Hard Silence (12 page)

Chapter Ten

At the end of the week, Abby carried blankets, a six-pack, and her camera to the river as the sun set. Every year, this was the only way she could find to honor Connie—to remember the times they’d sat under the stars.

Night came slowly, and Abby drank her beer as she watched it creep into the valley. Frogs thrummed and crickets chirped, and the fireflies came out to play.

She lay down on the blanket and stared up at the stars winking down at her. There. The one that looked pink was Connie. Pink had been her favorite color. And that one was Beau, and that one was Ron, and that one was John. The one there, all alone, was Walt. That fuzzy one there was the Toby Wallis had killed. The twinkly one nearest the horizon was Buck. And the brightest one, in the middle, was Papa.

Raising her camera, she focused on that one and adjusted the lens. She could see the wispy clouds in front of it and the drifts of stars behind it. Then she couldn’t see anything. Putting her feet flat, she pushed her back against the ground and prepared to fight. The auto-focus adjusted, revealing—not a monster—but gray hair gleaming in the moonlight.

Moving the camera, she blinked up at the obstruction. “You’re in my shot.”

“Sorry,” Jeff muttered.

He wasn’t sorry enough to move. Instead of taking the picture, she sat up, put her camera on the blanket and grabbed her ale. The sour apple flavor reminded her of Jolly Ranchers. She blinked up at him, waiting on his anger.

“Look, I don’t mean to ruin your evening or
push
you. Just tell me what I did to piss you off so badly you’d refuse an apology.”

Her skin heated.
Shit. See? This is what happens when you try to be normal. People find out you’re weirder than they thought.
“Why would you. Apologize. To me?” she asked, cursing that he’d approach her tonight when so many memories clanged against her tongue, begging to be told. “I’m the one. Who ruined. Everything.”

Without waiting on an invitation, Jeff sat next to her on the blanket. “Are you? I—” he ticked the items on his fingers “—didn’t let you cancel, didn’t make reservations, forgot our date, took you to the hospital for an emergency, and then asked you to talk about something very painful.” He looked at the bottle in her hand. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Only on special occasions.” She smothered her belch and put the empty in the six-pack.

“It looks like a very special occasion.”

She stared at the Jack Daniel’s bottle in his hand. Buck had loved Jack Daniel’s. “You seem to be having one of your own.”

“Anniversary. You?”

She wove her fingers through the yarn fringe on the blanket. She’d attached it after the satin border had given way during the first year she’d been here alone. “Anniversary.”

“Your father?”

“My best friend.” Abby preempted the question she knew he’d ask. “She was murdered.” The last word tightened her lungs.

“How old were you?”

You can do this. One word. Just this one.
“Eight.”

“Did they catch him?”

It wasn’t a him, it was a her. And no, they didn’t. She got away, and she’s out there, and I can’t tell anyone.
Every nerve in her body begged her to tell him. He’d find her monster. Just like he’d found Maggie’s monster last year.

But Wallis would escape. She always did. And then Maggie would have a new monster to fear. So would Faye, and Evan, and even Jeff. He’d pay for his good deed. So Abby glued her lips together and shook her head.

“Do you know how frustrating that is?” Jeff asked. “To be talking to you and have you just stop?”

“Then why spend time with me?” she countered. “Go home.” Though she used her best glare, he stayed put. “You can’t
help
me,” she persisted. “I’m not a. Victim. You can save.”
It’s too late for me.

He took a sip of whiskey. “Can’t I just like spending time with you?”

No he couldn’t. He should go away. “Jeff—”

“I need someone to talk to, Abby. If I was back in Chicago I’d be out with friends, where I wouldn’t be stuck in my own head.” He looked across at her.

“What about Cassidy?”

“She’s out with Carter.” His smile widened. “She’s my sister. Didn’t she tell you?”

Not his girlfriend. She stared back, her skin heating even as her heart thudded. She ought to stick to her resolution. One last rebuff, after he’d confided in her, would permanently exile her. Taking a deep breath, she rehearsed the damning lines.
I don’t care
.
Go away and leave me alone.

