When Fall Fades (The Girl Next Door Series Book 1) (21 page)

With nothing else to do he went to his closet to get dressed for the office. While riffling through some old clothes shoved deeper back than his daily perusal, he uncovered some boxes he’d neglected to unpack years ago. His curiosity about their time-capsulated contents, and the purposeless hours that awaited, nudged him to explore.

He unfolded the flaps of the first box, an aged musky scent whisking him back in time. Old baseball T-shirts from three different high schools—that would never fit him again—laid on top. His well-worn glove slumped sadly beneath, beckoning for a reunion like some lonely, forgotten toy, and two sooty old baseballs called upon memories of Hammond’s field. Rolling the stitching and familiar leather in his fingers, he was back in his own
Sandlot
—standing on the uneven and patchy field of weeds having a catch with his buddies, shagging fly balls, or throwing together a pick-up game with the other neighbor kids.

The memories tore him back to someplace most people would call
home
. But life under Roy’s revolving roof could never have been referenced that way. The innocence of Archer’s youth had been stolen by a man who didn’t know the meaning of the words “home” or “family” or “love.” No wonder Archer had problems.

A smudged and gritty envelope wedged flush against the side of the box caught his attention. He thumbed through the contents—a small stack of pictures chronicling the few noteworthy memories of him and Libby, his only high school girlfriend. If he could call her that. He’d taken Libby to homecoming his junior year, and she’d attended a bunch of his games, but they seldom went out alone together, usually opting to hang in a group. Memories of their “break up” before he’d left Cleveland to move to St. Louis tugged him back to the trenches of the past.

“So ... you’re moving.” Libby grazed him with a careless look, folding her arms and keeping her distance.

“Yep.” He huffed out a breath, hefting the last box from his room into the bed of his old Chevy pickup. “It sucks, we were definitely gonna make it to state next year.”

“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “Bummer. Do you know where you’re gonna go to college?”

Dusting off his hands, Archer leaned against the tailgate of his truck. “I was thinking I might join the army.”

“Really? Wow, I mean I know you hate being at home, but that’s a pretty good way to run away and punish your parents.” Chewing on her fingernails, she looked absently ahead.

Humph. “I was thinking more in terms of serving my country. Maybe end up going into law enforcement.”

“Archer, I know you. That might be part of it, but admit it. You’d like to be as far away from them as possible. What I don’t understand is, why? I mean your dad is a bit of a deadbeat, but your mom is really sweet. She even invited me over for Thanksgiving.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t really seem like our kinda thing.” She cleared her throat, kicked at the loose gravel. “So, I guess this is it, huh?”

When he looked at her, regret lanced through his middle. She was acting rigid and apathetic. But the real Libby was kind and warm and innocent—much too good for a guy like him. Which was why he’d always kept her at a distance.

Let the army beat the DNA out of him and make him a man he could stand to see in the mirror in twenty years. Or die trying. “Yeah, I guess so, Lib.”

Archer bridged the gap between them, grabbed ahold of her shoulders and kissed her. Nothing remarkable, just a good-bye kiss.

When he pulled away he tucked a lock of her smooth auburn hair behind her ear. She leveled with his eyes, speaking softly. “Archer, you’re a really great guy, and I want you to be happy someday, but ... you’ve got to get out of your own way. Nobody’s life is perfect. We all have our own stuff, you know? You don’t have to box everybody out.”

She placed her hand on his chest. “We both know this was never anything special. But you never tried so you could never really fail. That’s a really good way to end up alone.” Pulling her hand away, she shoved it in the back pocket of her blue jeans. “Good luck in St. Louis, Archer. I really hope, someday, you get it.”

He searched her tawny brown eyes. “Get what?”

She gave a sad smile before she turned to leave. A moment later, she was gone.

Drawn out of the memory, Archer thought of Libby for the first time in ages. She’d been special, and he’d missed it—treated her with indifference to protect himself. Did that make him like Roy?

Packing everything back into the box, he shoved it into the closet. Did he dare open box number two and risk another trip down memory lane?

He took a deep breath and lifted the final cardboard flap. The air immediately kicked out of his lungs.

His fatigues.

Warring against a rush of reluctance and fear, he lifted them out of the box. A million little flashes of memory played before his eyes as his fingers gripped the worn canvas. Visions of unspeakable violence, suffering, destruction, and death hit with the force of a warhead. Squeezing his eyes tight, he dug deep for another memory—anything that might soothe the panic escalating in his chest.

And then something vague sifted through the cracks. Not even a memory, per se, but a feeling—the smallest remembrance of brotherhood and camaraderie. That was it. All he had. But it empowered him to venture further into the box.

