Gone From Me: Hearts of the South, Book 10 Read online

  In the driveway, he leaned against Amy’s car and adjusted the hook-and-loop closures on his arm brace while the sisters said their goodbyes. Savannah wrapped a quick hug around his neck. “Sleep well.”

  He was dead on his feet. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “You’re taking care of Mom and Daddy, right? Tell them not to worry about us.” Amy slipped an arm about his waist. She hugged herself into him. “I’m taking care of him.”

  “Your wish is my command, Queen Amy.” Savannah sketched a weary curtsy and walked to her car. “Call me if you need anything.”

  In the laundry room, he removed the arm brace and stripped off his damp clothing. The reek of river water clung to him. “I need a shower.”

  Amy trailed a finger down his neck. “Do you need help?”

  “My stupid male pride thinks I can handle it.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her into him. He held on, face buried in the soft curve between her neck and shoulder. He needed a shower and sleep, but he needed her more.

  She ran a hand down his back. “I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

  In the shower, he rested his head on cool tile and let hot water work the tension out of his still-aching muscles. Closing his eyes brought flashes of memory from the night, and he blew out a long breath. Somehow he figured he’d be wrestling with this for a while. Finally, he shut the water off and stepped out, feeling almost human again.

  He rubbed most of the water from his skin and draped the oversized white towel about his hips. In the bedroom, Amy waited, perched on the edge of their bed, her rain-dampened hair piled in a messy knot and her body wrapped in the thin lilac robe he’d bought her a couple of birthdays ago. Her brown eyes glimmering with a sheen of tears, she held out her arms.

  He stepped between her thighs, and she rested her cheek against his abdomen. Hooking her fingers into the towel, she tugged it free and let it fall to the floor. She pressed a kiss just above the jut of his hipbone. “Oh, God, Robert.”

  The tremulous words, breathed along his skin and full of her remembered fear and longing, broke him. He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted a hand to cover them. A harsh sob worked its way up from his chest, tearing free from his throat. He tangled his other hand in her hair, and a tear slid free to splash on her upturned face. With that one free, others followed, and he pressed his fist to his mouth, a futile attempt to stem the sobs wracking his body.

  She pulled him down and forward to lie wrapped in her arms while she wrapped herself about him. She didn’t shush him or murmur comfort. He buried his face against her neck, and she held him, smoothing his hair and being his comfort. He wept until his chest hurt, until he couldn’t breathe but could finally breathe all over again, until there were simply no tears left.

  And she simply held on until he fell into peace and sleep in her arms.

  *

  Sleep faded away. Midday light nudged his eyelids, and warmth pressed along his side. A familiar arm draped over his waist, a sweet clutching at his ribs. Without opening his eyes, Rob curved his uninjured hand around the back of Amy’s head and pressed his mouth to her forehead. Her hold on him tightened, and he lifted heavy lashes to look down at her. She gazed at him, her brown eyes haunted.

  “Don’t look like that,” he whispered, his throat raw. He touched a finger to the corner of her mouth and shifted her even nearer to him. “It’s over.”

  She tangled her legs with his. “I was so scared for you.”

  “I know.” He nuzzled her temple. “But I meant I was coming back to you.”

  “How’s your arm?” She rubbed a gentle hand across his shoulder.

  “Sore.” He let his lids slide shut, his eyes gritty and swollen. His nose and sinuses felt equally inflamed. “You know, there’s a reason I don’t cry. The aftereffects suck.”

  “You needed it.” She turned her head and rested her lips against his palm. He felt her teasing smile against his skin. “I can get you some cucumber slices for your eyes.”

  “I’ll pass.” He stretched and grimaced at the sheer number of his muscles protesting the movement. “Hell, I hurt all over.”

  “Roll over.” With gentle hands, she nudged him to lie on his belly. Kneeling next to him, she employed those same magic hands to ease the tightness from his muscles. He relaxed into the mattress, giving himself over to the relief. He turned his head to one side, pillowed on his arms. Her hands pushed at the muscles sloping into his lower back, and he groaned in boneless pleasure.