“Is this the date your father died?” she asked.

“Twenty-three years ago today,” he said. “It’s weird. I’ve
not
had him longer than I actually did have him, but it never gets easier. I was still looking for him in the crowd when I finished my PhD. Hell, I even dreamed Mom had him stuffed and put him on the sofa like a pillow. He’s missed all the experiences that made me who I am, but he’s colored all my decisions.” He sighed. “I feel like he’s looking over my shoulder, and I don’t want to disappoint him. And I have. One of his murderers was just granted parole, and I wasn’t there to fight it.”

She nodded. She felt a similar weight every day that Wallis walked free.

“Maybe it was meant for us to hang out together,” he murmured, nudging her. “My dad, your friend, same day. That’s a big coincidence.”

If this was Fate in action, she had a sick sense of humor. Still, it was comforting to share this loss with him, knowing he’d experienced something similar. Even if she couldn’t talk about it.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Connie.” That was safe enough. No last name, no location. Just a little girl who’d died.

“Did you grow up with her?”

Abby shook her head. “I met her my first day of third grade. The desk in front of her was empty, so I sat there. We were wearing the same shoes.”

“So you became instant friends?”

She nodded. “We used to stay on the playground until she had to go home, swinging so high the chains buckled and we’d drop like we were on a roller coaster. Her braids would bounce against her back, and she’d whoop and laugh and start again.”

“I always liked the seesaw,” Jeff whispered. His breath brushed her ear. When she turned her head, they were almost nose to nose, and his arm was warm against her back. This close, his smile was blinding. “You looked cold,” he explained as if reading her mind. “My younger sisters were Brownies. Were you and Connie?”

“No. But she’d found an old handbook at the library, so we were working through it. One night we camped in her backyard and her dad showed us the stars while we roasted hot dogs and marshmallows.”

He shook out her extra blanket and covered their legs. The flannel trapped his body heat against her skin and concentrated his scent.

“What constellations did you learn?” he asked.

She pointed at the sky. “Big Dipper. Little Dipper. Perseus—”

Jeff pointed to her left, and drew a design. “There’s Cassiopeia.” Then another. “Andromeda.” Then he pointed to her right. “And there’s Hercules.” His fingers tightened on her hip. “You know, that thing you’re doing with your hand is driving me crazy.”

His words made her focus on the hand resting on his thigh. His well-worn jeans were silky soft, and she was rubbing the inside seam between her fingers. He shivered as her nails scratched the fabric. She yanked her hand away.

He pulled her back to him and placed his hand atop hers. Underneath were large solid muscles and bone, above were long, gentle fingers. Everything about him was comforting and
not
at the same time.

“I’m sorry I ran,” she whispered.

“You worried the crap out of me,” he replied. “And, what? You thought I’d just move another woman
in
within the week?”

There wasn’t anything to say. She’d thought exactly that. Hoped for it and resented it at the same time.

“I’m not as shallow as people think, Abby. Not as fickle either.”

“We can’t date,” she warned him—and herself. Dating was full of minefields for both of them, and she was just beginning to navigate her side of it. The side where she liked having him here, enjoyed talking to him, even liked him holding her doors. It was already going to be painful when he finished his work and left.

“Of course not,” he said.

Fireflies crowded the field in front of them. Abby reached for her camera and Jeff released her other hand. Hoping the whir of the shutter wouldn’t ruin the shot, she clicked. Again. Again. Rapid shots, grabbing as many glances as possible, wide views of the sparkling field, close-ups of single bugs.

When she finished, Jeff was staring at her, his beard a dark smudge in the night. “We used to catch them and put them in a jar. I remember lying in bed and watching them flash on my bedside table as I went to sleep. Did you do that?”

She nodded. Ron had helped her gather them once. They’d had so much fun chasing each other around the field, trying to get new bugs in the jar while keeping the others from escaping.

“What about pulling the lights off and making rings?” he asked.

