River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(53)

She pulled from the curb and back onto the road, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

John parked his father’s chopper in the barn. He removed his helmet, but he stayed on the bike, not wanting to get off just yet. Ever since he’d gotten it up and running, all he’d wanted to do was ride it. It was as though he was channeling his father through the bike, hearing his father’s advice, following his imaginary orders. John’s own motorcycle sat idle on the side of the house.

He continued sitting on Russell’s chopper in the barn in the dark. Nearby, an owl screeched into the night. The light from the moon crept through the opened double doors, casting shadows on the dirt floor. The autumn air was cool and crisp, but he was sweating underneath the leather cut, his thoughts on Becca.

He’d followed her first to the police station and then to Benny’s Bar, where cops congregated off duty. He knew the bar, knew of the owner, Benny, but he’d never been inside. The Scions kept their distance from such places for obvious reasons. She hadn’t been aware he was following her. She hadn’t noticed him, not until he’d wanted her to notice, when he’d pulled alongside her Jeep. He’d meant it to serve as a warning. I’m watching you, he’d wanted to say. He’d been able to get a glimpse of her face from the dim lights of the dashboard. She’d looked scared, and after her actions tonight, she should’ve been.

If she was talking to the police, she left him no choice. He was going to have to take care of the situation. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d never wanted to hurt her. Everything inside of him screamed he was supposed to protect her. He’d felt this in his core, in his bones, ever since she’d been a little girl.

John bent at the waist, his head between the handlebars. He was having trouble breathing. He’d never survive in jail. He smacked his fist on the leather seat between his legs, the pain in his knuckles flaring from an old wound, the arthritis forming around the damaged joints where he’d broken his hand pounding his fist into the face of the guy that had tried to touch her, tried to pick her up in Sweeney’s Bar when she’d been a teenager.

After he’d given her a ride home, he’d returned to the bar, a white-hot fury burning his insides. He’d found the guy with the skull rings sitting at the table, pawing another girl. He’d grabbed the collar of the guy’s cut and lifted him out of his seat, tossing him to the floor. Rage had taken control of him, had coiled around the muscles in his back and arms. He hadn’t been able to stop. He’d struck him over and over again, beating him until every bone in the guy’s face had cracked. If Beth hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t placed her tender hand on John’s shoulder, her voice cutting through the chaos in his mind, he’d have beaten the guy to death.

He rubbed his hand where the knuckles ached with the memory, where the rage moved below the surface of his skin, a constant flickering in his veins.

Russell’s voice exploded in John’s head. You no longer have a choice, it said. It’s time you take her out.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

After leaving Parker’s cabin, Becca had returned to her father’s house. She’d found Jackie in the kitchen, flustered, her father crying out upstairs. Becca had spent the rest of the night sitting with him, until the very early hours of the morning, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

Now, she headed outside with Romy. The sun was bright, too harsh for her tired, bloodshot eyes. A cool breeze blew. She tossed a stick for Romy to chase.

She tried hard not to think about Parker, to push the thoughts away. But the events of last night played over and over again in her mind, as though they were stuck on rewind. If she were honest, she was scared to tell Parker the things she knew about John. Something inside of her held her tongue. She wasn’t imagining it; something was there in her past. She hadn’t realized it until John had pulled his motorcycle alongside her Jeep. The memory had surfaced, but it had been fleeting, an image that could only be seen out of the corner of her eye.

Becca picked up the stick, tossed it again for Romy. When Romy brought it back, Becca sat on the cold ground among the crabgrass and weeds, scratched behind the dog’s ears, buried her face in the dog’s fur. Eventually, Romy tired of the attention and trotted away to do her business.

Becca got up and walked to the Jeep to grab the plastic bags from the console. She glanced up at her father’s bedroom window, remembering the time when Sheba had done something much worse than going to the bathroom in his yard.



Becca was playing in the driveway with colored chalk, making a hopscotch only she would ever use. She took care to make the hopscotch challenging but not too difficult, so she wouldn’t become frustrated if the rock she’d tossed happened to miss a square. She hadn’t been paying attention to Sheba. The dog had wandered into the backyard with her rawhide bone.

“Becca, goddamn it,” her father hollered. “Get over here.”

She dropped the chalk; the green dust covered her fingers and palm. She walked around the back of the house, head down.

“Look at this,” her father said. His voice rose to a level of near hysteria. “Do you see what your dog did?” He pointed to a spot on the ground not far from his boots. The grass had been dug up, and nothing remained but a pile of dirt where Sheba had been digging.