River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(24)

She pulled into the parking space in front of the local grocery store that sold fresh produce and meat from local farms. Across the street, not far from where Becca had parked, there were several police cars along with the local news van. A few townspeople had gathered, but by the looks of it, most everyone had gone home. It was as though someone had held up a sign reading, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, FOLKS, or more likely, NOTHING YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED IN. If the people in Portland knew how to do one thing, it was to turn their backs, to look the other way, especially if it didn’t concern them, especially if it involved the Scions.

She spotted Parker. He was still standing next to the unmarked cruiser. She and Romy got out of the car, walked down the sidewalk, closer to where he was talking with a uniformed police officer. At six feet two, Parker was the second-tallest person she knew. Her father was the first. It made it easy to locate him in a crowd. She took a few more steps and stopped, unable to take her eyes off of him. He must’ve felt her stare, or maybe it was what she wanted to believe, because he looked her way. Romy stayed close to her side.

Parker touched the police officer’s arm as if to say, Give me a minute. He made his way across Route 611 to where Becca was standing, waiting, fiddling with the leash in her sweaty palms.

“Hey,” she said in a rush. “I can’t believe it’s you.” She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him, sensing hesitation on his part.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “Who’s this?” he asked about Romy and patted the dog’s head. Romy licked Parker’s hand, then sniffed his scuffed, muddy shoes.

“Her name is Romy,” she said. Romy was a good judge of character, and Becca was glad to see her take to Parker so easily. He continued to pet the dog in silence.

“So, it’s been like, what?” She quickly calculated the years since she’d last seen him. “Twelve? Thirteen years?” He looked the same, maybe a little older around the eyes, mouth. His hair was clipped shorter than she remembered, but it still maintained the hint of unruly waves. Stubble covered much of his face. He was the same old Parker, a little rough and unkempt, but in a good way.

“At least that many,” he said. His tone was cautious and not at all like how he used to talk with her. “What are you doing back in town? I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with your dad. I heard about the cancer.” He looked over his shoulder at the police officers milling around. The crime scene was farther down the riverbank. The news reporter was leaning against the back of the van, talking to her cameraman.

“He’s not doing great, so yeah, I’m staying with him for a while at the house,” she said, wanting him to know she was here and she would be, for a little while anyway.

He nodded. “I should get back.”

“So you’re a cop now?” she asked, pointing to the scene. She’d heard rumors off and on, tidbits of information about him online from former classmates that he’d gone to the police academy after graduating college and that he hadn’t married. But she rarely checked social media sites anymore; the gossip, the photos, the sharing of people’s daily lives all felt overwhelming, exhausting to keep track of.

“I’m a homicide investigator,” he said. “State police.”

Now that he said what he was, she was struck by how much he looked the part. She’d only ever met two detectives in her life, some twenty years ago, back when she’d been just ten years old. They’d worn the same dark suits with white shirts. She wondered if Parker had a gun strapped to his side underneath his jacket like the two men who had visited her house looking for her father.

“It was good seeing you.” He gave Romy one last pat. “Tell your dad I was asking about him.” He paused. “You look good,” he said and turned to walk away.

“Parker. Wait,” she called.

He turned back around.

“Meet me for a drink later? We can catch up?” she asked, hoping more than she should that he would say yes.

He didn’t answer right away, and she became uncomfortable in his silence. Please, she quietly begged. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, but he used to be her best friend and something more, at least to her, and it hadn’t been until she’d seen him that she’d realized just how much she’d missed him.

“Sure,” he said. “But I don’t drink. I’ll meet you at the diner for a milkshake.” He glanced back at the scene. “It might be late by the time I get off work.”

“I’ll wait,” she said and watched him walk away.



Becca walked through the grocery store feeling as though time had stood still and she was back where she’d started, the girl known throughout town only as the police chief’s daughter. She’d lived and breathed an identity that had been wrapped around who her father had been rather than who she was—although back then she hadn’t always been sure who she was, questioning everything from her short hair, her choice of a boy for a best friend, her preference for the company of animals rather than people.

She passed the bins in aisle three where she’d shucked corn with her mother. She turned the corner and waved at Mr. Dave behind the meat counter. His apron was smeared with blood from the slab of chuck roast in front of him.

“Becca Kingsley,” Mr. Dave said. He peeled the nitrile gloves off his hands. It occurred to her that what she’d seen on John’s hand the other morning by the river had been a nitrile glove.