A Merciful Silence Page 43
He knew instantly. “The fact that we argued.” It’d ripped up his insides too. “I overreacted about the cabin decisions. You should have the lead on that project.”
“You didn’t overreact. I need to be more aware of your feelings,” she said earnestly.
He kissed her to stop her from talking about it. It was such a small thing in the scope of what had happened.
“I know what’s truly important now,” he said against her mouth.
He felt her lips curve. “Me too.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Truman went to the police department the next day. He couldn’t stay away.
Now that he’d been back in civilization for more than a day, his brain had shifted into fast-forward and he needed to know what he’d missed at work. Mercy had helped him get dressed, and he wore a clean splint and sling for his arm. He had shaved, and now his face looked and felt naked. At breakfast Ollie had looked at Truman as if he didn’t recognize him. Truman’s father had taken the teen to get a haircut the previous afternoon, and Truman had stared at Ollie in the same manner when he returned, embarrassing him.
Their hair was a symbol of deeper changes. Truman wasn’t the same man he’d been weeks earlier, and he planned to transform Ollie’s world for the better.
The Eagle’s Nest Police Department building felt welcoming and slightly foreign at the same time.
But damn, it was good to be back in his chair.
After catching up on a mountain of paperwork and eating lunch, he saw he had time for an errand before Mercy stopped by. She’d insisted on checking up on him, and he couldn’t say no; he had a deep need to see her too. Their separation had left both of them rattled and needing occasional visual reassurance.
Truman walked down the street to pick up more paper for their printer. Lucas had planned to do it, but Truman was ready for a breath of fresh air, rain or not. The outside chill felt good on his bare cheeks. His town was quiet and peaceful, and the stress of his time in the woods was fading.
I’m a lucky, lucky man.
He froze as up ahead a man abruptly lunged out a store door and tripped over his own feet, falling into the street at the curb. A black dog burst out of the store and circled the man, barking madly, and a woman followed. She stopped and stood tall over the man in the street, her hands on her hips, not offering to help. Truman jerked into motion and ran to give a hand.
Not-so-quiet town.
“—following me!” the black-haired woman was shouting at the man.
Truman recognized the nearly bald-headed man on the ground. Steve Harris. The man he’d recently interviewed because he’d found the murdered Verbeek family two decades earlier. Truman halted as the dog planted its feet, made eye contact with him, and growled. The woman grabbed its collar. “Sit.” The dog sat, dividing its attention between the man on the ground and Truman.
“Zara won’t bite,” the tall woman told Truman. “But she isn’t fond of men.”
“She should be leashed.”
“Yes, she should.” She released the dog’s collar and the animal stayed motionless. The lean woman was dressed from head to toe in black and exuded an alertness and tension that reminded him a bit of Mercy.
“You okay, Steve?” Truman knelt, using his one good hand to help the man up.
“Tripped,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the dog.
“He’s been following me for days,” the woman announced. “Zara picked up on my nervousness in the store and lunged at him. She would never bite,” she quickly added.
“Leash her now,” Truman ordered. The woman had ignored Truman’s first hint to secure her dog. She pulled a leash out of her bag and snapped it on.
“He’s been harassing me. I keep seeing him everywhere.”
Steve fixed his gaze on the dog. “I didn’t touch her or say a word to her,” he claimed.
Truman noticed he didn’t say he hadn’t been following her. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman.
“Britta.”
He blinked and focused on the tattoo peeking out from under her high collar. He looked questioningly at Steve, who nodded back. “Britta Verbeek—Vale?” he asked her.
Annoyance flashed on her face. “I don’t know you,” she told Truman. She tightened her grip on the dog’s leash.
“I know about you,” Truman admitted. “I’m Truman Daly. Chief of Eagle’s Nest PD. Mercy Kilpatrick is my girlfriend.”
Britta pressed her lips together, agitation present in her expression.
I don’t think I just did Mercy any favors.
Truman looked between the two tense people, wondering where to start. He jerked his head at Steve. “You know he’s the one who originally found your family?”
Her face cleared and then went dark again. “Why the fuck are you following me?” she said in a low tone to Steve.
