Waiting for Butterflies Page 10

  “And me?” Rachel lifted her chin.

  Sam inhaled deeply, sensing he was about to make a big mistake, but unable to justify any other answer. He shrugged and shook his head.

  Rachel pulled her plate back toward her and picked up her fork.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sam opened the pantry. The calendar hanging inside the door was still turned to September even though the chill of the October air had settled in days ago. He lifted the page and found today’s date. He counted back . . . three, four, five weeks since Maggie’s green eyes last looked into his and locked briefly above the chatter of the girls and the noisy dinner activity, stealing a moment for the two of them before she rushed off to meet her clients. The familiar emptiness settled in, like a part of him had been hollowed out. How could five weeks have passed so quickly when each day was such a struggle?

  He and the girls had settled into a semblance of routine he supposed. He returned to work part-time. The chief generously accommodated his needs as a single dad, allowing him to take the girls to school on his way to work and leave early to pick them up in the afternoon. Although it was unspoken, his lenient schedule was temporary, but a suitable solution eluded him. He considered allowing the girls to ride the school bus, but Olivia’s bus arrived home nearly a half hour earlier than Rachel’s, and leaving Olivia home by herself was unthinkable. Sam’s job kept his protective instinct in overdrive. It would be too easy for a predator to pick up on the routine, and he refused to put Olivia at risk. And even if the school bus were an option, investigations didn’t take place only during banker’s hours. At times the girls could be alone until late into the night. That wasn’t acceptable either.

  And parenting didn’t take place only after work hours, Sam learned. A meeting with the school counselor ended his day early because she insisted they discuss Olivia’s inability to accept her mother’s death. Phone calls from Rachel’s teachers prompted a conference with the principal to discuss her dropping grades. And more than once, Sam had to apologize to an agitated kindergarten teacher in a nearly empty parking lot as she consoled his crying little girl because he was late. He quickly developed a new appreciation for Maggie.

  Sam grabbed a bag of chips before he closed the pantry door. The girls were asleep, and it was past time for him to be in bed, too. But he chose the recliner and an old WWII movie instead. Staring mindlessly at the television, he contemplated what the pastor said about finding a new normal. He thought about it, desired it. He could hardly remember what normal felt like five weeks ago, and he couldn’t imagine what normal might feel like in the future. But whatever it was he felt now, he didn’t want normal to be that.

  The doorbell rang. Sam froze. His heart thudded wildly as the sound transported him back to the night of Maggie’s accident. His muscles turned to liquid as he relived the moments after answering the door. The doorbell rang again, followed by several sharp knocks. Sam took a deep breath to regain control and stood. He glanced at the clock, almost 11:00, and hurried to the door before the bell rang again and woke the girls. Through the peephole he saw his detectives waiting. He opened the door.

  “The DNA report came in earlier this evening.” Nikki Shaw shifted from one foot to the other and turned toward the steps. “Officers picked up a prostitute. They’re holding her at the station for questioning.”

  “The P.A.’s there waiting on you—” Wade’s voice trailed after Sam, who had already crossed the living room and headed to his bedroom. He retrieved his coat, his weapon, and his badge. When he grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand, the screen lit up with several missed calls.

  Sam approached the detectives. “So what do we know?” He stepped through the doorway, pulled the door closed behind him, and turned to insert his key into the dead bolt.

  He stopped. What was he thinking? He couldn’t go to the station at this time of night and leave the girls. The detectives charged down the steps, relaying details. They were beside the car before they realized Sam was not with them.

  “You coming, Lieutenant?” Shaw opened the driver’s door.

  Was he? His instincts battled. The girls would be alone, sleeping. But the break in the Simms case could be sitting at the station right now. He looked at the time on his phone, at the patrol car, at his hand gripping the key in the deadbolt. Two hours. If he couldn’t get the information they needed in two hours, he would turn the interrogation over to someone else and return home without the girls ever knowing he had left.

  Sam turned the key and tested the door. Certain the house was secure, he bounded down the steps and slid into the passenger seat. “What’ve we got?”

