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“I’m going again!” he announced but got distracted by a shovel and pail a little girl, maybe six, was using near the swings.
As soon as Sadie felt confident his new friend was willing to share and that the mother didn’t mind, she returned her attention to Sly’s text. If she didn’t respond, he’d only call her or come over later.
Yes, I went, she wrote.
Are you fucking kidding me?
She blanched at the profanity. She could hear him screaming that at her...
Please tell me you didn’t take the job, he wrote.
I need the work, she wrote back.
That’s a yes? You took a job from a killer????
Her phone rang. It was Sly, of course, anxious to shout at her. Texting ugly things wasn’t nearly as satisfying; he craved a full verbal assault.
She pressed the Decline button, but after the ringing stopped, her phone pinged again. Answer, damn it!
When she didn’t respond to that, either, he kept calling.
Finally, with a sigh, she picked up. She figured she might as well get this over with while Jayden was distracted. Why subject her sensitive child to another argument between Mommy and Daddy if she could possibly avoid it? “Sly, what I do with my life is up to me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
“That’s bullshit. Don’t let Dawson Reed fool you. He’s dangerous. I won’t have my wife anywhere near him, especially out there on the farm alone. Do you know how many places he could hide your body?”
Ducking her head so that her voice wouldn’t carry, she murmured, “I’m not your wife anymore.”
“Yes, you are. The divorce isn’t final.”
“That’s a technicality.”
“So? You’re the mother of my child. That means I should have some say.”
“No, it doesn’t! I’m taking proper care of Jayden. If you’re concerned that he’ll be at Petra’s too much, you can watch him yourself when you’re not at work. That would be a great way to make sure he remains safe.” She wasn’t convinced spending so much time with Sly would be good for Jayden, however. She’d hate to subject him to more of his father’s disapproval. Sly was so disappointed that their son wasn’t the rough-and-tumble boy he’d expected that he couldn’t help making snide comments: What do you mean, you don’t want to watch basketball with me? All boys—real boys—love sports... Why do you let him put on your lipstick? Are you trying to turn him into a fag? On and on it went. One time when Sly had taken Jayden for a few hours, she’d arrived to pick him up only to find him in time-out—for telling his father he preferred dance lessons to Little League.
“You’d like to turn me into your babysitter, wouldn’t you?” he said.
Not really. But she had to make the offer. No judge was going to deny Sly visitation rights. He was a police officer! And it wasn’t as if she could claim he was physically abusive. “I’m saying it’s an option.”
“So you can go off and make money you’ll use to keep our family apart? Screw that! Why would I help you when I haven’t done anything to deserve what you’re doing to me?”
“You’ve never done anything to cause the divorce?” she echoed, shocked that he could even make such a statement. “What about the day you nearly ran me over with your squad car?”
“For the millionth time, I didn’t nearly run you down. I didn’t see you standing there.”
That was what he said, but she was fairly certain he had seen her...
“Besides, I’ve apologized for scaring you.”
“So that makes it better?”
“What else can I do? I didn’t know you were there, yet I apologized anyway. That’s nice, isn’t it? I’ll make everything else up to you, too. I’ve told you I would, but you won’t give me the chance!”
“Because I’m done, Sly. I can’t do it anymore.”
“This time will be different. I promise. You’ll be happy. I’ll make you happy. You don’t need to work for some murderer!”
He couldn’t make her happy. Any chance of that had been extinguished long ago. “We don’t know he’s a murderer.”
“Who else killed those people? The mysterious hitchhiker he claims he met earlier in the night? The one he claimed was tweaking and acting irrationally?”
“Maybe. Was his story ever really checked out?”
“His story was ridiculous! What are the chances that some stranger—a drug addict—he had an altercation with is going to be able to find the Reed farmhouse and kill the Reeds before Dawson can even get home?”
His story did sound rather far-fetched... “I don’t know. But his attorney claims the homicide detective settled on Dawson right away, that he never even looked at anyone else.”
“Dawson told you this?”
Jayden was laughing with the little girl who was sharing her bucket. He didn’t seem to notice that Sadie was on the phone, let alone having an argument, which brought some relief despite her frustration. “No, I saw it on the news, like everyone else,” she told Sly. “But maybe he was right. Maybe they focused the investigation too soon.”
