full of sour notes as her life was.

The leaves crunched, unnoticed, beneath her feet. Near-bare trees shaded her way in the already-cool afternoon. The few neighbors who watched her walk by in her trance thought nothing of it—she’d been the chief’s recluse daughter for so long. The children out playing gave her wide berth as they rode their bicycles down the street.

Sarah turned up the drive to her house, the only one on the street not sporting Halloween decorations. There was no paper skeleton hanging from the door, no carved pumpkins on the porch, no autumn centerpiece on the table when she unlocked the door and went inside.

Her book bag fell from her hands, and the shoes slid from her feet as she collapsed on the bench in front of the old piano. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let her fingers rest on the keys. One note to start. Followed by a low chord. A series of chords. A seventh. Her right hand joined in the solemn march that slowly built in fervor and anger. Minutes ticked past on the clock in the kitchen. Violent music filled the house; she was pounding on the keys now, abusing the instrument as she almost never did.

Finally the notes softened. They were sad. Worse than the funeral march she’d played for old Mrs. Newell last month. She tried to make them happier, tried to force her fingers to keys she knew would sound more harmonious. They wouldn’t go. Her right hand never went an octave above middle C. High notes were too unbearable right now—there were none in her life. And her own small attempt to grasp at one—to have a friendship—had plunged her to the lowest point she’d ever been.

Twenty minutes passed before the notes trickled to a stop and she felt calm enough to free her fingers from the ivory keys. Sarah went to the bathroom to wash her hands and was surprised at the red-rimmed eyes of the girl staring back at her from the mirror. She brought her hands to her cheeks and found them damp. Her throat was sore with the tears she’d held back, but it seemed they’d somehow escaped anyway. Grabbing a washcloth from the counter, she ran it under the cold water and pressed it to her face. She couldn’t let her father know.

She would wash her face. She would fix his dinner. She would iron his shirts.

And soon, very soon, she would find a way to leave.

Chapter Fourteen

Feeling extraordinarily grumpy, Jay trudged up the walk, into the house, and up the stairs to his apartment. After seeing his bike towed away for scrap metal, he’d gone to a nearby health clinic for stitches and a tetanus shot. By then he was late for work and not feeling too hot, so for the first time ever, he’d called in sick. An unexpected night off might have been great, except for the fact that his head was killing him and he couldn’t stop worrying about Sarah.

Jay put his hand on the doorknob and was about to turn it when the door flew inward, yanking him with it.

“Stay away from her,” Archer said, shoving Jay back out into the hall.

“Don’t—touch—me,” Jay warned, eyes narrowing. He straightened and took a step toward Archer. “It’s been a bad day, and I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” He pushed past him into the living room.

“Trish,” Archer said, grabbing Jay’s backpack as he walked by.

“Hey! What do you think—”

Archer pulled Trish’s soiled scarf from the mesh pocket on the side of the pack. He waved it in front of Jay’s face. “
This
is what I’m talking about. I saw you two today. You were all over her.”

Jay groaned as he flopped back on the couch. “We’re not in high school, Arch.”

“Stealing a guy’s girl is plenty immature.”

“I’m
not
stealing her,” Jay said. He held both hands up. “Really. I told her I’d give her a lift today
because
I wanted to find out if Sarah agreed to go to the party. I got Trish to ask her for me.”

“Oh.” Some of Archer’s anger seemed to dissipate. “Then how come you had your arm around her? And the other day after we’d been looking at her car, you two were all cozy in the doorway.”

“I haven’t been cozy with a woman in a long time,” Jay said, somewhat depressed by the reminder. “We were talking about
you
that day—I was trying to convince Trish that you weren’t always such a jerk.”

Archer scowled. “She didn’t need to be convinced of anything until you started hanging around her so much.”

“I’m not,” Jay said. “Today she was bawling her eyes out ’cause she thinks you two are on the verge of breaking up.”

“We are,” Arch said. He dropped the backpack on the floor and sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

“Because of a stupid package of meat?” Jay asked.

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“No. Just rancid.” Jay rolled his eyes. “Trish loves you—she didn’t feel right about feeding you deadly food. Get over it, or break up with her so she can have a chance with someone else.”

Archer turned toward him, anger flashing in his eyes again. “You
are
after her. I knew it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jay rose from the sofa, dismissing him and the whole ridiculous conversation. “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother me unless the house is on fire.”

“Don’t worry,” Archer mumbled. “I won’t bother you then, either.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Daddy’s home!” Jeffrey galloped across the kitchen, his cowboy boots leaving scuffs on the old cream-colored linoleum Christa hated so much. But instead of scolding their oldest son, she shared his enthusiasm.

