The Off Season (14 page)

Her face on fire by now, Christina grimaced, wishing she could have been so free and easy about it all. Maybe then she could’ve have been the one to do the hurting instead of getting hurt.

“Well, thanks for not saying anything to Mom and Dad about it,” she said. “Dad would’ve lost his mind.” Their adoptive father, who’d done everything he could to help direct her thoughts toward higher education, had insisted the road to failure was lined with bad choices, bad boys foremost among them. And Creekside boys would no doubt have merited a category all their own.

“Do I look like some kind of narc?” Pushing back her chair, Annie grabbed the platter to put away the leftovers. “Especially with all the stuff you had on me.”

True enough. Unable to compete with her older sister academically and all too conscious of their parents’ disappointment, Annie had started sneaking out at night at a young age.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Christina told her. “It was all such a long time ago.” Noticing her sister’s plate, she asked, “You weren’t hungry, either?”

“Not really,” Annie said absently before changing the subject. “Renee doesn’t know, does she? You know, that you and Harris were together back then?”

Christina got up and scraped her nearly full plate into the sink disposal, remembering that Renee had been away that summer visiting family in Maine. “I can’t imagine she does. Or something tells me she wouldn’t have missed the chance to throw it in my face.”

From the kitchen, she heard her sister’s ringtone. After detaching the phone from the charger where she’d had it plugged in, Annie grinned and answered, “Hey there, gorgeous!”

Had to be Kym or Haley, or another of her sister’s fun-loving but flaky friends. Or it could be one of the good-time guys they all hung out with, though occasionally two of them would pair off and date for a while, or even move in together. But their romances, like Annie’s winter temp jobs, tended to be as short-lived as they were fluid.

After Christina waved off her help with the dishes, Annie wandered into the book-lined study and closed the door behind her to continue her conversation.

As Christina washed up, she wondered whether she should tell Harris what had happened between her and his ex-wife. Renee had known about the word carved onto the car, had been there when it was discreetly covered with a tarp and loaded onto a flatbed by two men from the dealership. She knew how it had upset Christina, had commiserated with her, yet the hatred in her eyes when she’d thrown it back in Christina’s face had been undeniable. And frightening. Yet running to Renee’s ex-husband, possibly causing her more problems, still somehow felt disloyal.

Christina’s mind wandered to what she’d seen—or thought she had—in Bridgeport at the Sweet Shop. She thought about that furtive exchange, fear forking through her like summer lightning.

What if she hadn’t imagined it? If Renee was part of some conspiracy meant to—
impossible.
Christina couldn’t allow stress to give way to paranoia.

“Sorry to duck out on the cleanup,” Annie said as she returned, “but I have to head out for a while. Kym’s picked up some stomach bug and needs me to finish out her shift over at the Shell Pile.”

“She’s probably got food poisoning if she’s been eating off that dive’s bar menu.” Though Christina knew her sister worked the club during the tourist season, she’d had no idea how rough the place was before she began stitching up participants in the almost weekly closing-time brawls . . . and treating more than one recent case of explosive digestive issues.

“Yeah, well,” Annie said with an offhand shrug. “She’s already told Larry I’ll be pinch-hitting for her.”

“But what about the weather? It’s supposed to be getting worse.”

“It’ll be fine,” Annie said, her stock answer to every practical consideration. “I should be home a little after midnight. Larry says he’s closing then, or maybe earlier if it’s really slow.”

“I don’t like it, Annie. That car of yours . . .” A mental picture formed of her sister’s hatchback careening off the road and sinking into the marshy creek on the way to the little bar.

Her sister gave her a one-armed hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Christina felt a pang of disappointment. After the argument with Renee, she didn’t want to be alone. But Annie’s eyes were bright, and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, a reminder that as beautiful a home as the Victorian was, her lively sister would find it a prison if she were forced to stay cooped up for days on end. Christina thought about Renee insisting,
She’ll just leave you in the lurch when you need her most, and we both know it.

Maybe some time flirting with the Shell Pile’s shady clientele would keep her sister content. Still, the image of Annie’s car sinking into freezing water had Christina thinking of the crushing moment she’d been informed that a body had been pulled from the lake where Doug’s car had been found parked.

“Take the Mercedes,” she blurted out, hurrying toward the purse she’d dropped onto the counter when she’d arrived home. “It’s got all-wheel drive and heaven knows how many airbags.”

“And heated seats, too, I’ll bet,” Annie said happily. “Are you sure?”

