By Your Side (14 page)

“I
T NEEDS WORK,”
Elliot told Macy, frowning at the bare wires hanging from the ceiling in the small foyer. A missing chandelier. He stooped, picked up a single cut-crystal pendant left behind on the scratched hardwood floor. “Have to expect that with a foreclosure. Emotions run high in the months following a loan default
 
—even worse when the sheriff’s department finally delivers an eviction notice. Some owners haul off whatever they think they can sell. Sinks, stoves, bathroom vanities . . . doors, fixtures.” He pointed at the enameled red door. “Like right there: You can tell the original hardware is gone. The bank just slapped on a cheap door handle and a good dead bolt.”

“Hmm . . .” Macy tried to swallow down the ache that had risen the moment the door swung inward. Emotions running high? Elliot didn’t know the half of it.

“Hopefully we won’t see out-and-out vandalism. It happens too often.” He shook his head. “Graffiti on walls, ‘surprises’ in toilets. I don’t get it. That’s animal behavior. I suppose they feel they have the right to take things out of the home and don’t consider it stealing per se.”

Stealing.
Macy tasted the metal of that flashlight between her teeth, heard the grating as she unscrewed the brass lock set from Nonni’s door. Felt that bittersweet mix of victory and loss as it slid free at last, heavy in her hands. And heart.

“It’s not as if the banks can hire security guards on what amounts to thousands of foreclosures. Or rent guard dogs to
 
—”

“I’m going to walk around,” Macy said, cutting him off. “See the rest of the house.”

“Of course. Let’s
 
—”

“By myself.” Macy met his gaze. “I want to walk through it alone.”

“Sure.” Elliot cleared his throat. “Go on ahead. I have a couple of calls to make. Let me know if you have questions.”

“I will.”

She walked the short hallway to the kitchen, holding her breath. Peered in and then entered. The stove was missing; she could see greasy scrape marks where it had been dragged across the aged tile floor. And the faucets were gone from the stainless-steel sink. But there was a small brick fireplace in the kitchen that hinted at a pizza oven. Someone had lacquered the cabinets in sage green and installed manufactured stone countertops. They were a sort of speckled oatmeal color, plain but clean-looking. And somehow, probably in order of rushed priority, a couple of
tall stools had been left at the breakfast bar. With straw seats and painted green to match the cabinets.

Macy closed her eyes, imagining it: Leah laughing around a mouthful of homemade pizza. Macy quizzing her for an upcoming physiology exam. A dog maybe and
 
—
oh, that yard!

She struggled with the door for a moment, pulled hard, and then stepped outside at last. Her breath caught. Neglected but so beautiful. Morning glory vines climbing the weathered redwood fence. Roses in lush, branch-bending bloom. Trees
 
—an evergreen and several others that cast leafy shadows on the sparse lawn. Macy explored the yard further, spotting empty hummingbird feeders, a wooden frame for a raised garden, a dog run. And there, against the fence: a rusted red wagon, a turtle-shaped sandbox, a pink scooter thick with peeling Barbie stickers . . . In an instant, she felt the brass door latch under her fingers. Smelled those cookies, heard the soft strains of gospel music.
“You’re home, Macy girl.”

There was no need to see any more.

She found Elliot back in the living room. Down on his hands and knees, sniffing at a piece of carpet.

“Ah, that was fast,” he said, rising quickly. He searched her face. “You seem a little overwhelmed. That’s understandable. But try to overlook the flaws, Macy. I know some great, cheap contractors. A few gallons of generic beige paint, definitely some new carpet. I think I smell dog. Replace those missing fixtures, weed-whack the yard, and you’ll be surprised at how
 
—”

“Can I put in an offer?”

“Well . . . sure. You’ve been preapproved. We’ll have to get inspections. But I think you’re right that it’s best to move quickly. This is a desirable neighborhood and the schools
 
—”

“Make the offer today,” Macy insisted. “I don’t want to lose it.”

Elliot smiled, stepped forward, and gave her arm a squeeze. “There’s my budding entrepreneur. This will be a good first real estate investment. I’ll run the figures, but I’m thinking you might even get a positive cash flow from the rental.”

“No.” Macy glanced toward the front door, seeing the warm gleam of polished brass. “This won’t be a rental. I’m living here. With my sister.”

“I’m glad Aunt Thena’s coming.” Fletcher watched from the table as his mother waved a Swiffer duster over the kitchen hutch. Her sister was attending a writers’ conference in San Diego and planned to spend a couple of days here before heading back to Texas. Charly insisted that a pesky nosebleed wasn’t going to keep her from enjoying the company of the most interesting person in their family.

Fletcher smiled. Thena was a published poet. He hadn’t had a birthday he could remember
 
—to date
 
—when he didn’t receive a targeted verse or two. Or a single visit when she didn’t proudly proclaim, “I speak in rhyme . . . but not all the time.” Jessica had a giggle fit the first time she heard it.

“Thena did ask if I thought it was safe.” His mother paused, duster in midair. “She heard some theory that since
the first two shootings were on Thursdays and the bank incident was on a Saturday, maybe the sniper would ‘go dormant’ until the weekend. Because it’s a pattern.”

Fletcher groaned.

“I thought you’d react like that.”

“Look, I wish it were true. I hope he, or she, is finished with this shooting spree altogether. But we can’t go under either assumption. A woman is dead. That guard is paralyzed. We have to find this guy. Trust me: there’s a lot of manpower dedicated to doing exactly that. But . . .”

“But what?”

“What do you and Aunt Thena have planned for while she’s here?”

