The Given (11 page)

Kit rubbed her eyes. “Your past is beginning to resemble a thousand-piece puzzle.”

Grif snorted. “And we're missing all the corners.”

Kit nodded. They'd had few leads on his cold case: first, Mary Margaret, the child he'd once saved, now a recovering addict in her sixties. She'd given them the Barbara lead, now a literal dead end.

But then there'd been Zicaro.

“He's gotta be, what? Seventy-six years old?”

“Around there. He's been at the Sunset Retirement Community for years,” she recalled. It was knowledge she'd let slip away after Grif had disappeared from her life. Unfortunately, as they both knew, ignoring wasn't forgetting. “Last I heard he was still scribbling far-fetched pieces about alien abductions and conspiracy theories and pasting them around the old folks' home.”

Kit flipped screens on Barbara's phone, leaving the address book to dip into the voice mails. Grif's gaze was steady on her as she scrolled, but he remained silent until she sat up straight. “What?”

“Bingo.” Flashing him the screen, Kit then flipped it back around and pushed the speaker button. Seconds later, a shaky, reedy voice sounded in the cold shell of Kit's car.

“Barbara, it's Zicaro. I don't know what the big idea is showing up here like that, but you're going to get me killed. You don't fool no one with that fake name either, so don't give me that bullcrap. Once a DiMartino, always a DiMartino.”

Kit locked eyes with Grif.

“I don't know why you're back, but listen good. Stay away from Sunset and stay away from me. I ain't lasted all these years just to get rubbed on your account. Besides, whatever you're into, whatever you want, I ain't got it. You lived the life, remember? I just reported it.”

The message cut off, and Kit immediately brought up the address for the Sunset Retirement Community.

“When was that call made?” Grif asked, voice no more than a whisper.

“Friday.”

“So Barbara visited Zicaro the day before she died.”

“Which is what we'll be doing first thing in the morning,” Kit said, and flashed him Zicaro's address. He began writing again without another word, and they emptied out the rest of the phone book as well. When they'd finished, it was with a start that Kit looked up and realized they were still seated in her car. Just like the old days, she thought. Working together, finishing each other's sentences, losing track of place and time. Kit reached for the handle.

Grif didn't move.

She glanced back. “You coming?”

“I'm waiting to be invited.”

Invited where? Kit swallowed hard, but Grif was gazing at the front of the home they'd shared . . . briefly but passionately.

“And if not,” he said, refocusing on her with the same intensity, “I'll sleep outside.”

“You think I'm in danger.” She'd already seen it in the way he studied the bushes and pockets of darkness the streetlights didn't reach. He just shrugged, confirming it.

Fine, she thought, narrowing her eyes. You keep your secrets. I'll keep mine.

“Come on,” she said, breaking the silence and the stare. She'd allow him in her house because the best chance to get through this individually was by working together. But that was all.

Because even if working together felt right, they'd be doing so for a future they would never share. Kit had walked this world in love with Griffin Shaw for six whole months—and they'd solved two major crimes along the way—but then she'd spent another six trying to forget that he'd ever lived. After all of that, Kit thought, she'd learned to hold a little of herself back. She now knew how to hold
herself
together.

And she knew exactly what she could and could not survive.

CHAPTER SIX

I
t turned out the Sunset Retirement Community was aptly named. Not just a nirvana for those living out their golden years playing golf and cards, the facility was set up for end-of-life needs. It provided medication and full-time nursing care, and for most residents, these were the last walls they'd ever call home.

Of course, Kit and Grif didn't learn this until Kit'd pulled her pretty, purring convertible into the front parking lot, and she used her smart phone to research more while they waited another twenty-five minutes for visiting hours to begin. The late-morning hours gave the caregivers a jump start on the daily grooming and medical needs of the residents before breakfast, and time to get them settled again after. So even though it was Sunday for the rest of the world, it was just another day for the Sunset residents.

