Coming Home (Detective Dahlia Book 1) Page 3

  "Yes, sir," I said, my voice quivering.

  "You know what I'm going to say, don't ya?”

  "I know. I'm leaving. Just wanted to see what was going on," I slurred.

  The sergeant nodded, then turned on his heels. He pulled out his radio and spoke rapidly into it.

  My whole body ached to help. My idle hands were begging to get down and dirty. To find out what happened to the person inside, whom I still hoped was some stranger and not the beautiful girl I once knew. The officers knew who was inside, though. I wished I could ask who it was, but I knew they’d never tell another person before speaking to the family first.

  With one last glance toward the house, I turned around. A heavy weight on my shoulders slowed me down, but I strode back to my parents’ house. Concern etched itself across my mother's face. With pleading eyes, she looked into mine.

  "What's happened?" she asked.

  I swallowed hard. "There's a dead body. Inside the house.”

  My mom gasped and flung her hands across her mouth. "No! Did they say who it was?"

  Jack wrapped his arms around my mom's shoulders, lovingly and protectively.

  "They didn't say who it was specifically, but that the parents were gone on vacation. Who lives there now?”

  I held my breath as my nails dug into the palms of my hands. If I could stop time, I'd never have to hear the answer to my question. Part of me felt ashamed, but I hoped more than anything it was someone else's family who lived there. Not the family I spent more than half of my childhood with.

  A tear slipped down my mom's cheeks. "You remember little Callie? The girl you used to babysit? She still lives there with her parents.”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Callie. The girl I played Barbies with during our time together. The sweet, affectionate thing who would kiss my forehead when I put her to sleep and asked me to stay until her dreams swept her away.

  I clutched my chest. "Please tell me you're not serious.”

  My mom nodded and crumbled into Jack.

  I ran into the house as vomit roared up my throat, threatening to erupt at any moment. I barely made it to the downstairs bathroom before my stomach, mostly filled with vodka, emptied itself into the porcelain bowl.

  There was a murderer on the loose in Keygate, and at that moment, I knew I wasn’t leaving quite yet.

  Five

  That night, I barely slept a wink. The only comfort I found was the fact that my mother never replaced the bed in my room. Though it provided little support, it invited a familiar satisfaction.

  I tossed and turned, and for the life of me, I couldn't drift off despite the bottle of wine on my nightstand that I’d emptied a few hours ago. My body shook, and night sweats enveloped me in their grasp. Damn it, I wanted to fall asleep so badly. To escape reality and live in a dream world if only for a few hours. How wonderful would it be to find yourself flying over a castle or dancing with pirates on a ship as tall as the sky? I'd have given anything to sleep, but consciousness pinned me down and wouldn't let me get an ounce of peace.

  Finally, I gave up and checked my phone for any missed messages or emails. Nothing. In a few short hours, I would pull a black dress over my head and smooth it down over my curvy hips. I'd add a touch of volume to my shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a layer of mascara above my emerald eyes. My father would try to hold himself together beside me, but deep down, in the depths of his heart, he would beg for mercy. Beg for the pain ripping through him, shattering him, to dissipate.

  Except it wouldn't. Grief didn’t answer to any one person. It only submitted to time.

  And now, not only would I be mourning the loss of my stepmother, but the idea of Callie lying in a morgue weighed heavily on my soul. Could a person manage this much grief? What was the tipping point when the spirit would simply say, “No, this is enough.”

  I heard Jack rustling around in the kitchen downstairs, and the faint scent of bacon and eggs permeated the house. Glad I wasn't the only one awake before the sun shimmied above the horizon, I tossed a hoodie on and trudged down the stairs.

  "Morning," Jack said as he tended to breakfast. "How did you sleep?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "Me too," he said.

  "Where's my mom?" I asked.

  "She's still in bed. I told her I'd wake her when breakfast was ready.”

  Jack and my mom met not too long after my parents divorced. During one summer, my mom decided we needed a vacation. Maybe it was because the weather had turned for the better or because she'd signed the papers. Either way, we packed our bags for a one-week stay at a beach resort in Florida.

