Even as he said it, I felt the trembling. I looked up at him, saw something soft in his eyes I couldn't quite name. "Okay."
Mr. Cabrera was on the porch when we stepped out, Kevin's arm around me, holding me up.
"I gave the keys to the boy," he said, pointing to Riley, who was already in the LeMans.
"I appreciate it," I said.
"I didn't know whether or not to call the police when I heard the scream. But I did. I wasn't interfering or anything, but that scream was mighty loud. Then when I looked in the window I saw that woman with a gun . . . I wasn't being nosey, mind you, I was just looking out for your safety." I kissed his weathered cheek. "Thanks."
Twenty-nine
Hours later, I sat on the front porch swing with Kevin.
"A what?" I said to him, though to my ears my own voice sounded more like a screech.
"An undercover officer," he repeated.
My jaw dropped. "You used your own son as an undercover officer?"
The swing creaked as it rocked back and forth. Police technicians roamed through my house, my yard. My mother was inside, directing traffic.
While Riley and I'd be staying with my parents tonight, Xena would be staying with the vet, who assured us that she was going to recover from a graze wound. Seems when she was lying limp in that officer's arms, she was just playing dead, lying in wait until we were in the car, where she tried to make one of my Keds her dinner. So much for them being snake-proof.
For once, I wasn't dreading staying under the roof with my mother hovering over me. Sometimes a girl needed her mom.
Maybe a boy, too, which made my heart ache for Riley, for what he was going through. If we were closer . . .
I shook my head, pushing that thought aside. There was
no changing the past, and I wondered what our future would bring. Especially now.
A fingernail moon glowed above. A slash of light cut across Kevin's face. "Well, not technically an officer, more an informant."
I hit him in the chest. Twice. "What were you thinking?"
He winced. "I was thinking that we needed the Skinz off the streets. There was only one way to do it. Riley. As the son of a cop, a kid who wants to rebel against his parents . . . he was perfect. Especially after we split up."
"You used your own son as an undercover officer?" I had to repeat myself because I just couldn't believe it.
"Nina, he was never in any danger. He was properly trained and being watched every minute. He knew what he was doing."
Mr. Cabrera's front light flipped off. No doubt so he could gawk through the window without being seen. "How is a fifteen-year-old properly trained?"
"Boys younger than that fight wars in other countries."
I glared at him. "I can't believe you. And I can't believe you didn't tell me."
"I told you to stay out of it. You wouldn't listen."
I poked him in the chest again. "I was scared for him! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't tell anybody. Only a handful knew."
"Mike Novak."
"He was placed in the school to keep an eye on the Skinz."
"So he's not a school resource officer."
Kevin laughed. "Far from it."
"What about Riley's vice principal?" Crickets chirped their soothing nighttime songs. Too bad I was too jumbled inside to benefit from the lullabies. "Did he know?"
"No. Only a select few within the force knew, and the school superintendent."
"Candy?"
"No. And she started asking questions after you went to see her, so we had to get her out of town in a hurry. A seminar in Phoenix."
"Did you at least catch the kids?"
"Yes. It was one of their guns that Riley tried using on Bridget Sandowski. We were down the block, out of sight, waiting for the buy to go down. Riley had just made the purchase outside the house when he heard the first gunshot. The Skinz leader took off, but we caught him."
Bile rose in my throat. Bridget was in the hospital—in the psych wing—under police protection. If deemed competent, she'd be transferred to jail immediately. By the looks of it, though, she could be heading straight to Fairview, a state-run psychiatric hospital, for further treatment.
It was hard to believe. Even harder to believe that I really hadn't known her at all, despite being her friend for over twenty years.
"Did you talk to Tim?"
"He's with Bridget. He had no idea."
I felt guilty I'd had suspicions of him at all. I owed him such a huge "I'm sorry." "What about Mrs. Sandowski?" I asked.
"She's in shock, but I think she'll be okay." A mosquito landed on Kevin's arm, but I didn't swat it away. "She honestly loves the land, the house. It's all bittersweet now, isn't it?"
"How so?"
"You haven't heard?"
"What?"
"Yesterday Sandowski's Farm was declared a historical landmark. No one will be buying it. Mrs. Sandowski had hired an outside lawyer to do the paperwork without telling her family, in case it fell through." He scratched his arm.
So that was what Mrs. Sandowski had meant by having a feeling that things would be over soon. Good for her.
Kevin gave the swing a good push. "You should have told me what was going on with the Sandowskis."
"I was angry at you. I had also made a promise to Mrs. Sandowski." I paused. "And I didn't think I could trust you."
"As an officer you can always trust me."
My feet scraped the porch's planks, stopping the swing. "But as a husband?"
"I'm a louse."
I looked down at my wedding band, then back up at him. "Honorable," I mumbled.
