She stared up at him then started crying again. He held her, stroking her hair, letting it all pour out of her, even as he struggled to hold his own emotions in. He held her until the crying dwindled and stopped.
Finally, she pushed gently away from him, wiping her face, unable to meet his eyes.
“I have to go, Louis,” she whispered.
She moved away and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was standing by the door, wearing her coat. She was holding one of the carriers, waiting.
He went to the door and she opened it. They stepped out into the bright sunlight. She didn’t look back as she went down the snowy walk, the carrier bumping awkwardly against her leg. She didn’t look back at him as she opened the door of her Jeep and put the carrier in the back. He waited, standing with his hands in his pockets. Finally, she faced him.
“I loved you,” she said softly. “Was it wrong?”
“No,” he said.
She hesitated then nodded slightly. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, her eyes locked on his.
“When will you be back?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The question was there, in his head, but he knew there was no need to ask it. Nothing was possible for them. He had known that when he walked up the hill.
He focused on her eyes, on her lips, her face, her hair, focused on every detail so he would remember. He would remember the taste of brandy on her mouth, the curve of her hip, the smell of patchouli.
She got in the Jeep. She looked back at the cabin, then at Louis.
“She might have gotten outside,” she said absently.
“I’ll look. I’ll find her for you.”
She nodded and started the engine.
“Goodbye, Zoe,” he said.
She smiled slightly. Then she put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.
He watched the Jeep disappear down the hill. He turned and looked back at the cabin. He let out a breath, so long and raspy that it hurt his lungs. He was so tired, a sudden hollow feeling overtaking him, as if the last of his emotions had drained out of him with Zoe’s departure. He started down the hill.
He didn’t know what made him stop and look back at the cabin. But when he did he saw something at the window. A small black form. A cat.
It sat there calmly, staring back, its eyes luminous slits in the sun.
He stared at it, transfixed. Its tiny pink mouth moved, a silent meow behind the glass.
He went back into the cabin. The black cat came right to him, rubbing against his legs.
“Damn,” he murmured.
Picking it up, he put it in the empty carrier sitting by the door. Moving quickly, without looking back at the dim room, he left with the carrier, stepping back out into the sun.
CHAPTER 45
He rubbed his arms, watching the coffee dribble into the pot. It was the last of the can and he knew he was only going to get one or two cups out of it. It was too cold to go out and get more and the Mustang hadn’t started in days anyway.
Something touched his leg and he looked down to see the black cat rubbing against his calf.
He pushed it away gently with his foot, thinking about Zoe. He had called several times about the cat but she had never responded. He assumed she had left for Chicago and finally had left a note in her mailbox, telling her he had the cat.
He glanced down at the animal. It sat staring up at him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the linoleum.
With a sigh, he looked back at the slow drip of the coffeemaker. Finally, he pulled out the pot and stuck the mug under the drip, staring out the window as he waited for it to fill. Frost obscured the windowpane. He reached up and used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe it clear.
Sunny…first time in a week.
The pine trees stood tall and unmoving in their crisp green uniforms with their white epaulettes of snow. He shivered, glancing down at his feet in their old tube sox. His big toe was poking through a hole in the end. He used his other foot to turn the hole under as he pulled the cup from the machine. He stuck the pot back and walked to the table, sliding into the chair. Taking a sip of coffee, he picked up the stack of mail he had neglected for the last three days.
A large manila envelope caught his eye and he stared at the Detroit return address with no name. He opened it.
It was a copy of the
“Jerk,” Louis muttered.
He looked at the front page. He couldn’t miss the big headline on Delp’s freelance feature story — THE KILLING SEASON. And the small blurb below that: “On a cold winter day, two teenagers were murdered. Five years later, the cops who did it are brought to their final justice.”
It was a long article but he read all of it, and when he put it down he was left with a begrudging respect for Delp. He had done a good job on the article. It was painstakingly researched and written with the sensitivity of a good novel, and between the lines anyone could read the unspoken theme: that the Lacey teenagers were not the only victims.
Louis dumped sugar into the mug and stirred the coffee, thinking about Jesse. He was facing felony murder charges for beating Johnny and conspiracy to cover up Angela’s death. Gibralter was dead, his reputation shattered. Zoe was gone, her life shattered. And he…
Louis sipped the coffee, thinking now of his own fate. Steele had dropped felony charges against him after Cole told the truth and recanted his statement about the Red Oak abduction. But Steele had still made an example of him, telling the TV reporters that “the actions of Louis Kincaid, while technically legal, were still unethical. I intend to pursue a charge of obstruction of justice, if only to ensure Kincaid does not remain a police officer in the state of Michigan.”
Louis poured more sugar into the coffee. It didn’t matter anymore. He had already quit. He would survive. He would survive, he told himself, if his bitterness didn’t eat him alive. He had warned Cole against it but he could see it happening to himself these last couple of days. He had changed somehow, on some very basic level, and it arose from something more than just what had happened with Zoe or even the fear he might never work as a cop again. He felt adrift, his faith in the power of his badge destroyed, the idea of what he
Nothing was black and white, as he had believed, especially truth. Truth was nothing but different perspectives, refracted through the prisms of people’s pain. It was ever-changing, unreliable, not to be trusted.
