Long for Me (7 page)

Now fate or God was going to stick it to Theo Miller instead.

Guy didn’t know if it made him a bad person, and he didn’t care, but he hoped the miserable bastard suffered.

He opened the door and found himself looking into the room, looking at his father, and searching for signs of the disease that was going to kill him. He’d lost weight in just a few weeks, little more than skin and muscle stretched over a long, lean frame. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before even the muscle started to waste away.

Pancreatic cancer was almost always fatal. It was a bad one, not overly common, but a mean form of the disease. One of the guys he’d gone to college with had lost his father to it.

Now it was going to put Theo in the ground.

In a few months, probably.

It wasn’t fast enough.

It was too soon, too.

Because they needed answers.

Theo turned his head and looked at the door. If he wasn’t mistaken, surprise lit his gaze for just a second when he saw Guy standing there. “Well, well, well,” Theo drawled, his voice raspy, harsh from years of smoking.

Guy wondered absently why it was the pancreas, not his liver from years of alcohol, not his lungs from years of heavy smoking. The pancreas.

“It’s good to see you, boy.”

Guy arched a brow. “The last time you saw me, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see me.”

“Well.” Theo shrugged and looked away. “Circumstances.”

“Circumstances.” Guy propped a shoulder against the door. “How about you tell me whatever you got to tell me, old man? I have other things I have to do today.”

“You’re a cold bastard, Guy. I got things I need to tell you. I’m thinking it’s time I should bare my soul, but you ain’t got no time for your old man.”

The calculating light in Theo’s eyes made Guy’s gut crawl but he didn’t let his revulsion show. “Bullshit. You want something. Don’t think you can jerk me around. I know you too well. Just tell me what you want. I’ll decide if it’s worth it.”

“That little bitch you sniff after wants the truth. You always were crazy about her. Isn’t
she
worth it?”

Guy didn’t let himself react. He knew better.

“Tell me what you want,” he said again, speaking each word slowly, carefully.

Theo studied him for a long, slow minute and then finally looked away, stared out the window. “I don’t want to spend the last few months of my life in prison.”

“Too fucking bad.” Guy laughed sourly and turned on his heel, reaching for the doorknob. “If that’s why you’re pestering me, you’re wasting your time.”

He had the door open when his father bit off his name. “You’re such a fucking hard ass.”

“Yeah? If I am, you made me this way. If I was anything other than hard, you would have put me in a grave before I was five.” He headed through the door.

“Wait.”

“No reason.”

“The fucking dog broke his chain. It ain’t my fault.” The needle of a whine entered Theo’s voice.

Guy paused now, looking back over his shoulder for just a minute. “I can’t get you out of jail. Even if I
could,
I
wouldn’t
. So think of something else you want.”

“Money.” A crafty look entered his father’s eyes. “I got no money for smokes. No way to make things easier for the time I got left. Maybe I can’t get out, but there ain’t no reason it’s gotta be sheer hell, either. I imagine a smart boy like you could maybe talk to somebody who could get me some quiet time alone in the yard. I shouldn’t have to be on my guard the whole fucking time I’m out there walking, shouldn’t have to worry about guarding my smokes, my back.”

“What are you asking for? Solitary?”

“No. No.” Theo shook his head. “I’m fine where I am. I don’t cause no trouble … usually. I know how to get along on the inside. But once it gets out that I’m sick, that I’m not up to speed, people are going to start to try to move on me. I still like my time out in the yard. I want to enjoy that. I want to spend my money on smokes. I wouldn’t mind a few books to read. Some luxuries. I’m entitled.”

“You’re not entitled to shit.” Guy stared at him. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the leg pocket on the baggy cargoes he’d pulled on that morning. Tossing them up, he watched as Theo’s eyes lit with greed. “You tell me how it went down that night. I’ll give you these. Then, after you give a written statement, I’ll talk to the warden.”

“You want me to confess. Are you nuts?” Theo’s eyes were wide, his yellowed teeth visible as he sneered at him.

