The Last Sister (Columbia River)(21)

“I’ll be there.” The sheriff continued toward the door.

Zander silently followed, reminding himself to never make assumptions.





10

Emily parked in the quiet clearing and hoped the ghosts would stay away.

The pile of rubble grew smaller every year as it decomposed—rain, sun, and time breaking down the components. Small grains blew away with the wind. Ferns and wild grasses sprouted. In its death, the old house had given life to small glimpses of nature.

After the fire her childhood home had been knocked down, but no one hauled anything away. She wondered what kind of chemicals had leached into the ground. What nonbiodegradables would still be present in a hundred years.

No one cared.

As she stepped out of her car—with new tires—she estimated it had been four years since she visited the spot where her father died and her home burned to the ground.

It still hurt.

Good memories flashed. Hide-and-seek with her sisters. The day her father put in a swing set. Lazy summer days making “homes” in the tall grass. Bug bites. Itchy poison ivy that made her cry. Her mother had tied mittens onto her hands, and Emily had torn at them with her teeth, desperate to scratch.

Not all good memories.

But memories of poison ivy were better than remembering the night her father was murdered.

Flashing police lights. Fire engine sirens. Their hoses and water.

Madison clung to their mother, her face buried in Mother’s coat. The flames lit up their mother’s face as she watched the fire grow higher and the house start to fall in on itself. Shock. Fear. This wasn’t happening. This had to be a dream. Emily hung tight to her mother’s arm. Her mother said nothing, dumbly staring at the flames, and Emily’s gaze searched their surroundings. Firemen ran and shouted. Police did the same.

A policeman approached, his face grim. And Emily knew they’d found her father.

It wasn’t a dream.

Tires crunched as a vehicle approached behind her. Emily turned and her heart sank.

Brett.

The Astoria Police Department SUV parked, and she saw that her ex-husband wasn’t in uniform. It was Saturday. His day off. After five years she still remembered his schedule. Annoyance shot through her. Why did her brain retain minutiae of her ex-husband’s life?

How does he know I’m here?

He had no reason to be on this property. That meant he’d followed her.

Rage simmered under her skin. But she displayed no emotion.

A habit. A protective habit around Brett.

His door slammed, and he strolled over to her, nonchalantly eyeing the rubble heap and the surrounding trees. His casualness was scripted; he did nothing indifferently. Especially when she was involved.

“Hey,” he said. More indifference.

As if it weren’t odd that they’d crossed paths a mile out of town at the edge of the woods.

Where no one went.

“Hey.”

“Saw you drive past me in town. I waved, but you didn’t see me.” He stopped three feet in front of her, his brown eyes locked on hers.

Her stomach twisted. At one time she’d melted when those eyes were turned on her. She’d longed for him to notice her, and when he finally did, she’d believed her world was perfect. Now it meant he was analyzing her, searching for nuance, hunting for subtext in every move she made and every word she said. Studying her like a bug under a microscope.

She held very still.

“You’re right. I didn’t see you.”

“I saw where you turned and knew there could only be one destination.” Concern shone on his face. “Don’t tell me you come up here a lot.”

“I don’t.”

At one time he’d been everything she thought she wanted. Strength. Maturity. Love. He was six years older than she, and she’d adored him since she’d been ten. When she was eighteen, he’d finally looked her way, and he’d liked what he saw. He became the foundation of her life.

And then the ruler of her life.

They married two years later, and it started with small things. Questions about where she had been. Wanting immediate answers to every text. Warnings about her male friends: guys have only one thing on their minds. Asking her to stay in with him instead of attending her regular girls’ night.

She’d done what he asked, flattered he craved her full attention, a result of his deep love for her.

But then the requests slowly tightened around her neck.

Why shouldn’t he have her email password? What was she hiding?

Why did she talk to male friends? Wasn’t he enough?

Why couldn’t he tag along when she went out with her girlfriends? They were his friends too.

When she refused anything, he’d question and calmly engage her for hours, trying to convince her to see his side. He loved her, he treated her like a queen. Why shouldn’t she do some little things to help him feel more secure in their relationship?

It became easier to do as he asked to avoid the emotionally draining, hours-long conversations. Over time she learned to walk on eggshells around him, trying to keep him happy and content.

The constant scrutiny drove up her stress levels and wore her down. She realized she could no longer live under the same roof with him and asked for a divorce.

He was insecure. It wasn’t her responsibility to cater to it.