“Nothing definite yet. She’s going to help me go through some family photos and work up ideas for a scrapbook.” Charly smiled. “I know. I’ve been saying that for years. But this time I mean it. Beyond that, I’m not sure yet what we’ll want to do.”

Fletcher tried to make his tone casual. “I’d feel better if you didn’t play tourist. Maybe stick closer to home.”

His mother pulled up a chair at the table beside him. She reached for her iPad. Her wallpaper image was the photo of Jessica and him
 
—the same one Macy had seen on her phone.

“Do you think it’s true,” she asked, “that the shooter is staying within a certain target area?”

“The freeway, the school where the dog was shot, and the bank are all within a five- to six-mile radius. Sacramento Hope is in there too.”

Charly’s eyes met his. “I’ve been thinking about Macy. Two encounters. She ran to aid victims both times. Such a
strong and selfless young woman. But I wish she’d shown up for the staff debriefing with Seth and Taylor.”

“She said she does fine alone,” Fletcher recalled, knowing as soon as the words left his lips that he was sounding a crisis team alert.

“Macy held that bank manager’s bleeding head in her hands. And saw the guard fall.” His mother winced. “She had to hide in the bushes to protect herself. Even a strong person feels that. She’d benefit from a listening ear, whether she thinks she needs it or not.”

Twenty minutes later, Fletcher told his mother good-bye. Promised he’d stop by in the next day or two for a dose of family poetry. Promised, too, that he’d keep Charly apprised of any major changes in the investigation of the shooter. She was champing at the bit to be out there helping the families of the victims and offering relief to a community becoming increasingly stressed. Even with a flak jacket and a Glock, Fletcher felt the anxiety this situation provoked. There was no way Macy could be immune to it.

Halfway down the street, he pulled over to the curb, picked up his cell, and tapped the contact number.

“Fletcher?” Macy’s voice was a little breathless.

“Hey.” He reminded himself that this was simply what a friend would do.
“Whether she thinks she needs it or not.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m on my way to Starbucks,” he told her, keeping his voice as casual as it should be. “Needed some coffee. Maybe some company. I’ll buy. What do you think?”

Fletcher was sure he heard her brain ticking.

“I’d need you to bring it here. I’m sort of involved in something
 
—can’t stop.”

“Sure,” he told her, surprised she hadn’t turned him down. “Tea?”

“Green.”

“Roommates,” Macy said by way of apology for the usual state of the rental house. In truth, she’d done a quick tidying. This would teach her to say yes without thinking. “Three nurses with crazy schedules,” she continued, leading Fletcher down the hall toward a small combination family room/kitchen. “So there’s always scrub jackets tossed on chairs, a box of Grape-Nuts on an end table, magazines everywhere. I almost sat on a pair of bandage scissors on the couch once, so be careful if you
 
—oh, dear, heads up. Here he comes!”

The Labradoodle shoved past her in the narrow hallway, yipping with unbridled excitement. Macy made a grab for his collar, missed. “No . . . stop!”

“Hey, whoops
 
—whoa there,” Fletcher managed as the huge, white, curly-haired animal lunged, rose up on hind legs, tail wagging frantically. “Easy now.” He raised the Starbucks tray and paper sack as high as he could to protect them while the dog tried to lap at his chin. “Foot in the middle of my chest
 
—I’ve been threatened with this before.”

“Off!” Macy’s face warmed with embarrassment as she hauled at the dog’s collar. “I’m so sorry. Come on, Dood. Be good. Down, Dood!”

“What
is
he?”

“Labrador . . . and poodle. Labradoodle.” Macy shook her head.

“Okay then. Here, take these.” Fletcher handed off the drinks and sack, then gave the dog a vigorous head scratch while easing him down to the floor. He was still wriggling and whining, but at least finally on all four paws. “There you go, guy. Good to meet you, too.” He met Macy’s gaze, laughed. “What’s his name?”

“Dood.” Macy sighed, then spelled it aloud. “Like in
 
—”

“Labra
dood
le.” Fletcher’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges, doing something truly ridiculous to Macy’s stomach. “Good one.”

The dog pushed past her again, a furry host leading them on. She walked ahead of Fletcher, carrying the things he brought to the coffee table, catching a whiff of something sweet
 
—and willing her pulse to return to normal. Why on earth had she invited this man over here?

“I brought cookies. Oatmeal,” Fletcher told her, settling onto an ottoman that looked like Barbie furniture under him. Somehow he managed to seem comfortable. Maybe it was the clothes: worn-soft Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled back over tanned forearms. He wore the shirt untucked. To cover his gun, she’d bet. “And I didn’t know if you like sugar or
 
—”

“Black. I mean green. No sugar. And thank you.” She settled onto the couch, taking the tea and a cookie from the tray. “This was nice of you.”

“No problem
 
—glad to.” Fletcher lifted his own cup from the tray and removed the lid, releasing the scent of
something dark, rich. He glanced at the array of clothing and hiking gear she’d stacked on the table inches from where he sat. “Yours?”

“Mm-hm. I’m going hiking,” she confirmed, blowing on her tea before taking a sip. She wished suddenly that she’d bothered to brush some powder over the scratches on her face. The last time she’d seen him, she’d just emerged from Southside Bank’s landscaping. “I had a couple of extra days off,” she explained, hoping he wouldn’t guess she’d been asked to stay home. “So I thought I’d grab a getaway
 
—tomorrow.”

“Mosquito repellent, sunscreen, backpack, Camelbak water bottle,” Fletcher noted. “GPS, trekking poles, some
serious
boots . . .” He glanced sideways for a quick glimpse at Macy’s bare feet. There was no good reason for her face to warm. “Sleeping bag. And is that bear spray?”