“You’re dying. Not like the county is going to waste money prosecuting your ass.” Guy rocked forward, lowered his voice. “Do it my way and I’ll see if I can help you out. But if you don’t … well. I might let it slip that you’re not really up to watching your ass. Word might get out that you’ve been talking to cops—I don’t have to mention what you’ve been talking about. How well you going to sleep at night, Dad?”

“You fucking son of a cunt.”

“Yeah, well. You raised me.”

* * *

“You realize what this is going to do to them?”

Dean West stared at the letter the county sheriff had given him. There were only three men in the room: Dean, the sheriff, and the silent figure who had yet to say a single word.

He had no doubt how this had all come about.

The tension coming off Guy Miller was enough to choke every man in the room.

The sheriff opened his mouth to respond but Dean just shook his head and focused his eyes on the man standing by the window.

“Guy.”

Slowly, Guy shifted his head and looked up. His eyes were stark, his face practically carved from stone.

“This is going to be like rubbing salt in a wound,” he said.

“This won’t make it to trial.” Guy looked away. “Once they hear the circumstances…”

“Shit.” Dean surged up and started to pace, agitation chewing at him. “I
get
that. But you and I both know that it’s not going to help them.”

“We can’t
help
them. Not with this.” Guy closed his eyes and slammed his head back against the wall. “The only thing that might help is if Theo suddenly ended up beaten to death, brutally, in the middle of his cell. If he suffered, that might give them some peace. But even that isn’t going to give them closure.”

Dean swore viciously. “I didn’t hear that.”

“I’m not going to go to jail over that son of a bitch. Relax.” He opened his eyes, stared at Dean. “There’s no easy answer for this. I know that. But he’s dying, Dean. Think about it. Is there any reason to even
try
moving this forward, wasting the money, when he’s already confessed and he’s likely to be dead in a few months anyway?”

* * *

“What do you mean, there’s not going to be an investigation?”

Chris stared at Jensen, the Diet Coke she’d just pulled from Dean’s refrigerator falling from her slack hand.

It hit the floor and bubbled over, spilling onto the warm, smooth glow of the polished hardwood floors.

Dean moved forward, a towel in hand. Dazed, Chris stared at the foaming pool of liquid puddling around her feet.

“Shit, Dean. I’m sorry. I made a mess.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said, his voice low and gentle. He swiped it up and dumped the can in the sink before turning to her. Both he and Jensen watched her with worried eyes. “Chris—”

“Why aren’t they pressing charges?” she demanded, looking from his face to her sister’s as they moved in to stand side by side. A unit. Dean, with his dark, elegant looks and Jensen with her breezy, easy beauty. They were a unit already and they’d only been together a month or so. Or had it been longer? Shorter? She couldn’t tell. Time was a jumble anymore and nothing made sense, not after they’d found Mom.

Mom.

She shoved the heel of her hand against her eye and turned around, looking out the window. “If they don’t investigate, how can they press charges?” Dean and Jensen shared a quiet look, and then Jensen sighed. “I don’t think they will.”

It felt like the ground crumbled under her feet. Desperate to stay upright, she reached out, clutched at the counter. “Why?”

“There are … extenuating circumstances,” Dean said after a moment.

“Extenuating? What? They decided they’d rather charge the dog and they are going to dig up his bones and put
him
on trial?” she asked, her voice breaking.

She spun around, glaring at them.

Jensen started toward her. “Baby, come on. Just … look. I know this sucks. Just … you have to trust me. We’ve got a confession and we can close the case, but—”

As Jensen reached up to put her arm around her, Chris knocked her hand aside. “I don’t want to be patted. I don’t want to be stroked or soothed. I want to know why nobody is going to investigate. I want know why they are just taking his fucking
confession
. He’s a liar, and a killer … why is his word
good
enough? And why isn’t he being tried for her death?” she shouted, her voice echoing through the quiet house, growing louder and louder with each word.

“Chris—”

She spun away, unable to hear another calming, soothing word. She was so
tired
of being calmed and soothed. She wanted somebody to yell back. She wanted somebody who hurt like she hurt, who wasn’t afraid to cry. Maybe if
they
cried, she could.

