A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(74)

That final picture of her would haunt him to the grave. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the rest of his life without her.

The rest of his life. Chet nearly laughed out loud. What life? That was the real question. He was sick to death of the endless lies, the constant need for charades, flirting with disaster.

That’s how it’d started with Monica. A game, because she irritated him. One diversion too many and this time he was paying the piper in spades.

The empty days stretched out before him, followed by cruel nights staked out in some dark alley or a cheap hotel room crawling with loneliness.

The rest of his life was reserved in hell. He was born there and had spent a good majority of his carelessly lived existence there, except for one brief furlough with a preacher’s daughter. Just long enough for him to taste what could have been his, so he’d know exactly what it was he’d thrown away.

He emptied his drink, slapped the money down on the bar, and stood. The room spun and he shook his head, hoping that would help. It was too damn early in the afternoon to be drunk.

When he left the Blue Goose the cold hit him like a sharp claw. He squinted in the sunlight, cursing it as much as he cursed himself. The only person he had to blame for this was himself.

This was what he got for involving himself with a missionary. He’d known from the first time he kissed Monica that something like this would happen. It hadn’t stopped him from seeing her again. It hadn’t stopped him from caring. Nor had it stopped him from nearly screwing up her life.

The walk back to his office did him good. He was beginning to think he might be able to pull himself together and accomplish something by the end of the day, when he strolled past the department store window. Santa was there, and a long line of kids were waiting for him to listen to their wish lists. A little boy was squirming in his lap.

Something about the kid reached out and grabbed Chet by the gut. Perhaps it was the boy’s eyes, maybe it was the color of the kid’s hair, which was close to his own. It came to Chet then as unwelcome pain. If his life had been different, he might have had a son.

That fantasy along with everything else had been destroyed years ago when he’d been brash and naive enough to believe in justice and truth. Years ago before Tom was murdered, before he hadn’t been able to save his partner.

He forced himself to keep walking until he reached his building. His office lacked welcome, but Chet had wasted enough time already. He had work to do.

He sorted through his mail and tossed it unopened into the garbage. Reaching over the top of his desk, he pushed the button for his answering machine. A series of impersonal beeps followed. No one wanted him, not even his clients.

What he needed, Chet decided, was a change of scene. He should have left this stinking city years ago. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what it was that had prompted him to stay.

His mind made up, he pulled the phone from its jack, stuck it in the bottom desk drawer, and then searched through his filing cabinet for his lease, wishing he could remember the terms.

A knock sounded at his door.

“It’s open,” he shouted, shuffling though his papers. He made decent money, but had never gotten around to hiring himself a secretary. He wished now that he had.

“I’m looking for Chet Costello.”

“You found him.” He looked up and damn near swallowed his tongue. It was Monica’s father.

Lloyd Fischer grinned in recognition. “So it was you? I was guessing, you see. Monica didn’t give me your surname. Then again, I didn’t ask.”

“What can I do for you, Reverend Fischer?” Chet asked crisply. He wasn’t going to put up with an interrogation. Fact was, he wasn’t up to much more of anything.

“We’re working at the Mission House,” the older man explained, looking around the room. His eyes revealed neither approval nor disapproval, just mild curiosity.

“What can I do for you?” Chet pressed a second time.

The question seemed to take the reverend by surprise and he reverted his attention to Chet. “I’m not exactly sure. Would you mind if I sat down?”

“I was just on my way out.” The last thing Chet wanted was a lengthy conversation with Monica’s father.

“This won’t take more than a couple of minutes,” he said, and helped himself to a chair.

The reverend was being deliberately obtuse, and Chet gritted his teeth with impatience.

“When was the last time you saw my daughter?”

“Tuesday.” Chet made a point of looking at his watch as if he needed to be someplace important soon. “If Monica didn’t give you my name, how’d you find me?”

“I read your license, remember?”

He was losing it, Chet mused. He’d forgotten the old coot had caught him coming out of the side yard that night and had asked to see his identification.

“My daughter’s badly hurt, you know.”

For one wild second Chet assumed Monica had been injured and the fear that seared through him burned hotter than the bullet he’d taken years earlier.

“Life’s tough and then you die,” Chet stated unemotionally.

The man grinned as if he easily saw through Chet’s ploy. The grin irritated Chet. “Listen, I have work to do.”

“Monica claims you love her. Is that true?”