Gone From Me: Hearts of the South, Book 10 (21 page)

* * * * *

“I appreciate you helping me with this.” The box Britt passed into Blake’s hands was heavier than it looked.

He hefted it onto the bed of his truck. “No problem.”

She glanced back at the trailer. “I didn’t want to ask my daddy to come do this, and there wasn’t anybody else. Zeke’s mama made it really plain we weren’t welcome here anymore.”

“I told you, it’s no problem.” His tight throat hurt, and he blinked hard as 3 Doors Down segued into The Calling on the radio. The grief and the guilt weighed on him, as heavy as the heat and humidity surrounding them.

“She blames me.” Britt’s shoulders slumped under an invisible weight as she walked back up the steps. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes a moment, then followed her into the tiny home. “None of this is your fault.”

“That might be debatable.” She slid another cardboard box across the worn green carpet to him. “So you and Little Miss Perfect didn’t work out, huh?”

“Britt, please don’t be like that.” The last thing he wanted to talk about was Montgomery and him. Simply thinking about her made his chest hurt.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She signed and taped up another box. “Old bitter habits die hard and all that shit, you know? Hey, do you want this?”

She passed a small book of snapshots into his hands. He flipped it open to find a dozen memories of a simpler time—him, Zeke, Mike and Jamie. Football, cross country, that stupid Mr. CHHS pageant with all of them in drag. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe.

“I owe you an apology.” He could barely get the words out without breaking down. On a harsh inhale, he looked up at her. “I should have told you at the beginning, when Zeke first asked you out, or even later, before you married him and—”

He was close to crying for real now, and on a sigh, she hugged him tightly. Her shaky sigh puffed against his ear. “Would you stop? None of this is your fault either.
Zeke
should have told me at the beginning. Hell, Zeke should never have asked me out, and he damned sure shouldn’t have gotten me pregnant. Sometimes people do crazy things when they’re desperate and sometimes those crazy things hurt other people. But you know what? I have Emma, and I can tell her that her daddy loved her more than anything and tried to put her first before everything else he wanted. Now, man up and help me get this stuff out of here so I don’t ever have to come back again.”

“So what are you going to do?” He stacked one box atop another and hefted them. She followed him out the door with a box of her own.

“Not moving back in with my mama, I can promise you that much.” She rested against the truck bed while he stowed away the boxes he’d carried out. “Lyssa said Emma and I could stay in her extra bedroom while I find a job or see about school or whatever. And I know Aunt Angel or my grandparents would let me stay with them if I needed to.”

“So we’re taking this to Lyssa’s, right?”

“Oh, damn straight.”

The deep chuckle that rose from his throat felt good. Britt would be okay. Maybe he could let some of the guilt go.

An engine rumbled in the distance, exhaust blatting as a truck turned into the rutted drive. His stomach sank. Mike’s truck.

“Shit, what does he want?” Britt’s suddenly pale face belied the bravado in her words. He didn’t miss how she stayed tucked behind his shoulder, either.

Mike braked to a close stop behind Blake’s truck and shoved the door open. Blake tensed and straightened, angling his body to further shield Britt. He’d done enough to let her be hurt in the past. That stopped now.

For a moment, Mike rested his forehead on the steering wheel, then he straightened and stumbled out of the cab, Jim Beam bottle in hand. His mussed hair stuck out in all directions, and his half-buttoned shirt, with the buttons fastened askew, hung from his body. “Hey.”

“Frick.” Blake scowled. “You’re drinking and driving?”

Mike glanced down at the bottle in his hand like he’d forgotten he had it. He tossed it aside. “Fuck, don’t matter.”

“It does matter. You could kill somebody.”

“Shut up, Blake. I’m not here to talk to you anyways.” Eyes narrowed, he gestured at Britt. “I need to talk to Britt.”

Matthew West crooned from the radio about strength and weakness, about holding on. Blake glanced over his shoulder at Britt. Eyes wide, she bit her bottom lip and pressed her hands into his back, short nails biting even through his T-shirt. He lifted his chin and met Mike’s bleary, reddened gaze. “I really don’t think she wants to talk to you right now, man.”

“I need to talk to her.” Mike’s voice cracked. He scrubbed a shaky hand down his face. “C’mon, Britt. Don’t be like this. Not now.”

“Maybe I should talk to him.” Britt’s whisper barely cleared over the radio.

“You sure?” He looked down into uncertain blue eyes. She huddled into his back, all of her customary boldness gone.