  Shaw shoved the car into reverse and backed into the street. “A white female, early twenties, alias Crystal Starr. Apparently her boss runs a big operation in Memphis and has been trying to expand his territory. He moved Crystal and a few other girls into an apartment here at the beginning of the summer. As for the homicide, she claims to know nothing.”

  “What do we know about her boss?”

  “Not much. His name is Emmanuel ‘Manny’ Jackson, white male, 36.” Detective Wade handed Sam a file from the backseat. “We ran him, but he came back clean. I talked to narcotics. They’ve been working with Memphis P.D., watching him when he’s in town. He drives a blacked-out BMW. Our guys stopped him twice for minor traffic violations. He consented to a search but came up clean both times. He’s slick. Everybody knows what he’s doing, but nobody can catch him at it.”

  “He hasn’t made the right mistake yet.” Sam opened the file and studied a surveillance photo of Jackson. “But he will.”

  The rest of the ride was silent. Sam sifted through the details, calculating as he added them up, but the bottom line did not compute. He refused to believe Ricky Simms would solicit services from a prostitute. Yet, they had to follow the evidence.

  When they arrived at the station, the prosecutor greeted Sam in the lobby. “Lieutenant, it’s shaky but this is our best shot, so I need you in charge of questioning. By the book.”

  Sam matched strides with him as they rushed toward the interrogation room. The men stood on the opposite side of a two-way mirror. On the other side sat a blonde girl with a tiny frame. She barely looked older than Rachel—his daughter, he reminded himself, who he’d left sleeping at home alone at this hour. “By the book,” Sam repeated as he reached for the doorknob.

  An hour later he exited the interrogation room with a written statement, a witness for the prosecution, and a renewed assurance that Ricky Simms was indeed the man Sam believed he was. As the witness talked, somewhere in Sam’s brain a discarded conversation surfaced. Late in the summer, Simms had approached him about undercover work to get girls off the street and to a safe house Simms’s church supported in the northern part of the state. Girls could get medical treatment, rehab, counseling—a new life. Simms had been persuasive, but Sam said no. Their unit didn’t have the resources for an undercover operation—or for a religious mission, he’d added sarcastically. Ricky insisted, said he would do it on his own time if the lieutenant approved. But Sam didn’t approve—and he’d forgotten about it. Now it all made sense. Ricky did it anyway. And Manny Jackson must have figured him out.

  Sam looked at the clock and then at his detectives. “You got it from here?”

  “Got it. Nice work, Lieutenant.” Shaw tossed Sam her keys to the patrol car. “Wade can drop me at my apartment.”

  During the drive home, the adrenaline surge that had fueled Sam drained from his body. By the time he turned into his neighborhood, he had been hypnotized by the street lights. Suddenly, bright headlights flashed on, jerking him from his trance, blinding him. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, pulled into the drive, and parked. His side mirror reflected a solitary car parked across the street from his home. It was blacked out, a BMW. A streetlight shining through the passenger window faintly outlined the silhouette of the driver.

  Sam took a sharp breath, put his hand on his holster, and unsnapped it with his
thumb. An engine revved, then the car slowly pulled away.

  When Sam’s key turned in the lock, Maggie sank to her knees. She had never felt so powerless. Two hours ago she watched him transform seamlessly from a father into a detective without a moment’s consideration for the sleeping daughters he would abandon. She had trailed him into the bedroom, scolding as he grabbed his gear, and followed him back through the living room, determined to stop him. But it was she who was stopped. As Sam reached the door and crossed the threshold, Maggie followed. But as she stepped into the darkness, faintness surged through her, depleting the essence of her existence. At first, she didn’t understand. Then instinctively she grasped she was losing herself. With the energy that remained, she lunged into the house just as Sam closed the door. He secured the lock, and her strength was restored. She raced through her mind for an explanation, desperate to comprehend what had occurred. Then she remembered the website, what she’d read about the lingering spirit. This, her home, was her “location of importance.” Inside was her unfinished task. So did that mean beyond her home she didn’t exist? It must.

