River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(25)

“It’s good to see you,” Mr. Dave said. “Say, how’s your dad?”

He wore the same expression she was coming to expect from the people around here, one of pleasant surprise at her sudden return and then concern that the reason for her visit had to do with her father and the possibility he’d taken a turn for the worse. It was kind of them to care about their old police chief. It was. But some small part of her wanted to know why no one had asked what she’d been doing since she’d left. Why hadn’t Parker asked?

“He’s doing okay,” she said, feeling bad that her reply was vague, but how was she supposed to tell him that her father was dying?

“You tell him I asked about him. And everyone in town is looking forward to seeing him again real soon.”

“I will,” she said, in a hurry to get away.

She picked up the items on Jackie’s list—medicated swabs, aspirin, soap, deodorant, milk, and bread. She was back in the Jeep in less than ten minutes. Romy barked in gratitude. Becca put the supplies on the floor behind the seat, taking another look across the street at the area marked with yellow tape. She’d been so excited to see Parker, she’d almost forgotten about the body they’d pulled from the river.



“Hello,” she called to Jackie after setting the bags on the kitchen countertop. Romy had stayed outside in the front yard with the new bone Becca had purchased at the last minute before she’d exited the grocery store.

She called another hello, and after not getting a response the second time, she slowly made her way upstairs. She was careful not to make a sound, creeping along the wooden floor, placing her feet on the less creaky boards. Every movement she made felt as though she were taking a step back in time, as though she were sixteen again, sneaking into her bedroom long after curfew.

Her father’s voice carried down the hall. “No,” he barked. He sounded gruff, stronger than any of the other times she’d heard him speak in the last two days. She paused, steadying herself against the wall.

“You have to calm down,” Jackie said. “She doesn’t understand. You need to give her a little time.”

“No,” he said.

Hearing his voice, the one she remembered from her childhood when he had been vigorous and full of life, made her feel young and weak and powerless, as though she were ten years old again.

She took two steps backward, inched her way back down the hall. When she reached the stairs, she raced down the steps and flew out the door that led to the garage. She passed her father’s old pickup truck and his beloved John Deere riding mower. She leaned against the outside wall of the garage like she used to do as a kid, catching her breath, gazing into the backyard where the woods met the overgrown grass and weeds.

There was a time when Becca used to sit in this same spot with her old dog, Sheba, and watch her father mow. It was the only time she remembered ever seeing him relax, the lines on his face softening. He’d been at peace in the yard, comfortable in the yellow bucket seat. The motion of the ride had been soothing, the humming motor blocking the noise inside his head. He’d told her mother all of this at one time when Becca had been foolish enough to believe her parents’ marriage had been a good one.

She crossed her arms. The large oak tree at the edge of the yard dropped several acorns, the sound of which forced another memory, one that was more like a slap in the face, quick and sharp. She’d been standing in this same spot when she’d noticed Russell underneath the tree. Sheba had growled, a low belly growl, her way of sending a warning.

Becca’s father had been cutting grass but cut the mower when he’d spied Russell too. The two men had stared at each other. After a moment, her father had climbed out of his favorite yellow bucket seat and approached him.

Becca had been too far away to hear what they’d said, but she remembered the look on her father’s face when he’d turned around. His face had been drawn and pale. It was the only time Becca had ever seen her father scared. His stride back to the mower had been shaky at best. And still, he’d climbed back into the seat and finished cutting the grass as though nothing had happened.

Becca had never asked her father what had transpired between him and Russell. Her father wasn’t someone who answered other people’s questions, not her mother’s, and certainly not his daughter’s.



Two days after Becca had watched her father and Russell talking at the edge of their yard, her father walked into the kitchen holding a handgun. He laid it on the table next to her bowl of cereal. This wasn’t unusual. She was used to guns around the house, lying on the countertops, in the hall closet, on the nightstand by her parents’ bed. She’d never touched them. She’d never even been tempted to put one finger on the cold hard steel. Her father had explained to her at an early age the kind of power a gun wielded, how the weapon could be the difference between life and death. And hadn’t she seen it for herself firsthand? She was ten years old now, but she’d never forgotten the doe he’d shot in front of her, the helpless, injured, innocent doe.

He drank a large glass of water before putting the cup in the sink. He turned around. “Follow me,” he said and picked up the gun.

She lagged behind, silently begging, Please don’t shoot the groundhog; please don’t shoot the groundhog; please don’t shoot the groundhog. Her father hated animals digging in his yard. She had seen the rodent the other day burrowing in his manicured lawn. She’d run after it, chasing it away for its own safety. Then she’d quickly filled in its hole. She thought she’d saved its life, but it was possible it had come back to do more damage.