I drove home but slowed almost to a stop before reaching my driveway. There was a gray full-size SUV in my driveway, and my living room windows were open. Travis had been my adoptive mother’s partner in the St. Louis County Police Department for almost ten years. They still kept in touch and talked about me often. This was why Travis had told me to go home. He knew my parents had come in.
I parked in the driveway next to my dad’s vehicle and stepped out, expecting Roger to come barreling toward me. He didn’t, so I whistled and waited. Again, he didn’t come. Roger had free rein of the property around my house, but he never left except to visit Suzanne next door. Julia must have taken him for a walk. She liked to do that, and he liked having new people around.
I walked to the front porch and smelled baking bread. That was Dad’s hobby. He had been a fireman for thirty years. Living at a firehouse twenty-four hours a day with a bunch of other men hadn’t always been easy. When he first joined up, he didn’t know how to keep a house—and a firehouse was a home for the men who worked in it—so one of the other guys taught him how to cook, and a second taught him how to bake bread. He had a gift in the kitchen and had made some of the finest dinners I had ever eaten.
I stopped and took a deep breath. Then I caught a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla and browned butter. Those delectable smells weren’t coming from bread; Dad was making coffee cake, one of my favorites. He had made it for me the day I graduated from high school and the day I finished the police academy. Even years later, whenever I smelled coffee cake, I felt like I was home.
I tossed my purse beside Julia’s on the table in the entryway.
“Dad,” I called. “I’m home.”
“Hey, honey,” he said, peeking his head into the hallway from the kitchen. My home had the same layout it had when its builder constructed it a hundred years ago. A hallway ran down the middle of the building, and rooms branched off to the left and right. The kitchen was in back so the stove wouldn’t warm the rest of the house on hot summer days.
I walked down a hardwood floor that had held fathers and daughters for over a hundred years, and I felt a still calmness flood through me. I felt content and connected. My dad and Julia kept me grounded, even when the world around me came unmoored. I was lucky to have them in my life. I couldn’t always say that aloud, but it was true all the same. They were my family, not by genetics, but by choice. That made them even more precious.
When I reached the kitchen, Dad tossed me a cotton apron and turned his attention to a cutting board on the mobile island in the middle of the floor. I slipped the loop of the apron over my head and tied it around my back as Dad chopped an onion. When he looked up, he smiled.
“I like this kitchen island,” he said. “Is it new?”
“New and old,” I said, nodding. “Wood came from an ash tree on the neighbor’s property. He had to cut it down before the emerald ash borer killed it. It’s a bug. I dried the wood in the shed out back and then built an island from it.”
He grinned.
“I’m glad someone taught you how to do all that. Your mother and I don’t have a handy bone in our bodies.”
“I know,” I said, nodding and trying not to smile. “I’ve seen bookcases you’ve tried to build.”
He glanced up. He wasn’t smiling, but he was close.
“If you’ve got another cutting board, I need diced carrots and celery. Assuming that’s not too much trouble, smartass.”
I smiled and then went to the cabinet beside my fridge.
“Did Julia take Roger for a walk?”
“Yeah,” he said. He paused for a moment. “You know, it hurts her feelings when you call her Julia and me Dad.”
It was an old discussion but still a sore point. I put my cutting board on the counter beside the sink so I could chop and answer without having to look him in the eye.
“She knows I love her,” I said.
“That’s true. She knows.”
The way he said it let me know he had hoped to hear something different. I blinked and then cut the ends off the carrots.
“You’re the only dad I’ve ever had, but I’ve had a mom. Julia’s not her.”
Almost the moment the words left my lips, the front door opened, and I heard Roger’s nails on the hardwood floor as he walked inside. I looked down the hallway to see Julia stepping inside. Roger bounded into the kitchen, stopped beside me so I could scratch his cheek, and then devoured a carrot peeling that had fallen on the floor. He looked happy. I wished life were that easy for me, too.
When I looked at my dad, his eyes held just a hint of sadness.
“Please don’t let Julia hear you say that,” he said.
Before I could respond, Julia walked into the room. She wore jeans, a white shirt, and a navy blazer. Her brown and gray hair just swept the top of her shoulders. My foster mother was a fox. I had seen pictures of my father when he and Julia first dated, and to this day, I didn’t understand how they had gotten together. Dad was funny and kind, but Julia was way out of his league. They loved each other, though.
“Don’t let me hear you say what?” she asked.
I cleared my throat. “Nothing special. I was complaining about work. Travis has been a taskmaster these past couple of days.”
“I see,” she said, going to the fridge and taking out a glass pitcher full of iced tea. “Your dad’s right. We’re not here to talk about work. We’re here to relax. Roger’s looking good.”
I looked to the dog, and he walked toward me and sat down, his mouth open in a gaping doggy grin. The hair on the tip of his muzzle had grown gray, and he had a noncancerous tumor on his belly, but he looked good. My vet had said the tumor wasn’t anything to worry about unless it impeded his ability to run, but I still worried. I didn’t like to see him growing old.
I patted his cheek and then scratched his ear the way he liked. His tail thumped behind him.
“He’s a good boy,” I said, looking from the dog to Julia. “He’s getting old, but he’s healthy for now. My vet has warned me that dogs his age decline quickly.”
“Spend as much time with him as you can,” said Julia, kneeling beside him and petting his head. Roger soaked in the attention. It was hard not to smile at a happy dog.
For the next hour, Dad and I made dinner—a chicken, pepper, and potato casserole—while Roger and Julia sat at the kitchen table. We chatted about my foster siblings, and about my house and all the projects I had ongoing. For the entire time they were in the house, we didn’t talk about Christopher Hughes or my case.