  Maggie spent the first hour pacing like a sentry from the living room to the hallway that joined the girls’ bedrooms. After that, she stationed herself in front of the living room window and didn’t move. Finally headlights approached. She released a deep sigh, believing Sam had returned. She watched though the sheers as an unfamiliar car pulled up across the street. An unmarked police car dropping Sam off? Maybe. She grew suspicious when the engine stopped, but no one got out. It was difficult to see through the car’s tinted glass, but Maggie was certain the driver was staring at her house. And that Sam wasn’t in the car.

  After several minutes, the driver got out, gently pushed his door closed, and walked in her direction. As he climbed the front steps, fear seized her. She glanced at the door and watched the doorknob slowly turn. She imagined stepping in front of the door and pushing against it with all her force. But she was paralyzed. She stood alone, her husband at the station, her girls in their beds sleeping. She was incapable of protecting them. The force of a shoulder pushed against the door, stopped by the deadbolt. Then silence. Maggie waited for the driver to descend the steps, but he didn’t. She stepped closer to the window and peered to the side toward the door. Suddenly, she gasped and jerked back. A face appeared, separated from Maggie’s by a slim pane of glass. She froze as he looked through her and examined the inside of her home. She closed her eyes and prayed from a depth she’d never known. A final rattle of the doorknob startled her, and she watched the long strides that carried the driver back to his car, where he waited. For what?

  Finally, the car Sam had left in turned onto their street. Relief washed through her but only momentarily. If the driver had malicious intent, and she was certain he did, Sam would be caught unaware. Bright headlights blared from the parked car, and suddenly Maggie felt as if she were living a movie.

  So when she heard Sam’s keys in the door, she sank to her knees where she stayed while Sam rushed down the hallway and opened each girl’s bedroom door. She didn’t have the strength, nor the words she needed to go after him. But what would it matter anyway? He didn’t even know she was there.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Sunday morning alarm rang too soon. The last Sam remembered, 3:00 a.m. lit up the clock. Then, barely two hours into a fitful sleep, he woke to a ringing phone. It was Wade. Crystal Starr had been found in an alley beside her apartment building, an apparent heroin O.D. Sam recalled the sleeveless dress the girl had worn to the station. Her arms were clean. No track marks. His instinct told him this was no coincidence.

  “He got to her.”

  Wade agreed. And they found themselves in a familiar predicament, with a homicide to solve and no evidence. Sam was certain he hadn’t slept after the phone call, but the jolt of the alarm told him otherwise.

  Sam willed himself out of bed to wake Olivia. On his way down the hall, he heard noises from Rachel’s room. The door was cracked so he peered in. Rachel, consumed by her laptop, didn’t notice him.

  “Morning.”

  She jumped and quickly pushed down her computer screen. “Oh, morning.”

  “What’re you doing?” he proceeded casually, pointing to the laptop.

  “Messaging . . . Cricket.”

  “What’s that?”

  Rachel snickered. “Messaging, you know, direct messaging. It’s a social media thing.”

  “And cricket? Is that a social media thing, too?”

  “No—” Rachel bit her lip, but couldn’t hold back a grin. “I told you about Cricket, remember? The art teacher introduced us.”

  “Oh yeah, weeks ago. But you haven’t talked about her. I didn’t realize you’re friends now.” Sam interrogated cautiously.

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel seemed uncomfortable, trying to divert his attention with conversation, so he decided to take advantage of the free-flowing information.

  “So, what about Kristen? I guess you two are still friends?”

  “Sorta, I guess. It’s just that . . . well . . . Cricket knows what it’s like. Her dad died last year. It’s easier being friends with her right now.”

  “Really? Hmm. So when am I going to meet this Cricket? I’d like to know who you’re friends with.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Uh, soon, I guess.”

  “Humor me.” He smiled, acting as casual as possible. “Mom knew all your friends.”

  She looked away. “Yeah.”

