Every Time I Think of You

  Underneath the photo albums was a policy for life insurance.

  So she did have one.

  The face amount of the policy was fifteen thousand dollars, and I was listed as the sole beneficiary. A scrap of paper was clipped to the front.

  I want to be buried in my blue suit and I’d like daffodils, if possible.

  I smiled as tears filled my eyes. If she wanted daffodils, I’d make sure she had them.

  In the last box, I found a few personal items. I picked up a pair of clip-on earrings and remembered how I used to beg to wear them when I played dress-up as a little girl. They’d hurt my ears terribly, though I never admitted it. I found a string of pearls that I didn’t remember ever seeing before, but when I rubbed them against the front of my teeth, their smooth texture told me they weren’t real. Even if they had been, my grandmother was part of a generation that kept their valuables close. Maybe not in jelly jars buried in the yard, but not necessarily in a safe-deposit box, either.

  It had taken me less than thirty minutes to sort through my grandmother’s possessions. If she were alive, I knew what she’d say: Things aren’t important, people are. You and Elliott mean more to me than material things.

  Even so, I sat down on the edge of her bed, blinking back tears and feeling defeated when I thought about the utter unfairness of it all.

  CHAPTER 12

  BROOKS

  The parking lot was full when I arrived at Daisy DiStefano’s apartment complex. I knocked on her door and listened to the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Brooks McClain from the Desert News.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  Well, no.

  “I spoke to you the other night at the police station. You texted a picture of your grandmother to my phone.”

  She didn’t say anything else, but a few seconds later my phone rang.

  I smiled. Pretty and smart.

  I answered the call. “You’re very resourceful.”

  Daisy opened the door. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure.”

  “No need to apologize. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes if you have time.”

  “Sure. I was about to take a break anyway. We’re moving into a different apartment on Sunday, and I was going through my grandmother’s things. Detective Quick wanted me to check and see if anything was missing.” She exhaled as if the very act of it had exhausted her.

  After she closed the front door, I followed her into a small living room.

  “Please sit down,” she said, motioning to the couch. “Would you like something to drink? I think there’s soda and bottled water in the fridge.”

  “Water would be great,” I said.

  When I’d spoken to Daisy the night her grandmother died, her eyes had been red and swollen; now I noticed how blue they were. There were faint circles under them, which told me she probably still needed more rest than she was getting, but she seemed calmer and more in control. Not as shell-shocked. Her blond hair was once again pulled back in a ponytail, but her cheeks were no longer blotchy with tears, and her skin was clear and bright. She was wearing jeans and a lightweight, long-sleeve shirt. No jewelry. She was the kind of woman you might overlook in a dark, crowded bar, but the first one you’d notice when the lights came up.

  In other words, she was exactly my type.

  She returned holding two bottles of water. She handed one to me and sat down on the chair across from the couch and opened her water. “What would you like to know?”

  I pulled my notebook from my suit pocket and uncapped my pen. “You and your son lived with your grandmother?”

  “Yes. My grandmother raised me. When I got divorced a year ago, it was kind of a foregone conclusion on her part that Elliott and I would live here. She watched him while I was at work.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a nurse at the hospital in Barstow.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Could it be someone you know? Someone you work with?”

  “The only person I can think of who might be capable of something like this is my ex-husband.”

  I kept my expression neutral, remembering the comment Margaret had made about Scott using drugs. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s an addict. That why we got divorced.”

  “What’s his drug of choice?”

  “Meth. He smokes it.” She looked away as if she was embarrassed, and I could only imagine what traveling down that road must have been like for her. “I told Detective Quick about Scott. He said he would look into it.”

  “Can you give me his address?”

  “You’re going to talk to him?” She sounded surprised yet hopeful.

  “Yes.” It might have been a cliché, but if there was an ex-husband in the picture, he was usually the first person everyone wanted to talk to.

  “I can give you the last address I have for him. It’s the same one I gave to Detective Quick.” She scribbled it down on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  “Do you think your ex-husband might have come here looking for money?”

  “It’s possible. He has a history of stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down if he thought he could sell or pawn it. But like I told Detective Quick, Scott would know better than anyone that there was nothing in this apartment for him to steal. It’s not like my grandmother and I kept cash around, either. We both learned that lesson the hard way.”

  “Have you noticed anything missing?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only been through my grandmother’s room so far, but everything seems to be accounted for. She really didn’t have anything of value.”

  “No jewelry?”

  “A few costume pieces, but it’s all there.”

  Her phone rang and she shot me an apologetic look after she glanced at the screen. “I’m sorry. I really need to take this. It’s about the move.”

