Heartstopper (29 page)

“What if I tell you I want to go live with Dad?” Did she?

“Do you?”

“Maybe.”

A look of pain settled in around her mother’s tired eyes. “Then I hope you’ll think it over very carefully.”

“He wouldn’t ground me.”

“Maybe not.”

“He’s not a hypocrite like you are.”

Her mother said nothing, although the pain in her eyes spread to her mouth, tugged on its corners. She sank into a nearby chair.

“I wonder what Dad would say if I told him about what you did last night.”

“I imagine he’d have himself quite a chuckle.”

“He’d think you were pathetic,” Megan said pointedly. “So would Kerri.” She brought her shoulders back and raised her chin. “So do I.”

The glass of juice began shaking in her mother’s hand and she lowered it to the floor.

“No wonder he left you,” Megan added, furious at not being able to provoke her.

“Okay, Megan. I think you’ve said enough.”

“I don’t think so.”

Her mother nodded, looked Megan squarely in the eye. “Well, then, I guess you better give it your best shot.”

Megan’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Damn it. Is this the way it always is?” she heard herself wail. “Doesn’t it get any better? Any easier? Are guys always such jerks?” She buried her head in her hands, burst into a flood of angry tears as Sandy quickly rose to her feet and drew her into her arms. Megan burrowed deeply into her mother’s side, inhaling the fresh scent of lavender from her still damp hair.

“Some things get better,” Sandy said, kissing her forehead. “Some things get worse. And nothing is ever easy. But not all guys are jerks.”

“Dad’s a jerk.”

“No.”

“Yes, he is. Why are you protecting him?”

“You’re right. He’s a jerk.”

Megan laughed through her tears.

“He wasn’t always a jerk,” her mother qualified. She guided Megan back to the sofa, sat down beside her, and began stroking her hair.

“Was Dad the first guy you had sex with?” Megan broached.

Her mother’s hand froze. “Oh, God. I don’t think I’m ready for this conversation.”

“Was he?”

Sandy fell back against the sofa. “I take it you don’t mean kissing.”

“Mom,” Megan said, stretching the word into three syllables.

“Yes, he was the first man I had sex with.”

“So then, he’s the only one?”

“Oh, God. I really
am
pathetic.”

“No, you’re not. Jessica Simpson was a virgin when she got married.”

“Who?”

“Jessica Simpson. You know, the singer.
Daisy Duke. The Newlyweds.”

“What?”

“She was married to Nick Lachey, and she was a virgin till her wedding night.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, she and Nick eventually split up, but still—”

“Are you having sex, Megan?”

“What?”

“Is that why you left the park early, to be with some boy?”

“No. Are you kidding me? No way.”

Her mother’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Good. I mean, it’s not that I don’t expect you to have sex one day. Sex is a very beautiful thing, especially when two people love each other. But you’re so young and there’s so much time.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. I don’t think I’m ready for this conversation.”

Sandy laughed. She was so pretty when she laughed, Megan thought.

“I’m really sorry,” Megan said. “For all those awful things I said. I just said them because I was mad.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Could I have my phone back?”

“Not a chance.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“It was worth a shot,” her mother said as the doorbell rang. “You expecting someone?”

Megan shook her head, rose to her feet. “I’ll get it.” She crossed to the front door, peered out the peephole. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, pushing the door open, and thinking how strange it was that doors in Florida opened outward instead of inward. You could knock some unsuspecting visitor unconscious if you weren’t careful. Her father had explained it had something to do with hurricanes, and it had made sense at the time, but she couldn’t remember his explanation now.

“Who is it?” Sandy was asking.

“Hi, Megan,” Delilah Franklin said, entering the small foyer. “Hi, Mrs. Crosbie. Sorry to bother you at home this way.”

Sandy scrambled to her feet. “Delilah,” she acknowledged, a worried look creasing her brow. “Is something wrong?”

Megan knew her mother was wondering if something had happened to Ian, whether he’d had a sudden heart attack or been hit by a car. “Is my father all right?” Megan asked in her stead.

