Steadfast (True North #2)

  Indeed. He began licking and worshipping me, and I whimpered and moaned. “Oh fuck,” I panted. So close. “Come. Here,” I demanded.

  “Yeah?” He tongued me sweetly. “It’s gonna go fast.”

  “Now,” I demanded.

  Two seconds later he’d parted my thighs and pushed all the way inside. “Fuck, yeah,” he said, his voice strained. He leaned down on his forearms, tattooed biceps flexing, and began to pump his hips.

  I wanted to touch him everywhere at once. My hands flailed over his hair and down to his shoulders. My knees clutched his hips. More more more. What I needed was just out of my reach until I looked up into Jude’s serious, silver gaze. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips parted. But he still saw me. And he liked what he saw. “Love you,” he mouthed.

  I couldn’t even reply, because I was too busy sinking back into his bed, my body quaking with release.

  Groaning, Jude chased me to the same sweet finish line, and we shuddered and gasped together until the last panting breath.

  He rolled off my body, turning his head to smile at me. “That didn’t take long. But I’d say you look properly fucked.”

  “Cocky,” I teased, panting.

  “I don’t hear any complaints.”

  A beat later, we rolled toward one another at the same moment, meeting in the middle, my nose at his neck. His arms folded me into his chest. Love you, thudded my heart against his.

  Likewise, his replied.

  We didn’t say it, but only because we were still catching our breath. I traced the pattern of roses on his right biceps. The second time we’d ever had sex I’d asked him why he’d chosen those flowers. “My mother liked roses,” he’d replied. “Took me a while after I got that tattoo to realize how psycho it was to tattoo her favorite flower on my body. As if I could get her to care about me if I was wearing ’em.”

  I’d always pitied him a little for his family situation. But now I knew how easy it was to shatter a family. My parents were still married, but they were only faking it. My mother hadn’t abandoned me when I was a third grader like Jude’s. But she’d abandoned the land of the living when my brother died.

  We cuddled and kissed for a little while, but the clock ticked later and later, and I knew I had to leave.

  “I can’t wait until next Wednesday,” I said, trying for a laugh.

  He sighed instead. “This is temporary, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Good. Because I’m pretty sick of letting you go.”

  “I love you so much,” I said.

  He kissed me once more and then gave me a gentle shove to sit up. “I love you more. Now get out of here already.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jude

  Craving meter: 1

  The next morning I realized it had been a full week since Zachariah had given me the tip about Marker Motors. I hadn’t called Mr. Marker yet because I dreaded checking the felony-conviction box on the application.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, though.

  So I fetched my father into the shop around ten. “I’m going to stop in at a garage that might have an opening for me,” I confessed. “If you sell this place, I’ll need to find something else.”

  His face gave an uncomfortable twitch. “Yeah, okay. Good idea.”

  I drove over there in my best shirt and clean jeans. At the front desk, I told the cashier that I’d heard there was an opening in body repair.

  “Let me grab Mr. Marker,” she said immediately.

  The shop was awfully classy. There was a clean, quiet waiting room with a flat-screen TV and vending machines. When I peered through the window into the repair bay, I saw a dozen lifts and at least as many mechanics.

  Damn.

  “You’re here about the bodywork job?”

  I spun around to greet a tidy man in his sixties dressed in a golf shirt and khakis. He wore an apron, though, and had a little grease on his hands. “Hi. Yeah.” I was nervous, which was something that drugs used to cure for me. But now I had to face all these moments stone-cold sober. “My name is Jude Nickel…” I reached forward with my broken arm to shake his hand.

  He shook it carefully. “That cast is probably not helping your dexterity.” He chuckled.

  “That is true, but it comes off in ten days. Simple break, they tell me.” I did not elaborate on the cause. A beating by violent drug dealers would not look good on my résumé.

  “Good to hear,” he said. “Tell me about your experience in the body shop. You’re a little young.”

  “I started early. I was fourteen when I started helping my dad in his shop.”

  A light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, you’re that Nickel.”

  Shit. I felt a familiar jolt of dismay. I was so used to being infamous for killing the police chief’s son that it took a moment for me to realize that this man likely only recognized the name of a competing garage. “My father owns Nickel Auto Body.”

  “Ah. And you don’t work there anymore?”

  “I do work there. But Dad is thinking of selling the property, so I need a new gig.” That was a vast oversimplification of the problem, of course.

  “I see. Come have a seat in my office. Let’s talk body repair.”

  We did that, and I told him about my Prius client who couldn’t find anyone nearby to help him with a commercial decal. “I think there might be a niche there.”

  “Fascinating,” he said. “I like your idea. So fill out an application for me. I’d like to hire you on a trial basis as soon as that arm is healed.”

  And here came the awkward part. “I love this plan… But there’s something you need to know.” I swallowed hard. “Three years ago I was convicted of manslaughter. I was addicted to painkillers when a passenger in my car died. It’s the only time I’ve ever been arrested. And I’ve been clean now for a while.”

  “How long have you been clean, Jude?”