For a brief afternoon and evening, life was normal again. The worried knot in my stomach unraveled, and I laughed at Dad’s jokes and held Julia’s hand under the table. I hadn’t realized how much I needed that until Dad stood up and carried our dinner dishes to the sink.
According to the clock on my microwave, it was ten to nine. I stretched my arms overhead and yawned.
“It’s getting late, guys,” I said. “I need my beauty sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Dad slowed, and Julia looked at the table in front of us.
“What’s Travis have you doing?” she asked.
With one question, the world came crashing back. I looked down at my hands.
“Julia,” said Dad, his voice low. “We agreed not to talk about work.”
“She’s my daughter,” said Julia. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I’m okay, guys,” I said. “I’m fine. Work is going well. I’ve been working a missing-persons case, but tomorrow I’ll work on Megan Young’s death again.”
Julia said nothing, but Dad crossed his arms.
“I wish Travis hadn’t put you on this case.”
“He needs the help.”
“You shouldn’t be on that case,” said Julia. “I can call Travis tomorrow and talk to him. If he needs help, I can lend him one of my detectives.”
I blinked and then forced myself to smile.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine,” I said. “This is my case, and I’ll see it to fruition. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Both nodded but said nothing. As we cleaned up, Julia tried reviving a discussion we had started about books, but that went nowhere. Then Dad brought up Roger and a friend who had a similar dog who lived to fourteen. I hoped Roger would make it to eleven or twelve, but I couldn’t see him living another four years—and if he did, he wouldn’t be healthy. As much as I loved him, even I knew his best days were behind him.
Our conversation sort of tapered off after that. At nine-thirty, I walked them to the front door and gave them both hugs. I told them I loved them and that I’d call if I needed anything. As I watched their taillights disappear, all the warmth and hope I had felt just a few minutes earlier evaporated. I didn’t feel sad. It was more fatigue than anything else.
I petted Roger and then went to the kitchen for a glass, which I filled with ice and vodka. Afterwards, I stared at the drink. Alcohol made life easier to bear. If I had enough drinks, I didn’t mind that my house was falling apart, or that I didn’t have many friends, or that my job sucked the joy out of life. I didn’t care about anything when I was drunk.
I picked up the drink and then brought it to my face. The liquor smelled sharp but clean. It was good vodka. That was part of how I justified it. I had arrested lots of drunks on the job. When they bought vodka, it came in giant plastic bottles, and it smelled like paint thinner. I drank the good stuff. That made me better somehow.
As I stood there, I felt moisture form on the exterior of my class, I heard the ice crack as it melted, and I watched as a bead of condensation dripped to the floor. I didn’t want that drink, but if I kept holding it, I would finish it. Then I’d finish another and another until I passed out.
I didn’t want that. I wanted to feel something real—even if for just a night. Before I could stop myself, I poured my drink into the sink and then looked to the dog.
“You want to sleep outside tonight?”
Roger cocked his head at me, confused. I needed to get out of the house, so I patted his cheek and then went upstairs for my badge and firearm. With the fair going on, there was plenty of work tonight. I was sober and ready to do it. I took the dog outside and watched him climb into the doghouse I had built in the backyard. Then I locked up and got in my truck.
I didn’t plan my route when I headed out, but somehow I knew where to go. I drove to the Wayfair Motel. With all the attention the media had given Christopher Hughes, Travis had assigned a uniformed patrol officer in a marked cruiser to sit in the hotel’s parking lot to keep him safe. I parked beside her and rolled down my window. Officer Alisa Maycock did likewise.
“Hey, Joe.”
“Hey, Alisa,” I said. “Anything going on tonight?”
“You’re looking at it,” she said, nodding toward a closed door at the end of the building. During fair week, people often congregated outside to drink and smoke, but tonight, the lot was empty. Alisa’s cruiser had a lot to do with that. “Nobody’s been in, and nobody’s been out.”
“How much longer do you have on your shift?”
She glanced at her watch. “Two hours. I’m here until midnight.”
I nodded. “Why don’t you go home? I’ll take over. I need the break.”
“You need a break, so you came into work?” she asked, raising her brow.
“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to elaborate further. Alisa considered and then nodded.
“If you want the most boring job on the planet, it’s yours for the next two hours.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Have a good one.”
“You, too,” she said, before rolling up her window. Within five minutes of arriving at the Wayfair, I was alone in the parking lot. I stared at Christopher’s door, almost hoping he’d come out. For twenty minutes, nothing moved. Then I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I hadn’t thought this out. If I had, I would have brought coffee.
At the hour mark, I wondered whether I should have stayed at home and gotten drunk. It would have been more fruitful than sitting in a truck for two hours. At eleven-thirty, an old minivan pulled into the lot. It was late, but this was a packed hotel. I thought nothing of it until the drapes in Christopher’s room shifted a moment later, and his head appeared in the window. He scanned the lot, and I slouched low, hoping he wouldn’t see me over the dashboard. He was looking for Alisa’s cruiser.
“What are you up to?” I asked, my voice low.
Within seconds of scanning the lot, Christopher opened his door and climbed into the front seat of the minivan. I transcribed the van’s license plate as it pulled out of the lot. Then I turned on my truck. I should have called this in, but that would have taken time. Plus, I would have had to explain why I was in the lot instead of Alisa. Travis wouldn’t appreciate me taking over a uniformed officer’s shift without consulting him first, but since I already had, I figured I might as well keep going. If I found something, I’d call it in, but for now, I could do this on my own terms.
I put my truck in gear and headed out, uncertain where the hell I was going.