Chapter 20

Daniel tossed off the bedcovers and sat up, switching on the light. Brown’s nothing but a cunning fraud. Why can’t she see that?

The cold floor stung his bare feet as he strode to the kitchen, reaching for the icebox. Pulling out a plate of leftovers, he banged it onto the counter, the harsh sound echoing through the nearly empty rooms. Jamming the leftover meatloaf between two slices of bread—a bachelor sandwich—he carried it to the table he’d set against the front windows. The downtown street echoed with the sounds of folks searching for a good time. From his vantage point, he could see light spilling from the wide-open doors of the card room down the street. Several other storefronts stood open, bawdy music pouring out into the evening air.

Daniel leaned against the cool glass and gazed out. He raised the window sash and listened to the sounds of their celebrations. Drunken singing wafted upwards.

In his isolation, the walls started closing in on him, his skin crawling with desire. He shuddered with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to go far to find relief. He wouldn’t even have to leave the building. His storeroom key lay conspicuous on the counter.

“I don’t want that life anymore.” Out of habit, he reached for the temperance coin, forgetting he wore only pajama pants. His eyes strayed back to the street.

Samuel Brown wouldn’t have to search long for his underground speakeasies. Why bother Larson’s Drugs when anyone with two eyes could spot the culprits without even trying? Daniel shoved his fingers through his hair. The police and Prohibition agents in Seattle were notoriously corrupt. He hadn’t expected to find the same here in Port Angeles.

He took a bite, the chewing motion breaking his concentration. After a few bites, he stopped cold. Perhaps Brown was shaking the Burkes down for a bribe, as well. He dropped the sandwich to the plate as the thought washed over him. Maybe Brown knows about Johnny’s involvement with the rumrunners and is using that information against Laurie.

Daniel blew out a long breath, the weariness of the day pulling on his shoulders. Or maybe I’m just jealous.

The sound of breaking glass yanked Laurie from a sound sleep. Her heart beat a deafening rhythm as she clutched at the bedcovers. A final few clinking noises followed as she sat up in her bed and swung her feet over the side. Tiptoeing across the floor, she opened her bedroom door a crack.

Muffled sobs wafted through the house.

“Daddy?”

Light glowed from the crack under the bathroom door. The sobs stilled, but she could hear his ragged breathing.

She padded through the hall. “Are you hurt? Open the door.”

When there was no answer, Laurie turned the knob. Jagged pieces of the shattered mirror lay in the sink and on the floor, mixed with pieces of a busted whiskey bottle. Her father sat cross-legged in the mess, his head tipped back against the wall, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. “Laurie, I—” He drew his shaking hands, smeared with blood, close to his chest. “Just go away.”

She sank against the doorframe, her stomach a bubbling cauldron. Closing her eyes, she shut down her emotions. She learned years ago that no good came of engaging with him in his pain. The only thing to do was to clean up the mess and go back to bed. He’d forget by morning. She wouldn’t. Laurie picked up the whiskey bottle from the sink. Broken and empty—like so many other things in her life.

Dad’s hands dropped to the floor, streaking blood across the dirty tiles. “Leave it be.”

Laurie waited until her father staggered off to bed, his bloodied hand resting on top of the quilt. It shouldn’t prevent him from working, assuming he was sober by morning.

With a sigh, she hurried to the bathroom to clean up the latest mess. Laurie trembled as she lifted the large shards of glass and placed them into the wastebasket. The broken bottle lay on the floor. She picked it up and turned it in her hands. It wasn’t from the pharmacy.

A sick feeling gripped her stomach. Johnny wouldn’t bring him liquor. Would he?

She brushed away the ridiculous thought. Her father could have bought it from anyone. Even with the Prohibition laws, booze could be obtained without much difficulty. There was no reason to believe that the bottle she held in her hands came from Johnny’s late night trips to Canada.

One by one she relaxed her fingers, her grip on the bottle loosening until it dropped, smashing down into the wastebasket full of broken pieces. She picked up the basket and gazed down into the mess. A thousand broken splinters, just like her family.

And here she stood—cleaning up the pieces.