“No, they didn’t! I’m part of the police force, Sadie. Are you saying we don’t do our jobs?”
“You weren’t involved in the investigation, Sly.” He hoped to reach detective; his superiors just hadn’t promoted him yet. She’d heard him fume when another officer was promoted ahead of him. “So that comment had nothing to do with you.”
“You’re talking about my friends and work associates.”
“I’m telling you the truth—that we don’t know!”
“Does that even matter?” he cried. “Do we have to know? Why take the chance?”
For the sake of freedom! She’d do almost anything to escape him. She’d gotten involved with Sly when she was still in high school. It didn’t seem fair that a decision made when she was so young and naïve could have such long-reaching consequences. “It’ll be okay. Dawson seems nice.”
“Are you a total idiot? Ted Bundy seemed nice!”
Sadie stiffened. He treated her like she was stupid whenever she didn’t agree with him. “There’s no point in fighting about it. I’ve accepted the job. I’m going to work there. You have no say.” She considered bringing up the fact that he’d tried to sabotage her by visiting the Reed farm ahead of her and all but threatening Dawson, but she knew that would only cause the argument to explode into something uglier, even more emotional. His attempt to intimidate Dawson hadn’t been successful. She’d leave it there to protect Dawson from any backlash he’d receive for telling her.
“You’d rather work for a murderer than come back to me,” he said.
“I’d rather accept a job that will enable me to remain independent.”
“God, you’re such a selfish bitch!”
There wasn’t any way she could be more selfish than he was. That much she knew for sure. “I don’t have to listen to this, Sly.”
“Someone needs to knock some sense into you.”
Squeezing her eyes closed, she drew a deep breath. “Who? You?”
“Someday, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
She recognized that tone, associated it with the afternoon he’d nearly run her over. He had the capacity for violence. She could sense it—and it frightened her as much or more as going to work for a man suspected of murdering his parents, maybe even more because it was directed at her. “I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Don’t hang up on me! We’re not finished yet.”
“I don’t have to put up with your abuse anymore.” She saw her son coming toward her, so she hit the button that would end the call. But she knew what she’d just told her ex-husband was a lie. She did have to put up with his abuse. There wasn’t any way to avoid it. She’d been fighting that battle for years.
All the power was on his side.
* * *
Dawson Reed was so tired by the time he finished working in the fields that he skipped dinner. Hungry though he was, the thought of trying to prepare a meal was too overwhelming when he could hardly climb the stairs to reach his bed. Bottom line, he needed rest more than food. His body was no longer accustomed to long days of physical labor, not after sitting in a jail cell for more than twelve months. Trying to salvage what he could of the artichoke plants he’d been helping his folks grow before they were murdered, and preparing a large section of land for new plants—which he had to get in the ground before spring, since artichokes needed a period of vernalization—was more than any one man should attempt on his own. But if he was going to bring Angela home, he couldn’t hire farmhands. He’d be spending what disposable income he had, what his defense lawyers hadn’t already taken of his parents’ estate and what was left of the money he’d borrowed against the farm on Sadie Harris, the caregiver he’d hired this morning for his sister.
He hoped he’d done the right thing. After Officer Harris had left, he’d almost decided to get the farm up and running—and turning a profit—before bringing Angela home. He’d figured, by then, maybe people would’ve had time to cool off, wouldn’t be so angry and determined to persecute him. But Angela wasn’t happy where she was, so he couldn’t wait. He was too stubborn to let the arrogant ass who’d threatened him tell him what to do, anyway.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, as he always did, to stare at the closed door looming at the end of the hallway. The two people he’d loved most in the world had been murdered behind that door. When he thought of his parents, of what he’d encountered the night they were killed, he felt so much anger and grief he didn’t know what to do. He tried to funnel it into his work, in the promises he told himself about the future and how he’d eventually find justice. But sometimes, the loss still hit him like a tidal wave, made him want to fight someone, anyone. Or he had to contend with a debilitating sadness that stole over him like wisps of fog, chilling him to the bone.
He reached for the knob, made sure the door was still locked, then dropped his hand. Aiyana Turner, the administrator of New Horizons, the boys ranch here in town where he’d gone to high school, had done her best to board up the place—as soon as the police gave her permission to come onto the property. She’d offered to clean up the blood for him, too. She was the only one, it seemed, who still had a kind word for him, who believed he was innocent. But he’d told her to leave the scene exactly as it was. He felt there might be some clue, some piece of evidence the police had missed that he could use to find the man who killed them—and he wouldn’t rest until he did. After everything he’d lost, everything he’d been through, he’d find justice eventually.