“Once,” she said. “And then I found out it wouldn’t grow back. That I’d. Killed. The bug for something that faded right away.” She’d cried so hard Ron had worried about her for weeks afterward. It’s one of the reasons he’d wanted to take her to The Dismals—to see the Dismalites in the canyon, lights that lived on and on.

Fireflies always made her think of Ron.

A coyote yipped in the distance, followed quickly by another set, and then a third. The smaller animals in the surrounding woods alternated between freezing in quiet panic and scrambling noisily for cover. The breeze grew colder. Abby abandoned her plan to sleep under the stars and gathered her things. Jeff stood and folded one blanket. She folded the other before he plucked it from her hands and added it to his load. Then he shoved her pillow under his arm.

“I’ll see you home.”

He shouldn’t do that. Abby reached for the bedding and he stepped away.

“Otherwise you’ll have to make two trips.” He moved again when she tried to take the pillows, and his smile widened, glittering in the dark. The man’s charm should be illegal.

“Fine,” she huffed, refusing to smile. “C’mon.” They walked in silence, except for the rattle of bottles and the bump of the camera against her stomach, and Jeff balanced the blankets while he wrestled with the screen door. Abby unlocked the house, disarmed the alarm, and went inside with him on her heels until he dropped the blankets on the sofa.

“Thank you,” she said as she walked him out.

He stopped at the threshold. “Did you like the roses?” he asked in a quiet voice. His long thick lashes hid his eyes. He’d probably never had to ask another woman that question, and she was embarrassed by her poor manners as much as she was frightened of the truth.

“Yes,” she whispered. “They were. Beautiful.”

Before she could move away, he lowered his head and his breath fanned across her cheek as his lips touched hers and his beard tickled her chin. Abby returned the kiss on impulse, shaping her lips to his. They were softer than she’d expected. He kissed her again, angling his head as he stepped closer.

They couldn’t do this. She put her hand on his chest, and he stopped.

His soft cotton shirt soothed her skin but did little to hide the powerful muscles underneath and his heart thudding against her palm. Even without cologne, he smelled good—clean but salty, with a hint of the river and outdoors, and sweet woodsy whiskey.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he stepped backward.

She’d never felt this warm, this safe. She curled her fingers into his shirt and his chest hair teased her through the fabric. Jeff came back to her, curving his hand around her waist, and Abby’s world centered on his slow, wicked smile.

This kiss was different. His lips were firm and the contact was brief before he nibbled her lip and swept his tongue across it. He tightened his hold on her as he delved deeper, coaxing her mouth open, sliding his tongue across hers. His mustache pricked her skin, and when she flinched he backed away, sucking her top lip into his mouth to soothe it.

She wanted to taste him again. Curving her hand around his shoulder, she urged him back to her, this time opening her mouth under his in invitation and sighing at the taste of whiskey on his hot tongue. His muscles gathered under her hand, tempting her to explore, and his groan rattled through her when she did.

“Damn,” he muttered as he pulled his lips free. His breath heaved through his lungs, pushing his chest against hers. His thumb traced an arc across her stomach, from her waist to her rib cage and back, and Abby swore she could feel sparks along the path.

“What are we doing?” she panted.

“Not dating,” he replied, his voice strained as he stepped away. He cleared his throat. “Good night. Lock the door behind me.”

She did, but she lifted the curtain and watched until he’d disappeared over the hill toward the river. She counted to ten and cracked the door open, straining to hear and then smiling as his screen door squealed on its hinges. He was safe, too.

Shutting the door, she twisted every deadbolt and armed the security system. She turned to see Toby staring at her from his bed, his head cocked to one side.

“Don’t look at me like that. You heard him. We’re not dating.”

Chapter Eleven

“I was beginning to think you were dead,” Cass croaked from the kitchen table as Jeff shuffled to the coffeepot.

“Are you sure you aren’t?” he teased. “What time did you get in?”

“Umm, three? I think.” She wagged the sugar spoon at him. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you don’t stay out until all hours.”

