20

“Morning, Lexie. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. Paperwork can always wait.” She pushed the stack of reports on her desk aside and motioned Brent Davis into her office. “Have a seat.”

“I’m afraid I don’t bring great news on a Monday morning.” The city administrator dropped into a chair across from her desk.

“Great news isn’t one of the perks of this job.” But it didn’t matter today. Nothing the man said could dim the lingering glow from her weekend with Adam—and that world-class smooch on the beach. “Lay it on me.”

“I just had a call from Martin Fisher.”

She stifled a groan.

This was the one piece of news that could dull her glow a few watts.

“About his son, I assume.”

“More about you.” The man rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “Let me be clear up front that I’m in your corner.”

“That analogy is only appropriate if we’re talking about a fight.”

“We might be. He said you’re accusing his son of being involved in the vandalism spree, that you have no credible proof, and if you don’t back off, he’ll do more than complain to me.”

“Like what?” She did her best to control her surging anger.

“He implied he’d bring it up at a city council meeting . . . and talk to the area press. He also hinted at a smear campaign. The goal, I assume, would be to have you removed from office.”

“You can’t run a smear campaign without mud. I have a stellar career record here and with the State Department. What would he use for ammunition?”

The man shifted in his seat. “Before we discuss that, let me make certain I understand the situation. The boy who admitted being involved in the vandalism—Brian Hutton—identified Lucas Fisher as his accomplice. You have evidence Brian was on the scene of the last vandalism incident, but he has an alibi validated by Adam Stone. Does that sum it up?”

“Yes—and I know where this is heading. Martin Fisher suggested that because of their backgrounds, Brian wasn’t trustworthy and Adam Stone’s confirmation of his alibi wasn’t credible.” She linked her fingers into a tight knot on her desk. “First of all, that’s garbage. Second, in the meeting the juvenile counselor and I had with him and his parents, Lucas made two slips that proved his involvement. Everyone in that room knew he was guilty.”

“But he didn’t admit he was involved?”

“No.”

“And you have no hard evidence to prove he was, correct?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the likelihood you’ll find some?”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “Not as high as I’d like. The cases are getting colder by the day. Unless a witness comes forward . . . or we discover some proof . . . or he strikes again and leaves evidence behind . . . it’s Brian’s word against his.”

“I don’t think he’s going to strike again, do you?”

“No.” Not if Martin had anything to say about it.

“Were you planning to have any further contact with the Fisher family?”

“The counselor and I talked again on Friday by phone. We thought it might be worthwhile to pay them one more visit, after everyone’s calmed down. As I said, his parents know he was involved. Letting a kid that age get away with multiple crimes sends the wrong message. Lawbreaking needs to be addressed—and punished.”

“I agree—but it may have to be addressed by his parents rather than us.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Are you saying we shouldn’t have another meeting?” She kept her tone conversational. The mayor and city council members had weighed in on her hiring, but Brent was her boss. And he’d been fair to her from day one, trusting her to run the show, staying out of her way. Butting in like this was an anomaly. There must be a reason for it.

“I’m saying Martin Fisher is not receptive to your message, and a meeting might be counterproductive for the family—and for you.”

She frowned. “How could it be counterproductive for me? It’s my job to see that justice is done when crimes are committed.”

“His attorney told him he doesn’t have to cooperate, and that further contact from the police or juvenile authorities without any hard evidence implicating Lucas could be construed as harassment.”

Ah.

“You’re worried he might sue the city.”

“No. I don’t think he would go that far. The Fishers may not socialize much with residents, but they like the position and prestige of being one of the town’s leading employers. I doubt they want to jeopardize that. I’m more worried about you.”

They were back to that.

“I’m not. I have an impeccable record and solid credentials. What could he use for a smear campaign?”

“Personal integrity.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Martin saw you and the man who validated Brian’s alibi dining and dancing in Coos Bay on Saturday night.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs.

Of all the people who could have witnessed her cozy evening with Adam, why did it have to be Martin Fisher?

But once the shock passed, her anger began to simmer again.

“Let me guess where this is going. He told you that if I don’t lay off his son, he’s going to go public with the news that the Hope Harbor police chief is dating an ex-con—and he’s going to suggest that such a relationship isn’t good protocol and represents poor judgment. He’s hoping that will undermine my credibility enough so people lose confidence in me and you’re forced to remove me from office.” She had to push the words through gritted teeth.

