Kitabı oku: «Partners In Crime», sayfa 2
He lost one hundred and twenty-six cows that night.
The rest endured. When the water finally receded, they sank into the mud, their legs shaking too hard to support them. And he and his son rubbed them down as if they were champion athletes who’d just brought home the gold.
He had one hundred cows left and twenty-eight calves. His house was ruined, his fields wouldn’t be fit for at least a year. His tractor worked, but the pumps in his milking parlor had to be replaced.
“I got straw,” he told Josie now, “from the last batch donated from Oregon. But there wasn’t much alfalfa given out. Sly’s letting me use one of his fields, but grass ain’t enough for dairy. I’m gonna need forty…fifty thousand in feed to get through the winter.”
“Did you go to the fairgrounds and talk to FEMA?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He twisted his baseball cap nervously. “There’s all these agent people sitting around the Exhibition Hall. You gotta find the one right agency for your needs, they told me. I filled out the paperwork, but no one knew what to do with me. They asked me what I made gross—”
“Gross?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I told them two hundred thousand. So then they said I wasn’t supposed to be in the farmer’s line, I was supposed to be in the small business’s. I went to small business’s, but that man said I was a farm, not a small business, and he sent me back to the first agent. Ma’am, I got a farm to get up and running. I got a hundred head to milk twice a day. I can’t keep making appointments, filling out paperwork and standing in line. It’s been more than three months. The farm people finally wrote me a check for twenty thousand. That’ll fix the milking parlor, buy a little feed. Then what?”
“Okay.” Josie raised a hand. She understood how overwhelmed he felt, because in the beginning, she’d felt that way, too. Now, after more than three months, she’d learned how to navigate the system that was drowning him. “We have a few options.”
He perked up. Most of the people she met were honest, hardworking folks, men of action. Bureaucracy and red tape killed them. Things to do made them happy.
“First, I’ll take this copy of your paperwork over to FEMA and talk to them myself. It’s actually net earnings that matter, which is why you were having some confusion. I can get it straightened out for you, though, no problem. However—” she skimmed his carefully recorded financials with an expert eye “—you’ll probably only get ten or twenty thousand more. That won’t be enough.”
The tight look had reappeared around his eyes. His hands methodically twisted his hat. “No, ma’am.”
“Do you have flood insurance?”
He smiled weakly. “Flood insurance for these parts? Seemed too pessimistic.”
“I know, believe me, I know.” Josie opened her filing cabinet and began pulling out flyers. Grand Springs hadn’t had a significant flood in sixty years. Most people had been caught uninsured. She passed a small stack of papers over to Gabe, smiling when he winced. “They’re not forms,” she assured him, “it’s information on programs for you to consider. It sounds like you’ve started fixing your milking parlor.”
“Yes, ma’am, with the FEMA money.”
“And you’ve been milking your cows?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sylvester has let me use his parlors for a bit. I got my cows at his place.”
“So you have some income?”
“A little.” He looked haggard. “But the price of milk is low, and production is down by half. The cows have been through a major trauma, ma’am. They got respiratory problems, they’re weak…. It’s going to take a year before they’re back one hundred percent.”
“If I can find you feed, Mr. Chouder, can the cows pay for their food?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think so. But that’s it. The rest of the expenses…” He shook his head.
“For now, you need your herd to support itself and get strong. You’ll have a rough winter, but if we can get you through, next year will be better. Has anyone talked to you about the low-interest loans available through FEMA?”
He was already shaking his hands, pushing the paper back. “No offense, ma’am, but you know how much debt I already have? I take more, and I slave for the banks for the rest of my life—or until the next disaster strikes and they foreclose on my farm. No, thank you, ma’am. I’ve seen too many good farmers go down that tube.”
Josie understood fully. Most of the small businesses in Grand Springs were financing their way through the next year. As she’d been telling Hal time and time again, farmers just didn’t have that option. They needed more ingenious solutions.
“I know of a few other programs for you to consider,” she told him quietly. “First, have you heard of the Mennonite Disaster Service?”
“They’re like the Amish, right? I’ve seen them around town. The women wear little white caps.”
“That’s right. They’re not quite like the Amish. They use modern equipment, so to speak. Right now, we have ten Mennonite couples staying at the Boy Scout camp. They drove in to help out. They’re a volunteer service, and they’ve been rebuilding homes and farms across the valley. In their group, they have an electrician and a plumber, so they’re full service—”
“They just do this?”