“That’s different. I’m—”

“Don’t you
dare
say grown up. I am sick and fucking—”

“Watch your language,” he scolded. “I was going to say I’m a guy.” And a grown-up.

“You’re the
same
guy who taught me self-defense before my freshman year,” Cass said, the last word ending on a yawn. “What did you do last night?”

“Not much,” he lied. “Do you want breakfast?”

“I’ll make it. Did you see the box in your office? It came while you were gone.”

He hadn’t. He’d come home from his trip around the crime scenes, grabbed a bottle, and gone for a walk. And he’d returned with the taste of apple ale on his tongue, so hard his sheets had tormented him.

From one kiss.

“Thanks. I’ll go look through it. Yell when it’s ready.”

He took his coffee to his office. After moving the box out of the way, he unloaded the pile of brochures and notes from his trip and powered up his laptop. The photos from each scene were waiting in Google Drive, and while they printed he tacked the information from each site under the proper victim.

The grainy photos went up next. While they gave him the information he needed, they weren’t as good as Abby’s.

Abby...

Reversing course, he went to the other wall and marked through
agoraphobic
on his board. She wasn’t afraid of crowds. And she wasn’t afraid of him, thank God, but she was fearful enough to arm her security system just to walk to the river. And she’d seen way too much death at too young an age.

What else had he learned last night? She’d been poor, most likely. All her stories involved activities that were free. Even at eight, he’d gone places. His memories were of little league and summer camp. And no one had cared where she was. Connie had had to go home. Abby hadn’t. She hated being cold. Her mother should have made sure she was warm.

What kind of mother didn’t take care of her child? Jeff reined himself in. For all he knew, the woman had been working three jobs to pay for counseling services. Besides, the thought of Abby cold and alone, neglected, losing someone else at such a young age, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Slugging back coffee, he scratched his chest and turned back to his bony victims, scribbling snippets from his notes next to evidence and details.

“Wow.”

He whirled to face his sister, who was setting a tray, complete with fresh coffee, on his desk. “I told you I’d come—”

“Dude, I called you, like, three times.” She grabbed an empty chair. “We can eat in here.”

He walked back to his desk. “We don’t have to. It’s full of dead people.”

“It’s okay,” she said as she stared at the wall. “That doesn’t look like a manual.”

“They asked me to help on an interstate multiple murder case,” he explained as he chewed his toast.

“Serial killer?” Cass asked, her eyes sparkling. “Really?”

“Don’t get that way,” he scolded her the way he did new recruits. “Victims are lost to someone, although these guys don’t seem to have anyone at all.”

She looked at the five columns. “So what connects them?”

“Manner of death and where they were found, with the exception of the first guy. He was found on his property.”

Cass carried her plate with her as she read. “What are you missing?”

“How they knew their killer,” Jeff said, joining her at the board and lapsing into teacher mode. “They’re from all over the place. None of them had the same job. All of them married late, but they don’t have anyone in common.”

She paced the line, looking over her shoulder when she reached the end. “All of their wives’ names are variations on Elizabeth. Except for this one—Allie.”

He nodded. “I noticed that, but Elizabeth is an incredibly common name. And some of the Elizabeths had a child, but some didn’t. I can’t assume
it’s the same woman.”

Cass turned again, and Jeff panicked. “Come back over here and tell me about your first week of work.”

Her mouth fell open as she read. “You’re profiling your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

Cass arched an eyebrow and waved her free hand at the board. “Really?”

“It’s nothing. I have to find a way to answer my questions, and she won’t talk about her past. Even last night—” Shit. He squinched his eyes closed, knowing he’d said too much.

“Last night? When you did
not much
?” Cass teased. “You told her I’m your sister, right?” She grinned when he nodded. “Good. I’d like to get to know her better if she’s gonna be my sister-in-law.”

“Cassidy Renee,” he warned. Her giggle diffused his agitation, just like it always did. “You will pay for that one day.”

