“Jesus.”
Yeah, I can confirm all of that. Time has not mellowed him. It’s not evidence of violent crime per se, but he’s undeniably a sexual predator, and the kind of obsessive shit Jack Patterson pulls can easily lead an unbalanced person down the darkest road. Remembering the ominous message he left in my notes app nauseates me all over again.
My expression must worry Tina because she adds, “He never hurt Lucy that I knew of, but I never liked him. Patterson or your daddy, to be honest. Your mama had terrible taste in men.”
From my perspective, there’s no arguing that. Creepy Jack is the worst of deviants and my father is so distant that he might be a stranger. “One last thing … Do you happen to know anything about the accident?”
“Like what?” she asks.
I shrug. “Anything, period. Nobody will talk about it. They whisper about suicide—”
“No,” she cuts in at once. “There’s no way Lucy would’ve done that. I talked to her two days before, and she was excited about the baby.”
“Wow. That’s a huge relief. Did she tell you who…?” I can’t make myself ask Tina about the father, but she can tell what I’m wondering.
“I did ask her because I like to meddle, but Lucy wasn’t sure, either.”
Well, damn. She’s my last hope for definitive answers, so this secret goes with my—Morgan’s—mother to her grave.
“Then I guess … any little detail might help me understand how the accident happened. I just want to know why I lost her, that’s all.” That’s the perfect tactic, I think.
“Hm … I wasn’t even there, but … oh, I talked to your father on the phone the day after, as soon as I heard. He was so rattled, he just kept rambling—” She imitates his voice, fairly well. “‘Lucy loved these flowers, so I ordered a thousand of them, and I sent her car to Mueller’s Body Shop…’” Here, she resumes her own tone. “Like any of that mattered. But maybe someone there examined the car and could tell you a little more?”
Perfect.
“Thanks so much, this meant a lot to me,” I say warmly.
After a little more chat and a promise to talk soon, we disconnect. I doubt anyone at Mueller’s will take my questions seriously, and it’s been more than ten years, so this is a long shot.
Regardless, looks like I’m breaking into a body shop tonight.
46
The fact that it’s past ten doesn’t deter me. In fact, that’s even better.
Before I go, I pack up a few supplies and stop by Mrs. Rhodes’s room. Since she doesn’t know I broke up with Clay, I tell her I’m going over to his place and probably won’t be home tonight. There’s no reason not to use this mutually beneficial arrangement; she agrees to cover for me. If my father asks, she’ll say I’m spending the night at Emma’s house.
“Who’s Emma, by the way?” she asks as I’m about to leave.
“A friend from school.” Sort of. The closest I’ve got anyway.
“You have friends?” It’s both playful and snarky, much more informal than Mrs. Rhodes would’ve acted before our talk.
“I’m working on it.”
After exchanging a smile, I slip out the back and jog to the garage. My scrapes are healing and there’s only residual soreness from the old wounds I aggravated in the fall, nothing that should slow me down tonight. I don’t know what I’ll do if the body shop has some elaborate security system, because it’s not like I have Mission: Impossible level equipment and skills.
I make my getaway before my dad reaches the gate, but I’m pretty sure I pass him on the way to town. At least the headlights look right and it resembles him in the brief flash as we speed by in the dark. That feels like a metaphor for our family. It seems weird how concerned he was, only until it became obvious that I’d survive. Once I proved I wasn’t dying, he went back to ignoring me, like near death is the required search criteria, and otherwise, I don’t qualify as worthy of time or attention.
When I get to Mueller’s, I don’t park in the lot; instead I leave my car a few streets over and go in on foot. I walk past to check the place out, and a ferocious dog bark shatters the silence. Damn. So I keep moving, strolling down to the convenience store on the corner. A bell tinkles as I come in, and the guy at the counter looks up from the tabloid he’s reading. I get a chin jerk, then he goes back to the gossip magazine.
