Hard Silence (6 page)

Organizing
was a stretch. She’d gone to meetings with blueprints and diagrams and then set up an email loop to simplify communication. Her volunteer coordinator had stepped in when email wasn’t enough.
You can do this, Abby. Don’t sound like a moron.
She fought the words clattering against her teeth. “I’m glad you’re en-joying. Yourself.”

Oh God, this is awful
.

Tracy walked into the booth, lifting her glasses as she examined each photo. “These are beautiful, Abby. Tell me about them.”

She couldn’t, not without Toby, and he would get dog hair all over Charlene’s skirt.

Jeff walked around the corner, his eyes widening, as Tracy smiled over her shoulder. “Where was this taken?” she asked.

In my front pasture. I can’t take pictures in the back. No one goes back there. My stepfather is buried
...

Jeff put his hand on her waist. “That’s the tree between our houses, isn’t it Abby?”

“Y-Yes.” She soaked in the warmth surrounding her, his smell. “It’s always the first to get the sun in the morning when the fog burns off.”

“And this one?” Tracy asked.

Abby walked further, flailing for Jeff’s hand. He grasped her fingers and then linked them together. “That’s in the foothills just north of town, right off the hiking trail.”

“This tree is interesting,” Tracy pointed at another. “I always like to see the structure left when the leaves fall.”

Abby nodded. “And the weather patterns the dead ones differently.”

“It does.” Tracy stopped at a photo in the corner. “This one is beautiful.”

“I took it last weekend,” Abby explained as she looked at the golden fishing line snapping across the umber trees. “Fishing.”

“Wow,” Jeff whispered in her ear, heating and tickling her skin. “I never saw you take it.”

Tracy turned back to her and extended a card. “Call me and we’ll set up an appointment. If your entire portfolio is like this, you’ll pack my gallery.”

“Thank you, Tracy. I hope you’ll stay and shop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving until I see if I win my bids. And the food looks amazing,” she said as she left the booth, still smiling. “We’ll talk soon.”

Charlene held her finger to her lips as she tiptoed forward and looked down the aisle. Gray craned his neck to look over the top of the neighboring walls.

“She’s gone.”

Those two words broke the dam.

“I knew she’d love them,” Tiffany squealed, bouncing as much as her high heels would allow. “I knew it!”

And then Abby was smothered in hugs. Despite the attention, she still noticed when Jeff released her.

“Badger,” Gray said as he took Maggie’s hand. “I want you to see something.”

“You too, Nate,” Faith said as she peeled away. “Come on.”

Michael pulled Tiffany one way. Kevin tugged Charlene the other. She and Jeff were alone, on opposite sides of the small space.

“Well,” he drawled. “That was subtle.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. It had been years since she’d laughed. “Thank. You.”

“Glad to help.” He looked around her makeshift store space. “They belong in a gallery. Do you—”

“There you are.”

At the words, Abby turned to see Celia Hughes approaching, arm in arm with an unfamiliar man.

“Abby, this is Doctor Tom Beckett from the VA. I asked him to come down for the benefit and see the facility. Is this a good time for a tour and to talk about your plans for the veterans’ outreach?”

Tom Beckett had nice eyes. That was a good sign for animal therapy. But his hands were cold. She looked over her shoulder and reached for Jeff. “May I introduce Jeff Crandall? He’s visiting this summer.”

And he wants to help me, but I can’t let him because it would be too dangerous.

Jeff squeezed her fingers and smiled.

“Jeff,” she said. “Celia is the social worker at the hospital. We do animal th-therapy.”

I started therapy to help me talk about the
right
things. Toby reminds me who, what, will get hurt if I tell—

“Doctor Beckett,” she continued, looking into Jeff’s green eyes for courage, “wants us to start animal therapy with his patients.”

He tucked her hand into his elbow. “Lead the way to the kennels, Abby.”

As she looked into his warm smile and twinkling eyes, her heart hammered as her stomach plummeted. Despite her best intentions, Jeff’s name went on her List.

He kept her close throughout the tour, stepping in to ask questions when talking became too much for her. And then they shopped together. It got easier to see people staring. Poor Abby Quinn is all dressed up and has a date.

But she was in borrowed clothes, and he wasn’t a date. He was a security blanket.

When they returned to her booth, every photo had a Sold note stuck in the corner.

