Paranoid(24)

“I know.”

She glanced around the room with the new knowledge that he’d been in here. Maybe looking at her phone and computer and God knew what else. Taking the phone with her, she made her way along the short hallway to the kids’ rooms and the stairs. Had he gone up to her bedroom? The room under the eaves they’d once shared.

She was more in control now, her voice low and cold and steady. “This is my space, Cade. Mine and the kids’. One I carved out when you . . . when you left, so you can’t just walk in here uninvited.” She pushed her hair from her eyes with her free hand.

Her comment was met with silence and she closed her eyes for a second. Counted backward, mentally ticking off her heartbeats as she controlled herself.

“I was just worried,” he finally said, his voice clipped. “That’s all. I know this is a tough day for you, and then on top of it, Mercedes writes that story, the first of a series about Luke, and Violet Sperry dies. Both were friends of yours.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Look . . . I don’t want to fight.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Well, I was pissed,” she admitted. “We agreed to have boundaries.”

“I was concerned, Rach, that’s all. But I guess I shouldn’t have been. You can obviously handle this and whatever else comes your way.” With that, he hung up, the disconnect a distinct click in her ear.

You’re an idiot, that horrid voice reminded her. He’s the kids’ father; he was concerned, that’s all. You don’t have to always act like a damned shrew.

“Wounded party,” she said aloud, arguing.

Fine. Then victim.

“No!”

So we’re back to crazy person whose temper controls her tongue?

“Oh, shut up!” she said aloud and stormed back to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator, eyed the bottle of wine, and slammed the door shut. She still had a couple of hours before she picked up the kids, and then later, she was off to Lila’s for the damned meeting.

Lila.

“Ex-Stepmommy Dearest and ex-BFF all rolled into one.” She shook her head. “Awesome.”

Pull yourself together; let it all go. For God’s sake: Violet’s dead. Possibly murdered! Remember: It was Violet’s testimony that helped convince the judge that you weren’t responsible for Luke’s death. She provided one of the reasons for “reasonable doubt,” though the case never went to a jury.

A new sadness chased away her anger at Cade. It was true. Violet, deeply myopic and not wearing glasses in the dark cannery that night, had sworn she’d seen a flash from a gun’s muzzle just before Luke fell, and the flash had been near Rachel but not from her own gun. Violet’s shaky testimony coupled with the fact that there was no gunshot residue on Rachel’s hands or clothes had helped her defense.

Some people thought she’d somehow washed her hands clean on the way to the station, that with her father’s help she’d twisted the evidence to her advantage, which was wrong. She’d been numb after Luke had collapsed, yes, and had been grateful that her father had been first on the scene. But as much of a kaleidoscope of blurry, painful images and emotions as that night had become, she hadn’t cleaned up. Those tissues her father had given her, to wipe her eyes and blow her nose . . . they hadn’t been treated, and even so, they wouldn’t have destroyed the gunpowder residue.

But then, what did she really remember?

Don’t go there.

Not now.

Not ever.

It serves no purpose.

Just get through this miserable day.

*

Blam!

The back of Dylan’s head slammed against his locker and his teeth rattled in his jaw.

“Just do it,” Brad Schmidt ordered. His face was pressed nose to nose with Dylan’s, his strong fingers holding Dylan’s shoulders in a death grip, his beefy body nearly on top of him. The rest of the hallway was deserted except for Dash Parker, the lookout, standing at the juncture to the science wing.

“I can’t, man.” Dylan’s back was pressed up against his locker.

“You have to!” Schmidt’s pupils dilated. His breath smelled of pizza and the pores on his nose seemed enormous. “You promised.” He gave Dylan a shake for emphasis. In a letterman’s jacket, black T-shirt, and camo shorts, Schmidt was furious, the nostrils on his nose flaring, his skin turning red.

“I’ll get caught.”

“Then find a way to not get caught. Okay? You’re a smart little shit. You’ll figure it out.”

“No, I think . . . I think my mom is on to me.”

“Then be fuckin’ careful, got it?” Another hard shake and it was all Dylan could do to stand his ground, to not pee his damned pants. Schmidt had a temper, a legendary temper that had only helped him become an all-conference tackle on the football team. “We had a deal.”

“I’m telling you, I can’t.”

Brad’s thick lip curled over his teeth and his dark eyes narrowed. “Who’re you more afraid of, Ryder? Me? Or Mommy?”

“She can be pretty badass.”

“Not as badass as me, I’ll bet.” The thick fingers dug deep into Dylan’s muscles. “Remember that.”

“Hey! Schmidt!” Parker hissed, his head whipping around. He was tall and lean, a defensive end in football, third base in baseball, an all-around jock, and a sycophant to Schmidt, which made him worse in Dylan’s opinion. “Walsh is coming!”