  She dropped a kiss on his shoulder. “Savannah says you’ll probably be sore for a couple of days.”

  “Think she’d write me a prescription for this?”

  “You don’t need a prescription.” She worked her way down, across his buttocks and down his thighs, to the painful tightness of his calves and finally to his feet. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He let his eyelids close. “I may never move again.”

  The bed shifted slightly as she rose. “You may have to move for food. You have to be starving.”

  “Not really.” His stomach felt hollow and empty, but he had no desire to eat.

  “You haven’t eaten anything since at least yesterday afternoon.” She sifted her fingers through his hair. “I’m making us both a grilled cheese. If you don’t want it now, it’ll save for later.”

  He let himself sink back into a half-doze. Without warning, he floundered in cold, rushing water, and jerked into full wakefulness. His heart thudded a sick rhythm against his ribs, and he gasped, trying to catch his breath. He passed a clammy hand over burning eyes. With careful movements, he pushed up from the bed. Despite Amy’s ministrations, his muscles ached with each motion.

  His stomach rumbled. He scrubbed at gritty eyes and glanced at the clock. Almost three o’clock. He tugged on jeans and a faded VSU T-shirt, then slowly made his way to the kitchen.

  Amy stood at the island, cutting sandwiches into triangles. She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Perfect timing. Your juice is on the counter.”

  The first swallow of cold orange juice, his preferred beverage with a grilled cheese sandwich, burned his raw throat, but suddenly aware of his thirst, he drained the glass and went to refill it. Tumbler full, he joined Amy at the island. A large rectangular box, wrapped in shiny navy-and-white paper and topped off with a gold ribbon, lay between their plates, and Amy nudged it in his direction. “Open it.”

  He lifted a sandwich and took of bite of melted goodness. His stomach, still wanting to clench in knots, didn’t rebel. “What is it?”

  “Your anniversary gift.”

  He looked at her askance. “Our anniversary isn’t until… Shit.”

  “You get a bye this one time.” Her smile carried a note of indulgent affection. “Open it.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” He ran a finger underneath the tape holding one end closed.

  She laid a warm hand on his knee. “Babe, the best present I could ever get was you walking up that riverbank last night.”

  He slid the box free from the wrapping paper and lifted off the top. He parted the tissue paper to find a classic wood frame showcasing a photo of himself and his father on his and Amy’s wedding day.

  “Amy.” He breathed her name and touched a shaky finger to the frame. In the photo, his father stood before him as he peered into a wardrobe mirror, collar up and tying his bowtie. His throat went tight all over again, and his chest ached. Picture held to his torso, he leaned over to kiss her. “It’s great. Thank you.”

  “That’s his giving-solid-advice expression.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, a winsome look in her eyes. “I wonder what he’s saying to you.”

  “‘So guard your heart; remain loyal to the wife of your youth,’” he whispered, hearing his father’s deep voice in his memory. He missed him, but here was proof that he’d never really be without him. All of that wisdom stayed with him.

  “You remember that?” She fiddled with the edges of his ha
ir.

  “I do.” He caught her other hand and squeezed. “This…this is awesome, babe. Thank you.”

  “I’m thankful you listened to him.” She wrapped her fingers about his and lifted his knuckles to her lips. “That you remained loyal to me, even when I was so blind to what you needed.”

  “I will always be loyal to you.” He rotated their clasped hands so he could trail the back of his hand along her jaw. “You’re ‘my treasure, my bride’.”

  A smile brightened her face as he recited the scripture that had made up part of his vows to her. Tears sparkled along her lashes. “I remember that.”

  “Babe, you are my treasure every day.” He leaned in to touch his lips to hers, a promise in the brief caress. “My bride.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rob flipped through another interview transcript and glanced at his watch. Seven minutes since the last time he looked. Amazing how a few days in a car changed a guy’s perspective about riding a desk. With Troy Lee possibly out on medical leave and the Charger out of commission, Calvert hadn’t seen any reason to place Rob with another officer. So here he was, waiting on Zeke Jenkins’s autopsy reports and slogging through paperwork.