“You have an amazing eye and an incredible talent,” Jeff said from behind her.

Her skin heated. Sure everyone complimented her on her photos, but they
knew
her. He didn’t. And she wasn’t the only talented person in Fiddler. She waved her hand behind her, indicating the stalls they’d worked their way through. “So do they.”

“Not like this.”

No. He didn’t get to belittle the people who’d helped her, who’d taught her to sew or fix her roof. The people who’d hired her to help in storefronts or given her credit when her clients hadn’t paid. She swept her hair over her shoulder, hissing as the necklace pulled the shorter strands tight.

“Stop. Let me.”

She didn’t need his help. He
shouldn’t
help her.

“Don’t rip it or you’ll hurt yourself. Move your hands.”

Their fingers bumped together, and she recoiled as if he’d burned her. “I’m tougher than I look,” she grumbled.

Tough, sure. That’s why his breath on her skin made her fingers twitch. That’s why so many people close to her had—

“You
look
beautiful.” He rolled the chain and teased her hair free, his fingers tormenting her until her toes curled.

“Charlene brought me clothes so I could impress Tracy,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“For saving your hair or for the compliment?” he teased.

“Both.”

He rested his hand on the curve her shoulder, keeping her still. It wasn’t necessary. She couldn’t move even if she wanted.

“Why are you pissed at me?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. He was close enough she could see the sea-green flecks in his irises. “Is their work less pretty because it’s useful?” She nodded down the row, indicating spaces full of pottery, home goods, quilts, jewelry, and clothing. “My work just hangs there.”

“That isn’t true.” Jeff pointed to the one of the gnarled tree. “I could stare at that one for hours. It looks like driftwood, but we’re too far inland. How did its branches get twisted and stripped of their bark? Or this one, where you’ve caught the light as it spills through the fissure and shows off the layers in the stone. What caused it to break? How long had it been whole? And how long did you sit, waiting for the right moment?”

He saw too much. He was the most unmanageable person on her List. She made herself step away from him.

He pursued her, slipping back into place behind her. “But you’re right. I don’t tend to think of functional things as art. Art is in museums or galleries, on the walls.”

Abby shook her head. “Everything is designed by someone.”

“True,” he agreed. “But not everything makes you
feel
something.”

He pointed to the misty tree. “I’ve watched that same tree emerge from the fog when I’m up early. It makes me peaceful, sort of like a meditation before I start writing. And the fishing one. You caught the exact moment I felt at home here. I hate that someone else bought it.”

“They didn’t,” she whispered. “It’s a gift for you.”

Now he turned her to face him. “You don’t have to do that. I already bought one.” He nodded toward the tree they shared.

“I want to give it to you. For letting me hold your hand.”

“Yeah,” he snorted. “That was really hard to do.”

“Please accept it.”

“If you’ll let me take you to dinner.”

She couldn’t do that. Why couldn’t he just be happy with the picture? “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he smiled as he mimicked her earlier plea.

No. No. Thank you. I can’t. You shouldn’t be seen with me. It’s dangerous.

He leaned closer, his hair tickling her nose. “I’ll wear a flea collar if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

He made her feel lighter than she’d felt in years. Would it be so bad? He was leaving anyway. Maybe Wallis would never find out.

“Yes. Thank you. I’d love to go.”

* * *

I have a date.
Abby repeated it all the way home, each time feeling her smile widen.
I have a date with Jeff. Not a security blanket, not a come-with-me-so-I-can-talk date, not an appointment. A
date
date
.
Like a normal girl.

It wasn’t until she was home, with her borrowed clothes hung carefully in the closet, showering behind a clear curtain and keeping one eye on the doorway, that the reality hit her.

She wasn’t a normal girl. He asked too many questions, and his warmth and his smile made her forget she shouldn’t answer.
Can you imagine the conversation over dessert? I moved here twenty-three years ago when my mother married her sixth husband in eight years. Where is she? Gone. No, I don’t miss her. She’s a monster. Where’s my last stepdad? Grab that flashlight and I’ll show you.

Maybe she could suggest they eat here. She could have dinner ready when he came to get her. She could pack a picnic, and they could hike. No, they couldn’t hike at night. Dinner here would be best.

She sighed. It would be best if he stayed the hell away from her. She should just pin a note to her door quarantining herself.
I have a crazy mother. Go away.