“Yippee,” she shouted, scooping up James, their three-and-a-half-year-old, and running toward the front door. “Daddy’s home, and he’s bringing pizza, and it’s his turn to give baths and tuck-ins.”
Cause for celebration, indeed.
This evening she’d finally have time to finish sewing their costumes for the Halloween party this Friday. And the boys wouldn’t be right beside her, unwinding the thread, stepping on the foot pedal when she wasn’t ready, or using her good scissors to cut paper—or each other’s hair.

Jeffrey took his place by the front door, lasso ready. James wiggled out of her grasp and straightened his cowboy hat. The front door opened, and Kirk walked in, weariness and worry plainly written on his face.

“Gotcha!” Jeffrey shouted as the rope he’d tossed looped its way over Kirk’s outstretched hand. Jeffrey tried to pull the rope tight, but he’d knotted it wrong, and the loop came undone. He stumbled back into the shoe basket beside the door.

James laughed. “Did it wrong. You did it wrong.”

“Don’t tease your brother,” Christa scolded.

Momentarily abandoning the cowboy act, Jeffrey reverted to his favorite ninja stance and kicked his foot up, sending a boot—spurs and all—sailing toward James’s head.

Kirk reached down and caught the boot easily before another bruise could be added to the trio James currently sported. Kirk looked at his oldest son. “Do you need to go to your room, Jeffrey?”

“No,” Jeffrey huffed. He grabbed for his boot.

Kirk held it out of reach. “Apologize.”

“He laughed at me,” Jeffrey said. “How come he doesn’t have to ’pologize?”

“He will.” Kirk closed the door behind him and knelt down. He set the boot on the carpet and reached his hands out to both of his sons. James came eagerly. Jeffrey folded his arms across his chest and scowled, though he allowed his dad to pull him close.

Christa felt a rush of tenderness as she looked down on her boys—all three of them.

“You boys are very lucky,” Kirk began, “to have each other to play with. I always wanted a brother—”

“But you just got sisters,” Jeffrey finished, coming out of his tantrum. “And now you have to share a room with Mommy.”

“Poor Daddy,” James said.

“Poor, poor Daddy.” Christa rolled her eyes.

Kirk winked at her. “Mommy’s different. She smells good.”

“Did your sisters stink?” Jeffrey asked, curiosity lighting his eyes as he looked intently at his father.

Kirk nodded. “Dreadfully. They each had these little bottles of pink perfume called
Loves Baby Soft.
And they put it on everything.”

“Like what?” Jeffrey wrinkled his nose.

“What?” James asked, not to be left out. He scrunched his face up, trying to imitate his brother.

“My pillow,” Kirk said. “My clothes. Even my—” He lowered his voice to a whisper and pulled the boys close. “Once they put it on my
underwear.
”

Jeffrey gasped as his hands went automatically to the seat of his pants.

“Underwear.” James giggled.

“Pizza?” Christa reminded them.

A look of panic flashed across Kirk’s face. He gave Christa an apologetic smile as he rose from the floor. “I forgot.”

“I called you an hour ago,” she said, trying not to sound irritated. Since Eddie Martin’s death two weeks ago, she knew things at the station had been stressful. It seemed like all of Kirk’s hard work over the past six months was unraveling before his eyes. The supplier he’d been close to finding remained as elusive as ever, and all of Eddie’s files were frozen, pending further investigation into his death. She knew Kirk didn’t need extra stress at home, but the boys needed their dad, and she needed her husband.

“But it’s no problem,” she forced herself to say. “Why don’t you play with the boys for a while, and I’ll run out and grab one.”

“Sure.” Kirk didn’t look very enthused as the boys each grabbed one of his hands.

“Come on, Dad. You be Cowboy Dan. I’m Johnny Silver.” Jeffrey stopped to reach down and grab his boot. He held it up high, clinking the spurs.

“I’m Applejack,” James said.

“No. That’s cereal,” Jeffrey said. “You’re Flapjack.”

“Which is a pancake.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Kirk’s mouth. “Either way, you’re something yummy to eat! Mmm.” He growled as he picked up James and threw him over his shoulder. “Who needs pizza when we’ve got an apple flapjack?”

“Dad-dy,” James giggled.

“Flapjack is a
cowboy.
” Jeffrey jumped up, trying to free his brother, and landed, stomping his boot across his dad’s toe.

Kirk winced. “Have they been watching
Howdy Town
? I thought we hid—”

“Grandma sent another one!” Jeffrey exclaimed. “’Cause I told her on the phone that we lost the first one.”

“Another one,” James echoed.

“Remind me to thank Grandma,” Kirk said without sincerity as he helped James slide to the floor.

“We got stars in the package too.” Jeffrey stuck out his chest, showing off the shiny metal badge pinned to his homemade cowboy vest.

“Me too,” James said.

“We’re sheriffs like you,” Jeffrey said. “Now we just need guns. But Mom still says no.”

“Mom is right,” Kirk agreed. “Guns are dangerous. They’re not something you ever play with.” He disentangled himself from the boys and went to the bedroom to safely store his own weapon.

