Where the Blame Lies(42)

The living room they walked into was dank and drab. A fog of smoke hung in the air and it reeked of cigarettes, though the older woman sitting in the recliner in front of a TV set was not currently smoking. She looked up, her expression pinching when she saw Zach. “Who are you?”

Zach stepped around Josie, reaching out his hand. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Zach Copeland with the Cincinnati Police Department.”

She took his hand, her grip weak, skin soft and papery, eyes assessing. “Diana,” she muttered, looking at him suspiciously. “Police, eh? I don’t like the police.”

“Mom, there have been a couple of crimes committed recently that are similar to mine.” Josie ran her hands over her hips as though she was nervous about mentioning the topic to her mother. “Someone broke into my house a couple of days ago, and Detective Copeland and some of his co-workers are making sure I’m not in danger.”

“Danger? What kind of danger?”

“We don’t know, ma’am, and we’re hoping this is just a precaution, but until we know for sure, Josie’s got an escort.” He flashed a quick smile at Josie, trying to make the situation sound as routine as possible.

Josie’s mother eyed him again, giving a small snort. “You could do worse,” she said to Josie, who pretended not to hear, picking up a blanket on the couch and folding it.

“Mom, come on into the kitchen with me. I’ll make you something to eat while I clean up.”

The older woman took her time reaching next to her, picking up a pack of cigarettes, and tapping one into her hand. As she placed the cigarette in her mouth, Zach noticed she had a dip on the side of her bottom lip—a lifetime of smoking had literally carved itself into her body. He’d been present for a few autopsies where the deceased had been a heavy smoker. They should show those pictures in school—no one would ever pick up a cigarette again. Of course, that was wishful thinking. There would always be humans who were self-destructive, weak, and too dependent on vices that could literally kill them. Zach wondered what it’d been like for Josie growing up with this hardened creature. It seemed impossible that someone like Josie—sensitive, refined, beautiful—had been created by the woman in front of him.

She pulled herself from the recliner. Her maroon bathrobe was stained and wrinkled, and it appeared as though she hadn’t bathed in . . . too long. In her worn face, though, Zach could see the ravaged vestiges of long-ago beauty. It gave him an odd feeling, one he could only describe as sadness. Zach’s job offered ample opportunity to confront the wicked things people did to each other, but it just as often showcased the wicked things people did to themselves. Diana gave him a narrow-eyed stare as she turned, following Josie through a swinging door into what must be the kitchen.

Zach sat in a chair by the window and blew out a breath. He pulled the heavy curtain open slightly. A shaft of sunlight brightened the room. Better. At least a little. He took out his phone and sent Jimmy a quick message. He heard dishes clattering from the room beyond and Diana’s voice, clear as day. “You screwing him? That detective?” she asked, obviously chewing as she spoke.

“Mom,” Josie hissed, her voice low, but not low enough that Zach couldn’t hear.

“Bet he’s good at it. Screwing.” She made a rough scoffing sound. “All they’re good for anyway,” her mom said, as though Josie hadn’t even spoken. “Especially one with a pretty face like that. Body to match? He’ll be out the door before you can say boo.”

The dishes clattered more loudly, Josie’s obvious attempt to cover her mother’s voice with racket.

Zach cringed on her behalf.

“You still looking for that kid a yours? Be harder to get a man, especially one like that, if you’re tied down with a kid. Trust me I know. Probably be better off—”

“Don’t,” Josie said, and even from the other room, Zach could hear the warning in her voice. The steel. Her mother was crossing a line. The older woman was quiet after that.

Zach stayed in his seat, texting back and forth with Jimmy, who didn’t have any major updates, and looking out the window now and again, checking that his truck was safe. Josie walked back and forth, carrying laundry, garbage cans, clutter that littered the surfaces of her mother’s house. Her mother went to a room in the back of the house and Zach heard a television turn on, something that featured dramatic music, and lots of cuts to commercial—a soap opera most likely. Zach watched Josie move about. She was basically acting as a housekeeper for her mother, and he wondered how long she’d been doing that.

At about nine thirty, Josie went to the back of the house, he heard a brief exchange, and then she came into the living room. “Ready?”

God, was he ever. He nodded, following her from the house into the bright light of day where there was breathable air.

They got into his truck and as he started it up and pulled from the curb, Josie remained looking out the window. She seemed depressed, angry. Both.

“How often do you clean for her?”

“Every other week,” she murmured, no inflection in her tone. After a minute she looked at him, and he glanced at her. Her eyes moved over his face before he looked back to the road. “You’ll need to shower to get the smell of that place off you.”

“I’ve smelled like worse things than cigarette smoke.” He took in the classic prettiness of her profile, the elegant lines of her jaw, her nose, the sweep of lashes, and wondered again how Josie shared DNA with the woman she called Mom. “It doesn’t seem to make you happy, cleaning for her. Why do you do it?”