  I don't remember too much; after all, I was relatively young at the time. What I do remember is seeing pure magic before my eyes.

  We went to dinner at the hotel's restaurant, which sat on a patio overlooking the ocean. The sun danced closer to the horizon while a soft, salty breeze ruffled my tendrils of curls. I colored on the children's menu with an assortment of crayons. My mother sipped from her wine glass, which she often referred to as adult apple juice, and stared out at sea.

  After our dinner—I think I had chicken tenders—the restaurant manager sauntered over to check on us. When my mom's and Jack's eyes met for the first time, I swore I saw lightning flash between them. There'd been an immediate spark. As a young child, I recognized something stir between them.

  I delighted in seeing my mom happy again, but also couldn't ignore the pang of panic inside my soul. If my mom started dating someone else, that meant my parents wouldn't get back together! For the rest of the trip, Jack managed to find us while we were on the beach, shopping at the local village or hanging out at the hotel's pool.

  When my mom told me, several months later, that Jack was moving away from the beach to come live with us, it didn't come as a surprise. He was incredibly kind and generous. I hadn't minded at all, even if a small part of me still hoped my parents would rekindle their marriage.

  It was Jack's love for my mom that ultimately set the bar high for when I was ready to fall for someone new. I wouldn't settle for anything less than what my parents had. And I didn't. I'd found Zac.

  While he finished cooking breakfast, I set the kitchen table and instinctively looked for the Keurig and K-Cups. Jack must have noticed what I was doing and nodded toward the coffee maker.

  "Really?" I asked, bemused.

  He shrugged.

  Jack and I sat down to eat once my mom claimed her usual seat at the kitchen table. I reveled in the meal before me. Somehow, Jack possessed the magic touch, and the eggs were perfectly fluffy, while the bacon wasn't too crispy and not too raw either. My favorite. Once he turned his back to make my mom’s plate, I poured a little vodka into my coffee.

  "Thank you, Jack. This is amazing," I managed to say with a mouthful of eggs.

  He held up his coffee mug and nodded, his mouth full, too. We devoured our plates while my mom told us about her bizarre dreams. I listened intently. However, jealousy wrapped itself around my mind. Drowsiness lingered around me, and I couldn't wait to nap later. Or stock up on more booze. The stash I brought with me was nearly depleted.

  I still had a couple of hours before my presence was required at Carin’s funeral. What would I do until then? I couldn't sit around and wait for time to pass. I needed to go somewhere—anywhere. I excused myself from the table after briefly rinsing my dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. Jack dove in for seconds while my mom sat beside him shaking her head.

  "I'll be back," I said.

  "Where are you going?" my mom asked.

  "Fresh air. A walk by the river?" I shrugged.

  Keygate, mostly known for the historic river cutting the town in half, was just as much a part of my childhood as anything else. Tranquility bloomed there, as well as beautiful oak trees, which lined the length of the water, providing a sense of privacy from the street and shade from the sun.

  I’d probably walked hundreds of miles beside it thr
oughout the years. During fall, I would take a disposable camera, then a digital camera, once my mom bought me one for Christmas, and take pictures of the changing leaves. I'd spend hours gazing out at the expansive waterway. I was a bit of an odd kid, always thinking about the future and the troubles I might encounter along the way. I had friends in school and around the neighborhood, but I always felt left out. Even surrounded by dozens of my peers, I could have been invisible. However, it taught me the importance and necessity of being alone and depending on myself.

  When a boy would disappoint me or cause a fit of sobs to shake me and shatter me, I'd come to the river and find peace in the solace of walking beside the water. In a way, the river was my friend. I could vent to her, and she wouldn't talk back or divulge my secrets to others. I liked to be alone, but along the river, I didn't have to feel alone.

  Many times, my mom and I would take walks by the river together. Or ride bikes. Sometimes, we’d plan an extra-long bike ride and bring a picnic basket filled with snacks and sandwiches. Once we hit the halfway point, we'd find a spot to relax, indulge in our lunch, and lay under the warmth of the sun.