“He didn’t say any of that specifically—but that was my takeaway. This could get nasty.”

She vaulted to her feet and paced to the window. Paced back.

“This stinks, Brent.”

“I know.”

“There’s no law here against relationships between law enforcement and felons.”

“I know that too—and I pointed it out to Martin. He suggested maybe there should be.”

“Too bad. He doesn’t make the laws.” She combed her fingers through her hair, tension coiling in her stomach. “What he’s doing is wrong. Adam’s paid his dues. He’s a respected, contributing member of this community. He has more integrity in his little finger than Martin Fisher or his son have in their whole body.”

“I don’t disagree. But you can see how this could be twisted to suggest bad judgment—or worse. Like collusion.”

Yeah, she could.

And that stunk even more.

Planting her hands flat on her desk, she leaned toward him. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve never told you how to run this department, and I’m not going to start now. I’m apprising you of the situation, explaining the threat, speculating about consequences. I’ll leave the decision up to you.”

“I appreciate that—but I’d still like your opinion.”

“If you’re asking what I’d do in your place . . . I’d drop the case until I had some hard evidence that would hold up in front of a judge. Having another meeting with the Fishers will only make Martin more antagonistic. That won’t help you—or his son, I imagine. I expect the kid’s under plenty of pressure already.”

Lexie studied the man across from her, whose political savvy and ability to create consensus among city officials if there were contentious issues was respected by everyone in town.

What he said made sense.

Even if she didn’t like it.

“Fine. No meeting. But I’m not closing the investigation on the vandalism incidents—and if I find anything that implicates Lucas, the meeting will take place.”

“Works for me.” He rose. “Sorry to dump this on your desk before you’ve had a chance to finish your morning coffee.” He motioned toward the disposable cup from Sweet Dreams.

“I’ve had worse Mondays.” Far worse. She needed to remember that—and maintain perspective. This aggravation would pass . . . and Martin Fisher wasn’t the last jerk she would run into in her career.

“Keep me informed if anything changes.” With a mock salute, Brent disappeared out the door.

Lexie picked up her coffee and took a swig. Nothing but dregs remained. She needed a refill—bad. And she wasn’t up for Jim Gleason’s toxic brew this morning, even though the rest of the officers and staff swore by it.

A second trip to Sweet Dreams was in order—and she might pamper herself with one of their decadent cinnamon rolls too. If ever there was an excuse to indulge, this was it.

But she intended to put thoughts of Martin Fisher aside while she ate it.

Otherwise, she’d end up with an acute case of indigestion.

Adam hadn’t been in the mood for dinner with the Huttons after a long day on the construction site, but as he pressed the tines of his fork against the few remaining crumbs of his carrot cake and swiped up the last miniscule globs of the cream cheese frosting, he had to admit the food alone had been worth the visit.

“This was a delicious meal, Mrs. Hutton. Thank you again.”

“Please . . . call me Brenda. It makes me feel younger. And I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoy doesn’t do it justice.” And he wasn’t just being polite. The meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, broccoli-cheese casserole, and rolls had been the best homemade meal he’d had in years, other than the beef stew that night at Lexie’s and the Thanksgiving extravaganza at the Seabird Inn.

“Well . . .” A flush rose on the woman’s cheeks. “Let me refill your coffee. Brian, don’t you have homework to do?”

“Yeah.” The boy polished off his own cake. “But I’d rather hang out with you guys.”

“You won’t miss much. After this cup of coffee”—Adam tapped the topped-off mug Brenda set in front of him—“I need to go home. A hungry dog is waiting for me.”

“Are we still on for Saturday, to finish up the planters?”

“Yes. I also talked to Lex . . . Chief Graham . . . and the juvenile counselor last week. I know you need to put in some more community service hours, and if you’re interested, I think we can set it up for you to fulfill that obligation by working with me on Helping Hands projects.”

“What’s Helping Hands?”

“It’s a volunteer organization that does what the name says—lends a hand to people who need assistance. Some of the chores are simple, like delivering groceries to a homebound resident, and some are more complicated. A few weeks ago I helped paint a house for a family. The father lost his job months ago and hasn’t been able to find a new one. To make matters worse, he broke his arm. You might pick up a few useful skills along the way.”

“That would be great—and I’d rather stick with you.” He rose, empty dessert plate in hand. “I’m glad you came for dinner.”

“Me too.”