“Yes.” She indicated the little blue flyer. “They help those in most dire need first. The fact that you have three children and are uninsured may put you at the top of their list. You’ll have to go to the camp and speak to them. If you qualify, they can probably repair your home in a matter of days and help you get your milking parlor reinstalled, as well. They’re very, very good.”
Gabe looked uncertain, but after a moment, he took the flyer. “At the Boy Scout camp, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Talk to them, Mr. Chouder. They’re here for people like you. Someday, maybe you can return the favor by helping build somebody else’s home or barn.”
“All…all right.”
“And the Grand Springs Farm Bureau has opened a bank account for all the donations and fund-raising moneys. A lot of that money will be used to purchase alfalfa to get through the winter. However, you can also apply to receive a small grant. We probably can’t afford to give more than a few thousand per farmer, but it will give you something.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t enthusiastic. A few thousand barely bought a new cow, let alone got a farmer through a winter.
“Finally, I’m looking into starting an adopt-a-farm program.”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s been tried in a few other states, Mr. Chouder, with a fair amount of success. Basically, we would do a bio on your farm and match you up with a volunteer who would ‘adopt’ your farm. They would help out with the expenses, sponsor you, so to speak, for the next winter.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, ma’am. That farm has been in my family for three generations. My son’s interested in it now—”
“You’re not selling it, Mr. Chouder. You’re not giving it away. You’re just getting help to make it through the next year.”
“But…but what do they get out of it?”
“The usual. The sponsor gets the satisfaction of helping someone out. Also, quite frankly, most of these people are well off and benefit from the tax deduction. They also like feeling that they’re giving back to the community and helping with ‘grass roots Americana.’”
Mr. Chouder was shaking his head. “Sounds too much like pity.”
Josie bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from sighing. The program really could work except for one major stumbling block—farmers had phenomenal pride. It was one thing to receive help from their own, quite another to take assistance from outsiders, particularly, rich outsiders.
“It’s not pity, it’s community. People helping people through a rough time.”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t want to have to call up some stranger with my bills. What if I need a new tractor? Do I have to ask permission? Does he get to pick it out? I dunno.”
“Those kinds of details would have to be worked out. I would be perfectly willing to help you work them out. Usually, we create a straw budget for the year, the sponsor contributes his part of it up front, and you go on your merry way. Here, just take this and read it over. Think about it, Mr. Chouder. Please.”
“All…all right.” He took the small stack of flyers. The lines hadn’t eased around his eyes. She’d given him options, but she couldn’t give him answers. Those would take a long time to find as the whole community sifted through the aftermath.
“Do you have any more questions, Mr. Chouder? I’ll follow up with FEMA for you as I promised.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I guess I’m all set.”
“You can stop by any time you like. Don’t be afraid to call me with more questions.”
“I’ll…I’ll give it all some thought, ma’am.”
“Josie. You can call me Josie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. Looking at Gabe Chouder, she felt her heart break a little. His face was wind-worn and rugged, his eyes squinted from spending a lifetime staring into the sun. She’d moved to Grand Springs looking for the Gabe Chouders of the world. She’d sought goodness, she’d sought purity, she’d sought roots.
And now she knew the joy and heartache community could give. It reminded her of her parents. It reminded her of Olivia.
The sadness that swept through her was old, but still potent. She handled it as she always did. She nudged Mr. Chouder gently and gave him a large smile.
“It’s going to be okay,” she assured him firmly. “Grand Springs is a great community, Mr. Chouder. We’re going to get through this!”
She walked him to the reception area right outside her office.
It was after five, but the waiting area was still filled with farmers and small businessmen. Her gaze picked out her new visitor immediately, however. He was taller, leaner than the rest. He rested against the wall, impeccably dressed. Blond hair cut short to hide the wave. A hard jawline. Blue eyes that saw everything.
She knew who he was immediately. She’d met him two years ago, and her attention had wandered toward him ever since. He was the tall, straight-laced but broodingly handsome man who always stood across the room at social functions and studied her with piercing blue eyes. He was the man who’d actually inspired an erotic dream or two. He was the cop she avoided at all costs.