  It took less than five minutes to arrive. Once I'd gotten out of my car, I realized I'd put on my nude ballet flats when I dressed. It didn't matter; I'd only be walking beside the water, not jogging.

  Even though it was a weekday and well before nine in the morning, many locals were out and about, bicycling or walking their dogs. Anyone I passed waved and smiled hello. Small towns were like that—even if you didn’t know everyone, you acted as though you did. But you probably knew them all, regardless.

  As the sun rose in the sky, I rolled up my sleeves due to the tickling of sweat upon my forehead. I continued to walk, and freedom rippled through me. I pulled a flask out of my back pocket and reveled in the liquid inside it. Zac’s initials were etched on the side, a gift I presented to him the day he made detective, only a few months after I did. I liked to remind him that I got there first, and it didn’t matter how much I teased him, he was still proud of my accomplishments. He was that kind of guy.

  On one of our first dates, I tried to bail at the last minute. My hair wouldn’t cooperate; a zit threatened to pop on the tip of my nose, and I had a ton of studying to do. I texted Zac to let him know I couldn’t make it, but a few minutes later, a knock sounded on my dorm room’s door.

  Mortified, I answered the door in my pink terrycloth bathrobe.

  “Hey,” Zac said, his black hair shining under the hallway light. He easily surpassed six feet tall, and his biceps bulged underneath his button-up. I couldn’t help but stare at his sexy-as-hell five o’clock shadow and his perfect dimples.

  “Uh, didn’t you get my text?” I asked as my cheeks turned crimson.

  “I did, but I came up here anyway. Did you know your RA is smoking pot in her room? Didn’t even notice me as I passed.” He chuckled.

  “I can’t come tonight. I’m, uh, busy. Have to study.”

  My roommate, Francine, rolled her eyes while painting her nails. “She’s just nervous.”

  I shot a death glare toward Francine, terrified to return my gaze to Zac. But when I did, his smile melted my heart into a puddle at my feet. Somewhat still reluctantly, I asked Zac to give me a few minutes while I dressed.

  “I’d wait forever if you needed it,” he said.

  Francine pretended to gag, but I couldn’t help but fall in love. At that exact moment.

  Sometimes you just knew when you meet someone that they would change your life forever. Zac changed my life, and he was still changing it, even though he was gone.

  Every few hundred yards or so, cars crossed the bridges over the river to get to the other side of the city. I recognized a few of the drivers and waved hesitantly, unsure if they'd remember me. After all, it'd been many years since I stepped foot onto the path beside the river. Not to mention, I didn't grow out of my awkward phase until after I moved to Ashford. It was possible some people in Keygate wouldn't be able to place me.

  Finally, I reached the secret spot I visited far too many times to count growing up. I hopped the low fence and climbed down a steep incline to find the small creek and waterfall. The rotten scent of sewage wafted through the air, but the waterfall's beauty helped mask the unfavorable smell.

  There was a concrete ledge that extended almost over the creek. It was slightly crumbling and bore the faint sketches of past graffiti. There were strange symbols painted and dozens of names. It almost served as a ledger of who loved who in Keygate.

  Taking off my flats, I tiptoed across the concrete landing and sat at its edge; my feet dangled and caught mist from the waterfall. I remembered coming here years ago, on a rare occasion, with friends. We thought we were so cool. We'd smoke cigarettes and sometimes a little pot. We'd talk about our futures and discuss the universe. Life was so simple back then. We believed we were invincible.

  Returning as an adult, I envied my former self. I wished I could experience that again. I wished I still believed nothing, and no one could ever hurt me. I wanted to feel untouchable. I still had a long life ahead of me, but it was different now. The cruelty of life had revealed itself far too many times. Time had a way of chipping away our exterior until we were exposed to its truth, no matter how unforgettable.

  I opened the flask and sipped from it, then gulped down its contents. The familiar warmth of liquor spread through my body, calming the demons and squelching the body shakes.

  Suddenly, I heard several voices coming closer. I whipped around as a group of teenage boys, skateboards in tow, climbed over the fence and made their way down to my spot.

