River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(12)

She didn’t know.

She had never understood her father’s reasons for doing the things he’d done. She crossed her arms against the chill. Then she closed her eyes, listened to the trickle of the stream in the woods behind her father’s house, remembered how the same stream ran behind John’s barn on its way to feed the river.



Eight-year-old Becca picked her way through the backyard, stopped, looked over her shoulder at her father. He was standing in the driveway next to his pickup truck, holding the rifle he’d shot the doe with the week before. She still had mixed feelings about the doe’s death, about him.

She turned back around, walked into the woods behind their house. She swatted gnats from her face, steered clear of the maple tree with the beehive in it. She stomped the ground, making as much noise as possible with the hope that John was in the woods tracking deer, honing his skills as a hunter, and he would hear her.

He stepped from behind a hemlock tree. She started.

“Was that you making all that racket?” he teased. He was wearing a jean jacket, the ends frayed where the sleeves were ripped off, the word Prospect stitched above the left breast pocket. He had patchy fuzz on his chin and above his lip, not enough to look like a man, but too much to look like a boy anymore.

“Want to catch bullfrogs?” she asked.

“Can’t.”

“Crayfish?”

He shook his head.

“What do you want to do then?”

“I brought you something,” he said.

She eyed him suspiciously. “How did you know you’d see me?”

“I took a chance.”

“What is it?”

He reached under the hemlock tree, picked up an old barn cat lying underneath. “I thought you could use a friend,” he said and handed it to her. “I know I haven’t been around much. The club keeps me pretty busy these days.”

The cat’s fur was matted, lacked any shine to it. Its meow sounded lonely. It curled itself in Becca’s arms, pushed its cheeks against her hand, looking for affection.

“You can’t tell anyone where you got her. It has to be our secret,” he said.

“I won’t tell.” Her father would be mad. He didn’t like John. He didn’t get along with John’s father, Russell, his own stepbrother. She didn’t understand why they fought with each other but thought it had something to do with Russell and his motorcycle friends and Becca’s father being chief of police.

“Okay, well, she’s a pretty good mouser, but you’re still going to need to feed her,” John said. “And maybe you can have your mom check her for fleas.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of her,” he said. “I have to get going.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I think it’s best if I keep my distance from now on.”

“Why?”

He touched the pocket where the word Prospect was written. “It just is.”

She thought he looked sad about it. It made her sad too. She hugged the cat closely, searching for and finding comfort in its warm body, its purr.





CHAPTER SIX

It was dark by the time Becca left her father’s house. She still didn’t have any clear idea whether she would be returning. She walked into the condo and found Matt relaxing on the leather chair in front of the fireplace, sipping a glass of red wine. He was wearing one of the shirts she liked best, a simple gray T-shirt with navy-blue piping at the collar and sleeves. His legs were stretched out in front of him. His feet were bare. She recognized the serious expression on his face, the one he wore whenever he was deep in thought.

She entered the room. He immediately pulled himself up, his eyes searching hers. “How’d it go?” he asked.

She plopped onto the chair across from him. She wasn’t sure if he was asking about her trip home to see her father or about the surgery on the golden retriever earlier that morning. She chose to answer the latter. “The surgery went well. No complications. She should be feeling like her old self in a few days.”

Romy trotted in from the kitchen, mouth dripping with water. She pushed her nose against Matt’s hand until he stroked her head, her chest, behind her ears. The dog whined with pleasure. Becca couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m glad the surgery was a success.” He cleared his throat. “But what about the other thing? How did that go?”

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “He’s really sick. More than I thought. I mean, I knew he was. My mother talks with him on occasion. So I knew.” She paused. “I knew about the cancer. I just didn’t know how bad it had gotten.”

Matt looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before if you knew he was sick? I mean, jeez, Bec, cancer?”

She touched her forehead. A headache was coming on. “I guess I didn’t want to deal with it.” She realized that was the absolute truth. She didn’t want to deal with her father, his illness, but most of all she didn’t want to deal with their relationship or lack of one. It was too damned hard.

Matt got up and knelt on the floor in front of her, taking her hands in his. “I’m sorry. This must be very difficult for you. What can I do?”

She touched his sculpted face, the high cheekbone, the curve of his jaw. Any other time she would’ve gotten up and walked away, unyielding in her resolve to keep him at a distance and, in a perverse way, only making him want her more. But she didn’t have it in her to push him away tonight. Tonight, she needed his arms around her, holding her. When he leaned forward and brushed his lips on hers, she responded, lacing her hands through his hair, pressing her body against him, collapsing into his strong arms.