But he wouldn’t. He’d ask, and she’d tell him. And then there wouldn’t be any more friends, no more home, no more gallery show, or warm hands to hold.

And didn’t that make her sound like a selfish bitch?

She couldn’t be selfish. Not with him.

Chapter Five

“We have a third set of remains,” Bob said.

“Shit,” Jeff grumbled as he sat his coffee cup on the desk and dropped into Hank’s leather chair. “Where?”

“Alabama. Someplace called The Dismals.” Bob snorted. “That’s fitting.”

“Note?”

“Yeah. Tying it to a man who’s been missing since 1990. Ron Thomas. I’m emailing you what I have. The local PD will forward copies of their reports.” Bob’s chair squeaked. “How’s your manual coming, Professor?”

“Fine.” Jeff looked at his stack of finished work. It really was fine. He was caught up, maybe even ahead of schedule. “I might be done sooner than I thought.”

“You don’t sound so happy about that.”

“Just tired,” Jeff lied. “I went for a hike yesterday.”

“Hike? Dude, are we paying you to go for long walks in the woods?”

“Screw you.” Jeff laughed. “Did you miss the ‘ahead of schedule’ part of this conversation? I’ll be back to punching a clock before you can miss me more than you already do.”

“Well, the girls miss you,” Bob teased. “They’ve taken to hanging out in the lab bugging your techs for information. Trish Phillips almost quit over it. She couldn’t get any work done for answering your phone.”

“Tell her to forward my calls.”

“I did. To Amanda. She’s making up all sorts of nonsense just for laughs. Right now, everyone thinks you’re skiing in the Alps.”

His front doorbell rang, making Jeff jump in his chair. No one ever came to the door. He looked out the window. All he could see was a horse halfway up his front steps. The bell rang again.

“Is that the doorbell?” Bob asked. “People are stopping by? Shit. They
are
going to end up keeping you. What is with that place?”

“Relax,” Jeff replied. “Apparently it’s Mr. Ed.” The bell rang again. Twice this time. “I’ll look over your information and get back to you. Bye.”

He stepped into the hallway, fumbled with the locks, and opened the door. Abby was standing there, her arm raised to knock. Hemingway was looking over her shoulder.

“Good morning,” he said. “Why are you bringing me a horse?”

“I’m. Training. Him.” She blinked. “Glasses?”

He frowned, trying to follow. “Huh?”

She touched the bridge of her nose. “You wear. Glasses?”

“When I work, yeah.”

“I won’t. Keep you. About our. Date.”

As she shifted from foot to foot, she switched the lead rope from hand to hand, and Hemingway’s head weaved every time she fidgeted. Toby sat at her feet. She was trying to cancel, and she’d brought reinforcements.

Shoving his glasses into his pocket, he stepped out onto the porch. “Why are you training him? Isn’t he broken to ride?”

“Broken,” she whispered, turning her attention to Hem and sweeping her hand along the arch of his neck in long, slow strokes. “Isn’t that an. Awful. Word?”

With the horse stretched across his steps, Jeff could match the scars to anatomical structure. Someone had fractured Hemingway’s ribs and gouged his flanks.

“It is,” he agreed. “So you’re teaching him what?”

“To trust that I won’t hurt him.”

Something moved under her shirt, contorting and squirming like a B movie alien. A pitiful mewl was muffled by the denim. “Do you have a
kitten
under your clothes?”

As if on cue, the animal wiggled its tiny head out between Abby’s buttons. At the same time, Hemingway yanked his head and stepped backward, rocking her on her heels. Jeff grabbed her hips to keep her from toppling off the porch.

She was the weirdest woman he’d ever met, and it should have been funny. But, with her in his arms, all he could think of was unbuttoning her shirt and carrying her in the house. Spending the afternoon closeted away with her while Hem ate Mrs. Simon’s shrubs. It’s all he’d been able to think about since Saturday when she’d grabbed his hand.

He saw the same desperation in her eyes now. He could let her off the hook, or he could push her out of her comfort zone. Not much, just enough.

Inching closer, he flicked the shirt button that was halfway undone anyway, and slid his hand under the tiny kitten. Abby’s breathing hitched, but she stayed put as his fingertips grazed her stomach. Sweet Jesus, he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He could remedy that, right now.

Kitten in hand, he was halfway to her mouth when another wet nose poked his wrist. Two kittens.