  One of them, a boy with shaggy hair, stopped. "Oh, hey. Didn't know anyone else was here."

  Others snickered behind him, clearly not expecting to see a woman down here.

  "It's okay, I was just leaving," I said as I stood up and brushed myself off.

  "You don't have to leave!" one said, winking.

  I was at least ten years older than these boys. I wondered if guys my age acted like this back then, although I couldn't remember. Or rather, I tried to forget.

  "No, thanks," I said politely, grabbing my flats and hiking back up the little hill to the fence.

  I heard one whistle, and I rolled my eyes. As I climbed over the fence, the boys eyed me carefully.

  "Hey, kids," I called out.

  “Yeah?"

  "Don't grow up," I said.

  Six

  "How was the river?" Jack asked.

  I peeked outside the window to spot a straw sunhat on top of my mother's head. She picked up gardening in the past few years and used it as a tool to keep her busy in retirement.

  "Quiet," I answered, not wanting to mention the teen boys at the waterfall or the fact I drank several ounces of vodka.

  "Great time of year for it. Hopefully, the geese didn't give you too many problems." He winked.

  I smiled. Heaven knew I needed a lighter mood today. Jack and my mom decided not to join me at the funeral but sent my dad their condolences in the form of flowers and a card. Despite their decades-old divorce, they tried to remain civil.

  In my childhood room, I applied my makeup and added a few loose curls to my hair as planned. I chose a plum lipstick which contrasted with my eyes. I could only imagine how many people I'd see today, and though I tried not to care what others thought of me, I always did.

  I sat on my bed and pulled my nude pantyhose over my knobby and bruised knees. It didn't matter if I was thirteen or thirty, I always managed to scrape myself up somehow, even if I couldn't remember doing so.

  Next, I slipped into a pair of black stiletto heels and smoothed my dress. I ran out of time to take the garment to the dry cleaners before departing for Keygate, but it'd have to do. I didn't have a choice in the matter now. It was time to bury my stepmother.

  While the liquor numbed me to an extent, I could still feel the voracious pull of grief at my soul. I wanted to pretend Callie was still alive. That Carin was still ali
ve, and most importantly, that Zac was still alive. But life didn’t work that way. No matter how much we wanted to frame and mold our lives, we only ended up ruining it even more.

  I arrived at St. Matthew's and found my father at the church entrance, greeting those who came to pay their respects. I wrapped my arms around my dad's neck and kissed his cheek. It would be a hard day for him, maybe the hardest he'd ever had.

  Today was also the first funeral I’d attended since Zac's. My pulse quickened, and beads of sweat danced down the small of my back. I nibbled at my cuticles and held my breath. Grief shoved its way through my consciousness. There was nothing I could do to send it away.

  Dozens of people showed up. I wondered if my father would lose his strength or break down in front of half the town. Instead, he stood tall and took the day in stride. I planted my feet beside him. The weight of death seemed to push me deeper into the ground, urging me to meet those who passed and rested beneath the earth's surface.

  Carin's family was there, and while we were not close by any means, they remained cordial and polite. So many of her friends came too, weepy-eyed and downtrodden. Many of them spoke on her behalf at the service. Even my father gathered all his strength to do so. I, however, respectfully declined. But I sat and listened to the stories and memories retold by those who loved her deeply. Carin never had any children of her own, so when she and my father married, she treated me like her own child. This didn't go over well because I already had a mother. Her urge to control and parent me created miles of tension between us, which ebbed and flowed during my teenage years.

  "Carin and I were married just over a decade and a half," my dad said. "She was my best friend and my soulmate. After my divorce, love seemed like a distant concept to me. I doubted I'd ever find it again. I didn't want to find it again. With love often comes heartbreak. I couldn't bear to have mine broken anymore.”

  I gripped the cedar pew and held my breath. My stomach flip-flopped as though I sat in a wobbly cart on the world's most unstable rollercoaster. Growing up, my parents were never too emotional with me. We didn't sit on the couch in our pajamas with scoops of ice cream and discuss our feelings. So, to hear my dad talk about his emotions so publicly left me unnerved and uncomfortable.