“I saw you for the first time today—a few minutes ago. I heard the clerk call you Britta when he thanked you for your purchase. I came closer to see if it was really you, because I’d heard you were back in town.” He looked at his feet. “I’ve always wondered what happened to you. If you saw me previously, it’s only because I’m always in town.”
“That’s true,” said Truman. “I stumble across him almost every time I walk down the street. Did he do anything to you?” he asked Britta.
“He looked at me,” she muttered, glaring at Steve. “I could tell he recognized me.”
Not against the law.
“I’ve been on edge lately,” she admitted.
“I know,” Truman said. “You have good reason.” He looked at Steve. “Do you have your confirmation that she’s fine now?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Britta.
“Don’t ever approach me again.” Britta’s eyes were pale-blue flames.
Not if Steve wants to keep his head.
“Go home, Steve,” Truman ordered. The man was happy to leave, and Truman watched him rapidly make his way down the sidewalk.
He turned back to Britta, who also watched him leave. “Why don’t you come chat with me a bit?” Truman asked her. “I’m expecting Mercy any minute. I know she’d like to see you.”
Indecision flickered on her face.
He held his hand out to the dog, who leaned forward to sniff it and then enthusiastically licked his fingers.
Truman had eaten a bacon cheeseburger for lunch.
“All right.”
Mercy was joking with Lucas when Truman walked in the door with Britta and a tail-wagging Zara.
“What happened?” she instantly asked, spotting the restrained fury in Britta’s eyes. She wants to kill someone.
Truman gave her a rundown of Britta’s encounter with Steve Harris.
“You think he’s safe?” Mercy asked Truman. “I don’t like that he approached her.”
“Me neither,” added Britta. “I saw him twice earlier this week. Once in the diner and then at the post office. Today made the third time.”
“I know it looks bad,” Truman admitted, “but I really think he’s harmless. When I originally asked him about finding . . . your family, I could see that it had haunted him most of his life. His concern that day for you as the survivor felt very genuine. I’ve always dealt with him in tense situations because of the fire hydrant in front of his house, so I’d never seen him distressed like that before.”
“He’s creepy,” Britta said. “I need to seriously consider moving. I feel like I’m under a spotlight in this town . . . too many things from the past.”
Mercy understood the woman’s concern and hated that she was about to make Britta feel even more on center stage. “Britta, do you recall Janet Norris? She was a friend of your mother’s.” It feels good to focus on my cases instead of worrying about Truman.
“I do. They worked together for a little while—the one time Dad allowed her to get a job. Janet talked a lot.”
Mercy tried to think of the softest way to deliver her news. “I was going to call you about this later today, but do you remember when I told you a second family had been murdered here recently?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “Later I saw it in the news. The Jorgensens. They had two children.” Her jaw quivered.
“Janet Norris was their closest neighbor.”
The muscles in Britta’s jaw clenched as the rest of her went very still. “That’s fucked up,” she whispered. “How . . .”
“I know. The possibility of her being tied to the two similar murders decades apart boggles my mind.”
Fear flickered on Britta’s face, and she steered Zara toward the door. “I need to go—”
“Don’t leave yet.” Mercy stepped after the woman but stopped, knowing she’d bolt if Mercy touched her.
Britta looked over her shoulder. “Today has been too much . . . too many people . . .”
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay, Mercy. I shouldn’t have come back. I was stupid to think it would all be in the past.”
The door closed behind her.
Truman exhaled. “I don’t know what I think of her.”
“She’s scared. She’s been uneasy all her life,” Mercy said, wondering what she could have done differently to stop Britta from running off. “The simple fact that she gets up every morning and functions astounds me.”
“I don’t know how well she’s functioning. I thought she was going to tear Steve Harris to pieces. She’s like a loaded cannon.”
“Yes, she’s tightly wound. Everyone wants a piece of her. Even us,” she added. “I feel as if she could help us with the Hartlage and Jorgensen cases.”
“Both of them happened after she returned to town,” Truman reminded her.
“I haven’t forgotten. But we’ve found nothing to tie her to the deaths.”