She sat on the edge of the table. “We were all wondering what had happened to you.”

“Don’t sit on that,” he said. “It’s not ours.” He walked back to the desk, glad to hear her following. He didn’t want her reading too much into his habits. “What do you mean
all
?”

“The family,” she said. “You haven’t mentioned a new girl in a while. And you’re always home these days, even when Janice calls you on Friday nights.”

“So it’s bad that I’m home?” he asked, ignoring that his insides felt like he was teetering at the crest of a roller coaster. He wasn’t sure what was worse—that they’d noticed, or that they were all talking about him.

“It’s just atypical,” Cass continued. “And I heard Aunt Sophie brought you an entire group of women, some of whom looked like Miss America, and you didn’t flirt once.”

“I didn’t flirt with them,” he gritted the words out, “because country girls come with all these...strings. They don’t understand casual
.
”
He scowled at her. “What?”

“First off,” Cass pontificated, grinning. “I don’t see a lot of skyscrapers around here. Second, no woman does casual, and if you know some who do...”

She was filtering. Cass never filtered herself. “Spit it out, baby sister.”

“Women might say they’re good with casual, but if they like a guy, they’ll pretty much throw that out the window and pursue him. So why are you sleeping with women who don’t like you?” She tilted her head. “Or are you picking them because they don’t like you?”

His stomach hit the bottom of the coaster. That was just a little too sharp, a little too close to the truth. “Well,” he countered, “if that’s your argument, then Abby fits right into my normal pattern.”

Cass shook her head. “You didn’t see her when I opened that door. And you’ve said it yourself.” She pointed at the wall. “She tells you to go away because she’s scared of something. And it’s not you.”

Fuck. How had he let this conversation get this far? “We’re not dating, Cass. She doesn’t want to, and I’m not staying. That—” he pointed at the board “—is because I’d like to help her.”

She propped her feet on the table, then removed them when she met his gaze. “All right, Mr. Profiler. Let me give you a situation. A guy talks a woman into going out with him, and she goes but ditches him at the restaurant, has a panic attack and tells him to go away. But he doesn’t. He sends her roses. And when she returns them, he chases her down to find out why, and ends up kissing her.”

He was glad his beard hid his embarrassment. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess, big brother,” she said, her grin widening. “But you’re not dating.”

Jeff leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and refused to say anything else. Cass had always been too smart for anyone else’s good.

She stuck her tongue out at him and went back to his row of victims. Stopping this time at the first one—Beau Archer. “Did you see this?”

He walked behind her and read over her shoulder. It was Betty Archer’s statement about why she was taking her daughter and leaving town. “She was afraid. So?”

“So?” Cass persisted. “If I’m married and my husband goes missing, my first reaction isn’t that someone’s going to come after me. Unless I know he was mixed up in something nasty.” She tapped the words
Atlantic City
.

“He owed someone money,” Jeff theorized.

“Maybe they all did,” Cass said as she put her empty plate on the table.

They worked in silence, alternating between the map, the computer and his notes, and soon had every possible gaming location worked out. Jeff ruffled his sister’s hair. “I guess I’m glad you’re smart after all,” he grumbled. “And just because you
might
be right on this, it doesn’t mean you’re right about everything else.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cass grumbled back. “Did you open your box?”

Jeff blushed. He’d been so busy thinking about Abby he’d forgotten.

Cass shook her head and grinned. “But I’m not right.”

He ripped the tab on the box and lifted the thick file. It was the information on Ron Thomas from Alabama. The documents on top were duplicates of what he already had, but behind that was something that chilled his blood even as it made it race in his veins.

Sixteen other letters, spaced a year apart, each saying the same thing.
Ron Thomas’s body is buried in The Dismals, under the large tree next to Temple Cave.

“What has you so excited?” Cass asked. “Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.” She flipped through letter after letter. “They all say the same thing.”

He nodded. “Exactly the same thing. Obsessively so.” He checked the postmarks. “And timed obsessively, too. I’d bet your fancy degree they arrived on the date he died.”

