If You See Her (8 page)

“Don’t talk to me in that placating,
Oh, it will be all right
tone, Law. Would you just fucking
think
? You were lying there—hurt, bleeding—you’re the one person who matters to me, you really think I could just merrily slit my wrists?” Tears—angry tears, hurt tears, scared tears—blinded her, rolled out of her eyes. Furious, she swiped them away and glared at him. “Just
think
, Law.”

For long, long seconds, he stared at her … and then comprehension dawned, and abruptly he snarled,
“Son of a bitch.”

He spun around and planted his left fist into the wall so hard, the plaster split.

Staring at the second hand of the clock, Brody tried not to let it show that he felt like he was coming out of his skin.

So his uncle had called his dad. Told the old man he needed to talk to the two of them. So the fuck what?

Glancing at his dad, he tried to get an idea if the old man had any idea what was going on, but his dad couldn’t have looked less interested. His eyes, blue like Brody’s, blue like Remy’s, had that vague, spaced look as he stared at the screen of his computer—answering e-mail, no doubt. Although how many fucking e-mails could the mayor of a small town have on a daily basis?

Dad spent more time being the
mayor
than he spent being
Dad
. After all, he had the whole town of Ash, Kentucky, population 8,312, depending on him … Mayor Henry “Hank” Jennings didn’t want to let those people down … he just forgot about his son.

He let his son down every fucking day.

It had been like that since Mom died.

Brody no longer existed.

Not for anybody …

Feeling the sting of tears in the back of his eyes, he shoved back from the table.

His dad looked up.

Storming over to the refrigerator, Brody said, “Did Uncle Remy say how long he’d be? How long this would take? I got shit to do, ya know.”

“No, he didn’t say. And stop swearing, Brody.” The corners of Hank’s mouth went tight and he glanced at the clock. “If he isn’t here soon, I’m calling him. I’ve got work of my own to get done and …”

They both heard the roar of an engine.

Turning their heads, they watched as a beat-up, busted-up truck turned off the highway and headed toward their house.

His dad was frowning. “Who is that?” He sighed and muttered, “I don’t have time for this.”

Brody barely heard him. He stared at that truck, blood roaring in his ears. Remy didn’t own a truck … but Ezra King did. His gut went to water. Locking his knees, he tried not to let his legs tremble. Told himself to keep his cool.

Pasting a bored expression on his face, he reached into the fridge and grabbed a Coke. King could suspect whatever in the hell he wanted. And maybe he didn’t suspect anything. Maybe he didn’t know anything. He took a deep gulp of the fizzy, cold drink and managed to ease some of the nerves pitching in his gut.

But then the truck stopped, and Ezra King wasn’t the only one who climbed out.

When Brody saw Uncle Remy, his heart almost stopped. Fuck. Yeah. Remy was coming, with King. This wasn’t good.

For some reason, he found himself thinking about all those dumb cop shows his dad liked to watch. Found himself remembering how he always wondered why in
the hell people tried to run. They’d get caught. They almost always did.

Right then, Brody wanted to run.

More than anything, he wanted to run.

Tightening his hand around the drink, he squeezed and didn’t even realize it until the cold liquid bubbled up onto his hand.

“He’s going to rabbit,” Ezra muttered, glimpsing Brody through the window as he parked his truck alongside the house. Grimacing, he rubbed his thigh and wondered if he was up to chasing down a scared, desperate kid.

“He might.” Remy’s face could have been carved from stone and his blue eyes looked glacial.

“Think he’d do anything stupid?”

“Shit.” Remy shot Ezra a dark look. The charming, surfer-boy looks had been tarnished by stress and grief. He looked tired. Tired and grieving. “He fucking burned a house down. Yeah. I think he could do something stupid.”

Feeling bad for him, Ezra shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Houses, hell … they burn, yeah, but nobody was hurt.
He
wasn’t hurt. Are we going to regret not bringing Nielson out here?”

“Hope not,” Remy said. Then he climbed out of the truck.

Yeah, Remy could see Brody rabbiting already, just like Ezra said.

The boy’s blue eyes were darker than normal, the pupils huge. His face was pale and sweating.

Shit, just how fucking distracted could Hank be? Remy’s older brother had always been the type to focus on the end goal, but Remy would have thought his family would be included in that end goal.

Obviously not, because Hank didn’t seem to have a
clue
just how screwed up Brody was right now.

Then again, Hank had been like that for a while.

Ever since Sheryl had died.

As he let Remy and Ezra into the kitchen, Hank said, “I hope you make this quick, Remy. I’ve got an awful lot of work waiting for me and it doesn’t help that you didn’t make it here until thirty minutes after you said you would.”

“Sit down, Hank,” he said quietly. “This is important.”

Hank gave him a narrow look. “I’ve got hours of work left back at my office, phone calls I’ve got to answer, a meeting coming up tonight, and all sorts of other stuff that’s important.”

“And all of that should pale in comparison to this,” Remy said.
Should. Should …
but would it? He just didn’t know. Moving to the table, he sat down, careful not to look at Ezra, careful not to look at Brody, although he kept the kid in the corner of his vision.

Ezra watched the boy, too, without really appearing to.

All cop, Remy thought. All cop … even in the jeans and T-shirt, moving into the kitchen with just the slightest limp, taking care with that bad leg of his.

“This is Ezra King,” Remy said, introducing Ezra to his older brother.

“June King’s grandson,” Hank said, nodding. “I heard about her old place. Terribly sorry to hear about it. If there’s anything I can do …”

“Actually, that’s why we’re here,” Remy said. Now he looked at Brody.

Brody tensed.

Under the thin cloth of the black T-shirt he wore, his skinny shoulders were board-straight, so stiff, he looked like he’d shatter.

