River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(32)

The woman reporter spoke in a soft, sympathetic voice. But before Becca could feel too badly for the guy or empathize with his family over their tragic loss, another photo popped onto the screen. This one was a mug shot of the victim, Judd Cafferty, who went by the nickname Caff; he was a longtime resident of the state of New Jersey. The reporter’s voice became more businesslike as she dispensed the facts, how he’d been in and out of prison the last five years for mostly drug-related misdemeanors and one felony for armed robbery.

The reporter continued. It wasn’t another case of accidental drowning as Becca and the townsfolk in Portland had first been led to believe, although Parker had hinted this much to her already. The victim had been shot and gutted, his body dumped in the river. The Pennsylvania State Police were asking anyone who had any information concerning the crime to contact the number at the bottom of the screen.

Becca was so engrossed in the news report that the spoon in her hand with the split pea soup was left hanging in midair. Her father grabbed her wrist with his crooked fingers, spilling the green soup onto the white sheets, knocking the spoon out of her hand. It landed with a clatter on the hardwood floor by her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to free her wrist from his strong grasp while using her other hand to pick up the spoon. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He yanked on her arm.

“Ow,” she said as he continued to pinch her skin with his tight grip, forcing her to look at him. There was a look of desperation in his eyes, a kind of panic in his glare. It frightened her.

“What is it, Dad?”

His grip weakened. She pulled away from him, rubbing her skin where his fingers had left red marks.

His words came out deep and slow, as though every syllable uttered was a tremendous effort. “There’s something you need to know, decisions I made a long time ago.”

Becca leaned back in the chair, turned her head away. She didn’t want to hear a deathbed confession, if that was what this was. She didn’t want to know the intimate details of her parents’ marriage, his reasons why he had done what he’d done to her mother, why he’d sent Becca away. And yet a deep down part, a buried part, longed for an explanation.

“Dad,” she said. But before she could continue, the phone on the nightstand rang, the one from the landline. “I’ll get it.” She sprang from the chair.

“Becca?” Parker asked.

She rushed from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,” she said as she made her way down the hall and stairs to the kitchen, Romy at her heels.

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

“It’s my dad, but never mind. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m just glad you called. I was hoping we could get together again.” She was talking fast, aware of a nervousness she wasn’t used to feeling, not since she’d first met Matt. But this was Parker, and right now, she needed a friend.

“Okay.” He hesitated. “I’ll be fishing off my dock tomorrow morning. I’m a couple miles down the river from town. It’s the first cabin on the left about two miles after Dead Man’s Curve.”

So he lived close by. It made sense since the commute to the police station was less than thirty minutes. The entire time she’d been living in New Jersey, Parker had been just across the river. It brought a smile to her lips. She didn’t see the river as separating them, but rather as the very thing that connected them.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

There was a long pause on the other end, as though he had something else he wanted to discuss, the real reason for his call. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“You know what? Don’t worry about it. It can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “See you then.”

She was about to hang up when he said, “Oh, Becca. I start at five a.m.”

She groaned. But she’d be there.



She let Romy outside, and then slowly she made her way back to her father’s bedroom to clean up the mess she’d made with the soup. She pushed the door open. He was staring at the TV, watching some commercial about erectile dysfunction.

“Let me clean this up,” she said, scrambling to wipe the dried pea soup off the sheet. When it was clear the stain wouldn’t come out without a good washing, she hurried from the room and returned with a clean sheet. In a flurry of activity, she changed out the dirty sheet with the clean one, then picked up the dinner tray. “Do you want me to leave the pudding?” she asked.

He didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the screen, avoiding looking at her. She could tell he was angry with her for not listening to what he had to say earlier. Well, she was angry with him, too, for wanting to tell her things she wasn’t ready to hear.

“I’ll check on you later,” she said and walked out of the room.



Becca was ten years old, lying awake in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. It was after midnight, twelve hours since her father had left the house after the two detectives had come looking for him, twelve and a half hours since her father had snuck a woman into her parents’ bedroom. She heard her father’s car pull into the driveway. She wondered if her mother was awake, if her mother was waiting up for him like Becca was.

She leaned on her elbows and listened. The garage door closed. He was in the house, making his way quietly up the stairs. His boots clicked on the hardwood floor in the hallway. She lay back down but kept her eyes on the bedroom door. He paused outside her room, his silhouette visible in her doorway. She closed her eyes, hoping he would think she was asleep and go away and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t. She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the tapping of his boots, the sound fading as he walked away.