He went to the map. Ron’s letter had been mailed from Tunica, Mississippi, which was within driving distance of Atwood, Alabama.

His phone rang, and he picked it up while still staring at the file. “Yeah?”

“Working?” Gray Harper asked.

“Of course. What are you doing?”

“Sitting on my back patio with a beautiful woman. You should try it.”

“Wanna loan her to me?” Jeff teased. “Or are you worried she’d see the error of her ways?”

“I’m shaking in my shoes,” Gray snorted. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

Jeff looked around the room now crowded with paper and notes. “Nothing. Why?”

“Can you meet me at the hospital, at Celia Hughes’s office? I’ve been hired to put forward an application to foster Evan Gaines, and I know you’re interested in what happens to him. I think you should be there, and Celia agrees.”

“Who wants him?” Jeff asked, dread pooling in his gut. He should be happy—Evan would have a family. The boy could move on and leave burgers on picnic tables behind.

“Privileged information,” Gray said. “The meeting’s at eleven.”

Jeff checked his watch. It was ten now. “Thanks for the notice, asshole.” He hung up and looked at Cass. “I have to go to a meeting. Don’t mess with anything in here while I’m gone.”

* * *

At five ’til eleven, Jeff strode down the hospital hallway, raking his fingers through his hair to make sure it was both dry and untangled. After that, he tugged the hem of his jacket, straightened his collar, and checked his fly. Then he prayed that whoever wanted Evan was a nice couple who wouldn’t mind an eccentric sort-of uncle.

Knocking once on Celia’s door, he let himself in.

Abby was sitting next to Gray. She looked over her shoulder with a tentative smile. Her thick hair was loose and she’d traded jeans and vintage cotton for gray dress slacks and a deep red blouse that reminded him of the roses he’d sent. She’d added makeup and tasteful jewelry. She looked like any woman he’d see at work, except ten times more beautiful, and he wondered what it would’ve been like to lie in bed this morning and watch her get dressed.

He took the empty seat next to her and narrowly avoiding stepping on Toby’s tail.

“They called you, too?” He checked his watch. It was eleven. “Where are they?”

“Now that we’re all here—” Gray grinned at him “—Abby’s asked me to represent her in her emergency application to be Evan Gaines’s foster parent.”

Jeff looked at the woman between them. She blushed until she was almost as red as her blouse.

“We’ve completed all the necessary forms,” Gray continued, “and Abby’s provided her financial statement, her tax returns, all her background reports and a detailed plan for Evan’s care. She’s passed her home visit.”

“Are you sure, Abby?” Celia asked. “He’s an active little boy.”

“He needs room to run and fresh air.” While she talked, Abby grasped the chair with one hand and stroked Toby with the other. “I work from home, so he won’t be alone.”

Celia turned to him. “Jeff?”

Stomping on the glee he felt at having the kid close by, Jeff focused on being responsible. Abby couldn’t even go out to dinner without a panic attack. Having Evan with her every day could push her past panic and straight to a nervous breakdown. If that happened, the boy would be in a third home in less than two months. He’d get labeled as trouble.

He could feel everyone staring at him—even Toby was waiting.
No.
The word was on the tip of his tongue when he saw the plea in Abby’s velvet-brown eyes.

He looked over her shoulder at Gray, mentally cursing him for this ambush. “Can I speak to your
client
alone?”

“Okay with you, Ab?” Gray asked before he stood and followed Celia to the door. “We’ll go get coffee.”

“You do that,” Jeff drawled, and he swore he heard Gray’s laughter ring down the hallway.

Once they were alone, Jeff put on his glasses and reviewed her financial statement. Her photography business made a modest profit. She gave dog-training classes, and her farm even made a little money. But her web business showed ten years of steady increases. She had savings and investments, but no mortgage. She actually had very little debt at all. “When did you have a home visit?”

“Thursday.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it last night?” he asked. They’d talked about murder and death, about loss and childhood. But not
this
child.