“Brody,” Remy said quietly.

Brody stared at the table. A muscle worked in his jaw.

“Look at me, kid,” Remy said. He could remember when this kid had been a baby—a squalling, helpless newborn. Remembered holding him, remembered watching him learn to walk … remembered holding him again as he fell and cried. Remembered how the boy had cried when his mother Sheryl died … and holding him then.

“Brody.”

Slowly, Brody looked up.

But then Hank said, “What in the hell is going on here, Remy?”

At the sound of his dad’s voice, Brody flinched and then, he withdrew. Just like that.

Mentally. Remy watched as the boy shut down, his face tight, his eyes going flat and hard.

Sighing, Remy flipped open his briefcase and drew out the gold cross.

That was all it took for the boy’s thin veneer of bravado to break. Fear danced across his face, fear, knowledge … and then abruptly, there was relief.

“I think maybe we should talk, kid,” Remy said.

Hank stared at the cross and looked at Brody, then Remy. “What in the hell is going on?” he asked, his voice cold.

For the first time since Remy had arrived, he really looked at his son.

Hell, it might have been the first time he’d really looked at his son in
years
.

Swearing, Hank turned and grabbed the gold pendant from Remy, staring at it. Then he hurled it down onto the table and started toward his son.

“What in the holy fuck did you do, Brody?”

If they could have kept the dad quiet …

Ezra watched it go from almost okay to outright disastrous in seconds.

The boy had been about ready to open up for his uncle—Ezra had seen the relief in his eyes, glinting just under the tears.

But then the dad had to go and open his mouth.

Still, the kid manned up. Ezra had to admit, he was impressed.

“It was an accident. Well, mostly.” He looked from his dad to Ezra, met his gaze and said, his voice catching in the middle, “I’m sorry, Mr. King. I was just so fucking pissed off, and it wasn’t even at you. It was just … well, everything. But then Uncle Remy was on me about the flowers and shit, and I know that was my fault, too, but I wasn’t thinking and … and … and … and … well. I’m sorry.”

Ezra nodded and looked at Remy. Remy reached inside the briefcase, but before he could say anything, Hank hauled the boy out of the seat, hands cruelly gripping the boy’s thin arms. Ezra could see the way the kid’s skin went bloodless under that vicious grip.

Bruises would form—he could already tell.

“Sorry? Sorry for what? You tell me exactly what you went and did, damn it. I did not raise some sorry-ass punk.”

“Damn it, Hank, that’s enough.” Remy’s voice was cool and level, a hard contrast to the anger in his brother’s voice.

Hank looked at his brother and snarled, “You stay the fuck out of this. This isn’t any of your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t. I’m family, remember? And in case it slipped your tiny brain,
arson
is a felony—lawyer here.”

Hank looked back at his son. “Arson. You really did
it. Damn it, boy. Admit it. Damn it, be a man and admit to me what you did to that man’s house. Admit it.”

Brody blinked back the tears as he met his father’s gaze. “I burned it down, Dad.”

“You little punk. Your mother would be so fucking ashamed. I’m just relieved she’s not here to see this,” Hank said, his voice harsh and angry. “If she was here now, this just might kill her.”

“I’m sorry.” The kid’s face broke, tears building in his eyes.

The look on that boy’s face would linger with Ezra for a good long time. Shoving off the counter, he said quietly, “That’s enough.”

But the man wasn’t in any mood to listen.

“Sorry.” Hank shook his head. “You think
sorry
is good enough? After everything I’ve done to make sure you have a good life, you do this and you think
sorry
is going to cut it?”

Abruptly, Brody laughed, an ugly, broken sound. “A good life?” Tears spilled out of his eyes, and his voice cracked as he stared at his dad. “You call this a good life? You never look at me. You don’t even want to know me. You probably wish I’d been the one to die instead of Mom.”

“At least then I wouldn’t have to clean up the fucking mess you made,” Hank bellowed, his face red, his hand coming up.

Ezra saw it coming before anybody else and he moved, barely in time, his leg trying to give out under him. He ignored it, gritting his teeth. Catching Hank’s upraised hand, he shoved and twisted, using the man’s momentum and weight against him as he slammed the man’s upper body down into the table.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the boy take off through the back door, but that was the least of his concerns.

As Hank struggled against him, Ezra said, “Now that, Mr. Mayor, was one very dumb-ass move.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” Hank snarled.

“Sure. Once you calm down. But if you think I’m going to let you belt that kid, you got another think coming. I think life’s knocked him around enough … and you haven’t helped, it doesn’t look like.”

He looked up at Remy and saw that the man was staring at his brother like he was a stranger.

H
OPE …

He could see her, just up there, pacing back and forth on the porch.

Why didn’t she come down?

Come closer?

A breeze kicked up, and long, gleaming brown hair blew back from her face.

He closed his eyes, imagined wrapping those long, long strands around his wrists, seeing her on her knees.

Lust, hunger, rage mingled and mixed inside him. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he rested a hand against a tree trunk, had to fight to keep from moving closer.

Now wasn’t the time—

Not now.

He really wishes I was dead
.

Swiping the back of his hand under his nose, Brody shoved past the bushes, past the low-hanging branches.

Tears burned in his eyes, blinded him, but he didn’t stop walking.

He’d run forever, until the burning in his lungs made him quit, and now he just walked.

He wasn’t very sure where he was, either. Somewhere
in the woods near the Ohlman property, he thought. Maybe close to Lena’s. Too close to home, that was sure.

He wanted to just keep running, too.

Pushing a hand into his pocket, he checked again, half hoping somehow something miraculous would have happened. Maybe the seventeen lousy dollars he had would turn into more money and he could just disappear. He really, really wanted to just disappear.

Wasn’t like his dad would miss him.