I wash my hands and get down plates and set the table, an old ritual that still conjures up the ghost of my mother, long gone, though the memory of her smile still lingers. These were her plates—worn, chipped in some spots, but precious to her. I get him a tall glass of water and set out his pills, and grab myself a Coke.
“Least you can do is get me one of those beers, since I’m cooking for you,” he says.
“You know those meds say you can’t drink alcohol with them.”
“I know that beer ain’t got much alcohol in it anyway.”
It’s a familiar grumble, and I let it go. I know—and his doctor knows—that he sneaks beers time to time. Hasn’t hurt him much, though I worry. I find the potatoes and spinach he’s already made warming in the oven and put them on the table, and by that time, the fish is done. Pop carries over the heavy skillet and slides the portions out; I stop myself from taking over when I see his arm shaking. He doesn’t need that out of me, not right now.
“Your leg’s a little better,” I tell him. It’s true. His limp’s not as bad as it was a week back.
“Be better still once it warms up and stays warm,” he says. “That cold’s a bastard. Sit yourself down, get some food in you. You need it.”
Pop is right, of course. I’m ravenous at the smell of the fish—blackened Cajun-style—and I barely wait for the prayer before I dig in. Home spice melts on my tongue, and for the first time all day I feel right. Safe. We eat without talking much, and every bite of it feels like love from him to me.
I’m torn about telling him about the baby. On the one hand, I know he’ll be so happy about it he could bust . . . and yet, I want to tell him when Javier’s here with me. I want to share this with Javi, the joy my father’s going to feel. It’s just another week. It’s all I can do not to blurt it out, but I hold back. Somehow. And I know part of the reason is that I don’t want Pop to fuss over me and nag me about dropping out of this case.
“Anybody stop in?” I ask him. Our friends often do, just to make sure my father’s okay all alone up here, though since Sam and Gwen moved off to the big city, they don’t come as often as they did. A couple of other neighbors make a point of it, though; one especially nice older lady from Norton drives all the way out once a week to have coffee and pick up his grocery list and make sure he’s set up. I feel guilty about that, but I think she’s sweet on him and I don’t want to step in the middle of whatever that is.
“Sam just checked in,” Pop says. “He’s been off flying today. Guess it makes him happy.” Pop’s voice sounds grim, and I remember how much he hates to fly. Always has, as long as I can remember. He’d rather spend days on a bus going to visit relatives than take an hour on a plane. “And you can stop telling people to call me all day. I’ve got my damn cell phone, and I know who to call if I fall and can’t get up.”
“You call 911,” I tell him briskly. “Not friends.”
He sends me a look that tells me I’d best step back. “I know that.”
“Fish is tasty, Pop,” I say, and that mollifies him a little. “What’d you put in the spinach?”
“Garlic and lemon. Fresh lemon, not that stuff in the bottle.” He lets a little space go by before he says, “You’re into a bad one, aren’t you?”
“Pretty bad,” I tell him, and eat the spinach. It’s lost its taste now. I’d forgotten about the little girls for the span of a whole few minutes, and it hurts like a betrayal. I know the little baby inside me right now is too small to feel, but I still think I feel the flutter of its tiny forming heart. I should tell him, but at the same time, I don’t want to tell him. Not until this thing is over, and Javier is here. “You don’t want to know.”
“I know you don’t want to tell me.”
“Pop.”
“Can’t bottle that up inside, you know that. Javier’s gone off to the Marine Corps, ain’t he? Who you talking to about the case, then?”
“Gwen,” I say. “I talked to Gwen. She’s helping me out on this.” He grunts, which is his way of saying he both approves and still wishes I’d put it on him. But I can’t, not this. I just don’t feel right about that. “I’m probably going to be doing some long hours on this. I’ll make sure people come by and help you out if you need it.”
“I’m not a damn shut-in, and I don’t need folks coming up here all hours knocking on my door. They can call if they got something to say.” Once my father’s feathers get ruffled, his spurs come out, too, and I hold up a placating hand.
“Okay,” I say. “We got any dessert in here?” Dessert always diverts my dad. He’s got a bit of a sweet tooth.
“Chocolate cake,” he says. “Myra brought it by last week.” Myra is the Norton woman, and maybe my father’s side piece, but I don’t want to think about that. I just get up and get us slices of the cake, which is homemade and rich as hell. Myra’s a good cook. We eat it up and forget our rough edges, and the rest of the half hour I spend there is easy and calm. I wash up and put things away and leave him tuning in to a boxing match. Night’s fallen dark and heavy around the lake, but the stars are out, stark and beautiful. I lean against the car and finish up the last of my Coke before I three-point it into the recycling bin. I whistle for Boot, and he comes bounding down the stairs and into the back of the car.
Cruising around the lake road is a strange experience now; I always look over at the house where I first met Gwen Proctor. It looks the same. Odd I won’t find her there now.
I check my phone in the car. No calls, but Gwen’s emailed that she’s heading out to Valerie tomorrow to interview neighbors and see if there’s any sign of a stalker in Sheryl’s life. It’s late, but I need to run down Sheryl’s ex, Tommy Jarrett. The old detective theory of “it’s always the husband” is cliché because it’s mostly true. If not the husband, it’s almost always someone close—family, friends, ex-partners, neighbors. I’d have to eliminate Tommy anyway to go anywhere else. An investigation is a spiral, moving out. And when you miss something, you have to go back to the beginning.
I prefer going at odd hours if I plan to doorstep somebody, but it’s closing in on ten at night, and that’s pretty late in these parts. Still . . . I have the nagging feeling I’d best push on. I don’t locate an address for Tommy, but there’s an Abraham Jarrett living out in the sticks beyond Norton. Good bet. I head there and text Prester once I roll to a stop at the destination. I give him the address and what I’m there to do. He sends back BC30 . . . which, in Prester-speak, means be careful, and that he expects a check-in thirty minutes from now. Good enough. If I don’t have backup, at least I’ll have someone alert for trouble and getting help rolling fast.
The Jarrett place is . . . pretty typical. Half-farm, half-junkyard. The small farmhouse on the property hasn’t got a roof, and I don’t think anybody’s lived in it in decades, but there’s a seminew single-wide trailer sinking into the dirt not far away. It’s maybe half a mile out of Norton proper, but it might as well be in the heart of the wilderness, it’s so dark and quiet around here. Lights are on in the trailer, though, and that gives me a little confidence.