I look at Detective Warren, my mouth parting as I realize I recognize the guns the two men had. Lord knows, after being raised by a former Marine who’d taught me how to respect and handle guns from an early age, I’ve become quite familiar with them. Especially since we sell—sold—a variety of guns in the shop.
“I believe they each had an H&K SP5K. They looked like they were just under six feet tall, but the one with the neck tattoo was slightly shorter than the other man.”
Detective Clairborne jots down a note in his pad before exchanging a quick look with his partner. He turns his attention back to me, his tone tentative as he asks, “If we had a lineup of possible suspects, would you be willing to come down to the precinct and see if you can identify anyone?”
“Yes.” My tone is resolute, firm, and far more confident than I truly feel. But if this is what it takes to put the people who took my family from me behind bars, then by God, I’ll do whatever it takes.
“We’ll be in touch once we get things in place.” Both men rise and Detective Warren withdraws his business card, extending it to me. “If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I accept it and curl my fingers around the stiff card as if it might offer some semblance of comfort.
“If this is the only way I get to see you nowadays, I’ve got some complaints, young lady,” the familiar male voice calls out a moment before he steps into view.
A sense of relief barrels through me at the sight of our family physician and friend of my father’s, Doc Hogue. With his dark gray hair serving as the main indicator of his age, he’s still as fit as he was years ago, staying active by surfing and running.
“Thanks for coming, Doc,” I say softly as he reaches my side of the bed.
He pats my hand gently. “I’ve been caring for you since you were knee high to a grasshopper. Don’t see any reason to change things now.”
The detectives excuse themselves from the room, leaving me alone with Doc. He surveys me from head to toe in the analytic way physicians do. “I was here earlier, but you were still unconscious. I apologize for not getting here sooner, but I was wrestling with”—he places his hand flat over his stomach and wrinkles his nose—“a nasty stomach virus.”
“Are you feeling better?”
His features relax into his familiar smile, affection etched on his face. “Oh, yes. Much better.” Raising his other hand to show the bag he’s toting, he tips his head to gesture to it. “I brought you some comfortable clothes to change into when they get ready to release you. Loose-fitting so they won’t aggravate any of those bandaged or scraped areas. From what I hear, you should be heading home tomorrow.”
I blink back tears of gratitude that he’s here and helping me get through this. “Thank you so much.”
He carefully sets the bag of clothing at the foot of my bed, dismissing my words. “No thanks necessary, young lady. I know if the roles were reversed, you or your—” He stops short, but I know what he was going to say.
You or your father would’ve done the same.
Anguish edges into his expression at the loss of his friend before he can disguise it. He’s been more like an extended member of our family than simply a physician who’s treated us over the years and delivered both me and Willow.
Doc clears his throat. “You really ought to have someone stay with you for the next few days. To watch over you. I could—”
“I’ll be okay.” At his worried expression, I drop my eyes, not wanting to get into an argument. I just…want to be alone. To have solitude while I battle with this insurmountable mountain of grief. Being here in this hospital, with people continuously coming and going, hasn’t granted me that.
“Going back to that house might be biting off a bit more than you can chew.”
I muster a weak smile. “I have to start somewhere.”
He heaves out a long sigh. “I reckon so.”
A day later
“Anything else I can help with?” Doc asks once I lower myself onto the couch the following afternoon.
“I don’t think so.” Then I peer up at him. “Thank you, again.”
Concern is etched on his weathered face. “You give me a call if you need anything. No matter what time, you hear?”
“I will.”
He hesitates as if trying to determine whether he’s actually going to leave me or not, and then nods. “All right, then. I’ll be by to check on you tomorrow.”
I part my lips to protest, knowing he has his own office full of patients to worry about, but he waves a hand in dismissal. “No sense arguing about it, young lady.” He nods at me one last time. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks again, Doc.”
Once he leaves, the house holds a silence that’s nearly suffocating while the lingering memories are simultaneously deafening. Intermixed in them is the gut-wrenching sorrow I felt after being denied permission to see the bodies of my family before they were prepared for direct cremation. I’d been informed that they were far too injured and that my doctor recommended against me seeing them one final time. Perhaps it’s morbid, but I feel robbed of my last goodbyes with them.
Closing my eyes, I can see Willow so vividly, with such happiness etched on her sweet face when we baked and decorated Christmas cookies together. The sound of her giggles when I dotted the tip of her nose with green frosting.
The countless times I tickled her, her gales of laughter accompanying it, and each time I stopped to allow her to catch her breath, she’d say, “More, Mama! More!”
And my father, who’d always insisted on making one of his “special” desserts for Sunday dinners—either peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, or pecan pie. He wasn’t very skilled in the kitchen, but those three desserts were perfection when he made them.
As if it were only yesterday, I remember the look on his face when Deacon and I told him he would be a grandpa. Dad had been teary-eyed—a man who always kept his emotions in check as long as I’d known him. The only other time I’d seen him cry was when we’d buried Mom.
My cheeks grow wet with tears as my mind flickers through the memories. I recall Deacon’s expression when I made him laugh back in the early days of our marriage. It was a look that was indescribable, holding a multitude of emotions and not limited to only love and adoration.
Even more, I’m assaulted by the torment over my thoughts of divorcing Deacon. I should’ve tried harder to fix things between us.
But now it’s too late.
Hugging one of the throw pillows to my chest, I drop my chin as the tears stream down my face.
The creak of the hardwood floor is what first rouses me from where I fell asleep, curled up at one end of the couch with the throw blanket pulled over me. Still groggy from the effects of the anti-anxiety medication I’d taken, I slowly sit up, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes that feel swollen and tender from crying.
Subtle sounds hit my ears, even in my sleep-addled state. Boots. A person wearing what sounds like boots or smooth, hard-soled shoes, judging by the faintest click of each step, while the other must wear softer-soled ones.