Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (23 page)

Jack came down the steps, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on, Mommy? I heard yelling. It woke Sophie up, too.”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, glad he was apparently too tired to register my appearance. It wouldn’t have escaped Sophie’s notice or long-term memory. “We ordered a pizza, and Auntie Kenna’s really excited about it. Super Teddy’s eating with us. You can have some for breakfast, okay? Tell Sophie she can, too. You guys go back to sleep, okay, sweetie? Morning will be here before you know it.”

He did as I asked, thank goodness.

I turned to the pizza guy, but he wasn’t alone, and it wasn’t the police who had joined him.

“Whoa,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

It was Dean.

“You haven’t responded to any of my texts, and I got worried. Are you…okay?”

Considering I was dressed like a hooker and grinning at a pizza guy, that was a reasonable question.

“I’m okay
now
,” I said. “Just don’t look in the dining room. Actually, do. It’s Todd. But don’t say anything. And make sure he’s still breathing. I’ll explain everything.”

Dean blinked and sidestepped the pizza guy.

Kenna returned with five dollars and took the pizza into the dining room with Dean. I asked the pizza guy for his name, and on second thought, asked him to stick around as a witness.

He had no idea what I meant, but he loved the idea.

As you can imagine, it was a relief when the police arrived—and I put back on my robe.

Twenty-Nine

Dean’s texts from bed hadn’t been run of the mill. No wonder he was surprised when I didn’t respond.

He was going to be Lydia’s donor. His doctor had already been in touch with hers, and he’d make his donation as soon as possible. He wanted nothing in return for his “gift,” but Lydia insisted on doing a reading for him.

“A mother figure is coming through for you,” she said when we visited her in the hospital the next day. “Oh, my. She’s beautiful and kind. I want to talk with both of you—or all three of you—once I’m home.”

Her doctors expected that to be soon, and I hoped Dean would accept her offer.

Todd had been treated at the same hospital and charged with Bruce’s murder, among other things, after confessing what he’d done.

Dean dropped me off at home, since I planned to make some donations of my own. After years of saving Jason’s belongings—and days of searching for a red box, it was time to clean out. I’d saved anything I thought the kids might value, including our wedding rings, and I’d stuffed everything else in bags for a local thrift shop benefiting a women’s shelter.

Before I lifted bag after bag into the trunk, I thought of Ginny moving out of the house she’d shared with Dean. The physical aspect of moving on was so final; it required a different kind of acceptance. I genuinely hoped she was doing okay.

I surveyed my trunk full of crap, a lot of it based on “what ifs” and fears. I had every possible emergency supply, and I’d barely used any of it…partly because I kept “extra” necessities in the glove compartment. After losing Jason and my Dad, my focus had become preserving everyone I loved and avoiding emotional risks. I hadn’t been living fully, I realized, or letting others do the same.

When I’d talked with Aunt Liz, who shared that Mia was recovering and reconnecting with Austin, we’d marveled at the way the truth was revealed amidst so many secrets. Debriefing with Mia and the police had revealed that she never texted Austin about meeting on the bridge. Todd had sent those texts from a throwaway phone as a “backup plan”—an effort to place another suspect near the crime scene, just in case Eli didn’t show up.

The police believed Todd had jumped off his hotel room terrace, caught up with Bruce in the parking lot, and offered to accompany him to the park. Then he’d whacked Bruce over the head with a bat and stuffed him in the car before Eli arrived. Finally, after meeting with Eli, Todd had thrown Bruce’s body over the bridge and returned Bruce’s car to the deserted park, where it was later found. The walk back to the hotel was only two miles, and he’d hidden the money in shrubbery along the way. Years of witnessing Bruce’s unpunished crimes, unearned successes, and insufferable bragging were his admitted motive. The fifty thousand dollars didn’t hurt, either.

To prevent further unanswered questions, Mia had turned over Bruce’s passwords to a colleague of Dean’s, who was investigating all of Bruce’s relationships, online and otherwise. Meanwhile, Mia’s follow-up syphilis testing had been negative. Apparently, initial false positives weren’t unheard of.

“Thank goodness the truth came out,” I’d told Liz. “Someone was looking out for us.”

“You know that feeling you’re having? That you didn’t do this alone?”

“Yes.”

“Remember it,” she’d said kindly. “We can’t control everything, but we’re never alone. That goes for your kids, too.”

Hm.

“But horrible things happen all the time, and people don’t survive.”

“True. And there’s help from beyond. Maybe that can help you relax a bit.”

Hm again.
Relaxing was a foreign concept. Maybe pole dancing, of all things, would help. I had a lot of thinking to do.

I lifted one of two emergency kits out of the trunk, thinking maybe I’d give it away as a token gesture. It was leftover from Jason’s old car anyway. I’d bought it for him, my careful nature evident all those years ago. That’s when I noticed its color: red.

Gingerly, I lifted its latch and cheap, plastic top. The box wasn’t full of emergency gear, unless you count love notes between a cheating husband and his lover. Jason had probably been afraid to use email.

I rested on the minivan’s bumper in the garage, glad the kids were visiting Sky.

With shaking hands, I read everything Megan had given Jason, hurt that he’d cared enough to save it—and disgusted by the immaturity of their relationship.
You weren’t the picture of maturity then, either,
I reminded myself, not that I was now
.
Through months of communication, Megan’s notes became more pleading and less confident. She wasn’t sure how Jason felt about her, and she was afraid he might stay married.

The last envelope was unopened, but I broke the seal without hesitation, desperate to know what was said before they died. The handwriting wasn’t Megan’s. It was Jason’s—the only item from him. I couldn’t tell if it was a letter or something he’d planned to say.