“As far as I know. Why? Did something happen?”

Sandy’s shoulders slumped. “What can we do for you?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton today.”

Megan and Sandy both looked in the direction of the house next door. “No,” they answered together. “Why?”

“Just that I was supposed to baby … to come over and keep Mrs. Hamilton company for a few hours this afternoon, but I’ve been ringing the bell for ten minutes, and nobody answers.”

Sandy shrugged. “I guess they went out.”

“I guess.” Delilah shifted from one foot to the other as if she was hoping to be invited inside to wait for their return.

Please don’t invite her to stay, Megan pleaded silently.

“I guess I’ll come back later.”

“You probably should call them first,” Sandy suggested.

“Yeah. It’s just strange, you know.” Delilah turned to leave, then stopped just as Megan was about to close the door. “I wasn’t going to go back there anymore. It’s kind of creepy there, you know? But I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Hamilton. Have you ever talked to her?”

“Not really.”

Delilah hesitated. “Well, I guess I’ll see you guys at school.”

“See you at school,” Sandy repeated, as Megan closed the door.

C
an I tell him what this is about?” the young woman was asking.

John Weber leaned his considerable bulk against the high counter of the reception desk, his eyes scanning the series of closed doors that comprised the well-lit inner office. “Just tell him the sheriff needs a few minutes of his time. Oh, and Becky,” he said to the girl he’d known since she was two years old, and whose chubby, freckled face had barely changed in the twenty years since, “tell him I haven’t got all day.” He looked around the crowded waiting room. It was eight-thirty on a Monday morning and already half a dozen people were there.

“Dr. Crosbie,” he heard Becky whisper into the intercom. “Sheriff Weber is here to see you…. Uh, I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.” She raised her head, smiled shyly. “Dr. Crosbie says if you’ll just have a seat, he’ll see you as soon as he’s through with his patient.”

“Thank you.” John looked toward the gray-walled reception area’s only vacant seat, between an elderly woman who was rocking back and forth in obvious distress and a man who hadn’t stopped blowing his nose since John had walked through the door. While he might be able to remember their names given enough time and effort, he didn’t really know either of them beyond a
casual hello. The same was true of the three middle-aged women and one man whose strained, unhappy faces were buried deep inside their magazines. There was a time, and not all that long ago either, when John knew virtually everybody in town. Now they all looked vaguely alike, one face blurring into the next. John felt no connection to any of them, he realized, and wondered whether such disaffection was a sign of the times or more proof that he was getting too old, too complacent, to do his job properly. He approached the window that overlooked the street, trying not to see the mayor’s pinched expression reflected in the tinted glass.

Ian Crosbie’s office was located on the second floor of the relatively new, three-story building on Church Street, so named because of the proliferation of churches in the area. John tried to remember the last time he’d been to church, other than for a wedding or a funeral. Liana Martin’s memorial service had taken place just around the corner. Although technically, he hadn’t actually been inside that church. There’d been so many people that day, the crowd had spilled out onto the street. He’d staked out a spot to the right of the front steps, the better to watch those coming by to pay their respects. Or get their jollies.

He’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. If Liana’s killer had been among the mourners, he’d aroused no undue suspicions. If anything, it was the people who
hadn’t
shown up that afternoon who’d tweaked John’s interest the most. People like Dr. Ian Crosbie.

“Sheriff Weber?” a petite dishwater blonde in a nearby chair was asking. She pushed herself away from the white-trimmed, pearl-gray wall and squinted at him through one eye that was swollen and pink.

“Mrs. Marshall,” he acknowledged, giving himself an invisible pat on the back for remembering her name.

“Are you feeling all right, Sheriff?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“That’s good. We wouldn’t want our sheriff getting sick.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Especially now.”

“I understand.”

“We’re counting on you, Sheriff.”

She didn’t have to say for what. John understood she was talking about finding Liana Martin’s killer and returning the town to its former tranquillity. “I’m doing my best.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Any leads?” The woman beside Mrs. Marshall leaned forward in her royal-blue chair, tucked shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair behind one ear.

