Cross Fire, page 12
This pot looked less . . . sludgy.
I discarded my mug of tea on the peninsula next to my letter—well, my blank page that had aspirations of one day being a letter—and walked into the kitchen. Riley followed at my heels, his nails clicking on the floorboards. I poured a mug of coffee and set it next to my tea.
The pictures on the hallway wall across from the kitchen caught my attention, and I smirked as a mischievous idea blossomed in my mind.
Marx had chastised me yesterday for “tiptoein’ around the apartment like a mouse”—apparently my attempts not to be bothersome bothered him—so I was going to make my presence known.
I was starting to realize just how much of a neat freak he was. Everything in his apartment had a specific place. When I put my toothpaste in the wrong spot, he moved it into the toothbrush cup holder on the bathroom counter without a word.
His kitchen sink was always empty because he washed the dishes the moment he was done with them, dried them, and put them back in the cupboard or drawer. And apparently the glasses had to be right-side up on the shelf. Upside-down, right-side up, tipped over—I didn’t really care as long as they didn’t roll off the shelf and conk me on the head.
His bathroom towel cupboard was also ridiculously tidy. It made me wonder if he organized his socks by color too.
I looked both ways down the hallway and then stepped forward to tilt all three of the pictures on the wall just enough that a neat freak might notice.
I glanced down at Riley, who sat beside me and rested one paw on my foot. “If he asks who did it, I’m blaming you.” Riley cocked his head at me, and I smiled as I scratched him behind the ear.
Then I hurried to the peninsula and slid onto my stool to pretend complete innocence.
I tapped my eraser on the blank page of my letter as I tried to scrounge up something to say to my second—albeit not quite—mother, Izzy, but my mind came up blank. She had been kind to me for the two years I stayed with her, and she had tried to help when she learned that the man who killed my family had come after me a second time. But she was also serving a sentence for murder and drug trafficking.
Dear Izzy,
I couldn’t tell her about the latest upheaval in my life, and I certainly couldn’t tell her I was staying with Marx. She had hated him the moment she learned he was a cop, and I didn’t think she would digest that turn of events very well.
Marx stopped in the hallway on his way to the kitchen, took a step back, and examined the slightly crooked pictures on the wall.
“What in the . . .”
I pressed a hand to my mouth to smother a laugh. He readjusted the pictures with a puzzled frown and then gave them an odd look before walking into the kitchen.
“I made you coffee,” I said. I grabbed the mug and hopped off the stool to carry it over to him.
He took the mug from me cautiously, and his brow furrowed as he peered into it. “Why is it whenever you make me a drink there’s somethin’ floatin’ in it?”
I leaned forward to take a second look at the brown liquid and frowned in confusion. “I don’t see anything.”
“First it was marshmallows in my chocolate milk, and now this.”
“What do you mean? It’s just coffee.”
“Oh, it’s coffee. And coffee grounds. Did you use a filter?”
“Mmm . . . I might have forgotten that part.”
His lips pressed together as he resisted the urge to laugh. He set the mug down on the peninsula and said very gently, “Maybe you should consider stickin’ with hot chocolate.”
I puffed out a breath and slid back onto my stool.
“It’s not the end of the world, Holly. Don’t look so disappointed.”
“I’m gonna get it right,” I told him. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Marx just shook his head, smiling. He dropped the file he had carried out of the bedroom onto the peninsula before turning to the refrigerator. “What are you workin’ on over there?”
I closed my notebook. I knew how he felt about Izzy, and it was a subject that always seemed to rile his inner cop. “Just writing a letter.”
He exhaled audibly as he fetched a jar of grape jelly from the refrigerator and closed the door. “To Isabel Lane?” When I fidgeted on my stool, he said, “Holly, you don’t have to write to her.”
“Yeah, well, I promised. And I keep my promises.”
He leaned back against the counter with his arms folded. The look on his face made me brace myself for a lecture. “You don’t owe that woman anythin’.”
“Like it or not, she and Paul saved my life that night. If they hadn’t come along, the killer would’ve caught me.”
“Come along,” he said evenly. “You mean when they hit you with their car, neglected to take you to a hospital, threw you in the back of their drug-filled caravan, and then drove you halfway across the country?”
I scowled at him. “Yes.” I bounced the eraser end of my pencil off the countertop in agitation. “Izzy’s alone. She doesn’t have anyone in her life now that Paul is dead, and—”
He raised a hand to cut me off. “I will not feel sorry for a woman who abducted a nine-year-old girl.”
“They were nice to me.”
“It doesn’t matter if they were nice to you. You were a child. They could’ve beaten you every other day and you still would’ve loved and trusted them. It’s called Stockholm syndrome.”
“I do not have that.”
His eyes rolled heavenward as if I tested his patience. “Fine, don’t call it that. You feel the way you do, and I can’t change that. But I don’t agree with it, and in my opinion, she doesn’t deserve to have you in her life.”
“You’ve never heard of forgiveness?”
“I don’t think she deserves to be forgiven. She’s a killer, a kidnapper, and a drug dealer.”