Silence fell as Adam sipped his coffee and Brian dispensed with his plate and glass. Only after he disappeared down the hall did Brenda speak, keeping her voice low.

“I want to thank you again for being kind to Brian. It’s made a big difference in his life to have a strong role model.” With her fingernail, she worked a piece of cheese off her placemat and rubbed at the greasy blot it left behind. “I wish his father had been half as decent.”

He examined the woman across from him. She wasn’t old . . . but she seemed worn and tired. As if life had been a constant struggle.

Kind of how his mom had always looked.

Except Brenda had tried to stick up for her son. She might have let her loser husband beat her up, cheat on her, and take her money, but at least she’d tried to protect Brian.

Too bad his mother hadn’t done the same.

“You okay?”

At the woman’s tentative question, he picked up his mug. “Yes. Just thinking back to my younger years. I didn’t have the best father, either. I know how hard that can be on a boy.”

“And a mother can’t make up for that, no matter how much she loves her son.”

“It can help, though. Brian’s proof of that. I wish mine had . . .” He snapped his jaw closed. Sharing sordid details with virtual strangers wasn’t his style.

Brenda stirred some sugar into her coffee. “I’m not going to pry, but it sounds like your mom wasn’t there for you, either. I’m sorry for that. I can’t speak to her motivations, but I can tell you a terrible marriage is devastating. If there’s abuse, it’s worse. It can destroy a person. It almost destroyed me.”

“Yet you watched out for Brian. How can a mother not protect her child?” It was the question that had gnawed at him for close to three decades.

“Are you saying yours didn’t?” Compassion softened her features.

He gave a stiff shrug. “Whenever my father decided to punish me for some imaginary transgression, she zoned out on booze.”

“Even when you were a little boy?”

“Yes. Except . . .”

He stared into the dark depths of his coffee as an obscure memory surfaced from somewhere deep in the murky waters of his youth. He’d been a little kid. Five, six at the most. Not much older than Matt. His mom had gotten him a cake for his birthday. From a bakery. And she’d made his favorite meal. They’d laughed together while she cooked, and she’d given him a couple of hugs. Not once had she touched the bottle of booze she kept under the sink.

Then his father had come home.

And everything changed . . .

“Why does this place stink?” The question roared through the house as his dad slammed the front door of their flat.

His mom froze at the stove while they waited for him to appear—and Adam began to tremble.

Bad stuff always happened when his dad sounded mad like that.

“What are you cooking?” He stopped in the doorway.

“Stew.”

“I hate stew. You know that.”

“It’s Adam’s birthday, hon. Remember?” Mom’s voice sounded pretend-happy. Like it always did when his dad got mad. Like she was trying to make the mad go away. But it never did. Sometimes it got worse. “This is his favorite dinner.”

“I don’t care whose birthday it is. I’ve had a lousy day, and I’m hungry. I’m also the breadwinner in this family—and since I pay for the food, we’ll eat what I want. Get rid of the stew and give me a real meal.”

“I have some pork chops in the freezer. I’ll fry those for you, okay?”

“Do it fast.” He pulled a beer from the fridge and glared at the table. “What’s that?”

“Adam’s birthday cake.”

His face got red. “You paid money to a bakery for this? What’s wrong with Betty Crocker?”

“I just thought . . . he’s never had a real cake. It didn’t cost a lot.”

His father twisted toward him, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “You’ve never been anything but trouble from the day you were born, boy. And you cost me way too much money. You know what I think about wasting hard-earned cash on a fancy birthday cake?” He swung back to the table and punched his fist through the middle of it.

Tears welled up in Adam’s eyes as he surveyed the ruined cake, and he choked out a strangled sob.

“A sissy too. I’m raising a sissy.” His father strode toward him, fists raised. “You need to toughen up, boy.”

He cowered down, heart banging, waiting for the hurt.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his mother moved in front of him, blocking his dad. “Leave the boy alone.”

“What?” His father looked real surprised, like a character in one of those Saturday-morning cartoons.

“I said, leave him alone.”

“Well, aren’t you the sassy one tonight. I’ll deal with you in a minute. First I’ll take care of the boy.” He tried to shove her aside.

She didn’t budge.

“Go outside, Adam.” She kept watching his dad.

“But I—”

“Go. Now. Play with your friends—and don’t come back until it gets dark.” She gave him a push toward the door, staying between him and his dad while he fumbled for the knob and slipped outside.

