Discovering You (5 page)

I wasn't myself last night. I'm sorry. Please accept these cookies as my apology and know I will never cross that line again.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor—who is cringing at her behavior but promises she's not as bad as you must think.

She didn't allow herself to analyze what she'd written or change it again. She slipped the card into its envelope, grabbed the cookies and a roll of tape and hurried over to the stairs that led up to the deck outside his bedroom. She couldn't go to the front door and ring the bell, or his brothers would know she was leaving him something. If he had to explain, she was afraid of what he might say.

“With any luck, he'll forgive me, and we'll just go on as if it never happened,” she mumbled and put the foil-covered plate on the railing.

As she searched for a place to tape the note, she saw that he hadn't closed his door all the way. He didn't seem to take much care when it came to protecting his personal property, but she could understand why he might not be too concerned. There wasn't a lot of crime in Whiskey Creek; that was one of the reasons she'd moved there. Also, for the most part, everyone knew everyone else, which would make a man like Rod an unlikely victim.

He was an idiot to pick a fight with Rod Amos.
That was what one of the paramedics had said.

Since she had such easy access to his room, India wished she could put the cookies on his bed or dresser, so she wouldn't have to worry about ants, rodents or other animals finding them before he did. But entering his house wasn't a serious consideration until she heard someone outside, around the front.

“You'll have to drive over later,” a male voice called out. “I'm late as it is.”

Damn!
She was afraid she was about to be spotted...

“It won't take me long to shower,” a female voice responded. “Rod's hand is jacked up. Mack texted me that he doesn't think Rod'll be able to work, but Mack will be at the shop in an hour or so.”

“We'll manage. See you there,” came the response.

An engine started. India had to do
something
or whoever was driving that car would see her the moment he backed up, and she definitely didn't want to be caught lurking outside Rod's door.

Snatching up her cookies, she stepped into the room.

“Hey, keep it down!” someone shouted, this time from inside the house instead of at the door. “What do you think this is? I'm trying to sleep!”

That was a woman, too, but not the woman India had already heard, a fact that became more apparent when the first woman snapped an equally irritated response. “Yeah, well,
some
of us have to work.”

Half expecting an argument to flare up, India held her breath. Neither woman seemed to be in a good mood. But nothing else happened. The younger one must've gotten in the shower so she could go to work, because everything fell silent.

“Thank goodness,” India whispered. She thought she could leave now, but she couldn't help taking a look at Rod's room while she was there.

He had a big bed, which he hadn't made. His torn and bloody clothes from last night lay on the floor, along with some cleats and a football. Other than that, the place was clean. It was even sort of decorated, which came as a surprise. Twenty or more baseball caps lined the dresser, and a collection of grilles and hubcaps from old cars hung all over the walls.

India was tempted to throw away the clothes he'd left—they couldn't be saved—and straighten the bedding. She supposed it was the mother in her...

Actually, if she was being honest, it had nothing to do with the mother in her. She liked him enough to want to touch the things that were most personal to him...

A door opening and shutting somewhere else in the house reminded her that she needed to get out.

She set her cookies on the railing, where she'd put them before, taped the note beside the foil-covered plate and hurried down the steps and across the lawn.

Once she reached her screened-in porch, she knew she was safe. But then she turned to give the cookies and note a final glance and realized she'd left his door open a little wider than she'd found it. She hated that he might guess she'd invaded his private space—especially since she had—but she wasn't going over to correct it. In the future, she planned to keep her distance from Rod Amos and anything or anyone associated with him.

Now she needed to figure out a way to approach her in-laws about getting her daughter home, so she could bring some normalcy back into her life, or the loneliness that dogged her every step would completely destroy her.

Before she could commit herself to that course of action, however, she had to call the detective who was handling her late husband's case.

4

“A
re you going to get it x-rayed?” Dylan asked, his voice sounding a bit tinny through Bluetooth.

Rod glanced at his swollen hand. He'd been driving with his left; it hurt too much to use his right. But at least he'd found his phone, way off, under a bush. The fact that it had traveled so far from the point of impact showed how hard he'd come down, which made him angry all over again. “I think I'll give it a few days. See how it feels.”

Mack frowned at him from the passenger seat. He, too, had been telling Rod to stop by the hospital—and now that Dylan was starting in on him, Rod wasn't sure he'd be able to refuse. He loved and respected his oldest brother more than anyone in the world. Dylan was more of a father to him than their own father had ever been.

“I'd rather you got to a doctor right away,” Dylan said.

Mack, who could hear everything, since Rod's Bluetooth worked as a speakerphone, smirked at him. He knew how hard it was to say no to Dylan. They all had the same problem—except maybe Aaron. Although Aaron and Dylan got along now, they'd fought like crazy over the years, probably because they were closest in age and too damn much alike.

“What will it hurt to wait?” Rod asked.

“I need you at the shop,” Dylan replied. “If it's broken, let's get it fixed so you can use it as soon as possible.”