Now Detective Jack Stryker pushed away from the wall. He met her gaze.
He flashed his detective’s shield.
“Josie Reynolds? Five minutes of your time, please.”
It was funny, the déjà vu that swept over her these days. She looked as his badge, and once more, all she could think was Not again.
Chapter Two
Josie led Jack Stryker into her office because she had no other choice. His tall, rangy build quickly filled the space, not that there was much of it to begin with. Her office was comprised of one big oak desk, two chairs, an ancient computer and a whole wall of slate gray filing cabinets. Oh, and there were two scraggly vines hovering somewhere between life and death.
“I’ve got to do something about them,” she muttered as she passed by the two plants on her way to the relative safety of her side of the desk. The office had only one tiny window, permitting very little light. The plants didn’t like that. They probably weren’t thrilled with her constantly forgetting to water them, either.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
Jack Stryker took the old black chair across from her. The chair was too low, making him double over his long body to fit. His knees stuck up comically, which she would have enjoyed more if he hadn’t managed to somehow retain his dignity. His face was composed, his eyes sharp and patient, and his lips… You could tell a lot about a man from looking at his lips. Jack Stryker had very strong, firm lips.
Josie turned away. She smoothed her sensible gray skirt and wished she’d worn pants. She tugged at her pretty gray-and-pink-striped silk blouse, wishing she’d buttoned it up to her neck. Hell, a nun in a wimple would feel exposed sitting across from Jack Stryker. She had no idea what it was about him, but he unsettled her purely by existing. A cop, for God’s sake. A Republican. She ought to have more pride.
No. Her hands were shaking. She was acutely aware of his gaze. And her office had grown too warm. Definite, definite tension in the room. She was an idiot.
“I’m Detective Jack Stryker—”
“I’ve met you before.” She took her seat, and decided it was best to come out firing. “Look, in case you didn’t notice, Detective, there’s at least a dozen people out there waiting to speak with me. I can give you five minutes, that’s it.”
He leaned back, his blue gaze openly challenging. “I’m here about Olivia Stuart’s murder. I would think that would take priority.”
“Then, you didn’t know Olivia very well, did you?”
He stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the sharp retort. Josie smiled sweetly. Round one to the con man’s daughter. Hah, she’d been dealing with cops longer than this man had probably dreamed of becoming one. She wasn’t some pushover and she wasn’t going to be antagonized in her own office, even if the man looked incredibly handsome.
Across from her Detective Stryker stopped leaning back and his eyes narrowed. He had very blue eyes. She’d noticed them the first time they’d been introduced. The shade was bright, piercing, riveting. She was certain that from a hundred yards away a woman would still be able to feel those eyes on her. She definitely felt them on her now.
“How long did you know Olivia?”
“Two years.”
“How did you meet her?”
“When I was interviewed for the position of Grand Springs treasurer.”
“I thought you two were friends.”
“We became friends over the course of the next few months. As the treasurer, I work very closely with the mayor. And Olivia…” Her voice grew husky with the raw emotion that even after almost four months thickened her throat. “Olivia was very kind. She showed me around, made sure I got settled. She was very generous, very…warm.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Have you ever thought of running for mayor yourself?”
Josie frowned, then shook her head, not following his line of questioning. “No.”
“You seem to take your work very seriously.”
“Of course.”
“You were very patient with Gabe.”
“How would you know?”
“I overheard.”
“What do you mean, you overheard? The sound doesn’t carry that easily to the reception area.”
“It does if you put your ear against the door.”
“You…you…eavesdropped on my conversation?” She didn’t know whether to be outraged, amazed or impressed. She settled on outraged, hotly stabbing her finger through the air. “You had no right to do that. Isn’t that illegal?”
“I was just leaning against the door,” he said calmly. “There’s no law against leaning against a door.”
Damn, now she was impressed. She fought the feeling vehemently. “I thought you were the one they called ‘Straight Arrow Stryker.’ You do everything by the book, that’s what I was told.”
“I didn’t break any law.”
“You invaded my privacy! Worse, you invaded Mr. Chouder’s privacy!”
“Ms. Reynolds, I would never repeat anything I overheard about Mr. Chouder’s affairs. I was just trying to determine whether it would be appropriate for me to interrupt the conversation or not.”
