Fatal Reckoning (Fatal #14)(48)
She bent at the waist, propped her hands on her knees and stared at the two boxes as if they were filled with dynamite. “Those boxes have been sitting here, in his house, right under our noses, and I had no idea. I had no idea.” For a brief moment, she feared she was going to be sick.
“It might be nothing, Sam. More of the same.”
“Or it might be everything.”
“Let’s find out.” He stepped around her, picked up the stack and carried them down the stairs.
After closing the attic door, Sam followed on legs that felt rubbery and weird, as if someone had kicked them out from under her. Four years. Four fucking years. She wanted to punch something or someone.
“Did you find the bag?” Celia asked when they came downstairs with the boxes.
“Not sure yet. Take them into the kitchen.” It was the shock, she thought, the shock that had followed the shooting and the stroke her father had shortly afterward, that had knocked her off her game. For months, she’d been in a fog of grief, sorrow, fear and rage, helping to care for Skip and trying to hold on to her own job, while her marriage to Peter crumbled and her battles with Stahl intensified. He’d had absolutely no empathy whatsoever for what she and her family were going through after her dad was shot. The enmity between them had escalated significantly during that time.
Those days, weeks and months were a blur, the most stressful period of her life, a time she’d much rather forget than relive. But when she allowed herself to wallow in the memories of that dreadful time, she was able to see how things that would normally be important had slipped off her radar. The delivery of items from the office would barely warrant a notice when keeping him alive and comfortable had consumed their days and nights.
Had those boxes been there all that time, containing the answers they’d needed so badly? Sam was almost afraid to find out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN THE KITCHEN, Freddie took the cover off the first box and pulled out a stack of files that he placed on the table.
Sam stared at the files. “Why did some of it end up here and the rest is still at HQ?”
“Who knows? Maybe this was more personal stuff?” He took the first file and opened it, sifted through the pages. “These are all his performance evals.”
There were files with awards, citations, letters from citizens Skip had helped or befriended that Sam would pore over when she had time, letters from children he met at school visits and pictures they’d drawn of him in his uniform. Something about those pictures got to her as she recalled his joy in interacting with kids and teaching them to respect law enforcement officers. That had been one of his favorite things to do as deputy chief.
They went through every piece of paper in both boxes but didn’t find anything new that could help with the case.
The adrenaline drained out of her, leaving Sam exhausted and frustrated.
Celia came into the kitchen. “Anything?”
Sam shook her head. “Where else would that bag be? Any idea?”
“You can go up and check his closet in the bedroom. Everything is still where he left it, except for the clothes he wore afterward.”
Afterward. Life divided between before and after the shooting.
“Let’s go check the closet.” Sam trudged back up the stairs.
Freddie followed her into her father’s bedroom.
Celia had chosen to use one of the other empty bedrooms, so Skip’s room was virtually untouched, right down to the framed family photos on the dresser, the red-and-blue-striped comforter he’d bought after Sam’s mother moved out and the queen-size bed that had belonged to Skip’s mother, Sam’s beloved grandma Ella. Angela’s daughter had been named for her.
Freddie’s hand on her shoulder reminded her of what they’d come in there to do.
She went to the closet, opened the door and was greeted by the faint scent of the Polo cologne her father had worn his entire adult life. The familiar scent nearly brought her to her knees. She gripped the doorknob as she took a quick visual inventory of the closet—dress shirts, polo shirts, dress pants, jeans, uniforms, shoes and a stack of sweaters on the shelf. The man purse was not among the items in the closet.
“Is there anything behind the clothes?”
Sam divided the hanging clothes and looked behind them. “Nope.”
Another dead end. Backing away from the closet, she sat on the edge of the bed to collect her thoughts. “When I was a kid, I used to come running in here first thing every morning to wake him up. It didn’t matter how early it was, he always got up with me, shushing me so I wouldn’t wake everyone else. He would carry me downstairs and make me pancakes. We’d watch the news together while he drank coffee and I had chocolate milk. He’d ask me questions about things we saw on the news and tell me it was important to be aware of what was going on in the world.”
Arms crossed, Freddie leaned against the dresser and listened.
“I followed him around like an annoying puppy, but he never acted annoyed.”
“He adored you.”
She ran a hand over the familiar striped comforter. “Used to drive me crazy when I was first on the job and he’d light up at the sight of me, no matter who else was around. The guys would tease me about being a daddy’s girl, and I couldn’t even deny it.”