  He read back over Mike’s initial interview, trying to tune out the conversations around him.

  “Stringham was wound up at that roadblock this morning.” Walker popped open a soda and settled in with Campbell and Monroe at the table across the room. “Wonder what’s with him?”

  Campbell harrumphed. “No telling. He’s a son of a bitch.”

  Rob tried to tune out the chatter. He skimmed the interview again. Something didn’t make sense. Two to three days?

  “We’re thinking right here, next to the bulletin board.” Calvert’s wry voice preceded his and Cook’s entry. “A Troy Lee Farr Hall of Fame and maybe a photo of every car you’ve managed to destroy.”

  “Anybody ever tell you what an ass you are?” Resigned humor colored Troy Lee’s voice. “Hey, Bennett.”

  “Hey.” Filled with an insane surge of emotion, Rob rose to meet his partner, who he hadn’t seen since Calvert had hauled him into the boat two nights before. By the time he’d finally been cleared at the ER, Troy Lee had been stitched up and gone. He stuck his hand out.

  “Screw that.” With a wide grin, Troy Lee grabbed his hand and tugged him into a tight, back-slapping bro-hug. “You saved my life, man.”

  Rob winced at the pressure on his injured arm, but pounded his other palm against Troy Lee’s back and blinked sudden moisture from his eyes. “I think that’s mutual.”

  Troy Lee laughed, slapped his back a couple more times, and stepped back.

  “Damn, that’s sweet,” Walker drawled. “You gonna suck him off or what, Farr?”

  “Asshole,” Troy Lee muttered. Rob pulled his own shoulders straight, the way he’d witnessed on his dad a thousand times, and turned a glower on Walker.

  “Hey, Walker, you know what Stringham’s problem is? I am.” He tapped his chest to punctuate the I. “Trust me, I can be yours too. If I hear this shit from you one more time, I’ll file a hostile workplace complaint and take it as high as I need to go. Be really bad to lose your POST certificate because you can’t stop being a dick.”

  “Son of bitch,” Cook murmured. “He sounds just like Ham.”

  “That’s why I didn’t cut him loose last week.” Calvert tagged Cook’s chest. “He’s definitely Ham Bennett’s boy. Walker, I need to see you in my office.”

  Walker cast a glare at Rob, shoved his chair back and followed Calvert and Cook down the hall. The deputies lingering in the room suddenly found a myriad of tasks to occupy their attention.

  Troy Lee snickered. “Man, that was—”

  “Let me guess. Epic.” Rob slanted a grin at his partner and gestured at the neat line of stitches a scant inch above his temple. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Another couple of days before he’ll clear me for actual road duty. He and Calvert agree I can ride along if you’re driving and there’s no actual road work involved.” He grimaced. “Two days of freaking investigations.”

  Rob’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. “Well, you want to ride with me over to the crime lab? Zeke Jenkins’s autopsy results are in.”

  “Might as well.” Troy Lee’s tone didn’t exactly hum with enthusiasm.

  “Hey, is there a decent jewelry store in this town?”

  “Hodges. Why?”

  “I forgot my anniversary, and I kinda need to pick up a gift.”

  “Now who’s the resident screwup?”

  *

  Bone-chilling cold and the mingled smells of disinfectant, body fluids and decay greeted them in the lab’s autopsy room. Seated at her desk, Ford looked up from a file at their entrance. She smiled. “Hey, Bennett, long time no see.”

  “Tell me about it.” He jerked a thumb in Troy Lee’s direction. “You know Deputy Farr.”

  Her smile morphed into a smirk. “I know of him.”

  Troy Lee rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Rob ignored him. “You have results for me on the Jenkins’s autopsy.”

  “I do.” She tugged a folder free from the uneven stack on her desk and handed it to him. Then, she nodded toward the storage room. “You want to take a look while we go over it?”

  “Sure, why not?” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple of strong peppermints. He extended one in Troy Lee’s direction. Troy Lee lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry, and Rob grimaced. “Trust me.”