His cell phone rang. Someone from the Stanley DeWitt Assisted Living Center in Los Angeles, where they’d taken his sister, was trying to reach him. He’d spoken to a member of their staff almost every day since he got home.
He needed to remove his dirty clothes and shower before he could lie down, so he finished the short journey to his room and sank into the wooden chair by the desk he’d been using to apply for the loan on the farm, handle the paperwork for assuming guardianship of Angela and create the spreadsheets that charted out the farm acreage, growth time, projected earnings and cash flow. “Hello?”
“Mr. Reed?”
He’d been legally adopted by Lonnie and Larry when he was fifteen, had used their last name ever since. He certainly didn’t want to claim the name he’d been born with. The Reeds were the only ones who’d ever given a damn about him. “Yes.”
“It’s Megan. From Stanley DeWitt.”
She’d called before. He recognized the name. “What’s going on, Megan?”
“I’m sorry to bother you again, but... I thought maybe if you spoke to your sister, she’d cooperate with me.”
Fighting the exhaustion that hung on his arms and legs like wrist and ankle weights, he covered a yawn. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s been up since six this morning, but she won’t put on her pajamas and go to bed. She insists you’re coming to get her tonight.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes. She’s waiting by the door, her purse on her arm, her coat buttoned to the top, even though it’s too warm for that in here.”
Dawson sighed as he pictured his sister stubbornly resisting the young Megan’s pleas. The image that came to mind broke his heart. Not being able to help Angela had been as bad as everything else. “Let me talk to her.”
“Yes, sir. One sec.”
“It’s your brother,” he heard as she transferred the phone.
Angela came on the line almost immediately, her voice eager. “Dawson? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, honey. I can’t come tonight. I told you I have to get the house cleaned up before they’ll let me bring you here.”
“Then clean it! Why aren’t you cleaning it?”
“I am cleaning it. I’m doing a lot of other things, too—things that take time. I need you to be patient. I’ll come for you as soon as I can. I promise.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.” She handed the phone to Megan, but that had been too easy, so easy that Dawson knew Angela still didn’t understand. He had Megan put her right back on the line.
“It won’t be tonight,” he reiterated. “I’m not coming now. It might be as long as a week. These things take time.”
“How long is a week?”
“Seven days.”
“Seven days!” She groaned as if he’d said seven years. “That’s forever!”
“That’s how it has to be. Moving you requires some paperwork, too, and it’s the paperwork that takes the longest. They won’t let me pick you up until everything’s done.”
“But it’s been so long.” She started to cry. “I don’t like it here, Dawson. Come get me now.”
“I’ll come as soon as I can, honey. I just... I need you to listen to Megan and get ready for bed. If you cooperate, the time will go faster for everyone. Then, before you know it, you’ll be home.”
She sniffed. “Will I get to see Mom and Dad? Or are they still dead?”
Dawson scrubbed a hand over his face. She had no concept of death, of forever. She only knew that she missed the people who’d always been there for her. He missed them, too. “They’re still dead. They’ll always be dead. But I’ll take you to see their graves and try to help you understand when you get home.”
“They’ll come back,” she said, supremely confident. “I know they will.”
“They can’t, Angela.”
“Yes, they can!”
“We’ll talk about it later. For now, listen to Megan, please? Put on your pajamas and get into bed. Megan doesn’t need you to make her night difficult.”
“You’ll be here in the morning?”
“What did I tell you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied, and cried even louder.
“It’ll be a week. I’ll be there in seven days. Have Megan count them on your fingers.” He wasn’t positive he could get there in exactly seven days, which was why he’d been careful not to name a date so far. But after what they’d been through the past year, dangling a “soon” out there wasn’t comforting to her anymore. Angela needed a concrete figure, something Megan could circle on the calendar and she could look forward to in a more definite way.
He hated the thought that he might have to disappoint her at the end of the week—due to circumstances beyond his control—but it was better than disappointing her every night, like he was doing now.
“A week,” she repeated with another sniff.
“Seven days.”
“Megan? When is a week?” he heard her ask.