“Maybe Zicaro had an abrupt decline in health,” said Kit, while they waited. “Maybe Barbara just—”

“What? Stopped in to say good-bye?” Grif scoffed, and they fell silent, watching as a caregiver in all white pushed a wheelchair-bound resident on a path along the building's side. The crisp blue sky did nothing to actually warm the day, and the resident had a blanket over her lap, while her caregiver remained careful to keep to the thin, straining sunlight.

Grif just rubbed his eyes. He might have been tucked into a place like this by now . . . if he hadn't been killed first. It made him realize that no one was Surface-bound for long.

“This may require a new plan,” he said, and held out his hand for Kit's smart phone. They had one—after another ten minutes and the use of the device's map application—and when they finally climbed out of the car, Grif headed to the main entrance alone
.

The double doors eased open like he was expected. He emerged directly into an open office area decorated with blue and yellow flowers so vibrant they were without parallel in the natural world, their plastic vases filled with clear marbles instead of water. A corkboard was splayed across the wall directly in front of him, community activities and photos displayed atop bright construction paper more suited to an elementary school than a nursing home. A sitting area with two chairs and a settee was anchored with a side table and yet more fake foliage. Two residents sat there but didn't talk, and while one stared expectantly at Grif, the other didn't notice him at all. A faint antiseptic smell permeated the whole place, and if Kit hadn't told him he was in a building offering full-time health care, the scent alone would've done so.

“Good morning!” The cheerful voice rang from behind him and a woman emerged from a side office, moving smoothly behind the L-shaped desk. “How can I help you?”

Grif shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “I'm here to see Mr. Zicaro.”

The receptionist's name tag said
ERIN
, and she sat, giving Grif an ample shot of her full bosoms bursting beneath a low-cut sweater. “Family or friend?”

“Old friend.”

Erin gestured to the guest book, which Grif dutifully signed, catching sight of a surveillance camera over Erin's left shoulder. They were everywhere these days; not like his first go-round on this mudflat. Too bad all they could reveal were actions and not motives.

Though in this case that might be a good thing, Grif thought, as Erin picked up the phone to ring Zicaro's room.

“That's okay,” Grif said, motioning for her to put the phone down. “I called earlier and he said to go on back. Room 128, right?” He took a few steps, like he was already on his way.

“No, um . . . room 238 actually, but you can't go back yourself. All guests must be accompanied by a staff member.” She studied Grif, her bubblegum gloss momentarily fading, but smiled again when he just shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.

His view while he waited was that of a common area, obviously where the entire community gathered for their meals—three squares a day, if the notice on the bulletin board was correct. More lumpy chairs and a sofa clustered around a large television on the right, and a bank of curved windows sat beyond that, acting as a sunroom for the tropical plants scattered among dark wood chips along the wall.

Spotting a flash of stocking-clad legs outside the windows, Grif moved to block them, and looked behind him to see if Erin had noticed Kit, too. The woman just beamed at him, and held up a finger as she spoke into the receiver, mistaking his glance for impatience.

Grif turned back around. The rest of the room held dining tables, each spaced widely enough to allow wheelchair and walker access, while a wall to the left hid what was obviously the kitchen. Breakfast was over, but a lone woman sat at a table, her back rounded and chin down as she stared, unblinking, at the orange tablecloth before her. Grif waited for her to move, but she didn't, and as he glanced around the empty space, despair carved a pit into his stomach.

Could Evie be in a place like this?

He'd once had a dream of her, a vision where she'd lamented being alone and that nobody came to visit. What if it hadn't been a simple dream? The veil between this world and the Everlast was thin. What if she'd been calling out to him in her dreams, begging for help in the only way she could?

The image of Evie—blond and bright and dancing, her head thrown back and her red-tinted lips wide with laughter—blew through Grif's mind. He actually jerked his head, unable to imagine her stripped of all that color, sitting in a home with fake rubber plants and food that likely tasted the same.

Grif gave the lone woman one last look, then returned to the reception area to gaze out the window. Kit's Duetto sat silver and gleaming in the sun, and he used it like a lodestar to anchor his attention and settle his mind.