Rod rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

When Mack laughed to see him crumble so easily, Rod sent his younger brother a look that said he'd better not provoke him any further, and Mack, of course, ignored that and slugged Rod in the arm.

“Want me to meet you over there?” That came from Dylan before Rod could slug Mack in return, an interruption that was well-timed. Since he couldn't use his right hand, it would've been too awkward to reach across his body with his left.

“You kidding?” Rod said. “It's Saturday. You're needed at the shop. Besides, I'm a big boy. I can handle seeing a doctor on my own. I'll drop Mack off first, so you'll at least have his help.”

“Thanks.”

“I'll check on Liam while I'm at the hospital,” Rod went on. “See how bad off he is.” As angry as he was that this guy wouldn't leave Natasha alone at the bar, not to mention everything the bastard had done afterward, Rod didn't want to be responsible for seriously injuring anyone. It wasn't as if he lived for violence. He also didn't want this incident to escalate. He knew
he'd
probably get the worst of any repercussions. Although Liam had started the fight, he'd been hurt worse, so it meant Rod looked like the bad guy.

“No need,” Dylan said. “I've already called over there. Liam Crockett has a broken jaw, a broken nose and a concussion.”

“Damn!” Mack said. “You busted him up good.”

“What'd you do?” Dylan asked. “Slam his head into the pavement?”

Rod wasn't even sure. It'd all happened so fast—and when someone pushed him that far, he fought to win. “I honestly don't remember. After I went flying from my bike, I got up, saw him charging toward me and...unleashed. But it wouldn't have been like that if he hadn't asked for it.”

“Might be a few days before we find out what he has to say,” Dylan informed him. “I talked to Chief Bennett this morning, too. Called him as soon as Grady filled me in. He's not even going to take Liam's statement until the guy gets out of the hospital.”

“When will that be?” Rod asked.

“Tuesday or Wednesday,” Dylan replied. “At least, that's what his sister told me, who's with him.”

Rod scratched his neck. “Stupid bastard shouldn't have run me off the road.”

“I doubt he'll ever make that mistake again,” Dylan said wryly. “Call me after your X-ray.”

Dylan had his own son to worry about these days. Little Kellan was nearly eighteen months old. Dylan doted on him, but Rod figured he'd never stop taking care of his brothers, too. Their father was out of prison and living at the house with his wife and her daughter, yet J.T. hadn't replaced Dylan. Dylan had been there for them too many years to suddenly stop playing that role.

Rod considered it a blessing that Dylan retained some interest in them. Their father was more of a liability than an asset, even now.

“Okay,” Rod said grudgingly. “But it might be a while before you hear from me. You know how long the hospital takes.”

“Cheyenne can bring Kellan over and sit with you, if you like,” Dylan offered.

“Kellan doesn't need to be in a hospital waiting room,” Rod said.

“They can keep you company, help you pass the time.”

Mack cut in, raising his voice so Dylan could hear. “Hey, Dyl, I can always send some toy trucks with Rod, if you think that'll make the wait any easier.”

Rod shot Mack another warning glance for being such a smart-ass but spoke to Dylan. “You're getting soft in your old age, big brother. You know that? You're treating us more like little girls every day.”

“Just get yourself back to work,” Dylan snapped.

“That's better,” Rod teased and hung up.

“So you'll go to the hospital if Dylan asks you to but not if I do?”

“I'd walk through fire if Dylan asked me to, and so would you,” he replied. As far as Rod was concerned, Dylan had earned it.

* * *

India had tried to reach Detective Flores three times and received his voice mail every time. She wanted to talk to him. But when she saw his number flash across her screen, she drew a deep breath. There was so much she needed him to say, so much he never seemed able to say. Her disappointment in the criminal justice system and the lack of information and closure she received from the police could be crippling. Sometimes it took days to recover.

“India, Detective Flores,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”

He always sounded so warm and friendly. But she didn't trust the encouragement and hope his tone offered. His voice had the same inflection the day he'd told her that the crime scene analysts hadn't found any of Sebastian's DNA in her house—and on the day he'd told her that Sebastian's wife, despite the way he'd treated her, was providing him with an alibi.

“I'm good. Better.” To a point, that was true. She had some bright moments, usually when she was working or feeling grateful to still have her daughter in her life. At other times the memories flooded back or she missed Charlie so much she could scarcely breathe. Then the questions would start. Could she have saved him if she'd called 911? Or would Sebastian have shot her, like he'd said he would?

“I've moved to Whiskey Creek and set up my pottery workshop in a lovely screened-in porch overlooking a small river,” she told him. “So that's nice.”

“Sounds like you'll be able to open your studio soon.”

“I hope so—when I find the right spot.”

“I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that you're moving on.”

She cringed as she thought of the mistake she'd made with Rod Amos last night. Was that a sign that she was making progress—or backsliding? Her behavior would shock Detective Flores; it would shock anyone who knew the person she'd become once she'd managed to gain some self-esteem and change her life, and that included Charlie's parents. “Thanks. How are you?”

“Busy, as usual. My wife and kids are actually at Disneyland. I was supposed to go, too, but something came up here at work. With any luck, I'll be joining them tomorrow.”