“Are there more in there? Do I need to search you?”
Please say yes.

“Just the two. Someone dumped them last night. I found them by the road on my way up here.” She backed up and rearranged her clothes.

Left with no other recourse, Jeff stared at the two silver tabby cats he held in one hand. Their eyes were barely open. “Do people dump animals on you a lot?”

“They know I’ll take care of them or take them to the shelter.”

“How do you take care of them? I mean, horses, dogs, chickens, cows, cats. Isn’t it expensive?”

“I have a job,” she said as she struggled to keep Hemingway still.

He was embarrassed to realize he’d never asked her
anything
about her life. He plucked the lead rope from her hand. “Stay for coffee.”

“I can’t. I don’t—”

“Visit. Yeah, I know.” He shoved the kittens at her and tramped down the stairs leading the horse with one hand and remembering not to pull. When they reached the gate, he slipped the halter off. Hemingway nudged his hand in thanks and walked into the field, content to graze.

“What are you doing?” Abby snapped as she rushed behind him.

“He’s had enough training for the day, and I’m not going to stand there and watch him break your neck. Come in the house.”

She held up the kittens, one in either hand. “They aren’t litter trained.”

“I have dozens of boxes,” he countered as he turned her toward the house. He kept pushing her, gently but consistently, until she was curled into an oversized chair in his living room, next to a box full of kittens and holding a cup of coffee. He sat opposite her.

“You work for Carter, right? He said something about it that first Sunday.”

She frowned. “Carter works for me.”

It was his turn to be confused. “Doing what?”

“Web design and. Programming. He’s my. Salesman.”

“And you’re the designer,” he concluded. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“College.” She shook her head. “See? This is why we shouldn’t date.”

“What does that mean?”

“You think I’m a moron,” she said. “I have dual degrees in Computer Science and Fine Art, and more software certifications than you can count. And I finished my MFA last year.” She frowned again. “What?”

“I should’ve pissed you off months ago,” he teased, hoping she wouldn’t clam up on him and trying to alleviate his embarrassment. “And I never said you were a moron.”

“You didn’t have to
say
it.”

He had to give her that one. He’d seen her in work boots, listened to her stammer, and assumed she struggled to make ends meet. “I’m sorry. But I wish you’d said something.”

“Why?” She unfolded her legs and put her feet on the floor. “You don’t say, ‘Hi, I’m Jeff Crandall and I’m a forensic scientist with a Masters in Criminalistics and a PhD in Criminology and I work for the FBI.’”

“How did you know all that?”
How did you say
it without tripping over the words?

“You said it when you testified at the trial.”

Once. Almost a year ago. And she’d just recited it like she was reading his CV.

“Ed Geary was on the jury, and until you said PhD he’d been more interested in trying to clean the spot in his tie.” She sat her coffee cup on the table. “I can’t—”

No. She wasn’t going to back out. He wasn’t going to let her. “How’s Butcher coming along?”

“Better. Jeff. I can’t—”

He liked the way she said his name. “Let me walk you home.”

She gathered her kittens and shook her head. “I can get there.”

“Hem will pull you into the river and those kittens will claw out your intestines trying to stay dry.” He held the door for her.

“Jeff,” she wheedled.

“Abby.” He kept the door open and glared at her from under his brows.

Shaking her head, she stalked past him, down the steps and across the yard. He caught up with her and opened the gate, just in time to see her blush. When Hem crossed the river on his own, Abby scowled over her shoulder.

Jeff hopped across on the stones, intent on reaching the paddock. By the time he got there, Abby was already in the stable, settling the kittens into a straw bed. He carried Hem’s halter to the back and hung it with the rest of her tack. Then he stood next to her and waited.

“I’ll be right there with you,” he finally said. “Just some little roadside place. Nothing fancy. You have to eat anyway.”

“Fine. Will you go home now?”

“Yep.” He dropped his forehead to her hair, still warm from the sunshine. “See you for dinner on Friday. At seven.”

* * *

Jeff left the stable and strode up the hill and home to his office. After flopping into his chair, he stared at the ceiling. He’d never worked this hard for a date.

She never stopped surprising him, never stopped pushing him, and it was exhausting. But her smile, her voice, seeing her think, made it worth it.

Knowing she’d paid such close attention to him was a bonus.