Not really,
thought Christina, knowing that if the loaner vehicle were damaged with her sister behind the wheel, she’d end up paying for any repairs out of pocket. But she’d rather take a chance on that than sit around all evening mentally replaying the most hellish ordeal of her life.

“I’m positive,” she said, shoving the key into her sister’s hand. “Just be careful with it. And no drinking, or you call me.”

“No drinking when I tend bar,” Annie vowed, raising her right hand as if she were swearing on a stack of Bibles. “Too many empty calories, for one thing.”

Christina nodded. “That’s great,” she said, “but if you slip, no judgment. Promise. Just let me know so there won’t be any trouble.”

Annie stared at her a moment, a spasm of unreadable emotion passing over her face. “I—you’re too good to me, Christina. Way too good.”

Frowning in confusion, Christina shook her head. “Is there something wrong?”

“Of course not. It’s just, Mom’s been on my back so much lately, she’s had me feeling like nothing but a loser. For you to trust me, to let me help you out—it makes me feel . . .”

“I love you, Annie, and right now, I swear, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Maybe this was what her sister had needed all along. Not to be carried for life, like the helpless infant she’d once been, but to be trusted to do some of her own heavy lifting.

A few minutes later, she was gone, leaving Christina to turn on the outdoor lights for her, along with the alarm system, which had been repaired with the phone line the day before. After shutting off the fireplace and TV, she scooped up Lilly and took her upstairs.

“Story, Mommy?” her daughter asked sleepily.

After some negotiation involving the brushing of teeth and the successful completion of her business with the potty, Christina happily complied, grateful when Lilly fell asleep again by the end of
Goodnight, Moon
. Switching the light off, Christina gave her daughter one last kiss before heading to her own room to dive in to a novel one of the lab techs had recommended. But with her brain rehashing every moment of this evening’s showdown with Renee, Christina couldn’t focus on the story, and she was tired, anyway, from a long day on her feet.

Giving up on the book, she shut off the bedside lamp and stroked Max, who’d turned up his nose at his own bed and claimed the spot beside her. As she lay watching the snow blow past the window, the security lights reflected off the white streaks passing before a sea of endless darkness. Though the Victorian was well insulated, the low moan of the wind’s voice reached her, along with the pounding of the waves against the shore. There were sounds inside the house, too, creaks of complaint from the 140-year-old timbers, the hiss and rumble of the heating system, and a gurgle from the plumbing.

Somehow, all these elements wove themselves into something soothing and familiar, and she found herself drifting on a raft of warmth, dreaming of sun-soaked sand and the warm lap of gentle waters. Dreaming of looking up into a hazel gaze.

Christina had no idea how long she’d been sleeping when some new sound—could that be a thunderclap, with the snow?—startled her awake. Shivering with cold, she reached to pull up her missing comforter, silently cursing the thieving greyhound, who must have pawed it away to make a cozy nest.

But the big dog had left the bed, she realized, and when she looked up, she saw the window standing open, the snowflakes blowing in . . .

And a human figure silhouetted by the outside lights. A man-size presence, real and solid, standing in her room.

“Leave now,” it told her firmly, in a voice she knew too well.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In a darkened alley behind Cape Street, Officer Frank Fiorelli sat in the department’s only unmarked vehicle. With its peeling gray paint, drooping headliner, and wheezing carburetor, the geriatric sedan wasn’t about to run down any perpetrators, unless they were on foot. But when it came to powers of invisibility for stakeouts, Old Reliable was tough to beat, and the heater was fan-fucking-tastic, allowing him to rest his ass in comfort as a cold wind off the nearby water misted the air with icy droplets.

Glancing down at his phone, Frank grinned, seeing he had enough of an Internet connection to check his e-mails and maybe later surf some porno where he wouldn’t have to worry about the little woman popping in at the wrong moment and deflating the soufflé. All while on the clock and following orders, as long as he looked up now and then to check things out—especially the backyard of the Victorian a couple of houses down.

Not that he expected to see a thing. Despite his earlier suspicions that he’d stumbled onto a plot to intimidate the hot doc out of her dead husband’s money, it seemed the case had been settled in such a manner that the plaintiffs would have nothing to gain—and a shitload to lose—if they were caught hassling the not-so-merry widow.

Plus, he was certain he’d put a stop to the rash of vandalism last night. If the culprits—a bunch of teenage stoners so freaking stupid it was a wonder one of them had thought of wearing latex gloves—didn’t want a boot up the ass and a brass-plated
Go to Jail
card, they’d find some other way to get their kicks. Maybe join a bowling league or something that wouldn’t trash their futures and cost their parents more in legal fees than any of them were worth.