There were letters banded together from his mom and his sister—he needed to remember to call his mom back, soon. His tags were wedged in the corner by his sand-encrusted boots. Pushing aside a box of playing cards and a few books, he spotted the last thing he’d expected.

His Bible.

Without a thought, his fingers grasped the binding. When he lifted it out of the box, the pages weighed to one side, curling the leather cover over his knuckles as a trace amount of sand shook loose from the filmy pages. Out of habit or desperation, he opened to where the ribbon marked the page and read the highlighted portion aloud.

“He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound … To comfort all who mourn, To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning, The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness …”

Archer stopped. Wrestling with the tug in his chest he laid the good old book in his lap and closed his eyes, wishing away everything that had robbed him of his faith in God, in others. In himself. Why couldn’t it be that simple?

When he opened his eyes, he waited for the once-familiar peace to flow over him, but he spotted a splayed stack of pictures instead. Something dark and sickening gripped his stomach, and hell, he was a glutton for punishment.

As if the earth shook beneath him, his fingers quaked when he touched them. And when he flipped through the strong, confident images of the proud men of the Army Rangers, he could see nothing but the horrifying moments that followed—memories of losing his brothers to IEDs and armed insurgents. Broken bodies, lost limbs, lifeless eyes. Feelings of helplessness, complete despair suffocated each memory until the panic and desperation to escape them had robbed him of breath.

Archer tore his eyes away. Inhaled through his nose, forced the air from his mouth. In and out, until he felt the fear slither back into hiding.

God, he was weak.

And no. It wasn’t that simple. He was too ruined to repair, had ventured out too far on his own, and looking back, he couldn’t see it. Not even the faintest outline of hope on the horizon, calling him home.

Archer’s soul felt oppressive and heavy as he repacked the box and shoved it away. He got dressed in the same suit he always wore. Tailored, straight, dull. As much as he longed for a “garment of praise” he’d buried his hopes six feet under with Jimmy. And he’d buried them for a reason.

Barricaded in his office, away from the sympathetic stares of his nosy coworkers, Archer got to work sorting through the mess on his desk. He might as well get something useful done before he was forced to endure the mandatory psych consult that would accompany his injury. As if getting shot wasn’t fun enough.

He started scanning though the piles trying to prioritize. There was a detailed report from the medical examiner with the most current information he’d received by phone. There was a stack of reports from the team sifting through the journals and newspaper articles from Westwick’s condo.

What’s this?

The analysis of the evidence from the garbage. Scanning the jargon, he flipped through the pages until he found the results. The coffee grounds were laced with the same drug that was injected into Charlie’s neck.

“Someone tried to drug him with the coffee first?” Did Charlie not drink the coffee, or did it not render him unconscious? Did he know the killer was in his home with him or did someone sneak the drug into the coffeemaker? He made a note to call Candice to get the info back on the contents of Charlie’s stomach as soon as possible. Working out the questions in his mind, he dug deeper into the file.

The pageless journal.
The only prints found on the binding were Charlie’s. So that meant either the killer had been thorough enough to wear gloves and not leave behind any DNA or, as he suspected, Charlie had been the one to remove the pages, and hid the evidence of its existence.

The words from each of a dozen reports from the trash started bleeding together as the cramp in his arm antagonized his concentration.

Should have worn the sling, hot shot.

Archer took a moment to stretch, cracked his neck, and then moved on to the CSU’s findings.

No sign of forced entry after the body was found. Definite signs of tampering and forced entry at the back door after Sadie’s encounter with the intruder.
Hmm
. So more than likely Charlie let the killer in, who then had to break back in to continue scouring the place for whatever he’d missed the first time. Yeah, he’d bet anything Charlie knew his killer.

After another hour, the ache in his arm sharpened until his vision started to blur. Time for a break. Ducking out of his office, he took an unconventional route to the break room for a coffee. He approached the door but detected movement and slipped back behind the corner just as Agent Mackenzie sauntered out bobbing her tea bag in her mug.

Close call
.
He snagged a cuppa and then swung by the FBI shrink’s office to get “in touch” with being shot. Again. When he returned to his office, he set back to work on the never-ending pile.

Opening up the next folder, he glanced at the label. His heart accelerated, throbbing relentlessly in his wound.

Sadie
.

The memory of their kiss sent his mind on a one way trip to Sadieland—something akin to falling down the rabbit hole. And then he was lost. The way she fit in his arms, so small and strong yet lush with curves, and the taste of her candied lips he could contentedly sip on for hours had him practically salivating at his desk like some lovesick puppy. Kissing Sadie was a revelation. It wasn’t just a leadoff to the next base. It was a destination. A grand salami in and of itself.