“I’ve got this, Mom. Why don’t you sit?”
Kay waved a hand in front of her face.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes it hits me. It’s best if I stay busy and stop my mind from racing.”
Kay led her mother back to the chair and sat her down. Ambrose held her mother’s frail hands across the table as night spilled down the windowpane, the stars sharp for a summer evening in Wolf Lake, New York.
“You’ll never be alone, Mom.”
Kay sniffed.
“You and Martin are too good to me.”
“We love you, and we’ll always be here for you.” Ambrose glanced down and weighed her words. “Martin and I talked. When it…happens, we’d like you to come live with us.”
Kay released her daughter’s hands.
“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy here. Why would I ever leave?”
“We’re converting the attic into a bedroom. Kyla wants it to be hers, which means her bedroom will be free.”
Falling back in her chair, Kay touched her cheek.
“How can I say goodbye to our home?”
“This is too sudden,” Ambrose said, waving her hands. “Don’t decide now. Think it over.”
“I need fresh air. I can’t breathe, suddenly.”
“Mom?”
“It’s okay. Just give me a second.”
Kay shut the back door and stared at the yard through a haze of tears. Crickets sang in the grass. Inside the kitchen, Ambrose flipped the patio light on. A pool of radiance spread into the yard and met the dark. She could make out the picnic table where her daughter’s playground once stood. A flood of images rushed back to her—Lincoln pushing a laughing Ambrose on the swing, the family roasting marshmallows on warm summer nights like this one, Fourth of July with half the neighborhood talking and laughing together while Lincoln grilled steaks. A firefly lit and disappeared as if vanquished. When was the last time she saw a firefly in their backyard? They were so plentiful when Lincoln and Kay purchased the house. Nature’s fireworks, Lincoln called them.
She bit back a sob and straightened her back, hearing Lincoln’s voice in her head.
“You’re stronger than you believe, Kay. You’ll be fine without me.”
Kay touched her heart and squeezed her eyes shut, wringing out the last of the tears.
A thump came from inside the house. Then a shadow crept along the neighbor’s wall. As Kay stepped into the yard, a glass shattered in the kitchen. Ambrose yelled.
Kay whipped the door open and stumbled inside. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not now. She wasn’t ready.
Her daughter’s frantic voice carried down the staircase.
“Dad, Dad, wake up!” Footfalls racing to the landing. “Call an ambulance. He’s not breathing!”
CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Ryka Mandal crosses her stockinged legs and jots a note on her pad. When she glances at Deputy Thomas Shepherd, her eyes hold concern and a penetrating understanding. It’s as if she peers straight through him.
“How are you sleeping?”
Thomas rakes his fingers through the mop of unruly hair atop his head.
“Four hours per night, sometimes more.”
“That’s not optimal. Your body needs eight hours to heal. Without it, you’re prone to sickness, lethargy, mental disorders.”
When he first met Mandal in April, her thick accent distracted him. Now it soothes. Grounds him. She sets the notepad on the coffee table separating his chair from hers. They each sit in comfortable, cushioned chairs with ample back support. With the drapes drawn, the mahogany room appears bathed in caramel. An air purifier whispers white noise in the corner.
A lock of hair slides down her forehead and touches her ski slope nose. She brushes it away and sets her hands in her lap.
“How do the other deputies treat you?” she asks.
“Well.”
“They’re not prejudiced against deputies with Asperger’s?”
“No, they accept me.”
“How about your previous job in Los Angeles? Did the other officers treat you differently?”
He ponders the question and shrugs.
“The department promoted me to detective. That demonstrated faith.”
“So no problems inside the Los Angeles or Wolf Lake offices.”
“None.”
She narrows her eyes.
“And yet you’re into your third month of therapy. Do you feel you’re progressing, Thomas?”
“That’s for you to say.”
She fixes her skirt and crosses the opposite leg.
“Last week, you told me you’re father is dying from stage four lung cancer.”
“Yes.”
“You learned this in April, yet you waited until July to speak about it in therapy. Why?”
He touches the bridge of his nose. A headache lingers behind his eyes.
“It has nothing to do with my career.”
“When you came to me in April after you shot Jeremy Hyde, the county required I give you a thorough psychological evaluation.”
“And you cleared me to return to work in May.”
“Yes, with reservations. We discussed my concerns.”
Thomas fidgets in the chair and glances at the clock. In five minutes, the questions will end. Until next week.
“My issues haven’t affected my performance.”
Mandal levels her eyes with his. In this setting, she can be intimidating. Yet Thomas appreciates her no-bullshit attitude. Under different circumstances, she would be a valued friend, someone who wouldn’t shy away from airing ugly truths.
“You’re not sleeping, and shift work provides its own challenges. I fear you’ll regress, if we don’t uncover whatever you’ll holding back.”
“Why do you think I’m holding back on you?”
“For one, your father. Losing a parent is a traumatic experience, Thomas. We should have discussed this in April. How do you feel about your father’s diagnosis?”
Thomas’s mouth opens and closes. His eyes seek the clock again.
“It’s no problem if the session runs long,” she says, following his gaze. “You’re my last appointment for the day.”
“All right.”
“Don’t worry about the time. Tell me about your relationship with your father.”
Sunday, July 12th
9:45 p.m.
Thomas swung his cruiser to the curb and stepped into the humid night. His partner, Veronica Aguilar, was already on the scene and awaiting his arrival. She scribbled on her notepad as a middle-aged woman with brunette hair bobbed her head to