Try as he could, John was unable to produce the woman’s name. “The investigation is ongoing,” he told her, which was a fancy way of saying
No, no leads
, and they both knew it.

The man who’d continuously been blowing his nose suddenly sneezed. Everyone quickly blessed him. “Actually you don’t have to say
Bless you
when you have a cold,” the man said, blowing his nose again.

“Really?” Mrs. Marshall asked.

“According to my mother.”

“I never heard that,” said Mrs. Marshall, returning to the latest issue of
In Style
magazine.

John knew it was the latest issue because his wife had the same one at home, and Pauline was always first at the drugstore when the new magazines came out. She felt it was her duty to keep abreast of the latest styles, as well as keeping tabs on Jennifer and Brad and Angelina and Paris and those famous pin-thins, Nicole and Lindsay, and why did he even know these people’s names? Was there some weird virus going around, and had he been infected along with the rest of the nation? Celebrity-itis, he thought,
clearing his throat to hide the laugh that had almost escaped. He wondered if the good doctor could do anything about that.

“Thanks, Dr. Crosbie. Bye, Becky,” chirped a familiar voice as the door to the inner office opened and Tanya McGovern stepped into the reception area. “Sheriff Weber,” she said with a smile. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Tanya, thank you. And you?”

“I haven’t been sleeping very well these days.”

“That’s quite understandable.”

“My mother thought I should have some sleeping pills, so Dr. Crosbie wrote me a prescription.”

“We’ll all sleep better once this madman is caught,” Mrs. Marshall opined.

“Any leads?” Tanya asked.

“The investigation is ongoing,” the woman beside Mrs. Marshall answered before John had a chance.

“Well, I better get to school,” Tanya said, already halfway out the door.

“Take care.” John returned to the window, watching Tanya as she left the building and climbed into a waiting van. Was that Greg Watt behind the wheel? he wondered, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. But the car turned the corner before he was able to make a positive identification.

“John?” a male voice said from behind his back. Not Sheriff Weber, as should have been the case given the nature of their relationship, or lack thereof, but, rather pointedly,
John.

“Ian,”
the sheriff said in response, turning around and smiling at the involuntary wince that flashed across the good doctor’s handsome face. Ian Crosbie was wearing a blue-and-black-checkered shirt underneath his open, white lab coat and a pair of neatly pressed black trousers that accentuated his slim hips.

“Is there a problem?” the doctor asked. “Are you ill?”

Ill
, not sick, John noted. “No, no. Not
ill.
Nothing like that. I’m afraid I just need to ask you a few questions.”

The doctor looked suitably chagrined. “Could it possibly wait until later? As you can see, I’m very busy this morning.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait. I’ve tried several times to get ahold of you already.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but—”

“—you’ve been very busy. I understand. This shouldn’t take long.”

Ian Crosbie sighed, lifted his hands into the air, as if to say, What can you do? “If you’ll excuse us for just a few minutes,” he apologized to his patients as he led John into the inner sanctum.

“You’re looking well, Becky,” John told the receptionist as he followed the doctor down the narrow hall, past two rooms where patients were already waiting, into a third room at the back. Ian Crosbie immediately sat down in the large, brown leather chair behind his exceedingly tidy oak desk and motioned for John to occupy the smaller one on the other side. A mistake, John thought, choosing to remain standing. He’d become aware early in his career that peering down on his opponent gave him a strong psychological edge. And he wondered when exactly he’d started thinking of Ian Crosbie as his opponent.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Ian plucked a red ballpoint pen from a mug filled with such pens and began tapping it against the side of his desk.

So it was
Sheriff
now. “I need to ask what you were doing on the afternoon that Liana Martin disappeared.”

The pen fell from Ian’s hand, hit the desk, rolled between two framed photographs of his children, and dropped to the gray-carpeted floor, where it bounced out of sight. “Excuse me?”

“Monday, April—”

“I know what day it was.”