  “No problem.” I pulled out my phone and Googled Scott DiStefano. There were several hits, mostly local articles about a restaurant called DiStefano’s, the one I had passed on my way into town that had the sun-faded Closed sign on its door. The image search showed a blurry picture of a man wearing a suit while cutting a ribbon during the grand reopening ceremony. Interesting. How long had it taken Scott to go from restaurant owner to addict?

  “I’m sorry,” Daisy said again when she hung up the phone. “I’m trying to coordinate the funeral and the move, and I’m just… overwhelmed.” She rested her head in her hands for a moment and then looked up. “Where were we?”

  “Since nothing appears to be missing, the motive may not have been robbery. Do you know of anyone who might be holding a grudge against you or your grandmother? Family member, scorned acquaintance?”

  “No. Everyone loved my grandmother. I’m worried—” She stopped abruptly, as if she’d changed her mind about saying whatever she’d been about to say.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m worried that it was supposed to be me and not her.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because of my ex-husband. Nothing seems to be missing, but Scott is the only link I can come up with.”

  “Is there a specific reason you feel that way?”

  “Just a hunch.” She wouldn’t look me in the eye, which told me that she probably did have a reason but wasn’t ready to tell me.

  “This apartment is severely lacking in security features. You’re going to have to take some additional steps to ensure your safety once you move. It’s just… you’re incredibly defenseless.” I rarely shared my thoughts when interviewing a victim’s family members, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was talking down to her, but there was something about a single mother, a young child, and an unsolved murder that had stirred my protective instincts in a way they’d never been before.


  “The new apartment has a peephole and I’m going to install a safety chain.” She rubbed her temples as if she felt a headache coming on. “I just need to get through the next few days.”

  “Can I get your new address? I’ll let you know if I was able to speak to your ex-husband.”

  “Sure,” she said. She gave it to me and I wrote it down on the same piece of paper she’d written her ex-husband’s address on and put it in my pocket. “We should be moved in by Sunday. I hope to be back to work by Wednesday, but otherwise I should be there.”

  “Please call me if you think of anything else.” I stood and followed her to the door. Before she opened it, I said, “I want you to be very careful.”

  She turned around and looked up at me, her expression a mix of gratitude and surprise. She blinked rapidly and looked away. “That’s very kind of you. I will.”

  She opened the door, and before I walked out I said, “Take care, Daisy. I’ll check on you again soon.”

  CHAPTER 13

  DAISY

  By the time Shane came by with the boxes, I’d organized most of the kitchen and half of Elliott’s toys, placing everything into piles much the same way I had in my grandmother’s room. He put the boxes together and I filled them, and then we sealed them shut with packing tape and labeled them with a Sharpie.

  “A reporter came by about an hour ago,” I said. “He asked me some questions. He said he’s going to talk to Scott.”

  Shane whistled. “He’s really gonna open that can of worms?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  What I didn’t say was that the reporter’s concern for my well-being had made me want to burst into tears. I expected Pam and Shane to care about me; they were my closest friends. But when a total stranger warns you to be careful, it really drives home just how alone you are. What I wouldn’t give to have a partner, someone to navigate these rough waters with me.

  But I didn’t have anyone.

  “I need to ask you something,” I said as I labeled another box.

  “Sure,” Shane said. “What is it?”

  “Do you have a gun?” The thought had come to me briefly while I was going through my grandmother’s things, and after the reporter came right out and mentioned how defenseless I was, an idea started to form. At first it seemed ridiculous, but the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I embraced it.

  He looked surprised. “I have shotguns for hunting. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know. Pam stockpiles all the chick flicks you won’t watch and we have a movie marathon whenever you’re out of town on one of your hunting weekends.”

  He grinned. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that, Daze.”

  “Happy to do it,” I said. “But I’m not talking about shotguns, I’m talking about a handgun.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I want to buy one.”

  His expression turned wary. “Look, I know you feel vulnerable, but that doesn’t mean you should run out and buy a gun.”

  “I don’t want to buy a gun, Shane. I can think of lots of things I’d rather buy. But I want to feel protected, especially in my own home.”

  “Gun ownership comes with a lot of responsibility.”

  “I know that. Believe me, I do. My biggest concerns are safety and that I don’t know how to use a gun, not yet. I’ll have a lot to learn.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Daisy. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you run a high risk of someone using your own gun against you.”

  “Which is why I’ll take a class,” I said. “And I’ll spend time at the shooting range so that I’ll feel comfortable using it.”

  “You’ll have to apply for a permit to carry it.”

  “I can do that.”

  “It’s your right to carry a gun if that’s what you want to do.”

  “This isn’t about my right to carry it, Shane. This is about feeling like I have a choice. If I’m armed, I have some say in whether or not I’m going to be a victim. And if Elliott’s life was in danger, I would have no problem pulling that trigger. I can’t imagine any mother out there who would.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a horrible idea. I just hate the thought that it’s come to this.”