“She didn’t pull the trigger.”
“That doesn’t matter, Holly. She knew what happened and kept it to herself, which makes her just as guilty as the man who did pull the trigger.”
“But—”
“There are some wrongs in this world that just shouldn’t be forgiven.”
“That’s not true.”
Marx rubbed at the tension between his eyebrows and sighed. “Let’s not argue before I’ve had my coffee. It isn’t a fair fight.” He turned away from me and started preparing his breakfast.
I stared at the blank letter that stubbornly refused to write itself as I mulled over Marx’s words. Was he right?
I could forgive a lot of things, but there were some people—some cruelties—that felt . . . unforgivable.
Edward had murdered my family, and even though he was dead, I didn’t think I could ever forgive him. And Collin . . . if he asked, would God simply forgive and forget every despicable thing he’d done? If he sought God before his last breath, would I spend an eternity in Heaven with the man who hurt me?
The thought turned my stomach, and I closed the notebook. My heart suddenly felt too cold and hard for forgiveness, and I had nothing to say to Izzy.
I looked around, seeking a distraction, and my eyes landed on the file resting on the countertop. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but it was just so tempting.
I lifted the cover and peeked inside. There were photos of the area surrounding the scene where Marx’s informant was found. I snooped through the pages with interest. There were pictures of three teenagers—presumably the ones who had overdosed—and a man with a teardrop tattoo under his left eye. There was a sticky note on the picture with Marx’s writing on it.
I squinted to try to make out the words: “‘Teardrop’ connected to Ruiz’s death? Mother overheard phone call between them. Former drug affiliation. Part of new drug ring?”
“Holly!” Marx snapped, slapping the folder shut abruptly enough to make me flinch. He pulled it out from under my fingers.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t give me sorry,” he scolded, dropping the file on the counter beyond my reach. “We both know you’d do it again.” He gave me a stern look when I decided to say nothing rather than lie. I would definitely do it again.
“I was just—”
“Curious? My informant was murdered for what he knew, Holly. I don’t want you anywhere near anythin’ or anyone involved with this case. So keep your curious little nose out of it.”
I lifted my chin. “My nose is not little.”
“It may have escaped your notice, but everythin’ about you is little. You’re pint-sized.”
I scowled at his back as he turned away to finish his breakfast. I was not pint-sized. I was almost average, except for three or four inches of height. “I’m putting coffee grounds in your coffee every morning,” I threatened grumpily.
He chuckled as he spread jelly over his toast. He took a bite of it and swallowed before asking, “You ready?”
“Can I drive on the road today?” I asked, hopping off the stool. “I only hit one cone last time.”
He opened the front door for me as he said, “Oh, well, if you’re only gonna hit one pedestrian on the road, then sure, why not?”
I crinkled my nose at his sarcasm, and we walked downstairs to the car. I didn’t get to drive on the road. It took me four attempts before I managed to complete the maneuverability course without running something over.
“Next time can I drive on the road?”
Marx gave me an uncertain glance from behind the wheel as we headed for self-defense training. “We’ll see.”
I huffed and looked out the window, my eyes snagging on a familiar street sign. It was the street where Ruiz had been gunned down. “Did you talk to that lady I told you about?”
“I tried. She slammed the door in my face. In fact, I spent the past few days knockin’ on doors. Nobody’s talkin’ except Ruiz’s mom, and she doesn’t have much to say.”
“Maybe I should try. I’m not a cop.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested skydiving without a parachute. “You want me to drop you off in gang territory, without a police escort, so you can go into random people’s houses and ask them questions about a murder on their street? Have you lost your mind?”
“Well, it sounds bad when you say it that way.”
His phone started to ring, and he grabbed it off the dashboard. “Trust me, there’s no better way to say it. It only gets worse from there.” A thoughtful crease formed between his eyebrows when he glimpsed the caller ID. “Shannon?” he said by way of greeting.
He frowned when the call abruptly disconnected. He snapped his phone shut and was about to toss it back onto the dashboard when it started to ring again. I saw the name Shannon flash across the screen.
“Who’s Shannon?” I asked.
“My ex-wife.”
“The woman you’re keeping the ring on for?” He was divorced, but he never removed his wedding ring because he still loved the woman he had made his vows to.
He gave me a quelling look and answered the phone. “Hello?” The thoughtful expression on his face gradually deepened to concern when the other end of the line offered nothing but static. “Shannon, can you hear me?” Nothing. “Shannon.”
I stiffened in my seat when a deep male voice rumbled through the phone loudly enough for me to hear, “You were warned.”
The call disconnected.
Marx’s expression turned dangerously flat, and he whipped the car around on the road so sharply that it left me scrambling for something to hold onto. He turned on a flashing light and sped down the road at nauseating speeds.
“I have a possible home invasion at 344 Chestnut Avenue. I’m en route now. Send backup,” he commanded into his car radio.
He tossed his phone to me without warning, and I dropped it in my lap before managing to get a solid grip on it.
“Try callin’ her number back,” he instructed. When it took me a moment to process his request, he snapped, “Call her, Holly!”