"Hmm?" he said.
"Nothing."
Almost twenty-four hours later, life had calmed a bit. I'd spent all morning and most of the afternoon at the police station recounting everything I knew over and over again. The media was having a field day, and Tam had called to say that the phone had been ringing off the hook at TBS with potential clients. What a crazy world.
"That blood's never going to come out."
My mother stood over the spot Kevin dripped blood from the day I attacked him with the hockey stick, but I kept quiet, not wanting to shatter that whole "My daughter the hero" image she now had of me.
I stared at the rust-colored stains on the rug. "I'm going to get a new carpet as soon as I find time to shop."
"Good. This color is dated."
Fighting back a yawn, I rolled my eyes. I supposed focusing on the rug instead of all that had happened in this room was easier for both of us. Bridget had meant a lot to my mom too.
A sudden lump in my throat accompanied the quick sting of tears in my eyes. I sucked in a deep breath. There was a pain, a sharp ache in my chest, that had nothing to do with any physical injuries and had everything to do with Bridget.
I still didn't completely understand why she had done the things she'd done. But I hadn't been through the hell she'd been through, either. Who knew how they'd react in her situation? If my mind were to just snap, all common sense fleeing, all sense of right and wrong vanishing . . .
Mom tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Sleep at our house again tonight," she offered, for the fifth time.
"I think it's best if Riley and I stay here from now on. It is our home." I pulled a pillow out of its case. "Besides, I don't think Riley would leave Xena." Back from the vet and safely ensconced in her cage (that now had a very heavy slab of granite on its top), Xena was doing fine. She'd have a scar where the bullet grazed her skin, but other than that, she'd be back to her normal self in no time. Goody, I silently mocked. Had I really held her? I must've been in shock. I'd washed my hands at least a hundred times since.
Mom sat on the edge of the bed. "How's Riley holding up?"
"Quite well, considering. Analise found a therapist for him to talk to, someone she knows through work."
"You think he needs it?"
I remembered the look in his eye when he handed me the pistol. "He needs it."
br /> He was feeling the weight of his actions, even though he harmed no one. I think it was the realization that he could have—and most likely would have had there been bullets in the gun—killed someone that now haunted him.
I grabbed another pillow and relieved it of its case.
"Don't tell me you're going to sleep in this room?"
Nudging her off the bed, I pulled the sheets off and threw them in the hamper, my bandaged hand making it quite a chore. "I am."
"Why don't you wait a few days? Sleep on the couch."
"I have to do it."
"I don't understand."
I looked at her. "I don't quite understand it myself."
She half frowned, half smiled. Sighed. "I should have known you'd do anything to get out of that fitting yesterday."
I looked at her and grinned. "What fitting?"
Sleep wouldn't come. I kept hearing creaks and noises I couldn't place and it was freaking me out, though I knew no one was creeping around, thanks to my new alarm system.
Technically, I shouldn't be sleeping at all (not that I was). I'd promised Ana I'd wait up for her call to hear about the Big Date with Jean-Claude's brother Michel. I figured I'd hear the phone ring if I happened to drift off.
So far, no drifting and no ringing.
I pulled the sheet up over my chin, then pushed it down, unable to find that balance between too hot and too cold. The clock glowed 11:25.
The bed creaked as I thrust my foot out from under the covers to hang over the edge of the mattress. I should have been exhausted after the day—heck, the week—I'd had, but my eyes were open wide. I rolled onto my side, staring at the cold, empty expanse of space to my right. Where Kevin should be.
I'd finally taken off my wedding band for good, stashing it in my underwear drawer. Out of sight and all that. My hand felt light. Awkward.
I lifted my nightshirt to my face and inhaled. It smelled of Kevin. It should, as technically it was his shirt. It was no big deal to sleep in it, I deluded myself, breaking a cardinal commandment.
Baby steps, I told myself.
Tossing onto my back, I stared at the ceiling. The plaster was still swirled. Nothing had changed since the last time I looked at it, two minutes ago. Giving up hope of sleep, I jumped up and grabbed my robe.
Down in the kitchen, I pulled a roll of cookie dough from the fridge, peeled back the wrapping, and started eating it, banana-style. I climbed up on the counter and swung my legs, trying not to think about how pitiful I must look.
A second later, Riley came down, darkness circling his eyes, a scowl tugging on his lips.
"Can't sleep?"
He shook his head.
I offered up the cookie dough—a big sacrifice, in my opinion. "Want some?"
His eyebrows darted up in a "no way, no how" look. Crossing over to the fridge, he removed the orange juice carton from the top shelf. He raised it to his lips.
My eyes narrowed in warning.
He took a swig, replaced the carton, and turned to give me a sly "what're you going to do about it" smile. It would have been charming if he weren't purposely making me suffer.