“You work hard, and that's a blessing to every single person attached to the cases you handle.”

If only he could do more... As kind as he was, she hated to think that, but it was the truth. She'd seen firsthand how difficult it could be to hold anyone accountable—even when that person had committed a horrendous crime and she had a diligent detective investigating the matter.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “I'm guessing you called to see about Sebastian's new trial.”

“Yes.” She wanted to know when it would be taking place, although she wasn't sure she'd attend the whole thing. The first trial had dominated her life after Charlie died, what with waiting and wondering and preparing—and then testifying and listening to everyone else testify, including the infuriating witnesses called by the defense.

She'd have to testify again, of course. There was no way to avoid that; she didn't even want to. She had to do her part, for Charlie's sake. But she didn't have to sit in court day in and day out and see all those gruesome photographs of the man she loved. The morning the first trial ended in a hung jury had been almost as painful as the night Charlie was shot.

The prospect of going through it all again was too daunting to consider.

That didn't mean she wouldn't keep abreast of what was happening, however. Only once she knew Sebastian Young was back in prison—this time for the rest of his life—would she feel entirely safe.

“Yes. When's the new trial? Have you heard?”

Once she had the date, she'd have a legitimate reason to call her in-laws, and then she could approach them about having Cassia come home before July. India had escaped San Francisco and all the people and places that reminded her of Charlie. She had fresh scenery and the promise of reestablishing her life—but now she was too alone. She thought that was the reason she was flailing around, grabbing on to strangers, like Rod Amos, who had no reason to care that she was drowning in a sea of loss and regret.

“The district attorney called me a couple of days ago,” Flores said.

She curled her fingernails into her palms. She could sense that, once again, she was about to be disappointed. “And...”

“It's not good news.”

“Don't tell me the DA has changed his mind!”

“I'm afraid so. He doesn't want to try Sebastian again for fear the state will lose. He's decided to wait until we can gather more evidence.”

Unable to continue standing, India sank into a chair. “What does that mean?”

“It means we'll keep at it—and when we have more, we'll bring him back to trial.”

“But that isn't a certainty.”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then...
you're letting him go
.”

“We
had
to release him, India. We couldn't hold him once we dropped the charges.”

“
He's out?
And you didn't tell me?”

“I've been meaning to, but...I knew how heartbreaking this would be for you.”

“It's more than heartbreaking! He could find me again, Detective Flores. And what about Cassia? He knows she's the reason I wouldn't go with him when he tried to drag me off that night. Next time he won't take the chance. He'll
kill
her.”

“I understand the fear and pain you must feel,” he responded. “But please try to understand our dilemma. If we go back to trial and Sebastian gets off, we can't try him again. We've discussed it at great length. After what happened with the last jury, we feel it would be smarter to wait and see if we can build a stronger case.”

India felt as if she'd been shot herself. As terrible as the past eleven months had been, as slowly as justice seemed to crawl, she'd still had faith that Sebastian would be convicted eventually. How could he not? She'd
seen
him shoot Charlie. There was no confusion in her mind about who was responsible or how it had happened.

She dropped her head in her hand. “What are the chances that you'll find some new piece of evidence? They've got to be slim, at best. That means he might never have to answer for what he's done.”

A long silence ensued. Finally, Detective Flores cleared his throat. “I hope that's not the case,” he said. “And we have to hang on to that hope. It's the only way to keep our sanity in the face of such a horrendous act. A lot of things could change, India. This isn't over.”

But he hadn't been able to deliver on
anything
. How could she trust what he told her? “You won't get any more evidence from the house,” she said. “You went through it and released it. The place has been sold. You already subpoenaed Sebastian's cell phone records. You searched his house and his car and didn't get what you need. What could you possibly come across in the future that might strengthen the case?”

“Maybe we'll receive a tip from a neighbor who hasn't come forward yet, or someone will turn in the gun. It's even possible his wife will leave him. If she does, she could change her story. I've seen that happen a number of times. If she'll admit he went out that night, that they weren't together, we might have what we need to get a conviction.”

“Sebastian shot Charlie!” India insisted.
“I was there.”

“I believe you. However, your background...the mistakes you made in your youth...”

He let his words trail off. She could tell he didn't want to come right out and say it, but the defense had assassinated her character. They'd painted her as a woman who couldn't be trusted, someone who'd managed to get her hooks into Charlie, then killed him for his money and his life insurance.

Thinking about all the things that'd surfaced while she was on the witness stand made her sick—especially since her in-laws had been in the courtroom, staring up at her. She'd never forget the expression on her mother-in-law's face when the defense claimed that Charlie's wife was the person who had the most to gain from his death.

“I had very little parental support growing up,” she said. “My mother meant well, but she had to work two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. And my father was an alcoholic who stepped out of a bar when I was seven and was struck by a car. I was wild in my teens and early twenties. I hooked up with the wrong crowd. I dated the wrong men. But I put all of that behind me once I met Charlie and realized what I really wanted out of life.”