My options are limited. In movies they always give the guard dog a drugged steak, but I’m not giving roofies to somebody’s pet. Finally I pick out one turkey sandwich and one roast beef, then take my items to the register.
The cashier rings the stuff up. “Did you know there’s a nest of chupacabras in the Louisiana bayou?”
“I did not.” I pay in cash because I don’t want my card on file in this neighborhood, especially tonight.
“Here’s your change.”
Renton is fairly safe overall, so there are no security cameras outside, and inside they use those concave reflective mirrors to watch potential shoplifters. With this guy on duty, though, I’m pretty sure I could’ve put a six-pack in my panties. As I leave, he’s reading an article about how the royal family in England are probably vampires.
Now I’m ready to make my approach. I circle from the back of the auto body shop, staying alert for the dog, but now that I’m closer, he seems to be inside with the cars they’re currently repairing or restoring. I’m not interested in stealing cars; I just want the information in the office. The lock on the door is high quality, though, with more tumblers than I can manage. Dammit.
There’s a window above the door, strictly for ventilation, but I’m pretty sure I’m thin enough to wriggle through. I take a running leap and, thanks to an exceptional fitness level, I use the wall nearby to kick off, then I latch on to the frame. My biceps tremble as I haul myself up and then swing through. I have to suck in my stomach as far as it’ll go and my breasts get squished in the slide. I land smoothly, thanks to a gymnastic past.
The office is dark, full of junky desks and dusty papers, a rusted filing cabinet and a computer that’s at least five years old. But before I can decide where to start, a low growl comes from the open doorway. From the shadows beyond I can just make out the gleam of angry eyes. Of course the garage connects to the office. Of course it does. I don’t move and try to pretend I’m not scared. Even in the faint light I can tell this dog is huge.
“Good boy,” I whisper.
The sandwiches are crammed in my jacket pocket, so I pull one out and break off a piece. “Good boy. Who’s a good boy? Who wants to eat a sandwich instead of me?”
The low, threatening growl cuts off for a little sniffing; I take that as a good sign and throw part of the sandwich. Some guard dogs are taught not to take food from strangers, but from the sounds I’m hearing, that’s not the case here. I keep whispering and feeding him until the whole sandwich is gone. Now the room is quiet, but I still don’t dare move around.
“You want more?”
The dog makes a slurping sound, which I’m taking as a yes. I feed him the second sandwich slowly, still working on making friends. Before he finishes it, I take a step toward him, ready to run if he growls again, but he seems to accept that I have good intentions. By the time he eats all the food I brought, he’s letting me pet him and I’ve even got his tail wagging. Up close, I can see he’s a German shepherd mix and quite friendly, once he’s sure of me.
He pads into the room as I flip on the computer. Unfortunately, it requires a login and it doesn’t use any operating system I’ve ever seen. So that won’t help. Filing cabinet it is. I open the first drawer and figure out that other than the current year, which is filed by month, everything else is organized by year. I locate the right folder, which is huge, and bring it to the ripped-up sofa. I don’t dare turn on any lights, so I’m using my phone.
My heart hammers like crazy, so loud it echoes in my ears, now that I’m so close to finding some actual information. Each invoice is filed by date, so that helps me, too. There?
??s no way I could forget the day my mother died. I locate her page about halfway through the stack and am dismayed by how sparse it is. Make of car. Model. Year. License plate number. They’ve filled in all of that, plus some basic notes:
Observed damage: Minor scrape on passenger side, traces of silver paint, ding on rear bumper. Windshield broken. Engine block cracked, frame bent. Radiator smashed. Estimated repair cost exceeds bluebook. Car totaled, per owner’s request, sold to Gabe’s for scrap.
And that’s it.
God, I feel stupid. Was I really expecting to find Brake lines were cut, this was no accident? In retrospect, I should’ve known better. I mean, even if they were cut and the owner took a bribe to keep quiet, he’d hardly write it on the invoice. I put everything back as I found it. Since I’m not stealing anything and the dog is fine, nobody should know about my visit.
