Finally.
“It wouldn’t hurt to check with the prison and see who visited Michael Rivers over the last three years.”
“Did you boss me around this much when we were partners?” Hensel chuckles. “Not to worry, Darcy. I had the same idea.”
Darcy breathes easier knowing her old friend has an eye on the Genoa Cove murder. Inside the closet, she enters the safe code and opens the door. Removing the Glock, the same gun she used as a federal agent, she lets the weight of the weapon settle on her palm. Like an old friend.
She spins and aims the gun at the window, imagining the killer trying to break in. She scrutinizes the weapon and reminds herself to clean it soon. Then she places it in the safe and locks the door.
Headlights sweep across the window when she returns to the living room. Hunter? No, the lights are too high for the Prius. The thump of a truck door closing announces Bronson, and she opens the door before he knocks.
“I got us snacks,” he says, raising a bag of donuts and pastries. “Sorry. It’s a cliche, but the old cop in me can’t pass up a late night special.”
“I could go for comfort food.”
His eyes search the living room. Muttered laughter comes from Jennifer’s bedroom.
“Where did everybody disappear to?”
“Jennifer and Amy apparently became best friends,” Darcy says, tilting her head toward the bedroom. “And I don’t know where the hell Hunter is.”
“Should I go out looking again?”
“You’ve done enough. Sit and eat. I’ll put the ballgame on.”
Bronson plops his heavy frame on the couch and opens the bag. Darcy returns with paper towels and hands him one. She doesn’t know where to sit. Beside him, or in the recliner? She splits the difference and curls up on the opposite end of the couch. The confectionery delights taste wonderful, but she can’t relax. Hunter is prone to leave the house and wander, but he should know better than to do so on this of all nights. The game ends, and Bronson checks his watch.
“It’s okay,” Darcy says. “No sense in both of us staying awake.”
“You sure you don’t want me to look for him?”
“He has the car, he’s not stuck in the middle of nowhere. He does this sometimes.”
Bronson studies her.
“If you’re certain. Tell me when he shows up.”
“I will.”
He jiggles the keys in his hands. Then he’s gone, and Darcy pours another cup of coffee as her phone sits in silence.
It’s midnight when Hunter opens the door. He’s quiet, but every nerve in Darcy’s body stands at attention. His footsteps roust her from dozing. She flicks off the television.
“Why, Hunter?”
“I was just out driving and thinking.”
“In my car and using the gas I pay for.”
Hunter slips his hand into his pocket and removes his wallet. Darcy notices a cut on his forefinger.
“Here,” he says, handing her a ten-dollar bill.
“It’s not about the money. Keep it. What happened to your hand?”
He glances down at his finger and shrugs.
“Cut it somehow. I don’t remember.”
“Hunter, I wish you’d talk to me. Half the time you’re never here, and I can’t tell what’s going on inside that head of yours. If something is bothering you…”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
A lie. The way he averts his eyes and protectively folds his arms betrays him.
“But if something was bothering you, you’d talk to me. Right?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Darcy grabs her ponytail and tugs.
“Okay. No using the car for the next week.”
She braces herself for a Jennifer-like explosion, but he only nods and hands her the keys. This frightens her more than an argument. He’s hollow inside and pushes everyone away, and she’s losing her ability to reach him.
In bed, Darcy stares at the ceiling. The tree outside her window draws shadows across the walls as soft murmurs from her daughter’s room slip through the plaster.
As sleep pulls her under, another worry tugs at Darcy. Something Detective Ames asked her.
Had she noticed any strangers or unknown vehicles parked in her neighborhood before the murder?
Yes. Just one person.
Bronson.
CHAPTER NINE
The light through the window blinds Darcy when two hands shake her awake. She jolts and sits up, gaze swiveling between Amy, Jennifer, and the clock. Nine o’clock. She overslept.
Jennifer wears a sweatshirt off the shoulder and a pair of running shorts two sizes too small for her frame. Amy dons conservative items from Jennifer’s wardrobe—Adidas sweatpants and an Atlanta Braves t-shirt. It’s the concerned twist to Amy’s mouth that gets Darcy’s attention.
Darcy sits up and pulls a pillow between her back and the headboard.
“Is something wrong?”
“There was another rape in Smith Town last night,” Amy says as Jennifer hands Darcy her iPad.
The lead story on the Genoa Standard’s website details the rape of an unnamed teenage girl in Smith Town. Darcy cringes at the byline—Gail Shipley wrote the article—and scans the text. The rape occurred between ten and eleven o’clock last night, and the only description the Smith Town Police Department has to go on is the attacker was a young, white male of indeterminate age wearing a ski mask, medium build, height around six feet. The police urge women to walk in pairs and keep to well-lit areas after dark.
“Good thing you left that hellhole,” Jennifer tells Amy as Darcy hands the tablet back to her. “None of my friends go anywhere near Smith Town.”
“All of my stuff is there,” Amy says, biting her lip. “I don’t want to go back.”
“We’ll go together,” Darcy says, “and when we make the trip, we’ll have Bronson wait outside. How many months do you have left on your rental contract?”
“Nine months. What am I going to do?”
“We’ll talk to the landlord and explain that a man is stalking you. He doesn’t need to know the details. If he’s a good man, he’ll see you as a hardship case and let you out of the contract. If not, you can look into a sublease.”
A door opens. Hunter totters past, brushing the hair out of his eyes on his way to the bathroom.
“Did you hear the news?”
Darcy wishes Jennifer wouldn’t show so much excitement over the Smith Town attack with Amy in the room. Hunter stops and leans his arm on the jamb.
“What news?”
“Someone attacked another girl in Smith Town.”
Hunter yawns and departs without comment.
While the girls make breakfast, Darcy edges the door shut and pulls her laptop into bed with her. Exiting out of her email, she types Bronson Severson and Genoa Cove into the search bar. Several pages of results accumulate, the first page filled with links to Bronson’s self-defense course and announcements of his retirement.
On the second page she finds a story from three years ago. Officer Bronson Severson responded to a dispute between two young males outside Katherine’s Grill on Main Street in Genoa Cove. The argument turned physical, and Bronson broke one of the assailant’s arms while wrestling him to the ground.
The comments section below the article turn ugly, and some posts are as recent as a week ago. The story remains a hot button topic for Genoa Cove residents. The predictable argument ensues between police supporters who believe the accused are always guilty, and those who see police brutality everywhere. As Darcy scrolls deeper into the debate, it becomes clear the vast majority of residents believe Bronson used excessive force. One poster refers to Bronson as a powder keg, an out-of-control thug with a history of brutality. Another claims his wife divorced him after he struck her during an argument.