He said the words so steadily that she almost believed him. She caught herself immediately, of course. It was always a mistake to believe a cop. In their own way, they were as manipulative, conniving and Machiavellian as the people they were trying to catch.
She drew herself up to her full five feet six inches. “Detective Stryker, if I ever hear gossip about Mr. Chouder’s financial affairs, I will personally hunt you down.”
“And?”
She smiled sweetly. “And announce your five-thousand-dollar donation to the Grand Springs Farm Bureau relief fund, of course. I’m sure you want to help out Mr. Chouder and the other farmers like him as much as possible.”
Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Stryker’s clear-cut, voting Republican face seemed to ease into a small smile of appreciation. “You are good,” he murmured.
“Hah, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Josie yanked open her center desk drawer and pulled out a bright yellow flyer.
“Band, Bingo, Bake Sale next Friday night. Ten dollars to get in, great country music, a chance at cash prizes in bingo, and maybe you can pick up a blueberry pie for your lonely bachelor nights. All proceeds go to the relief fund. I think you should buy two tickets.”
“How did you know I was a bachelor?”
“Are you kidding? Ever since the day I moved here I have been regaled with stories of Mr. All-American, Jack Stryker. There are mothers with eligible daughters who do nothing but contemplate your future. Soon they’ll have set up a Web site for you—your favorite foods, hobbies, likes, dislikes. Oh, that’s right, no one’s supposed to mention the name of your ex-wife. Let’s see, Mary…Margaret…”
“Marjorie.” His voice had become definitely tight.
“Marjorie. Well, no one’s supposed to bring her up. So what do you say, two tickets?”
Jack Stryker blinked his eyes several times, appearing speechless. Was it the mention of his ex-wife, the fact that she knew he was a bachelor or her persistent pushing of the fund-raiser? Josie didn’t care. In this preliminary battle of wills, she was finally winning. She liked winning, and these days, it didn’t happen often.
“You’re either the rudest person I’ve ever met or the absolute best strategist,” Jack said at last.
“Why, thank you.”
Before she could break out the champagne and celebrate her victory, however, he abruptly leaned closer, those sharp blue eyes narrowing dangerously. “But your distraction ploy’s not going to work, Josie. We’re not here to talk about bake sales and we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you. Where are you from, Josie?”
“Hmm, now that I think about it, I’m sure your partner, Detective Richardson, and his new wife would love to go to the fund-raiser, as well. You should buy them two tickets while you’re at it.”
“Why did you come to Grand Springs?”
“The band is Sadie’s Sunshine. Have you ever heard them? A little too much banjo for my taste, but they get your feet stomping.”
“You always keep to yourself. You’ve worked here two years, you go to all the appropriate functions, but no one really knows you. Why is that?”
“I’m personally making lemon squares for the bake sale. They’re a specialty of mine. Better yet, Mrs. Simone is selling a pie-a-month club. For fifty bucks, she’ll deliver a fresh-baked pie to your house each month. She starts with her strawberry rhubarb pie in October. I’d buy that deal for myself, but I’m not sure I’m getting enough time at the gym for a pie a month.”
“Is it men you don’t like? Or cops? Or both?” His blue eyes remained steady, his lips set. She could babble on till doomsday, his gaze told her, he would still get the information he required. As she watched him, the right corner of his lip curved dryly. “Come on, Josie,” he commanded firmly. “Speak to me.”
She had to look away. The nervousness started in her belly and worked its way up to her throat. She had nothing to be nervous about, she told herself again and again but it wasn’t working. Her mouth had gone dry. Beneath the desk, her hands were trembling.
Dammit, she wasn’t ready for this kind of interrogation. She was tired and overworked. She missed Olivia, she wanted to help Olivia, and yes, she did not like cops. Not even the one nicknamed “Straight Arrow Stryker,” who she always noticed, even in a crowded room.
“Look,” Josie said, “as much fun as this has been, I still have a whole reception area filled with people who have much more important questions than what’s my sign. This meeting is over.”
“I’m trying to solve a murder—”
“And I hope you do.” Abruptly, her temper flared. She slapped her desk, startling them both. “Dammit, Olivia was my best friend! I want you to catch who killed her as much as anyone, you narrow-minded bureaucrat. And I’m telling you, I don’t have any more information for you!”
“I think you’re lying,” he said bluntly.