  They followed Ford into the long, narrow room. Even with the drop in temperature, the smell grew stronger, especially when Ford opened one of the drawer doors and rolled out the metal holding tray. Troy Lee coughed hard into his hand, the skin around his mouth paling, and Rob looked up from the folder he’d flipped open.

  Ford snorted, her expression stern and unamused. “If you get sick, do not throw up in my lab.”

  “I’m good.” Troy Lee straightened, his voice a little strangled around the mint.

  “Accidental death?” Rob stared at the report a moment, then glanced at Zeke’s nude corpse, recognizable even with the bloat and discoloration from being in the water. “For real?”

  “Blunt force trauma to the skull from an accidental fall.” Ford shrugged. “Scalp lacerations are consistent with a fall as well as the comminuted skull fracture and resultant hemorrhaging. His back is scraped up, much as we’d expect to see with skin hitting rock or asphalt. I’d say he fell backward onto a flat surface from a slightly elevated height—three or four feet. Ladder, truck bed, who knows?”

  “He die on impact?”

  “No. May have knocked himself out for a few minutes, but it was a relatively slow bleed. Probably another thirty minutes, an hour at the most. He’d have been confused, slurring his words.”

  Rob flipped to the initial toxicology report. Detailed reports always took weeks, but Ford, bless her, always gave the basics up front. “He had alcohol in his system.”

  Ford nodded. “Yep. Legally intoxicated, which means if he was with someone, they might have thought he was merely drunk once he started with the confusion and slurring. His stomach was empty, so more than likely, he vomited after the head injury.”

  “Which someone could attribute to the drinking too.” Rob closed the folder. “Well, hell.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed. Homicide cases are a bitch. All you have to figure out is who wanted to conceal his death.”

  “Come again?” If she thought she was making his life easier, she was wrong. Concealing an accidental death?

  “See the bruising on his torso?” Ford swept a hand over the large round contusions. “Stones. Big ones, used to weight the body down in water.”

  She made an imaginary circle with her hands to approximate the size of a large rock.

  “He was in the water, though, right?” Troy Lee shrugged. “And that water was moving hard and fast. Maybe it slammed him into rocks.”

  “No, definite
ly not. That would have caused avulsion of the skin. The lividity shows he was basically on his back in a small space sometime after death. The rib fractures and bruising to the chest are postmortem, and the stone pattern left impressions in the skin that were still there even after time in the water. He was somewhere with water and someone didn’t want him found.”

  Rob frowned, his gaze on the large swathe of bruising spread across Zeke’s chest. “Why?”

  Ford patted his cheek with one gloved hand. “That’s your job, hon.”

  “Funny.” He held the folder aloft. “Is this my copy?”

  “Yes. I’ll send you over an electronic copy via email too.”

  “Thanks.” He tagged Troy Lee’s chest. “Let’s go.”

  On the road back to Coney, Rob flexed his fingers around the steering wheel and rolled the details about in his brain. “Okay, so it’s an accident. He’s drinking, he falls, and he hits his head. He’s a kid, he’s a guy, and he doesn’t realize the injury is worse than he thinks. He dies, and whoever he’s with panics and has to hide that. That doesn’t make sense. You don’t have to hide an accident.”

  “It’s Smithwick.” Troy Lee slumped in the seat, frowning. He cast a glance at Rob, an eyebrow lifted. “You know it is.”

  “Probably, because they’re drinking buddies. But it sounds like he went to a hell of a lot of trouble to hide that body.” Rob frowned, tapping his palm against the wheel. “What do people hide?”

  “Gambling. Drugs.” Troy Lee rubbed a finger across his mouth. “Money problems. Affairs.”

  “Shit.” He dropped the right wheel off the pavement and concentrated on pulling the vehicle back on the road. Excitement pulsed in his chest. He tapped his palm in a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Fill me in.” Wry humor lurked in Troy Lee’s voice. “I can’t read your mind, and I don’t think like an investigator, remember?”

  “Whose texts don’t show up on Zeke’s records?”

  “Mike’s.”

  “Exactly, but Vaughn said Zeke had one of those apps on his phone that deletes messages after you send them. Maybe he was texting Mike, and we simply couldn’t see it.”