“Abhorrent piece of shit” was the snap-judgment title his mind had conjured for Jonah.
Which seemed trite now. And petty.
“Go home,” Silence said as quietly, as gently as he could.
Jonah took a deep breath, cleaned his lips again, looked at the back of his hand and wiped it on his jeans quickly, embarrassed.
He shook his head.
“Go home,” Silence said again. He swallowed. “Meet tomorrow.”
“No. Let’s continue. Come on.”
And before Silence could respond, Jonah stepped away.
Chapter Thirteen
Gavin Stokes was in complete darkness.
A tumult of deep reds and shadowy grays swam before his closed eyes. His body swam too, violent twists of his torso, swings of his arms, tossing the abstract distortions, twirling and skewing them.
The sight of Amber’s body on the newscast. The confirmation of her death coming from a television set. Knowing that somehow she had met her end in the middle of a swamp. He pictured her beautiful, guiltless face in the murk, blonde hair stained brown and foul green.
Another round of tears coursed out of him, head between his knees, hands in his hair.
A thick scent. Flowery sweet. Lilac. Lingering notes of detergent or fabric softener, whatever had been used to clean the blanket that his face was buried in, a fleece throw that had been draped over the arm of the sofa.
The smell of lilac would be associated with his niece’s death, every time he smelled it, from here on out. Forever. He could predict that bit of the future.
A wave of anger. He pulled at his hair hard enough to water his eyes more.
This was an injustice. He didn’t know what had happened to her. But it was an injustice.
He could already hear the cynical voice of the collective in his head, the increasingly over-informed, opinionated public, saying that the drugs in Amber’s system spoke to her character. They would say that drugs explained why Amber’s car had veered off the road, gotten stuck in the mud.
But those voices, those people didn’t know Amber. Gavin had been foolish, stupid, to have allowed himself to be separated from her in recent years, but he was never disconnected from her essence. Amber was pure. Whatever led her to drugs, it was not her fault.
None of this was her fault.
He knew it.
Why had she been taking drugs? Why?
Another surge of pain, so strong he felt it in his head, a tension in his skull, his brain. He was lightheaded for a moment. His fingers tingled. A dappling of sweat on his forehead, absorbed by the fleece blanket.
A realization. He’d heard nothing from the other side of the room for some time now. Minutes. He took his head from the blanket, opened his eyes.
Carlton was in the recliner opposite the sectional on which Gavin was sitting. It was his house, Carlton’s, only seven years old, stylish yet not overbearing, trendy furniture and all the latest amenities. A bank of picture windows behind them, through which inappropriately chipper sunlight entered the room from the countryside beyond, blazing green and blue.
Carlton stared off. Motionless. Bloodshot, wet eyes. A tumbler of bourbon in his hand.
Gavin tried to speak. Couldn’t.
He tried to stand. Couldn’t.
Then he reminded himself again whose daughter Amber was.
Was.
He found his strength and stood, then stepped to his brother, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Carlton?”
Nothing. Motionless.
Gavin remained there for several long moments, keeping his hand on Carlton’s shoulder almost as much to steady himself as to comfort his brother. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen a few feet away. Additional humming from the ceiling vents, air conditioning that felt too cold.
Finally, Carlton spoke, that deep voice of his more gravelly than normal, not as loud. “Here,” he said. He stood, wobbled, and trudged to the kitchen. He pulled open a drawer, retrieved a small paperback, and slowly made his way back to the recliner.
Gavin watched the book as he approached. He knew immediately what it was, from just a glimpse of the bright blue cover, the thin spine, a splash of red lettering in a distinctive font on the front cover.
Gavin’s hands shook.
“Here,” Carlton said again. “This was on her desk. One of the books you read to her, right?”
Gavin had to reach both hands out to take it. “Yes.”
The Secret of Summerford Point
Kara, Kid Detective, Book 7
All of its edges—the outline of the cover, the text block, the corners—had been worn to a fuzzy, cloth-like texture through hours of gentle use.
Gavin’s fingers trembled as he pulled back the front cover. The pages within had yellowed with time, turning to a dark amber color.
Amber.
The comfortable scent of a used bookstore wafted from the pages. The copyright page showed a publication year of 1972.
In the upper right-hand corner of the first page, a blank page, was Amber’s name in big, awkward, print letters, the handwriting of a second grader—AMBER STOKES.
And farther down the page, centered, were a few lines in an adult’s handwriting. His handwriting. Gavin’s.
Amber,
It has been a pleasure experiencing these wonderful mysteries with you. You are a real sleuth in the making.
Love,
Uncle Gavin
When Amber was a tiny girl, it had stunned Gavin to discover that Carlton didn’t read to her, given that two of them—he and Carlton—had read together as boys, voraciously. They devoured copious detective stories, long nights with flashlights and graham crackers and giggles. The habit led to a brotherly oath: they’d both grow up to become real-life detectives. The oath was honored, but Carlton was quick to point out that he’d become a real police detective, and Gavin was just a part-time private eye.
Since Amber’s mother had died when she was young and Carlton wasn’t reading to her, Gavin filled the void, a great chance for him to bond with his niece and a way to perpetuate one of the warmest memories of his childhood—reading detective stories with a loved one. For years, until Amber finally grew too old, too