“Mr. Shaw?” The voice rose directly behind Grif, deep and booming, and he turned to find himself facing the widest chest he'd ever seen. Scanning arms like boulders, and a head that looked to be made of the same, Grif was tempted to scale the man. Unfortunately, he'd left all his climbing equipment back in the Everlast.

“I'm Mr. Allen,” the walking outcrop said, holding out his hand. “I'm Mr. Zicaro's Life Enrichment Coordinator. I'll escort you to his room.”

It was like shaking hands with a bear, and Grif discreetly flexed his fingers at his side once they were released. Turning, Mr. Allen motioned with his other paw for Grif to follow him across the dining room. Grif did so silently, noting that even as Allen's shadow fell across the two residents, even when he gave a cheerful hello, they didn't acknowledge him. He extended the same greeting to the lone woman in the dining area.

“That's Martha,” Allen said softly once they'd passed. “She's in her own little world. Many of the residents here are.”

Grif glanced back and was startled to catch Martha's watery blue gaze, but then she shifted and he realized, no, she was looking right through him.

“Ya know, I think I'll go wash my hands first before heading back,” Grif said suddenly. The impatience that flashed over Allen's features was erased so quickly that Grif wasn't sure he'd seen it, and he gestured back to the reception area with a smile. Grif accessed the restrooms there—stalling for time, hoping Kit was already with Zicaro—but he also needed the moment to splash water over his face and clear his head. To clear Martha's vacant look from his mind.

Please, God. Don't let Evie be in a place like this.

“I know Al will be happy to have a visitor,” Mr. Allen said as soon as Grif returned. If he noted the way Grif had paled, he said nothing as he led him to the residents' hallway. “Not one person has stopped by in the time he's been here.”

“I just got back in town,” Grif said, and realized he sounded defensive.

Allen just nodded, lips pursed. Lonely tenants were likely nothing new. “Mind if we take the stairs?” he asked. He was obviously a man who valued his exercise.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell, and Grif wondered how a place teeming with people could feel so empty. When they reached the second-floor landing, they stepped into a hall identical to the one below. “This floor is obviously reserved for our more agile residents. Al has lost a few steps, but don't worry. He's kept his zing.”

Remembering what he did of Al Zicaro, Grif wasn't sure if that was a good thing. He just hoped there wasn't anything wrong with Zicaro's ticker. If he recognized Grif as the man he'd reported on fifty years earlier, he might just have a heart attack.

Mr. Allen stopped before a door that barely obscured the sound of a blaring television, and rapped loudly. Room 238. The same one Grif had texted to Kit as soon as Erin had relayed it to him. Head tilted, Allen shot Grif a calm, closed-mouthed smile as he listened at the door for movement. There was nothing beyond the voice of a female news anchor.

Allen rapped again. “Mr. Z? You got a visitor. I'm gonna come on in now, okay?”

He palmed the handle as he whispered to Grif, “We keep all the residents' doors unlocked so the caregivers can respond quickly to emergency calls, with medicines, bath times . . . that sort of stuff.”

Grif barely contained his shudder. At least in the Everlast he could pretend he had some semblance of independence and privacy. This sort of care indicated a sort of demoralizing dependency, and the Al Zicaro he'd known—bespectacled and suspicious and high-strung—would absolutely feel the same.

“Well, that's strange,” Mr. Allen said, his mask of politeness turning to a frown. “He usually answers immediately.”

“He probably can't hear you above the TV,” Grif said, as Allen twisted the door handle and poked his head inside. His surprised grunt confirmed Zicaro wasn't in the room, and Grif plastered a look of mild confusion on his face. If there was ever a woman who could draw a man out of his shell, it was Kit.

“Maybe you should check the can,” Grif said helpfully as Allen swung the door wide, already heading into the second room of the small suite.

“I don't understand,” he called back loudly. “We usually have to beg him to come out. He's always in here watching the news, taking notes, talking to himself.”