  “So . . . what’s she like? What about her family?”

  “Well, she has a brother in high school. And a mom.”

  “What else?”

  Rachel shrugged again.

  “For being friends, it doesn’t seem like you know much about her.”

  “It’s not like that. We just talk at school, at lunch mostly. She’s in ninth grade so I don’t see her most of the day, and we don’t have a lot of time to talk about other stuff.”

  “Uh-huh.” Something didn’t quite settle with Sam. He walked closer to Rachel. “So you’re messaging her now? Can I see?” He sat on the bed beside her.

  “Dad,” she protested. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.” Sam lifted the laptop lid. His eyebrows furrowed as he moved from one line to the next. “This is like reading a foreign language.”

  Rachel grinned. “That’s how we message. Guess you’re too old to understand it.”

  “Guess so.” Sam turned the laptop back toward Rachel, relieved he hadn’t seen anything concerning. He decided to change the topic. “So, it’s Sunday. Church today?”

  “Nope.” Rachel’s answer, as it had been every Sunday morning, was sharp.

  Sam was too tired for his weekly hypocritical cajoling to convince her she needed to go back to church. Besides, connecting with that Cricket girl might be better for her than going to church anyway. But he had one last request before he left her alone.

  “I need you to write down your login and password for me.”

  “You mean for my laptop?”

  “Yeah, that and any accounts you have, social media, e-mail, whatever.”

  She groaned. “So, what, are you going to like start spying on me or something?”

  Sam stopped at the door and looked directly at her. “If I have to. I’m your parent. It’s my job. Put them on the kitchen counter sometime this morning.”

  Sam walked toward the church entrance and gave a quick wave to the pastor’s wife as Olivia ran to her. He decided a few weeks ago that he would drive Olivia to church and then spend a couple hours in his office until it was time to pick her up. As he walked back to his car, he thought about the Simms case. Less than twelve hours earlier, he got the break he needed to bring to justice a fellow detective’s killer and to possibly gain recognition for himself. Accolades from the chief and the mayor, local TV interviews, could all add up to good promotion material, preparing the way for a future behind the chief’s desk someday. But now Sam feared his vision of the future w
as evaporating. Not only because one homicide investigation now had two victims, but also because of the black BMW parked outside his house, taunting him when he returned home from the station. And the girls. Once Sam had rushed down the hall and checked on each one to make sure they were unharmed, he’d leaned against the wall beside Rachel’s bedroom door and fought back the nausea rushing through him.

  Sam neared the church parking lot exit, prepared to turn toward the office. But, he didn’t want to go in this morning. Technically, he had worked most of the night, and he needed a break. So, he pulled out and turned in the opposite direction, uncertain where to go for the next couple of hours. He continued driving south, all the while fighting an unsettling feeling that loomed.

  As Sam drove, the city limits fell behind him, and rolling hills lay in front him, their vibrant fall colors nearing the end of their reign. He cracked the window to let in the fresh air and let himself sink into the driver’s seat, heading nowhere in particular, leaving everything behind. He turned on a soft rock radio station and quietly sang along, mindlessly following the yellow lines where they led. For a few moments, his life was undisturbed, his mind at peace, suspended in a world in which only he, the music, and the countryside existed. Then he saw it. He pressed hard on the brake pedal and pulled to the shoulder of the road. After a quick check for traffic, he made a U-turn and pulled into the driveway. He stared at the sign in the yard. White with blue lettering, it read: FOR SALE Another Excellent Property by Blake Real Estate, Maggie Blake, Broker.

  The Hitching house.

  He read Maggie’s name on the sign and looked at the house that was her dream, a dream Sam had not shared. A boulder crashed down on his chest. Breathing was nearly impossible, and grief threatened to strangle him. Maggie had seen potential and beauty, the vision of a real estate broker as well as a certified interior designer. Sam had only seen stress and money, his experience from working summers with his dad, and the lessons drilled into him from the time since he was old enough to hit a nail straight until he finished college: It’s always easier to build new than to fix old.