  This was exactly why I hadn’t looked for a job yet. “Eight months, sir. It doesn’t sound like much, but I’m doing really well. I cut out all the toxic people in my life, and I’m part of an active drug-treatment program. I’m tested every two weeks. The clinic will fax you the documentation if I ask them to.”

  I watched for the grimace, but his expression was thoughtful instead. “Eight months is pretty impressive. My son never made it that far.”

  That was so not what I’d expected him to say.

  “See this?” He tapped the Marker and Son logo on his apron. “I thought I’d always have my son working beside me. But I lost him when he OD’d five years ago.”

  Jesus. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

  Mr. Marker smiled. “Thank you. It took me a long time to cope with it. This business was a shambles for a while. I was sure his addiction was all my fault.”

  “I can promise you it wasn’t, sir.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” His smile was tired. “Listen—if you’re working for me, and you get your one year chip from NA, I’ll give you a bonus.”

  “That’s, uh, a really generous thing to say. I’m going to make it to one year and then keep on going.” I hadn’t ever announced that out loud before, but it felt good to hear myself say it.

  Some people beat this thing. Why not me, right?

  “Let’s get you that application.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long did you say it would take that cast to come off?”

  “Ten days.”

  “That’s good news, Jude. Good news indeed.”

  I sat in the Avenger and called Sophie, just to hear her voice.

  “Jude?”

  The sound of my name on her lips made me close my eyes in gratitude. “Hi, baby. How are you doing?”

  “I’m nervous about tomorrow,” she confessed. She was having her Come-to-Jesus meeting with the hospital boss. “It’s going to stink to hear him tell me I didn’t get the job, even if I already understand why.”

  I wanted to argue with that assumption, becau
se Sophie was everything to me and I couldn’t imagine anyone turning her down. “No matter what they say, I’ll hold you tight next time I see you.”

  “Promises, promises. Are you heading to the Shipleys’ tonight?”

  “Sure am. Sneak out and come with me? Take your mind off your troubles?”

  “God, I want to. But I’m making stuffed chicken breasts and trying to get Mom involved. Today I basically told her I was going to move out and probably leave Colebury to find a new job.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She was…” Sophie sighed. “Resigned, I guess. But I asked her to cook with me tonight and she said she would. But we’ll see.”

  “Okay. I’ll be patient.”

  “Love you!”

  “Back atcha babe. Later.”

  I hung up without telling her about Mr. Marker’s job offer. If Sophie didn’t get the job she wanted in Montpelier, I didn’t want her to mourn the fact that I’d somehow landed one just on the other end of town.

  After a couple hours in the shop I headed over to the Shipleys. In addition to the cake I bought at Crumbs on the way out of town, I bought Zachariah a case of fancy beer. Lawson’s Liquids’ Sip of Sunshine was one of the craft beers that people drove from out of state to try.

  When I went to prison, beer was just beer. When I came out, the whole world had gone crazy for Vermont brews. I didn’t really get it.

  “Here, man,” I said, pressing it into Zach’s hands when I found him in Ruth Shipley’s kitchen. “This is for finding me a job.”

  “Finding…really?” he asked.

  “Really. Marker will hire me, even with the felony conviction.”

  “SCORE!” Griff shouted, thumping me on the back, and then all the women piled on to hug me.

  Life could really be worse.

  “Zach, can I have one of your fancy brews?” Griff asked. “I’ll be your best friend.”

  “Well, in that case,” Zach said, tugging one out of its cardboard restraints.

  “Do you need a glass?” Ruth asked as Griff popped the top of the can and immediately took a sip.

  “No way! Cans are in again, Mom. You’re supposed to drink it out of the can so you don’t oxidize it with a quick pour.”

  “Yeah, I just hate accidental oxidation!” Audrey teased, removing the can from Griff’s big hand.

  “Hey! Stop, thief!”

  She sipped. “Wow. I’m keeping this.”

  Without a word, Zach tugged another can out of the case and handed it to Griffin.

  “Griffin, give your grandfather the ten-minute warning,” Ruth demanded. “And find Daphne so she can set the table.”

  “I’ll set the table,” I offered quickly. “My sling is gone. That’s my other news. Oh—and Sophie and I patched things up.”

  “WHAT?” Daphne hollered from the kitchen. “Back up. You’re back together with Sophie?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled open the linens drawer in the dining room hutch. “The green napkins or the white?”

  “Green!” Ruth called at the same time as May yelled, “White.”

  Right. I pulled out the green because Ruth had more clout.

  Audrey came through the room again to set a salad on the table. “You are full of good news tonight,” she said.

  I really was.

  Then my phone vibrated in my pocket.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sophie

  Internal DJ set to: “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof

  At five o’clock I walked into my mother’s room and stood bodily between her and her television. “Time to make the chicken,” I announced.

  It was bossy, but it worked.

  With a sigh she clicked off the television and followed me into the kitchen.

  “I got six breasts so we could have leftovers. And I already zested the lemon. Now what?” I’d chosen this recipe tonight because it was one of Mom’s specialties back in the day, and I told her I had a craving for it. Of course, I really had a craving for her to get her skinny butt into the kitchen and act like her former self.

  Though the chicken would be tasty, too.