Today has to be our last date because you were right. I still love my wife. I wasn’t lying when I said I thought my marriage was over. Nicki and I grew apart, and being with you made me feel energized, happy, and wanted. It’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, because I wasn’t being honest with anyone. I’m really sorry. I owe it to my family to try to make things work instead of giving up when it gets hard, and I owe you honesty. You’re a beautiful person, and you deserve someone better than me. I hope someday you can forgive me.

I folded the letter and pressed it to my chest, crying and rearranging emotions I’d felt for so long. Jason had done everything I’d imagined he’d done and maybe worse, but in the end, he’d chosen our family.

I thought of our last moments together and our first ones worlds apart.

I’d made oatmeal with apples and stayed in my pajamas until everyone else was dressed and happy. Then I’d asked Jason to watch the kids while I took a quick shower. He fed Sophie a bottle and played trains with Jack. I said goodbye with stringy, wet hair—distracted and envious of his alone time in the car. No kiss. Maybe a thoughtless “I love you.” That afternoon and beyond, dazed by the news that he’d drowned kayaking (I thought he was at work) with his colleague Megan (whose sister later told me they were seeing each other), Kenna, Andy, and my divorced parents united to see us through. The train track Jason had set up with Jack stayed that way; I glued it together. I couldn’t even wash Jason’s bowl of leftover oatmeal. Eventually, Kenna did it, and I sobbed.

Tears fell as I returned the letters to the box, wishing I could see Jason, take back every wrong word I’d hurled from Earth to heaven, and hug him, angry, forgiving, and apologetic all at once.

I set the box on the garage floor next to the belongings I’d been ready to give away. Slowly, I lifted the bags into the trunk, letting tears streak down the black plastic.

“No-‘tear’ trash bags, huh?” I joked to myself as I remembered their label’s bold claim. “Who can you trust these days?”

I knew the answer to that.

Almost two months (and six pole dancing lessons) later, Kenna invited our family over for a holiday party and welcomed us to bring guests.

She warned that Dean better show up, since he and Andy needed to “bond.”

Kenna was almost worse than my mom. She was already envisioning joint family vacations, and I couldn’t complain, given how Dean looked in a bathing suit.

After she promised to refer to him as my “friend” in front of the kids—and resist any InstaImpulses she might have, since some of her gym friends would be there—I agreed to bring Dean and a few others.

“So good to see you,” Lydia greeted us when Dean and I welcomed her into Kenna’s foyer.

“Still feeling strong?” Dean asked. They’d met for a reading that he called “life-changing” and “healing”—exactly how she described her transplant from him. His probiotics had been so effective that the hospital asked him to join a local donor bank program they were pioneering. Secretly, I called him a Pooperhero.

“I’m a new woman,” she said. “You two should name your first baby ‘Flora.’” First baby? I’d already broken the news to Dean that I couldn’t imagine having more kids, and it hadn’t been a deal breaker, thank God. I hoped Lydia wasn’t making a psychic prediction. “Thank you again for inviting me,” she added. “I needed to get out, eat Christmas treats, and put on some weight.”

“Well, you’re in the right place,” I said. “Kenna’s got every holiday concoction you can think of.” Her dining room table was loaded with cookies, candy, festive drinks, and an amusing variety of fruitcakes. I’d contributed the lone veggie tray.

In addition to the holidays, she and Andy were quietly celebrating his Sportswriter of the Year Award for the player safety exposé, which had drawn national interest from readers and various organizations, including the government, all intrigued by PreTechTion’s helmet. It turned out that Todd had set off the small explosion after Andy’s interview request. Appearing to be the league’s target was just one more attempt to throw suspicion away from himself for Bruce’s murder.

Once Todd was in jail and Eli was released, Frank had sent us unexpected bonus checks, which Dean suggested we use, in part, for a weekend getaway. I was somewhat obsessed with the idea, but so far, no decision felt right. What did feel right was the pole-dancing routine Kenna had created for me. I was keeping it to myself for now, enjoying twirling along with my disco ball and letting some inhibitions go.

“By the way, Mia just pulled in behind me,” Lydia said. “She brought Austin along.”

“Oh,” I said, startled. I hoped that didn’t upset Lydia, who was struggling to cope with losing Bruce and the illusions she had about him. I wanted this visit to lift her spirits.

“It’s okay, Nicki,” she reassured me. “I understand. Everyone heals in their own way.”

Dean showed Lydia to the buffet while I greeted Mia and Austin.

“I hope you can forgive me, Austin, for what we put you through,” I said after hugging Mia. I hadn’t seen him since our last interview—or interrogation.

“Forgive you?” Austin said. “It’s what brought us back together. I’m thankful.” He squeezed Mia’s hand to his chest.

“I wish your grandmother was here, too,” I said, thinking she’d appreciate Kenna’s candy cane themed tree. Betty’s holiday schedule had been too full to attend. “Please be sure to wish her a merry Christmas.”

I led them to the living room, where carols were playing, Lydia was drinking eggnog (which proved she really was healed), and Dean and Andy were leading the neighborhood kids in a sing-a-long.

“Oh, no,” Kenna whispered, nodding at the guys. “Look what we created.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s a bromance. I think they’re…
Dandy
.”

I laughed, relieved that for the moment, all my mysteries were solved.

Except for the future. And right now, it wasn’t my job to figure that out.

About the Author

Susan O’Brien has been passionate about reading and writing since childhood, when she started a neighborhood newspaper and escaped tween stress with mysteries. Since covering her first big story (the birth of gerbils next door), she has worked with USA TODAY,
PI Magazine
, The Parent Institute and others. Her debut mystery
Finding Sky
was an Agatha Award nominee for Best First Novel. Among her diverse interests are photography, gardening, loud R&B music, healing prayer, and reality TV. She lives with her husband and children in the D.C. suburbs and donates part of her earnings to missing children’s organizations.