Christa started to follow him, to retrieve her purse and shoes. “Boys, you can each have half of a Go-Gurt from the Ziploc bag in the freezer. Eat it at the table, though.”

“Yippee—Go-Gurt!” Jeffrey galloped across the room on his imaginary horse. James tried to follow, but his boots were even bigger than Jeffrey’s, and he tripped on the carpet twice. Christa reached over and picked him up the second time, tousling his hair. “Careful there, pardner.”

He shrugged off her affection and followed his brother to the kitchen. Christa decided she’d use the few free minutes to talk to Kirk. She went to their room and sat beside him on the bed.

“Are you still up for Dad duty tonight so I can finish the costumes?”

He turned to her. “I am. I haven’t forgotten. And I remembered the pizza until the last minute. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll go get one. Maybe I can strike up a conversation with the cashier to help fill my quota for adult conversation today. I’ve had about all I can take of talking ponies and roundups. Jeffrey lassoed the vacuum when I had it open to empty the canister. Dirt and hair and everything else—all over the floor. Those boys wear me out.”

“I’ll bet.” Kirk put his arm around her, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head. “You’re a good mom. Our boys are lucky.”

“You’re a good dad, too.”

“I try.” Kirk sighed. “Today I witnessed some of the worst parenting I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh?” Christa went to the closet and grabbed the closest pair of sneakers. “You get called out on a domestic case?”

Kirk shook his head. “That’s the sad thing. It wasn’t a case at all. Happened right in the office.”

“
What
happened?” Christa returned to the bed and began untying the laces.

“Chief Morgan’s daughter came to the station—first time I’ve seen her.” Kirk removed his holster and set it aside. “Chief and I were meeting in his office, going over the evidence for the Rossi trial, and his daughter came in all upset.”

Christa finished tying her first shoe and moved on to the second. “And . . .” she prompted.

“It sounded really serious, so I got up quickly, left my folders and everything on the floor, and went out so they could have some privacy. A couple of minutes later she left, looking worse than when she came in.”

“How does that make him a bad father?” Christa asked.

“It doesn’t—didn’t,” Kirk clarified. “To be honest, I didn’t think anything of it. I imagine a lot of girls get upset with their dads. The chief called me back in his office, we wrapped up our meeting, and I packed up my stuff to come home. As I was driving, I thought I’d replay the tape of our meeting, so I could go over the list of things the defense attorney is likely to bring up.” Kirk paused, a serious look on his face. “I rewound the tape—but not far enough—and discovered I’d left it on when his daughter was there. It recorded their conversation.”

“You didn’t listen to it, did you?” Christa asked, clearly appalled.

“I didn’t plan to,” Kirk said, “but it was already running, and I couldn’t quite believe what the chief said. So I replayed it and listened again.”

“
Twice?
You played it on purpose a second time? Kirk, I’m—”

“I’d like you to listen to it,” Kirk said quietly.

“Isn’t that wrong? A breach of privacy or—”

“Just listen,” Kirk urged. “And tell me if I’ve misunderstood or something.” He pulled the tape recorder from his pocket and hit
play.

Christa frowned as she sat on the edge of the bed and listened to Chief Morgan’s daughter describe almost being hit by a car—on purpose, it sounded like. Christa gasped at the chief’s cruel response. She felt her mouth open with shock at the cold description he gave of the role his daughter played in his life.

“I can’t believe that,” she said, outrage in her voice. She looked up at Kirk. “It’s—it’s awful. No wonder you had to listen twice. Of all the heartless—”

“I know,” Kirk said. “And the thing that really bothers me is that she was reporting a crime. It sounds like she’s in danger, and he’s just blowing her off.”

“And breaking her heart,” Christa added, feeling a pang of sympathy for the young woman she’d never met.

“I’ve heard a lot of weird rumors about the chief since I started,” Kirk said. “And I’ve observed some unusual behavior myself—some days he’s really on top of things, and I feel we’re making progress. Other times it almost seems he’s thwarting our best efforts. But I really don’t know what to make of this—or what I should do.”

“What
can
you do?” Christa asked. “I mean, could he fire you for taping him like that?”

Kirk shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’m not planning to find out, though the officer in me feels like I ought to do something to help his daughter. She reported a crime—sought help and protection—and she got neither. I think maybe I’ll call the campus police and see if anything is being done from that end. It’s really worrying me.”

“I can see that.” Christa scooted closer, wrapping her arm around her husband. “It’s your superman syndrome rearing its head again.” She leaned against his shoulder, thinking of all the times Kirk went above and beyond to help those in need—be they family, ward members, coworkers, or complete strangers. At times she wondered if she’d just married an exceptionally good guy, or if he secretly harbored a desire to save the world, one person at a time.

“Maybe you’re right,” Kirk agreed. “But this time I can’t help but feel that Chief Morgan’s daughter is one person who could really use a hero.”