He ran through the yard as fast as he could, toward the place he always went whenever it got scary at home—the overgrown arbor in Mrs. McMahon’s backyard. Winter or summer, under the arching branches on the old woman’s property, he felt safe.

Safer than he ever felt at home.

He stayed there until long past dark. Shaking . . . crying . . . worrying.

When he finally went home, the house was silent. His father was asleep on the sofa in the living room, a bunch of empty beer cans on the floor next to him. His mother was in bed.

Even though his stomach growled real loud, he crept to his own bed and pulled the covers over his head. The house stayed quiet—yet it took him a long time to go to sleep.

When he woke up the next day, his dad was gone to work. His mom was in the kitchen—but it didn’t look like Mom. Her face was bruised and puffy, one eye was black, and she was walking funny. Limping, and kind of bent over.

The bottle she kept under the counter was on the sink. It was almost empty.

She didn’t tell him what had happened while he was in his safe place—but she never tried to protect him again.

“Adam?”

Pulse pounding, he yanked himself back to the present. “I’m sorry, I . . . I lost the thread of our conversation.”

“You were far away . . . in a place that wasn’t happy. Bad memories of your mother?” Brenda’s features were soft with empathy.

“More of my father.” He drained his cup and stood. “I need to get going. My dog will be hungry.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you to the door.” If she was surprised by his abrupt departure, she gave no hint of it.

On the threshold he paused. “Thank you again for the great meal.”

“The thanks are all mine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Enjoy?

Not much chance of that after his unscheduled journey to the past.

Instead of replying, he lifted his hand in farewell and escaped to his car.

Once he pulled onto 101, he pressed on the accelerator. Hard. As if speed could help him outrun the memories.

But no matter how fast he went, they kept pace, refusing to be relegated to the shadowy recesses of his mind.

Adam clenched the wheel. Why, after all these years, had he remembered his mother coming to his defense that night?

And if she’d done it once . . . had she done it before? Were there similar occasions from earlier in his life—before she began to drink herself into oblivion while his father took out his frustrations on their child—buried deep in his subconscious?

That wasn’t a question he wanted to consider tonight—or ever. The day he’d walked out of prison he’d vowed to leave the past behind, along with all of its hurts and hates and horrors.

Now that one memory had been jarred loose, however, a handful of other less-dramatic interventions niggled at the edges of his consciousness.

But so what if she’d made a few feeble, tentative attempts to protect him? Most of his life, she’d failed him.

“A terrible marriage is devastating. If there’s abuse, it’s worse. It can destroy a person.”

Brenda’s comment from earlier in the evening echoed in his mind.

Adam’s hands began to tremble, and he pulled off onto one of the scenic overlooks that lined 101. From this high point, he should be able to catch a glimpse of the twinkling lights of Hope Harbor in the distance, perhaps even spot the top of the lighthouse on Pelican Point that had once guided lost souls to safety in stormy weather.

His mother had never talked much about her past, but he’d picked up enough to know her younger years had been as difficult as his, her family life also plagued with abuse. What kind, she’d never said. But it had been sufficient to drive her to the streets at a tender age too—where she’d hooked up with the loser who’d made their son’s life a living hell.

She might have come to his defense a few times early on, but in the end, she’d saved herself instead.

Yet . . . could guilt over that choice have driven her to drink more . . . and ultimately to take the drugs that ended her life?

He wiped a hand down his face.

Maybe instead of hating her, he should feel sorry for her. After all, he’d escaped. She never had.

Maybe he needed to let go once and for all of the resentment buried deep inside and leave judgment to God.

Adam rolled up his window against the chilly evening air and took one last look at Hope Harbor.

It reminded him of the mythical village of Brigadoon from that musical the high school had put on not long after he moved to town. The hamlet that appeared for only one day every hundred years.

A tiny, unsettling shiver raced up his spine as he skimmed the peaceful scene below. The kind he used to get before some petty crime went bad and the walls closed in on him.

Weird.

He hadn’t felt like this since the day he arrived in town, filled with uncertainties, trepidation, and doubts about what the future might hold.

Those bad feelings had proven to be groundless, however. Everything had turned out fine.

But as he swung back onto the road and Hope Harbor disappeared from view, he couldn’t shake the disquieting fear that he might wake up tomorrow and discover everything he thought was real and good in his new life had vanished into the mist—like Brigadoon.