This door looks like it will lock behind me, and I don’t see any alarm lights or power lines that indicate it’s wired, so I slip out.
And nearly run into an old guy with a flashlight. Quickly I duck my head so he can’t get a good look at my face, dodge away from his lunge, and sprint full speed toward the street. This is reckless because there’s a car coming but I can’t stop. Pushing harder, I zip past and I hear brakes screeching, and two men are yelling now, but I’m putting distance between us.
Can’t stop, can’t look back.
47
The direct route toward my car is through other people’s yards, so I don’t deviate. As I race by, dogs go insane and lights pop on. Once I get caught between a furious beagle and a fence. I make for the kiddie trampoline in the corner of the yard and hope I’m still aerodynamic enough to execute this vault. With one hard bounce I go airborne and land on the other side in someone’s vegetable patch. Tomatoes explode all over me, turning the soil to a pulpy mess. Filthy, I scramble to my feet. More lights come on but I’m already running again.
By the time I slide into my car and take off, I can barely breathe. I drive like a mile and a half and finally have to pull over because I’m shaking so hard. As it turns out, being intrepid is terrifying. I have the funds to pay someone to investigate, but since I didn’t grow up wealthy, I’m uneasy about trusting others with my secrets. I mean, if they’re willing to do shady stuff for hire, wouldn’t they spill my secrets to anyone who offered more money?
Common sense dictates that since tonight was such a colossal failure, I should go home immediately. With my luck, this would be the one night that my dad wants to bond with me. If he’s already been informed that I’m staying at Emma’s, he won’t expect me home. That means my arrival will herald a problem, like I argued with my friend, and so he’ll want to talk about it over hot cups of tea, specifically why I look like marinara-spattered hell.
Though I hate myself for coming to this conclusion, there’s only one safe place for me to go. I’m not crazy enough to sleep in my car. While Renton’s relatively safe, there’s also some drugs and crime, and I can’t drive all night. My mind made up, I head over to Clay’s. Funny, it used to be Nathan’s house to me, but now, in my heart, he’s the extra.
When I pull down the alley, I spot Clay on the swing with one leg propped up and the other lazily kicking off. I park out back and circle to the front. If Nathan’s in bed, I don’t want to bother him, or more accurately, I prefer to avoid him. The swing stops moving as I climb the front steps to the porch.
“What’re you—oh shit. Is that blood? Did that—”
“No, it’s tomato juice. And he’s too busy to bother me. But I do need a favor.”
“Name it,” he says.
“First, I’d like to borrow your shower. I also need a place to crash. Please don’t ask why, I won’t tell you.”
A long sigh escapes him as he surveys me. “Are you okay?”
“More or less.” It’s not a comprehensive answer, as I’m tired, sore, and dispirited.
“You’re trying to drive me nuts, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t tell me anything, then you show up looking like this and that just jolts my imagination into overdrive.”
Like 90 percent of me is absurdly glad that he’s worried. I know it’s petty, but I’m happy he cares, even if he doesn’t want to be with me. It’s not even that I resent that decision. Clay’s love for his brother is what defines him, and I couldn’t be happy if he felt guilty about our relationship. That’s why I told him the truth in the first place; he needed to understand my … unique situation and make an informed choice.
I offer a tired half smile. “Yes, that’s my whole master plan. I ran half a mile and fell in a veggie patch just so you’d wonder what the hell is up with me.”
This startles a laugh out of him, and by moonlight that’s so beautiful, my heart aches. How the hell did I fall for Clay? When…? I can’t even put a finger on the exact moment it happened, and that bothers me. I draw in an unsteady breath and then he reaches for me.
“We’re not getting back together,” he whispers. “This is … first aid. Because I feel like I might die if I don’t get to be close to you for a minute.”
His arms envelop me, and I push on his chest at first, not because of our it’s complicated relationship status, but because I’ll get him dirty. He ignores my feeble protest and I stop because I don’t really want him to let go. His cheek rests on my hair, rubbing tenderly back and forth. The heat of him scorches me from head to toe. At first, he offered security in a world that made no sense, but now he’s like my sun and stars combined.