  “I’m not thrilled about it either. But I hate feeling defenseless even more. Do you think you could help me pick one out?”

  He groaned. “Pam is going to kill me.”

  “She’ll understand,” I said. “Eventually.”

  After Shane and I filled all the boxes he’d brought, I walked him to the door. “Thanks, Shane,” I said. “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome. See you in little while.”

  Next, I picked up Elliott. “How did he do?” I asked Kayla as I lifted Elliott into my arms.

  “He did great,” she said. “He drew a picture for his nana.”

  I kissed Elliott’s cheek. “Can I see it?”

  He nodded and wriggled out of my grasp.

  “He seems really attached to that army man,” Kayla said, lowering her voice.

  “He was clutching it the night my grandmother was killed. He carries it everywhere.”

  “Bless his little heart,” Kayla said.

  Elliott returned with his picture and handed it to me.

  “I’ll make sure Nana gets this, okay?”

  He nodded somberly.

  “Have you found anyone to watch Elliott yet?” Kayla asked.

  “Not yet. I need someone I can trust, and I’m worried about how Elliott will adjust. He’s only used to being with his nana.”

  “I’ve put in a few calls. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”

  “Thanks.” I reached out and gave her a quick hug. “I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s no trouble, Daisy.”

  “Are you ready to go eat pizza with Pam and Shane?” I asked Elliott.

  “Yeah!”

  “Let’s go, then. Tell Kayla thank you.”

  “Fank you,” Elliott said.

  “You’re welcome. You come back and see me again sometime, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  *

  “Are you insane? You cannot carry a gun,” Pam said as soon as we’d walked in the door and Elliott was out of earshot.

  “I see you’ve had a chance to talk to Shane,” I said.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “I’m no expert, but I think that’s actually the opposite of how guns are supposed to work.” I raised an eyebrow.

  She sighed. “You know what I mean, Daisy.”

  “Believe me, I do.”

  “I thought you said you were afraid of guns?”

  Well, she had me there. “I am, but mostly because I don’t have any experience with them.”

  “Shane said you’re going to take a class to learn how to handle the gun.”

  “I’ll sign up as soon as the funeral is over and we get moved in.”

  “It makes me nervous.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You don’t have to move at all,” Pam said.

  I could tell by her tone that she was sincere. If we stayed, she’d make it work and I’d never hear a single complaint out of her.

  “We can’t stay here forever. Besides, you’ve got major nesting to do. That baby will be here before you know it.” Tears filled my eyes and I blinked them back. “I’m scared, Pam.”

  She put her arm around me. “Things will get better.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Because I don’t know how much more I can take.”

  CHAPTER 14

  BROOKS

  Scott DiStefano lived in a run-down shithole ten miles outside town. Potholes punctuated the dirt road, and by the time I turned into the driveway a thick layer of dust covered my Jeep. The house was surrounded by weeds and rusted-out vehicles up on blocks, as well as several stereos and TVs in various states of disassembly. A tweaker’s paradise. I was jus
t thinking that all it lacked was a junkyard dog when I heard the low growl and spotted the large, Cujo-esque mutt chained to a post in the front yard.

  Great.

  Hopefully the chain wasn’t long enough for him to reach the front door.

  I knocked and waited. No footsteps. No sound coming from within. I knocked again, harder this time. The man who finally opened the door had a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth and a gun shoved down the front of his pants.

  Cujo instantly became the least of my worries.

  “What the fuck do you want?” His rotten teeth were visible when he spoke, and the open sores on his face made it look like something had been chewing on him. But most alarming to me were his eyes, as dead and cold as any psychopath’s. The pupils were dilated and the sockets were surrounded by purple rings so dark they were nearly black.

  I met his gaze without flinching, the way you stared down a wild animal to let it know you weren’t afraid.

  “Scott DiStefano,” I said. “I need to talk to him.”

  “DiStefano,” the man yelled. He glared at me and walked away, leaving the door open.

  The crumbling teeth and picked-at skin were a cautionary tale, but so many people in San Bernardino County had ignored it. It wasn’t the meat-packing plant or the railroad or the outlet mall that kept the local economy buzzing, it was the drug trade. Especially if you were willing to deal meth. Knowing how to cook up a batch was even better. The fact that the kitchen might blow up before you were done was no more a deterrent than the gruesome effects of meth on your personal appearance. Easy money has a very strong appeal.

  While I waited, I sniffed the air. I detected no smell of rotten eggs, which would indicate the presence of anhydrous ammonia. Other than the gun, their security was pretty lax, and the dog seemed less ferocious watchdog and more neglected pet; he was chained too far from the house to be much of a threat. The kicker was the cigarette. You’d have to be insane to smoke in the presence of all those flammable chemicals and fumes.