“Evan sounds like he was a special kid,” Rachel said. Serrano nodded.
“About six months after Evan died, I applied to take the sergeant’s exam,” Serrano said. “I’d been studying for a year. My life was falling apart, I was drinking too much, but I felt like this promotion would help me get back on track, in some way. I passed the exam, but Lieutenant George told me they were still holding me back. The decision was made by Constance Wright herself, if you can believe it. She met with Lieutenant George and after reviewing my file said she didn’t think I was in the right frame of mind to take on more responsibility. She was probably right. But I didn’t know it at the time. And so it pushed me even further down into the dark. I spent a long time hating Constance Wright, thinking she pushed me into that hole. When you’re messed up, you blame everyone but yourself.”
They both looked down. Their fingers were intertwined. Kind of a silly sight, given that they were both wearing heavy gloves. Serrano removed his fingers from hers. He pointed out to the field, where Megan was dumping armfuls of snow onto a prone and giggling Eric.
“Those kids out there, they’re special. I don’t quite know who you are, Rachel, or who you were before you came to Ashby. I don’t know who the father of those children is or why you seem like you’re ready to do battle every day of your life. But Eric and Megan aren’t part of your fight. I never got a say in what happened to my son. You have a say in what happens to Megan and Eric. You’ve put yourself in situations where they’ve been in harm’s way. And thank God they didn’t get hurt. But if you do battle every day, there’s bound to be collateral damage. Don’t let it be those beautiful kids.”
Rachel looked down. She opened her palm. Snowflakes began to collect on her fingers.
“I made a promise once,” Rachel said. “I’m just trying to keep it.”
“A promise to who?” Serrano asked.
Rachel closed her fist. And when she opened it, the snowflakes were small droplets that slipped through her fingers.
“Someone I loved,” Rachel said. She looked at Serrano. “My children and I have been through more than you could ever possibly imagine.”
“Then protect them,” Serrano said. “Keep them away from evil.”
“The person who killed Constance Wright is still out there, Detective,” Rachel said. “Tossed her off a bridge like she was a piece of garbage. That’s evil, Detective. I want to find them. Prevent anyone else from being hurt.”
“Why is that on you?”
Rachel looked down again. Snow was gathering on her shoes. “I’ve seen what happens when evil goes free.”
“I never had a chance to help build a future for Evan,” Serrano said. “Your kids are your purpose, like Evan was mine. I’ll do whatever I can to help protect Eric and Megan. But it starts with you. Do you really think they’d understand everything you’ve done?”
“Strangely enough,” she said, “I think they would.”
“Tell me what happened,” he said. “Before you came here.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“You know,” Serrano said. “I wish you’d met Evan. He would have liked you. And I have a feeling he and Eric would have been good friends.”
“I think they would have too.”
They watched Eric and Megan playing in the snow, their laughter echoing throughout the empty stadium. Rachel put her head onto Serrano’s shoulder. He flinched, briefly, but settled down. Let her head stay there, on him. They sat in silence, listening to the joyful shouts from Rachel’s children, both hoping the night would take longer than usual to end.
Serrano turned his head to face Rachel. Her hair blew gently in the cold. She smiled. His heart was beating madly, so loud he was sure she could hear it.
He turned back to the field, watched Rachel’s children playing blissfully in the night, all the while unaware of the man watching them from a distance.
CHAPTER 26
Three and a Half Years Ago
The apartment was in shambles. Her daughter’s toys were strewed across the hardwood floor, which was chipped to the point where Rachel doubted she would get her security deposit back. The kitchen looked like someone had opened up a Chopped mystery basket, thrown it into a blender, and then thrown the contents of that blender into an industrial fan.
Her son had left for school. And like every morning, she had gathered him into her arms and held him close, praying he would return home safe. She noticed that her boy didn’t hug her quite as tight as he used to. Something had been taken out of him. A spark. A boyishness. He had been forced to grow up far faster than a nine-year-old should, forced to endure the cruelty life could inflict long before he was ready to deal with it. Her daughter was still too young to fully understand. At some point, she would, but for the time being, Rachel enjoyed the moments where she played and fussed and ate and sang and yelled and bopped around like any toddler.
But occasionally she would say, “Where’s Dada?” and it would break Rachel’s heart to once again tell her that Dada was watching them from the sky and that he still loved her with all his heart.
Her son knew enough not to ask. And that hurt even more.
Once the kids were off, Rachel brewed a pot of coffee and turned on the news.
She plunked down on the sofa, hard backed and uncomfortable, and sipped her coffee.
Rachel stretched her legs. She was still sore from yesterday’s workout. Though she hadn’t set foot in Slugfest Boxing since the night she and Myra—Evie—had been accosted, she had doubled her efforts, spending nearly the entire day at the gym, in spin classes and following online training videos. She soaked everything up. When she saw herself in the mirror, her body was nearly unrecognizable. Taut and muscled, lean and vascular.
Her daughter loved to swing from her biceps, yelling, “Mommy, you’re like a tree!” But despite how strong she’d become on the surface, her insides still felt like oatmeal stirred in too much water.
As she took another sip, the landline rang. She muted the television, picked it up, and said, “This is Rachel.”
“I’m sorry, did I dial the wrong number? This is Jim Franklin from Franklin and Rosato.”
She mentally slapped herself. She’d been spending so much time thinking about Myra—Evie—and that adopted name that she’d begun to refer to herself as Rachel.
“Sorry, Jim, I was watching a Friends rerun, and Rachel was in this scene with Chandler, and, you know what? Never mind.”
“No problem; it happens. My father once called me Frasier for a whole year.”
“How are things in Darien?” she said.
“The town is trying to move on. Folks ask about you. Where you are. Reverend Elias still prays for you and the kids.”
“He told you that?”
“He did.”
“Please thank him for me,” Rachel said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I do that, it could be used against me in a court of law to confirm that I know where you’re currently residing. And I don’t want anything to even have the remotest chance of getting back to him.”
“God forbid,” Rachel said.