Paranoid(132)

“Oh, man,” Dylan said and sent a beseeching glance at his father.

“Uh-uh. You know how I feel—‘you do the crime, you do the time.’”

Dylan looked like he might be sick. Cade added, “Serious stuff, son,” then shifted on the bed, his ribs and nose beginning to ache as the pain meds were wearing off.

“I told him he would be in trouble,” Harper said.

“Oh, like you’re so innocent.”

They started bickering and he expected there was more to the story, but obviously Rachel was on it and would bring him up to speed. Right now, he didn’t much care, was just grateful that they were safe, that the terror was over. “Now, give me a second with Mom, okay?”

They slid out of the room and he motioned Rachel near. She stepped closer, placing her hands on the bed rails. “I don’t know if you know about Ned,” he said.

“I heard. Kathy, his neighbor, called.” Her eyes grew moist and she had to look away for a second.

“You okay?”

She let out a disbelieving huff as she looked at him again. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. But Lucas did it,” she said, swallowing with difficulty. “You know that, right? Dad wouldn’t have killed himself.”

He wasn’t completely certain of that but didn’t let on. “We’ll sort it out.”

She blinked, fighting tears. “He wasn’t happy. Ever since losing his job and breaking up with Mom, he was kind of lost, so maybe now . . .” Her voice cracked and she quickly brushed her tears aside.

Cade considered, then thought that she was strong enough for the truth, that she had the right to know. “There’s something you should know, Rachel,” he said so solemnly her head snapped up.

“What?”

“It’s about your dad and Luke. They had a weird relationship and there’s a chance that the gun recovered at the scene and the bullet lodged in your father was fired from the same gun as the bullet that killed your brother. Ballistics will prove it one way or the other.”

“What’re you saying?” she whispered and he watched her think back to that fateful night in the cannery.

“Lucas had to get the gun somewhere. And . . . hell, it’s most likely . . . I mean, it looks like it might have been Ned’s. Unregistered.”

Rachel was shaking her head. “No.”

“If it is the same gun, I think it’s possible that Ned actually pulled the trigger that killed Luke. In all the ensuing years the murder weapon was never located, never turned up.”

“That doesn’t mean Dad had it. . . .”

“The officer who found your dad after he was called to the house? He saw a gun case left near your father’s toolbox. Ned’s initials were on it. That’s why the first thought was suicide.”

“But . . .” She paled, her forehead furrowing as she tried to grasp what had happened. “No,” she whispered. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“Fine, but I wanted you to know,” he said, and despite her denials, he noticed the doubts beginning to form in her eyes. He hated to put her through this but believed the truth was always best. No matter how much it hurt. Carefully gauging her, he said, “Also, I talked to Nate Moretti’s father before all of this”—he motioned to his injuries—“before all this went down and he told me that Ned had convinced him to lie, that Luke hadn’t come in DOA as we thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“They let him die, Rachel. They thought he was too far gone, or at least that’s the rationale. Your father said that it would be best for Melinda, that Luke could have never woken up from a coma or worse.”

“So they didn’t give him a chance?” she whispered, obviously stunned. She blinked back tears. “I don’t think . . . I mean . . .” Words failed her. “Why?”

“When I get up and on my feet again, we’ll figure it out.” He felt his eyes narrow as he thought. “Someone who was there might know more.”

“And you intend to dredge it up again.”

“I don’t have the corner on that. Mercedes—”

“Yeah, I know. Between her and half a dozen other reporters, this story will never die.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I looked into it?”

She paused and thought, then shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I will ferret out the truth.”

She held his gaze and he saw in her eyes that she’d come to terms with what he was saying; her denial was seeping away. “You think my father would really let me carry around all the guilt I’ve been dealing with?”

“I know it.” His respect for Ned had plummeted in the last few days.

She swallowed, glanced away from him for a second, and he heard a cart rattle past in the hallway outside his door, felt the pain in his ribs begin to throb.

“I thought you should know.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” Then she cleared her throat, and when she caught his eye again, she looked stronger than she had in a long, long while. “Well, you just get better, Detective, okay?” she said, then after a moment’s hesitation added, “And when you’re released from here, you come back and live with us.”