“First aid can save your life.” My voice is muffled by his chest.
I hate that I’m not allowed to love him, now that I have a better idea what that means. Though I’m only a few months older, I feel like I’ve matured enough for a couple of years. Slowly I slip my arms around his waist and close my eyes, just letting the warmth soak in. The pain of failure recedes, making me regret my own stupidity a little less.
At least I didn’t get caught. It could’ve been worse.
“You can’t let me kiss you,” he says then.
“Am I the gatekeeper?” Since my toes curled at the low, husky way he said that, I’m probably not the best person for the job.
“It can’t be me. I’m not thinking straight right now.”
“Why not?” I manage to ask.
“Because you’re so close.” But he doesn’t let go. In fact, his hands glide down my back in a hungry stroke that tells me he knows exactly how good it feels.
As much as I don’t want him to regret this, I also don’t want to stop. Just being close to Clay sets off all kinds of fireworks inside me; my nerves are blazing like a zillion Roman candles, all sparks and incandescent yearning. I tip my head back just enough, and my mouth is so close to his chin. He just needs to dip his head a little—
And he does.
Oh, God, he’s kissing me, but we can’t, and it’s so good. My fingers dig into his back, his shoulders, as his mouth works on mine. The hot press of his lips, the rough scrape of his jaw against my cheek. He tastes like tea and lemon and hope, so much sweetness that I think I might die when he finally pulls his mouth away and sets it on my throat. I don’t know if he’s trying to stop or if he wants to drive me crazy. Then he bites, just a little.
“You didn’t stop me.”
I can’t breathe, let alone respond, and then he’s pulling me on top of him in the swing. I straddle him like I did once before, and we’re kissing more, deeper, longer. His hands frame my hips, holding me just so, and it feels so good I can’t stop moving. It doesn’t matter that I’m dirty or that we’re out in public, more or less. I don’t even care. He kisses my throat, my jaw, my ears, as I fall into him completely, grinding until all I can think about is—
“Yes,” he whispers.
And I unravel. It’s happened before, but I was alone then, tentative and fumbling. Afterward, I snuggle in his arms, unable to speak.
Where do we go from here?
48 r />
“Shower,” I gasp, not waiting to hear what Clay will say.
My knees barely hold me as I leap off him and practically sprint around the corner of the house. To use the bathroom I’ll go in through the kitchen and hopefully if Nathan’s home, I won’t bother him. By the time Clay catches up, I’ve already locked the door. This room is tiny and dated; I’d never seen a blue enamel tub until the first time I visited the Claymore house. However, the tiles are meticulous and I can see a couple of spots where the walls have been repaired, probably by Clay.
The water runs rusty for a minute after I turn on the shower, and I make it quick, using the generic herbal shampoo on the window ledge. Five minutes later, I snag the towel on the closest hook. It’s worn and stiff, a result of drying in the sun, yet it smells fresh, invigorating my skin like a loofah. I wrap up in it, frowning at my filthy clothes.
Just then, a knock sounds at the door. “I’m leaving shorts and a shirt outside.”
“Thanks.” I reach an arm out and feel around until I claim the soft cotton.
Pulling my haul into the bathroom, I find clothes small enough to fit me, or pretty close. I put my sports bra and underwear back on, then scramble into the gym shorts and T-shirt. The satiny red fabric dangles down to my knees and the 5K Run T-shirt is baggy. Sheepish, I step out, still drying my hair. No point in delaying the inevitable. We have to talk about what happened; I just don’t want to.
Clay smirks when he sees me. “My junior high clothes look better on you.”
“Why do you still have these?”
“Nathan wore them last and he never throws anything out.”
“Lucky me.”
But he’s watching me intently, only half listening. “With all that hair, you have to do a better job or you’ll catch cold.”
“I’m pretty sure that has more to do with viruses than wet hair,” I say.