“I think you’ve inhaled too much red ink! I think you guys are desperate for answers over there. I bet Hal’s having a field day whipping your backs. Oh, and the police department’s budget is up for review. I should’ve known.”
Stryker stood so fast, his chair tipped back. His jaw was tight enough to crack three walnuts, and his eyes seemed to blaze out of his head. He was angry, she realized with awe. Not just angry. The famous Straight Arrow Stryker was furious. And God, was he magnificent!
“Don’t you ever, ever accuse me or my partner of manufacturing answers just to please a sniveling idiot like Hal Stuart. I don’t know how you do your job, lady, but I take mine very seriously!”
“And so do I!”
“You’re a suspect, Josie Reynolds.”
“Because I was Olivia’s friend?”
“Because you’re hiding something.” Jack Stryker planted his hands on her desk. He leaned all the way across until she could feel the whisper of his breath on her cheek, and said, “I’m going to come back to this office, Ms. Reynolds, and I’m going to keep coming back until I know everything about you. Where you were, what you’ve done. Why you don’t like cops. And if you killed Olivia Stuart, I’ll personally slap the handcuffs on your tender wrists.”
Her mouth had gone dry. His determination was so pure, she could almost hear the cell doors clanging shut behind her. Again. Again. Again. Josie drew back slowly. She pulled herself together and pasted a smile on her pale face, because that’s what she did best. That is what her father had taught her.
“Does that mean you don’t want four tickets to the Band, Bingo, Bake Sale fund-raiser?”
“What?”
“I said, does that mean you don’t want four tickets to the Band, Bingo, Bake Sale fund-raiser? It’s next Friday, remember? Seven o’clock, and the money goes to—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he raised a silencing hand, frowning deeply, studying her again as if she were a puzzle he ought to be able to solve.
She looked him in the eye. It was the most she could do when her stomach had fallen away, leaving her hollow and lost. “I take my job seriously, too, Detective. And right now, my job means I need to raise money for those people sitting out there wondering why a Grand Springs detective is yelling at the Grand Springs treasurer.”
“I did not yell,” he said immediately.
“You yelled.”
“I don’t yell.”
“Would you like me to open the door and ask?”
Jack clutched his temples. For a moment, he definitely looked on the verge of strangling her and even he seemed surprised by the intensity of his reaction. “I’m losing my mind,” she heard him mutter. “I have to get more sleep.”
For the first time, Josie noticed the shadows beneath his eyes, the red tinge of his bloodshot eyes. Olivia had always spoken very highly of Jack Stryker, of his phenomenal work ethic, of his passion for his job. He was the cop who always got his man.
Until the Olivia Stuart case. For a moment, the humor of the situation struck her. Two of Grand Springs’s most overworked public servants, going after each other like small children. And the sadness struck her again. Grand Springs’s two lost public servants, each wanting justice for Olivia and yelling petty insults at each other instead.
“Two tickets,” she said more gently. “Sounds like you could use a night off.”
He grunted, which was probably his version of agreement.
“I’ll take four,” he said suddenly. “Stone and Jessie might as well drool over each other in public for a good cause. Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“With anyone?”
Josie shook her head in frustration. “None of your business. Go home, Detective. It’s almost six o’clock and I still have a lot of work to do. Try not to arrest any of the good citizens in my office on your way out.”
“This isn’t over.”
“Oh, famous last words. Cops have absolutely no imagination.”
Jack arched a brow. Far from retreating, he said somberly, “Yes, we do.” He leaned over her desk.
“I’ll see you at the fund-raiser, Josie. And I’ll see you going home every night and I’ll see you jogging every morning. I want Olivia Stuart’s killer. Think about that, Josie. Think about that real hard.”
He stepped out of her office. She struggled to inhale long after the door had shut behind him.
I’m not the killer, dammit. A Reynolds isn’t the killer.
* * *
At nine o’clock, she turned away the last person. She hated doing that, hated seeing the stress in each person’s eyes as she stood in the waiting room and softly promised to meet with them first thing in the morning. Four people were left. They’d waited six hours and now had to return tomorrow.
Goaded by guilt, she spent another two hours trying to catch up with paperwork. By eleven, her stomach was growling too much to concentrate. She cleaned up her desk, updated her list of things to do for the morning and prepared to leave. Halfway out the door she remembered she’d forgotten to speak to FEMA for Gabe Chouder.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Get it on the list.”