They’d never cried around her and it made her afraid to cry, too.

Now, even as the tears burned her throat, she knew they’d never fall, not here.

Grabbing her bag from the door, she slid the strap over her head, settled it between her breasts.

She had to get out of here.

Had to find Guy. If she found him, she could unload.

Then, maybe, she could make sense of this.

But he wasn’t home.

And when she drove out to the cabin, he wasn’t there, either.

She scrounged around in the rock garden until she found the fake rock that hid the key he’d put there because she’d nagged him to do it. Then, she unlocked the door, went inside, and curled up on the bed.

Tears burned, ached inside her.

But they still wouldn’t come.

Theo Miller wasn’t being investigated.

He wasn’t going to be charged.

He’d
confessed …

What in the hell did
that
mean?

Chapter Seven

Guy had never shown up at his cabin.

Come nightfall, it had been too empty out there away from him, away from town, away from everything.

Because she couldn’t stand the thought of trying to call him and risk breaking down on the phone, she’d simply come back home. But the house was too big, too empty without him and she’d found herself in her workshop.

She had a few Internet orders—she saw those and thought about doing them, but if she did them now, she’d have nothing to keep her busy tomorrow. But she couldn’t let her hands be empty.

Instead of focusing on the work orders, she decided to make something for herself.

No.

Not herself. Something for Mom.

Time passed, quietly, save for the snip of her tools, the soft, steady sound of her breathing. Here, she had peace.

The lights shone down on the worktable, stark and unrelenting.

The floral display was as close to perfect as she could make it.

Chris’s hands were steady as she worked with the daisies, the baby’s breath, going with vivid colors because her mother had loved them so. Nothing dark, not for Mom. She’d spent all these years trapped in darkness. She’d never have anything dark or unwelcoming again.

Rage tried to work through the calm she’d wrapped around herself, but she shoved it back. He wouldn’t answer for what he’d done to Mom—

Stop it
. She pushed it aside, reached out and selected one more sprig to add to the wreath.

She’d be angry later. She’d be furious later. She’d get
answers
later.

It was nearly one by the time she was finished and she stepped back, her spine aching, her arms stiff from being bent over the table for so long.

The wreath was deceptively simple, delicate. It would be dead in a matter of days, but it would put a bright spot of color on Mom’s grave.

“I miss you,” she whispered. Reaching up, she touched a finger to one of the soft, almost velvetlike petals. Then she turned, reaching behind her to untie the apron she’d pulled on hours ago. She shut the little shop down, locked up.

A bath. Long and hot to soothe the ache from her bones. She had the next few days off from Shakers but the orders from the floral business would keep her busy. Maybe not as busy as she’d be if she’d actually open a
real
place.

She’d work. She’d brood. She’d try to understand. And she’d hide from the rest of the world while she figured this out.

If she could be calm enough to do it, she might call Guy. No. It was too late. The thought didn’t even settle before she turned and saw him.

Standing there, right there, in the doorway, his eyes locked on her, stark, dark, intent.

“Guy…”

She rushed to him.

As his arms came around her, she fought to keep the storm inside her from tearing out.

It trembled there, just barely under control.

“Have you heard?” she demanded, curling her fingers into the worn material of his workshirt. She tipped her head back, glaring up at him as everything inside her threatened to rebel. “I know you’re still on personal time, but this … fuck. This is crazy. Have you heard?”

“Why don’t we go inside?”

She nodded, dropping her head to rest against the warm, welcoming wall of his chest. Inside. That sounded good. She could fall apart there. Get a drink. Get a good cry on. And he’d be there with her. Best of all.

* * *

Two tumblers, whiskey glinting in them, sat in front of them.

He opened his mouth to start talking but Chris beat him to it.

“They aren’t investigating him.”

He closed his eyes as she erupted off the couch, pacing the floor with long, angry strides. Her jeans, torn and frayed in ways that drew his eyes to the most interesting spots on her body—hell,
every
part of her body interested him—clung to her legs as she moved, her movements erratic and short, like the energy trapped inside was trying to come out.