Okay, I admit it—it was still charming.
He levered himself up beside me on the counter. My gaze took in his sullen face, sweeping over his angry, troubled eyes, his still chubby cheeks, his pinched lips, and I realized, maybe for the first time, that he was mine. My son.
My father's words came back to me. There's always a silver lining, Nina. Sometimes not as clear as one would like, but always.
I smiled.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you smiling?"
I pushed off the counter, headed for the stairs, cookie dough in hand. I had been thinking that as far as silver linings go, Riley wasn't too shabby. Not that I'd tell him so, and have him get all defensive on me.
Pausing on the second stair, I turned to him. "I was just thinking about your hair."
He patted the stripes. "What about it?"
"Have you ever thought of going silver? You'd look good in silver."
"Uh, Nina?"
"Yeah?"
"You still taking that medication?"
"No, Riley," I murmured. "I'm just starting to see things a whole lot clearer now."
Take Your Garden by Surprise
by Nina Quinn
To all landscapers, amateur and professional, poison ivy is a pain in the rear—sometimes literally, as my cousin Ana almost discovered.
Poison ivy grows anywhere and everywhere, is often misidentified, and is a beast to get rid of, but it can be controlled in various ways. For those less brave, remember the adage, "Leaves of three, leave them be." For you wannabe pros, here are some tips to get rid of that pesky poison ivy.
Before you start, the first thing to know is that the leaves themselves don't cause the allergic reaction—it's the oil, called urushiol, on the leaves, stem, and roots, that makes us miserable. Do not touch anything—anything—after coming in direct contact with poison ivy until after you wash.
All right, if you're set on getting rid of that problematic vine, first and foremost, you can dig the sucker up. Wait until the roots are good and wet, arm yourself appropriately (heavy duty gloves, a hoe, poison ivy preventative lotion, and thick paper or plastic trash bags), and dig the vine out at the root and drop it in the bag, being careful to come in as little contact with the plant as possible.
Sound like too much work? Try cutting the vine back with a pair of clippers at its base. Any branches or leaves left behind need to be gathered up (again, appropriately arm yourself) and thrown away—to the curb, not the compost pile. Continue to cut it back as new sprouts, well, sprout.
If such close contact with the plant gives you the heebies, bring in the big guns—herbicides. Best used in the spring and fall, a few doses of glyphosate or triclopyr, either sprayed or brushed onto the leaves and stem of the poison ivy, will usually kill the vine—and any other shrubs or brush around it, so be careful what you're aiming for.
Or, you can mix and match. Cut the vine back and blast any new sprouts with the herbicide. You might need to repeat the treatment once or twice, but it is highly effective. Please never use salt as an herbicide—it's highly toxic for years after use to all vegetation later planted in that spot, and it can leach into groundwater.
If you're out and out lazy and don't mind a little unsightliness, a tarp thrown over the poison ivy growth will smother it over time. To pretty things up, you can add a nice layer of mulch and a birdbath on top of the covering.
If the poison ivy is in a little-used area, out of danger of accidental brushing up against, and isn't causing any problems, I suggest you leave it be. Honest to goodness, it's actually quite valuable to our wildlife. Its pretty berries and the creepy-crawlies hiding on its vines are a great source of food for birds, and its leaves provide a 24-hour buffet for various forms of four-legged critters, such as deer and goats. Yes, goats—should you have any wandering by.
Above all, never burn poison ivy! The urushiol oil that causes the rash can become airborne and might be inhaled, causing a rash on your lungs that can be deadly. Mowing the vines isn't a good idea either. It just spreads what you're trying to avoid.
Again, be sure not to touch anything after dealing with poison ivy. The allergenic oil can stay present for years on many surfaces, including shoes and garden tools. Always, always, always wash everything, including yourself and your clothes, that comes in contact with poison ivy.
If all else fails, call in the professionals. It's what we're here for. Until then, be careful when you're playing (or spying) in the bushes.
Best wishes for happy gardening,
Nina Quinn
Acknowledgments
My many, many thanks to my writing buddies, Shelley Galloway, Cathy Liggett, Hilda Lindner Knepp, and my long distance buddy Laura Bradford, for their keen eyes and amazing ability to decipher my ramblings.
Thanks as well to my
agent Jacky Sach of BookEnds LLC for believing in me, and to Sarah Durand for making me a part of the Avon family.
About the Author
HEATHER WEBBER writes mysteries in between running her three children to and from various sporting and school events, actively avoiding housework, and wishing someone would give her backyard a Taken by Surprise makeover. This native of Massachusetts was uprooted and transplanted to a little cranny of southwest Ohio shortly after marrying her high school sweetheart. She loves her small town and can usually be found somewhere in the midst of a soccer field or hard at work on her next Nina Quinn novel.