Facing his computer, he typed in the one word he’d kept at the front of his mind since she’d recited his credentials and told the jury story without hesitating once.
Hyperthymesia
: exceptional, uncontrollable, autobiographical memory. Every day spent dealing with the present and reliving the past. If she had it, no wonder she’d isolated herself and stayed quiet. It must be maddening. And there wasn’t a treatment. She probably worked herself into exhaustion just to get some rest.

Did she fumble with words because it always a struggle to remember what was
now
and what was
then
? Is that why she didn’t want to go to dinner? He remembered her laugh from Saturday, the look on her face when she’d said yes.

She wanted to go, but she was afraid. Life was too short to live it in fear.

When his email alert dinged, he opened Bob’s message and downloaded the attached files. The pictures tiling across the screen dragged him back to reality. Dirty bones piled into a muddy hole, roots reaching to reclaim their grisly trophies, worms and bugs burrowing new escape routes. Something the poor bastard in the hole never had the chance to search for.

Ron Thomas had been another big guy–—long femurs indicated at least six feet tall. Thick bones, healthy. His killer, or killers, would have to be mountainous. Just like the others.

He’d lived in a small town. Atwood, Alabama. Ray Finch had lived in a one-horse town in New Mexico. Beau Archer had lived miles from the nearest town, somewhere in Virginia. Like Finch, Ron Thomas hadn’t been found near his home.

Ron didn’t have a family. No parents living. No siblings, no aunts, uncles, or cousins. Just like the others. They’d each been married at their deaths. Ron had been married to Liz. Beau had been married to Betty. Ray had been married to Allie. The authorities had lost track of their wives. Ron and Beau had each had a stepdaughter but no one remembered much about them. Ray had been childless.

As his printer whirred, Jeff stared at the growing pile of paper. It was no way to think. He needed to spread out. He needed supplies.

After programming directions to the nearest Office Depot into his phone, he slid behind the wheel and settled in for the hour-long drive. Honestly, how could anyone live this far from major necessities? What had brought Abby here? Had she grown up here, like the Mathises?

Not everyone had, and Fiddler wasn’t someplace you just stumbled onto. Charlene Anderson, Tiffany Marx and Gray Harper had relocated for friendship. Even he had come because Gray had needed his help. Only someone you liked would get you to somewhere this remote.

Jeff almost missed a turn and pulled over at the first wide spot in the shoulder. Rifling through his bag, he grabbed a pen and an envelope. Then, shading his eyes to stare at his phone, he searched for information on the burial sites and scribbled notes.

The Dismals and Sandia had websites. They were beautiful, but remote. No one would follow a stranger there. Beau had been found on his property. He wouldn’t have invited a stranger home.

They had been killed by people they trusted.

Putting his notes away, he continued to think until the Hastings city limits forced him to consider traffic and navigation. When he reached Office Depot, he loped across the parking lot and grabbed a cart, eager to get home.

He went straight for paper—printer paper, glossy sheets for photographs, legal pads, file folders and sticky notes—then to Sharpies, pens and highlighters, relaxing into the familiarity of color coding. He added all his favorite tools and a roll of butcher paper to protect the office wall. An oversized United States wall map and a box of colored pins finished the pile.

Satisfied, he took his place in the cashier line and waited. And waited. The woman behind him spent the time on her cell phone. Behind her, another shopper sighed. Further back, a child whined and demanded candy.

The front door swished open and the breeze carried the scent of gardenias. He looked over each shoulder, expecting to see Abby behind him. She wasn’t, but there was a scented candle on the impulse-buy shelf.
When the hell did candles become office supplies?

His fingers twitched and flexed at the memory of holding her, of feeling her hips flex in an effort to keep her balance. Her muscles were hard and lean. But her skin? God, it had been difficult to tell which was softer, her or that damned kitten. Her voice was soft, too, even when she was upset with him. And he liked her upset with him. Her hesitation disappeared, and she said exactly what she thought when she was irritated.

Smart, spunky, soft, sexy as hell...

The door opened again, dragging the fragrance on the breeze once more, and his mouth watered. He shifted his feet as his body followed his thoughts and his jeans became uncomfortable. He pushed the cart forward. This was the longest line he’d ever seen. Why couldn’t they get another cashier to help? And what was the guy in front of him buying, anyway? Box cutters, zip ties, trash bags, bleach, rubber gloves...