  “We mince the garlic next,” she said. Her gaze traveled around the kitchen, looking a little lost. As if, after a twenty-year absence, she’d wandered into a neighborhood she used to know.

  “The garlic is right there,” I said, pointing to a bulb on the counter. “And I’ll grab you a cutting board.”

  We worked together in relative silence, but it was nice to have some company in the kitchen for once. I sliced open the chicken breasts while she mixed garlic, olive oil, feta cheese and lemon zest.

  “This gets a little messy,” she admitted as she began to spoon the cheese mixture onto the chicken breast. “Is the oven pre-heated?”

  “Whoops. I’ll do that now.”

  Someday I’d make this dish for Jude in our kitchen. At the end of a long day we’d cook dinner together and decompress. Jude would tell me stories about the crazy ways people managed to dent their cars, and I’d tell him about the cases on my desk at work.

  I’d mince the garlic while he prepped the salad. We’d eat together at our tiny kitchen table, make out on our sofa and then make love in our bed.

  These were the happy thoughts that got me through the long days without him. Even if we had the world’s smallest apartment somewhere, I couldn’t wait to close the door and throw the lock in a home that belonged only to us.

  It was totally going to happen.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. Hoping it was Jude, I left my mom washing some spinach and took the call in the living room. “Hello?”

  “Sophie?” a male voice whispered. “It’s Rob Nelligan.”

  “Oh, hi Rob!” I said a little louder than necessary. But I didn’t want to seem as if I was sneaking off to take a call if no sneaking was required.

  “Listen,” he said, his voice so low I could barely hear him. “That file you asked me to check out? I found some highly irregular things.”

  “You…really?”

  “Yeah. But now I think the chief knows I was digging. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But the network shut down right when I was in the middle of reading it.”

  “Hmm.” Now we were both paranoid. “What did you find, though?”

  “Well, every case file has a digital log cataloguing each time it’s edited. Each edit gets a timestamp. It notes every change made to the file and when the pieces were uploaded. Stuff like that. Nobody can alter the log—that’s a security feature.”

  “Okay?”

  “The log for this file shows a bunch of crime-scene photos uploaded the day after the accident. But they’re all gone now. Someone deleted them a few hours after they were uploaded. And there’s no video of the interrogation, which is especially weird.”

  “Because…interrogations are supposed to be taped?”

  “Yeah. And on a sensitive case like this? It’s a real red flag if there’s no tape.”

  “Wow. Is that all?”

  “No. The text of the report was uploaded twice, which isn’t that weird. But the new version doesn’t show what was changed, which is also against procedure. Someone just wiped the slate clean about forty-eight hours after the first report was filed.”

  “So you mean…”

  “Oh shit,” he swore. “Gotta go.”

  Click.

  I stared at the phone in my hand for a long moment, trying to make sense of what he’d just told me. The file had been doctored. Photos were missing.

  This was going to make our visit with May’s lawyer friend even more interesting. But where the hell were those photos? If anyone knew, it would be my father. But there was a zero percent chance he’d tell me if I asked.

  I couldn’t ask. But I could look around.

  Leaving the living room, I tiptoed toward the back of the house. My mother had already departed the kitchen, retreating back upstairs. I heard her TV switch on. Otherwise, the house was silent.

  Keepi
ng quiet, I made a beeline for my father’s den. He had a big oak desk in the corner where he sat to pay bills. I’d never opened the file drawers in here before. But now I tugged the handle for the top drawer, and it rolled open on well-oiled glides.

  Not for nothing did my dad spend eight years in the military. Each file folder had a label (“bank statements,” “heating oil”) typed in black on a shiny white label. I checked the lower drawer, too, finding the same thing.

  On every folder but one.

  I tugged out the blank file and popped it open in my hands. Glossy photos spilled out immediately, and I scrambled to keep them from cascading to the floor. They were color prints—plain old four-by-six inchers—of Jude’s wrecked Porsche. There were no people in the photos. But the passenger’s side door had been removed. And the passenger’s seatbelt strap dangled uselessly from the ceiling where it had been cut in half.

  Cut. As if to extract a passenger who was stuck because of the crash.

  My heart thumped wildly as this new information sunk in. Jude was the passenger, not the driver. He had to be. My brother had not been wearing his seatbelt at all when he was ejected during the crash. His seatbelt wouldn’t have been cut, because he wasn’t wearing it in the first place.

  A car door slammed outside the house.

  Holy shit.

  The photo in my hand—with the cut seat belt—I jammed into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I slapped the folder shut and stuffed it into the drawer, near the back. I kicked it closed and bolted out of my father’s office. I was too freaked out to face him so I took the stairs two at a time. I sat down on my bed and listened to my heart gallop.

  Below me, the kitchen door opened and closed.

  I should have walked out the front door when I had the chance. Now I was trapped upstairs.

  No, calm down, Sophie. No need to be dramatic. My hands shook, though, as I pulled that photo out of my back pocket. I flipped on my overhead light and propped the picture up on my desk, where I took several shots of it with my phone. It took me a minute to get the angle just right, so there’d be no glare.