As the wind sent swirls of snowflakes spiraling between the mostly empty houses, Frank sat back, imagining his name on the front page of the paper. There’d be a photo, too, of Chief Bowers giving him a commendation for ending the crime spree the chief himself had been powerless to stop. Privately, Bowers would finally admit that, just as Frank’s councilman brother-in-law was always saying, Frank was the one who ought to be chief, the one who’d put in the years and sweat to merit the position.

But those fantasies, Frank knew, were never going to happen. If he were dumb enough to claim credit for breaking this case, his reward, he knew, would be his own swift dismissal. Plus, the dumb punks he’d spared would end up facing charges, including the one kid he gave a damn about.

Shifting in his seat, he took out his lunch—not the rabbit-food combo his wife had shoved into his hands before he’d left the house, reminding him of what the doc had said about his expanding waistline, but the giant Italian hoagie he’d picked up from his cousin’s deli before closing because, well, he was a Fiorelli, and Fiorellis didn’t run on carrot sticks and fucking hummus.

He was halfway through the sandwich, the delicious prosciutto, hard salami, provolone, and raw onions singing on his taste buds, when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of movement. He cursed as a tomato-and-shredded-lettuce wad dropped into his lap, splattering him with enough oil and oregano for his wife to smell a mile away.

Shoving the trash into his bag, he leaned forward, squinting into the darkness and noticing that the Victorian’s back gate was swinging in the breeze. Was that the movement he’d spotted, or could it have been an intruder, slipping inside the fenced backyard while he’d been distracted?

An uneasy feeling gurgled through his gut, a rumbling that had him recalling Alphabetty’s theory about some rejected lover taking out his anger on the hot doc’s high-priced Mercedes. Though Bowers himself had told Frank only yesterday that his investigation hadn’t turned up anybody like that, he couldn’t help remembering the vandal he’d confronted, who’d sworn he and his crew had nothing to do with what had happened at this address.

Fiorelli had figured it for another lie, one of about a hundred the desperate kid had spouted when backed into a corner. But even a busted clock’s right twice a day, so it was possible that particular statement might’ve been a true one. Which meant the real culprit could’ve come back with something more than vandalism in mind.

He reached for the radio, thinking,
Better safe than sorry
. Before he could request backup, though, the radio blatted out a call for Zarzycki, yet another domestic at an address both of them knew well. She was likely to be hung up there for a while, he knew, since with these particular frequent flyers, it was always difficult to figure who’d been whaling on who
this
time.

“Have fun, Alphabetty,” he said, mentally congratulating himself for getting out of what could easily turn out to be another all-night goat screw.

Then he spotted a four-legged creature, its tail tucked as it skulked near a couple of scruffy-looking pine trees along the alley’s edge. Stray dog. This area was crawling with poor mutts assholes dumped once they grew inconvenient. It pissed him off, imagining his Newfoundland, a shaggy black mountain of love and trust and slobber, lost and scared on her own.

But as the thin, light-colored dog lifted its head, Fiorelli recognized the hot doc’s greyhound, shivering like crazy in the cold.

“How’d you get loose, Skinny?” Had the animal gone out through a doggy door to do his business, then found that the back gate had blown open?

When he turned on the car’s headlights to see better, the greyhound startled, tucked his thin tail even tighter, and trotted off down the alley.

“No, buddy. Don’t run off now,” Fiorelli said as climbed out and followed, feeling the icy kiss of snowflakes as they melted against his face. “You ain’t got hair enough on you to line a pair of kiddie mittens.”

Thinking only of how happy the doc would be to get her dog back—maybe happy enough to brew him some of that special rich-people coffee she had—he jogged past the scruffy pine trees . . .

Never noticing one slim shadow separating itself from the others. Never noticing until the cold steel took its first bite, deep and cruel.

Harris stood in the darkened hospital room, watching over his son’s gentle breathing. He should be sleeping himself, reclining in the chair he’d sprawled in more than once since Jacob had been here, and making up for all the long hours he’d put in the last few days.

But there was no way he could sleep now, not with the story Annie Wallace had told him chewing at his brain. The story of two girls he had once thought of as privileged, who’d had a hellish start.

“For years and years, she had these awful nightmares,” Annie had said, considering herself fortunate not to remember the events that had provoked them. “She’d wake up the whole house with bloodcurdling screams like you would not believe. And always afterward, once our parents calmed her down, she would have to be brought into my bedroom to see I was still breathing and touch my skin to make sure I was warm.”