I flinched at the anger in his voice and called back the most recent number. I vibrated anxiously in my seat as I waited for someone to answer. The phone rang several times on the other end and then rolled over to the answering machine.
“Keep tryin’,” he said when I gave him a questioning look. “That’s her home phone. Try her cell phone.”
I scrolled through his contacts to find Shannon’s Cell and hit send. We made another sharp turn, and I almost dropped the phone again. I threw a hand to the window to brace myself.
The call went to voice mail. I tried twice more to no avail before we skidded to a stop in front of a house that rested at the top of a hill.
I pressed a hand to my queasy stomach and handed his phone back. “No answer.”
He took it from me and got out of the car. He drew his sidearm and then hesitated when he looked at me. I assumed he was going to tell me to stay in the car, but then his gaze flickered over the street warily.
“Come on,” he said, gesturing me out of the car. At my puzzled look, he explained, “I’m not leavin’ you in the car alone. Not with Collin lookin’ for an opportunity to get to you.”
Fear twisted my insides, and I scrambled out of the car and to his side in an instant.
“You stay with me and behind me,” he instructed firmly. “Do you understand? Do not—”
“Wander off. Yes, I know.”
I followed him up the steps to the front stoop of the blue two-story house. It had beautiful, expansive windows all across the front. His ex-wife must have made decent money.
The front door hung just a little off-kilter on one hinge, and Marx shouldered his way through it.
God, please let Shannon be okay. Please don’t let Marx lose the woman he loves.
He stepped into the house with his gun angled downward. I cast a nervous look over the street before following him into the unlit foyer of the house.
Glass crunched beneath my shoe, and I hesitated. A vase had fallen from the overturned table and lay shattered across the wooden floor. I stepped over the puddle of water and crushed flowers that looked days past their expiration date.
Marx swept into the room on the left, and I paused in the doorway to absorb the breathtaking destruction. It looked as though a tornado had ripped through the house and left only the walls standing.
The furniture had been split open with a blade, the picture frames knocked from the walls, and the blue drapes were hanging crookedly over splintered blinds.
I picked up a picture frame and shook away the broken slivers of glass. It was a snapshot of Marx standing under a flower-draped arbor with his arms around a dark-haired woman. It couldn’t have been taken more than four or five years ago; I could see the touch of gray at his temples.
He looked happy.
He swept past me and into the kitchen. “With me, Holly,” he whispered, but it made his demand no less sharp.
I hesitated with the picture—it seemed wrong to put it back on the floor—and then set it gently on the mangled arm of the couch before scampering after him.
The kitchen was even worse than the living room; the cupboard doors, which hadn’t been completely ripped off, sagged, revealing bare shelves. Every dish was shattered on the floor, and every ounce of food was strewn and crushed.
I stepped over a smashed box of Corn Flakes cereal and picked up a calendar from the wreckage. There was a colored key in the top right corner: pink for worked out, green for ate breakfast, blue for took some me-time. There were three colored slashes across most of the days. Some only had two—apparently she struggled to have “me-time” on a regular basis—except for the past three days. They were completely blank.
I flipped back to the month of January. Every day had been filled in the same way; Shannon was a consistent person. Why had she left the past three days blank?
I brought the calendar with me as I trailed behind Marx back into the foyer and up the steps. He took the steps sideways with his back to the wall, and angled the gun upward toward the landing.
“Shannon!” he called out.
I almost tripped up the steps when my foot slid on a magazine that was half covered by a towel. I managed not to fall on my face, but it certainly made my heartbeat stagger. I glared at the magazine and then continued up the staircase, trying to be more mindful of where I stepped.
“Holly, you have your pepper spray?” Marx asked as we stepped onto the second floor.
I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the canister. “Yes.” The feel of it didn’t give me much confidence. The last time I sprayed someone with pepper spray, it had only fueled his anger.
“Good. Anybody comes out of these rooms that isn’t me or a black-haired woman, use it.”
My palms began to sweat at the mere thought of someone leaping out at us. What would they do? Would they run, or do to us what they had done to the house?
I tiptoed into the master bedroom on Marx’s heels. He hesitated at the sight of the shredded mattress. This was probably the home he had shared with his wife, and it had to be hard for him to see it this way.
Someone had taken a great deal of time in tearing this place apart. Either that or there had been several people working in tandem. But why reduce it to such ruin? What was the point?
I walked to the bedside and looked down, brushing aside the down feathers from the pillows that floated into the air at my approach. I nudged aside the edge of a blanket.
“Marx.”
He came to my side instantly. There was a picture on the mattress, but it had been ripped down the center, leaving only him with a disembodied feminine hand on his arm. A pile of colored confetti lay beside it, and I pushed a few of the pieces together, reconstructing a woman’s face. It was the woman from the photograph downstairs: Shannon.
The muscles in Marx’s jaw flexed with fury. “Come on. We have a few more rooms to check.”
We made it to the threshold of the room when a noise came from downstairs, and Marx stopped unexpectedly. I collided with him and staggered backwards, groping at the edge of the dresser to keep from falling.
