River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(83)

John was a man who lived his life outdoors. And he’d die that same man, on his own terms. He put the barrel under his chin. And pulled the trigger.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

After the sun had set and the last rays had cast shadows across Parker’s wooden floor, Rick’s phone went off. Becca sat up on the couch where she’d spent that last several hours sleeping, although she couldn’t say it had been a restful sleep. In her dreams she’d been running, looking over her shoulder, not knowing who or what was chasing her, but hearing her father calling, hearing the rush of the river rapids.

Rick walked out of the room. Then after a brief conversation, he returned. “That was Parker,” he said. “It’s over.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her arm. Romy stood at her side.

“Take me home,” she said.



Becca stepped through the door of her father’s house. She could barely remember having left it that morning; the hours in between stretched and blurred. The house was quiet, but she had the feeling she wasn’t alone.

“Jackie,” she called and walked into the kitchen. She didn’t get an answer.

Romy sat next to her dish. Becca fed her and refilled her water bowl. When she put the bag of dog food back into the lower cabinet, she heard someone walking around upstairs.

Slowly, she made her way up the steps. At the end of the hall, her father’s bedroom door stood open. As she approached, her chest tightened, and the pressure of something she’d not yet acknowledged pressed down on her shoulders. She had to force each foot in front of the other, but once she reached his bedroom and peered inside, she found it empty. The bed was stripped of comfort. The imprint on the mattress was the only evidence her father’s body had once rested there. The smell of something old and stale lingered. She went to the window and opened it. A gust of fresh air blew the curtains into the room, air that was meant for the lungs of the living. She felt lost, displaced, not knowing where she should go, what she should do next.

A loud thump came from the guest room, as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor. There was the sound of a zipper being opened or closed—which, she couldn’t be sure. She walked out of her father’s bedroom, leaving the window wide open, and stood inside the doorway of the guest room. Jackie was hunched over a suitcase next to a heaping pile of clothes.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Jackie said, pausing for a second. “They came for your dad a couple of hours ago.” She continued organizing clothes, putting them into the suitcase as she spoke. “It was getting late, and I didn’t know where you were. I hope that’s okay. You’ll still be able to see him again if you want.”

“Okay. Thank you for taking care of it.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “I didn’t expect to be gone so long.”

Jackie waved it off. “Everybody handles these things in their own way. You did what you needed to do under a tough circumstance. I’m not one to judge.”

“Thank you.” There wasn’t anything more she could think to say.

“He wants to be cremated.” Jackie shoved a pair of shoes into the case. “I hope you’ll respect his wishes.”

“Of course.” She didn’t know what his wishes were, and she was glad at least Jackie had been made aware of them. It was one more thing she’d never talked about with him. She would find over the next several weeks, months, and eventually years, there was so much more she’d missed saying, talking, sharing with her father. Sometimes it would be important things like whether he was proud of her or angry that she’d talked with Parker and the retired detective. Other times, she would think of silly things she’d wanted to ask him, things with no consequence at all.

The questions she would have for him would come to her in time, questions that would forever remain unanswered.

Jackie pulled open the dresser drawers, double-checking all of them were emptied. The closet door was flung open, and most of the clothes were still on hangers. Next to the bed was another suitcase waiting to be filled.

Jackie continued. “Your mom should be here tomorrow,” she said. “Her flight was delayed, but I told her there was no need to rush.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

Jacked stopped packing and turned to look at her. She smoothed her frizzy hair. A loose strand fell onto the V-neck sweater she often wore, the one with the plunging neckline. “It’s not my home,” she said. “We both know if your dad hadn’t been sick, I wouldn’t be here.”

Becca opened her mouth to protest, but she knew that it was true. He wasn’t the sort of man who stuck with one woman for long. It was his way.

“Look, I think your dad loved me as much as he could love anyone. And I loved him. I did. Very much. But if it wasn’t for the illness . . .” She shrugged. “Well, we both know his track record with women.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wasn’t blind to who he was.”

“Then why did you stay? Why didn’t you pack up and leave and, I don’t know, find someone who would be good to you, who wasn’t . . . wasn’t . . . you know.”

“Dying?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Becca.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “There were a lot of reasons. He needed me, for one. He was all alone. There was no one else.”