Harris’s heart twisted at the image of Christina, as small and vulnerable as Lilly, on another night, raw and cold as the one now taking shape outside. Picturing her huddled with her arms around an infant, both of them abandoned to the elements, totally alone.

He’d thought his own childhood harrowing, with a father who drank too much, and a mother, God rest her soul, who’d cowered each time the old man raised his voice. Though she couldn’t find the strength to stand up for herself, at least she’d kept him safe, had even been willing to shield him with her body until he’d grown big enough to stand up for them both.

During the times he wasn’t drinking, though, Harris’s dad had been a decent man. A man who’d struggled as hard to provide as he struggled for sobriety. Who’d loved them both in his harsh way, the best way he knew how.

Flawed as his parents were, Harris knew both would have been appalled by what their biological mother had done to Annie and Christina. Or
Katie
, as her name had apparently been in the first years of her life.

“My sister hates it with a passion, but at least she knows her real name,” Annie had said. “I never knew mine at all. And the birthdays we both celebrate are guesswork—hers, especially, might be off a little because of malnutrition.”

Harris cursed under his breath, wishing like hell he could forget what he’d heard.

“The question is,” he’d asked with a pear-size lump in his throat, “how would Lilly know her mother’s birth name? Would someone in the family have told her?”

“Gosh, no. No one’s brought it up in years, and as far as I know, Mom and Dad never told anybody the real story about how they came to adopt us. They never even mentioned it to us, if they could help it. I still remember when they finally told me. I was nine then and starting to ask a lot of questions about why my sister was in therapy and who the heck was Katie. I’d heard her scream that name before, but when I asked her about it later, she just slapped me.”

Holy hell,
thought Harris, his stomach turning as it often did when he was drawn into the investigation of crimes involving children. The idea that Christina had for so many years carried the burden of that early memory explained so much about her, from her seriousness about her grades to the deep sense of responsibility she felt for her younger sister.

Though he’d thought he’d let go of his animosity years before, he felt any lingering resentment slide off his shoulders. He was freaking glad she’d won that scholarship, a scholarship she had worked for and deserved.

“So how do you think Lilly got hold of the name Katie?” he’d asked, taking one last run at it from a slightly different angle.

Annie had dropped her gaze, avoiding his stare, and murmured, “You—you might think this sounds crazy.”

“What sounds crazy?” he’d prompted. “C’mon, Annie. Believe me, there’s nothing you can say that’s gonna shock me.”

But he’d been wrong about that. Dead wrong. What Annie told him next had sure as hell surprised him. Surprised and kept him awake until he stepped out of his son’s hospital room about twenty minutes after midnight to answer his vibrating phone.

“What the hell? You’re sure?” he asked after Maya, the night dispatcher, gave him the address for the automatic alarm.

“127 Cape Street,” she confirmed, the excitement in her youthful voice unmistakable. “And the resident hasn’t responded to the monitoring company’s attempts to reach her, either on the landline or her cell.”

His heart hammered as he dug for his keys. “Where the hell’s Fiorelli? I told him to take the unmarked car and stick close to that area.” He’d been going to send Zarzycki, but Frank had whined so much, he’d let himself be talked into switching their assignments.
If he’s off on another bender, I don’t care who his brother-in-law is, I swear I’ll can his ass.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t raise him on the radio or on his cell phone, either.” Clearly as frustrated as he was about it, Maya huffed, “
Again.
And Alphabetty’s finishing up with a domestic. The Lewises are at it again.”

“That could take some time,” he said, having given prior orders that the next time Karl and Vicki got into a drunken slugfest, they both needed locking up. “And, anyway, I’m heading over.”

As much as he hated to leave Jacob, Harris told himself he would be back before his son woke in the morning, and he let the duty nurse know to keep a careful eye out as well.

“I’ll keep trying Fiorelli,” Maya promised.

“And if I call in and tell you I need backup, I don’t care what you have to do—have Zarzycki handcuff both those idiots to opposite ends of that trailer of theirs, wake up the entire day shift, or call in mutual aid, if that’s what it takes,” he said, referring to the agreement Seaside Creek had with its nearest neighbors in case of emergency.

“You asked me to remind you about the budget,” she said, sounding apologetic. “Overtime’s already maxed out for the quarter, and it’s only—”

“Council can take it out of my hide later,” he said through gritted teeth, “or have my badge if Edgewood’s convinced them that’s what they really want.”

Christina’s scream was loud enough to shred her throat. Loud enough to wake her.

The reality she’d been so certain of rained down like shattered glass, leaving her alone in the dark bedroom, heart kicking like a mule.