Closer Than Blood

“You don’t look like an Eddie Kaminski. Maybe a Teddy Kaczynski.”

“I guess she thought it was funny,” Parker said.

“You know, naming me after the guy she was using until we got out of here.” The officer closed the lid to the plastic tote.

“Look, kid, I’ll tell you something about that woman. Forget about her. Forget you ever laid eyes on her. I married a gal like that. Maybe not that bad. But the type. You meant nothing to her.” Parker kept his mouth shut. I don’t care what you say, asshole, he thought. She’s my soul mate. I can forgive her.

It took two minutes for Darius Fulton to hear the news that a new guy had joined the ranks of those killing time at the Pierce County Jail. Edmund Kaminski was locked up in a segregation cell.

“That piece-of-shit cop is going away big-time,” a guard said.

“So is that woman. You’ll be out of here by tomorrow. This thing’s big.” Darius assumed he was talking about Tori, but he wasn’t.

By the time police came knocking on her North Tacoma door, Maddie Crane had downed her fourth whiskey sour and retired for the night. She looked at her watch, satisfied that everything was over. The plane had taken off from SeaTac to Miami. She was free. She was grateful for the second chance that Edmund Kaminski had given her the night he found her car in a ditch by the railroad tracks along Ruston Way. Instead of arresting her and destroying her once-damaged reputation, he’d offered her a deal. At the time, it didn’t seem too much of a compromise. Being a lawyer had always been about give-and-take. The knocking on her door woke her, and she put on a robe and went to answer. It was Tacoma Police Detective Daniel Davis and two uniformed officers. Blue lights showered her garden with an eerily pretty light.

“Madeline Andrea Crane?”

“You know who I am, Dan,” she said.

“You’re under arrest for conspiracy and fraud.”

In her cell at the Kitsap County Jail, Tori Connelly lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The woman next to her smelled of vomit and body odor, and Tori pulled the scratchy blanket up over her mouth and nose to filter out the stink. She thought of a million reasons why she’d ended up there. She’d miscalculated. She blamed Jason, her sister, Kendall, Kaminski, Parker, even Maddie Crane. She blamed everyone but herself.

“You’re that bitch who killed her husband, aren’t you?” The smelly woman on the other bed had awakened, and she was coming toward her.

“Excuse me?” Tori asked, suddenly ramrod upright.

“I saw you on TV. You’re something. We’re going to be friends. Come over here and sit next to me.” Tori flinched a little at the invitation.

“I’d rather die.”

“You’re too pretty to die.” A smile came to Tori’s face. She knew the woman was right.

Lainie O’Neal didn’t lie awake all night like she had night after night. After she’d been treated at Harrison Hospital and released, Adam Canfield took her to her Seattle condo. They’d arrived very, very late, and Adam curled up on the couch. Without Ambien, without counting games to numb her mind, she simply and sweetly fell asleep. When she finally opened her eyes she remembered nothing of her dreams. She could remember what happened the night before and the drama that came with it, but that was all a true memory. It wasn’t one of those transplanted dreams that her sister seemed to send her. Her eyes lingered over the photograph of her sister and her sitting on the top of her dresser. It showed the two of them in their ballet recital costumes. Lainie shifted in her bed and grabbed the extra pillow. She flung it across the room, knocking the photo and its silver frame to the floor. Adam Canfield scurried into the room and turned on the light.

“You all right?” he said.

“I thought I heard something.” She glanced in the direction of the broken photograph and Adam nodded at the splinters of glass and the black-and-white photo. No comment was needed.

“My head hurts,” Lainie said, pressing her palm against the spot that had been shaved and bandaged.

“That’s because your twin bitch-ter smacked you with a crowbar or something.”

“Right,” she said, though she hadn’t forgotten anything.

“What time is it?”

“Eleven forty-five.”

“A.M. or P.M.?” Adam laughed.

“Morning. You’ve been out, but not that long.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” she said. Adam reached for the light switch.

“No problem. You need the rest. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Adam,” Lainie said, slipping back deeper under the covers.

“Thanks for bringing me home.” She closed her eyes, thinking that the bad dreams would come back to taunt her. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. She was safe and free.

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COMING FROM PINNACLE IN 2012

Lisa Lancaster could not make up her mind. A willowy brunette with wavy shoulder-length hair and forget- me-not-blue eyes stood outside the student union building on the Pacific Lutheran University campus near Tacoma and tried to determine what she should do. With her hair. Her major. Her life. Lisa had been a history major, a communications major, a songwriter, a papier-mache artist, and even a member of the university’s physics club. She thought her indecision had more to do with the breadth of her interests, but family members didn’t agree. Lisa was twenty-four and had been in college for six years. She’d leveraged her future with more than $120,000 in student loans. And she still didn’t know what she wanted to be. Lisa was talking on the phone to her best friend of the moment, Naomi, when she first noticed a young man with a heavy backpack and crutches walking across the parking lot. It had rained earlier in the evening and the lot shimmered in the blackness of its emptiness. His backpack slipped from his shoulders and fell onto the sodden pavement. Lisa rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Some dork with a broken leg or something just dropped his stuff into the mud,” she said.

“This campus is full of dorks. Is he a cute dork?”

“That’s an oxymoron,” Lisa said.

“Oxy-what?” Naomi asked. Lisa rolled her eyes, though no one could see them. There was no one around. Just her and the guy struggling in the parking lot.

“Never mind,” she said. Naomi wasn’t nearly as stupid as she often pretended to be. Neither was she all that smart. She was, as Lisa saw it, a perfect best friend.

“I can’t decide if I should skip dinner and go home. My parent’s fridge never has anything good.”

“Mine, neither,” Naomi said.

“Even though I make a list, they ignore it. I practically had to kill myself in front of them to get them to buy soy milk for my coffee. I hate them.”

“I know,” Lisa said.

“I hate my parents, too.” The young women continued to chat while Lisa kept a wary eye on the dork with the backpack.

“God,” she said.

“I don’t know why the handicapped—”

“Handi-capable is the preferred term, Lisa.” Lisa shifted her weight from one foot to another. She was impatient and bored.

“Whatever,” she said.

“I don’t understand why they don’t get a dog or a caregiver to help them get around. Or just stay home.” Lisa stopped and let her arm droop a little, moving the phone from her ear.

“He dropped his pack again.”

“You know you want to help him,” Naomi said.

“Remember when we both wanted to be physical therapists?”

“Don’t remind me. But I guess I’ll help him. I’ll call you back in a few.” Lisa turned off her phone and started