River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(15)

“And what am I thinking, Matt?” She opened the driver’s-side door. Romy jumped in and climbed over to the passenger’s seat.

“I really don’t know.” He tried to look innocent, his hands turned up in a placating gesture.

“Oh, I think you do,” she said and slipped behind the wheel. Her hands were shaking. She looked over her shoulder and backed out of the driveway. She pulled onto the road and drove away.



For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, Becca drove across the bridge to the Pennsylvania side. She wound her way up River Road toward home. Her stomach skipped and lurched. Her thoughts scattered. The knot inside her chest felt like something close to dread.

She cut the lights on the Jeep as she pulled into the driveway, not wanting to disturb her father or Jackie at such a late hour. She remembered how the headlights on her father’s patrol car used to cut across her bedroom walls when he had returned home after one of his late-night shifts. The lights would wake her up, or maybe she’d been awake all along, waiting for him. He’d sit on the edge of her bed, smooth her hair from her face before planting a big raspberry on her forehead. She’d giggle and pull the book out that she’d been hiding under the covers, waiting for him to come home and read to her. Old Yeller and The Call of the Wild had been two of her favorites, and she’d never gotten tired of listening to his voice as he read.

She clung to this happy memory as she climbed out of the Jeep. So many of her thoughts about her childhood and then later her teenage years had become twisted and distorted, she had to force herself to remember it wasn’t all bad. There had been a time when she’d believed her family had been a happy one.

Romy relieved herself in the yard while Becca pulled the suitcase from the back of the Jeep. Loud, thundering engines cut across the night air. She turned to the sound. Motorcycles. The Scions. Eight or nine of them rumbling down the road. When they reached Becca’s father’s house, they rode single file, then made a circle like you’d see in a parade. Round and round they went, marking their turf with noise, having swapped engine-muting exhaust systems for straight pipes.

Becca tried to see their faces, whether John was among them. They were yelling as though they were celebrating, perhaps rubbing something in Becca’s father’s face. It wouldn’t be like John to do something like that, or at least not the John she used to know.

When they were gone, she patted Romy on the head. “It’s okay,” she said. “You get used to it.”

She walked around to the side of the garage, used her old key, and entered through the back door. She put her suitcase down, stepped into the dark kitchen. Romy sniffed around a chair. She turned on the small light over the stove, jumped at the sight of Jackie sitting at the table. “You scared me,” she said.

“Sorry.” Jackie raised a glass to her lips. A bottle of scotch sat on the table in front of her.

“Is everything okay?” Becca asked, worried about why Jackie would be sitting alone in the dark, drinking.

“We had a rough couple of hours. He’s resting now.” She motioned to the bottle. “I needed to take the edge off.”

“Did you hear the bikes out front?” Becca asked and grabbed a glass from the cabinet and sat across from her.

“When don’t we hear them?” Jackie said.

Becca poured herself an inch of scotch. “You don’t seem surprised I’m here,” she said.

“You strike me as though you’re the kind of person who always does the right thing.” Jackie downed her drink. She set the glass on the table, filled it up again.

Becca was taken aback. It was strange to hear what someone thought of her, even if it was good. To hear it from her father’s lady friend was even stranger, especially since she barely knew the woman in front of her. She hadn’t given much thought to Jackie or to the kind of person Jackie might be. She’d seen her as another woman on her father’s long list of women.

Besides, Becca was loyal to her mother, and it had never occurred to her to be friends with Jackie. She couldn’t bring herself to care about her, even if she was taking care of Becca’s father. Becca’s mother felt differently, though. Her mother had been in contact with Jackie on a regular basis in the last two years. Her mother was a better person than Becca.

“I try to do the right thing.” Becca couldn’t say what was really on her mind. She hadn’t planned on being here. She was here because she had nowhere else to go.

“It means a lot to him.” Jackie tossed back another shot. “But don’t expect him to tell you that.”

“I won’t,” she said and threw back her own shot of scotch, the whiskey burning her throat and esophagus as it went down, the heat settling in her stomach like acid.

Jackie tilted the bottle in Becca’s direction.

Becca held up her hand. “I’m good.”

Jackie twisted the cap back on and stood. “I’m really glad you’re here. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to get a little sleep while I can.” She tightened the terry cloth robe around her waist and walked away on unsteady legs.

Becca put the bottle on the countertop and the glasses in the sink. She picked up her suitcase. “Let’s go to bed,” she said to Romy, who eagerly followed her upstairs.

Her childhood bedroom was the same as she remembered—green walls, plaid comforter, white lace curtains her mother had hung when Becca was fourteen. The room smelled clean. She wiped her finger across the top of the dresser. No dust. Jackie must’ve anticipated her coming and cleaned the room ahead of time. She was irritated by Jackie’s assumptions about her, mostly because they were true.