Heading back out, she remembered she’d forgotten the report on strip mining for Hal Stuart. She went back to add that to the list. The third time, she recalled her promise to speak with Helen Hunter about the bingo prizes. The fourth time, she made it through the door, stomach growling, eyes tired.
Her low-slung heels echoed in the vaulted hallways of City Hall. All the offices were dark, only the yellow ceiling lights guided her way. It was a strange, lonely feeling to be in a big marble building all alone at night. She nodded goodbye to the security guard stationed by the front doors and let herself out.
The night was cold and clear. Her car was around back. These days she wondered how safe it was to walk to her car alone, but still had no choice. At least, she encountered no surprises tonight.
She drove home on deserted roads and pulled up to a dark one-story rancher. She had no roommates, no pets, no people to help her, which meant she got to drag the garbage can to the curb even though she didn’t feel like doing it. Monday was garbage night, so out it went.
Back inside, she snapped on the kitchen light and set her briefcase and jacket on the kitchen table. She was spending too much time at work, and her small house showed it. Plants drooped from lack of water. The simple, sparse furniture had gathered a thick layer of dust. Abruptly, the whole place depressed her. She had a house, but not a home. A home shouldn’t smell as alien and stale as her place did now.
She stared at the brown kitchen cabinets and contemplated heating up a can of soup. Food might make her feel better. When a person burned the candle at both ends, food and nutrition became even more important, she reminded herself. But the act of taking out a saucepan and opening a can sounded like too much work. Did a man like Stryker come home to an empty house, as well? Did he contemplate heating up soup and realize he was too tired, or did a man as handsome as him have a new woman every night, happy to fill the void?
She could still remember the tight feeling in her belly when Grand Springs’s most eligible bachelor had pinned her with his gaze. And she recalled the secret, nearly primal thrill of making “Straight Arrow Stryker” yell.
Oh God, what was she thinking? She gave up on cooking, dropped her clothes on the floor, and climbed into bed.
Her dreams brought her comfort. She was ten years old again. She knew because her blond hair was in the kind of beautiful French braid only her mother could do. She sat at the simple kitchen table. Her mom was making cookies and the kitchen smelled of nutmeg and vanilla.
The back door opened as her father walked in, wearing a suit he’d donned first thing in the morning and now accessorized it with his hearty smile. Her mom looked up, her eyes immediately going soft. Rose’s gaze always went tender when she saw Stan.
“I got me a job, Rose. Selling cars. I’m going straight, just like I promised.”
“Oh, Stan. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He wrapped her pretty mama in a big bear hug. In his suit, he looked big and handsome, all red hair and snapping blue eyes. In her spring dress, her mother was his perfect complement, all blond hair and delicately defined features.
Her mother sat Stan at the table. He got his own plate with four oatmeal cookies, sneaking one to Josie when Rose turned for the milk. She palmed it effortlessly, the way he’d taught her, and he winked at her until she giggled.
Josie was the luckiest girl in the world and she knew it. She was Stan’s little girl, and Stan was the only father on the block who knew how to make dreams come true. And when Rose smiled at Stan the way Rose was smiling at Stan now, there wasn’t anything Stan couldn’t do.
Josie inhaled the scents of nutmeg and vanilla. She let the oatmeal cookie melt on her tongue.
“I want to stay here always, Daddy,” she whispered in her sleep.
“Of course you can,” he promised her in her dream. “Of course you can.”
Her alarm clock went off at six. She awoke disoriented and groggy. She sat up with a scowl, impatiently pushing a cloud of tangled hair out of her face.
“Liar,” she muttered. Her room, empty and still dark gray with morning, didn’t argue. She pattered into her bathroom and buried herself beneath the scouring spray of a hot shower.
* * *
“Well, I’m so happy you finally found time for your family!”
Jack leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Nice to see you, too, Mom.”
He shook his father’s hand as the older man apologized for Betty Stryker’s comment with his gaze. Jack understood. His mother was a high-strung, anxious woman. Sometimes she was on medication, but mostly she tried to manage it on her own. It wasn’t easy. Betty Stryker’s world was filled with demons and worry. And the death of her oldest son at the age of eighteen had only made the shadows darker.