“Britt, I need to tell you I’m sorry.” The high note in Mike’s voice prickled along Blake’s nerve endings. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

Movement pulled Blake’s attention from Britt’s pale face. He recognized the flash of metal, and his whole body tightened. He folded his arm behind him, shielding Britt as much as possible. “Mike, man, put the gun down.”

“Why?” Tears trembled in Mike’s hoarse voice. He lifted the pistol toward his temple. “He’s gone, and I got nothing left.”

“That’s not true.” Blake tried to pitch his voice to the firm, low tone his dad and uncle used in a stressful situation. He extended his other hand, palm down. At his back, the hard rectangle of Britt’s phone pressed into his spine. Her hands fluttered in rapid texts. He cast about for something,
anything
, to give Mike to hold on to. Some instinct whispered not to bring up Mike’s parents. He swallowed, his gaze locked on Mike’s anguished face. “You’ve got us.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s harsh laugh, ugly and empty, came closer to a sob. “After everything I’ve done?”

“Yes, even after everything. You’re our friend, and we love you.” Brittany’s quiet voice rang with truth. She pressed even closer to Blake’s spine. “And there’s Emma.”

Still pointed at his head, the gun wavered in Mike’s unsteady hand. He stared at Britt. “What?”

“She’s gonna need you.” Britt’s soft words shivered across Blake’s neck. He watched Mike, watched that gun tremble in his hand, and prayed harder than he’d ever prayed in his life. “You knew her daddy better than anyone. She’s going to need you, to tell her about him, the parts of him we didn’t know. She’s not going to have her daddy, but you can give him to her, in a way. You can’t do this to her, Mike.”

“There’s been enough secrets, enough lies.” Blake swallowed hard. Britt’s fingers had stilled against Blake’s damp T-shirt, but her hold on him remained desperate. He tightened his hand on her hip. “Zeke’s mama and daddy deserve the truth, and you deserve to live without the secrets and the lies.”

Mike closed his eyes, and a pair of tears trickled down his pale face. “My daddy’s gonna know now, and Zeke’s… They’ll hate me.”

“They might.” Again, that small voice of instinct warned Blake not to lie. “But we won’t, and Emma won’t. And Jamie and Lyssa and the rest of your friends. If they do, you’re strong enough to face it. We’ll stand with you, the way we should have from the beginning. Let me have the gun.”

Mike’s lashes lifted, revealing eyes awash in tears of pain and confusion. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” Blake turned his hand palm up. “Let us help you. Mike,
please
. Give me the gun.”

On a torn sob, Mike nodded and stumbled forward. The weight of the gun hit Blake’s palm, and he wrapped his fingers around it. Relief crashed though him, and the next moment, Mike sagged against him, weeping and shaking. Not even bothering to blink away his own tears, Blake wound both arms around him.

“I’m sorry.” The fierce whisper hurt Blake’s throat, and he hugged his friend even tighter. Brittany embraced both of them, her quiet tears dampening Blake’s shirt further. Blake sucked in a breath, the pain and grief pouring out of Mike making his chest hurt. Mike rested his forehead against Blake’s shoulder, and Blake cupped the oddly vulnerable nape of his neck. He closed his eyes on a wave of guilt and grief. “I’m so damned sorry.”

Chapter Twelve

His gut was snarled in so many knots, he honestly thought he’d vomit. Rob almost wished he’d given in to Tick’s suggestion that the older man handle the Jenkins’s case briefing, except that was the easy way out.

And his dad had raised him to meet the hard stuff head-on.

Even so, he had to suck in a couple of deep breaths as he ushered Dale and Shelli Jenkins to the table in the small conference room. Tick closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the squad room. The room immediately felt smaller and airless.

“Thank you for coming in.” Rob took the chair across from the Jenkinses, and Tick settled in the seat catercorner to Dale. Throat tight, Rob spread his hands over the file folder. He centered his attention on his wedding band a moment, then swallowed hard and lifted his gaze to meet Dale’s red-rimmed one. “I went over to the GBI lab in Moultrie this morning and spoke to the medical examiner.”

On the table, Dale’s fingers tightened over Shelli’s trembling hand. The fluorescent lights glinted off Dale’s own wedding ring, a gold band scuffed and dulled by time and hard work.

Rob focused on replicating his dad’s even, calm tone of voice. “Dr. Ford has ruled Zeke’s death an accident, due to a head injury from a fall.”

“Oh.” Shelli’s soft grief-ridden gasp resonated with relief. She pressed her other hand to her heart. “So no one hurt him. Oh, thank You, God.”

Dale’s gaze flicked from Rob to Tick and back again. His jaw went taut, a muscle flicking in his cheek. “There’s something you don’t want to tell us.”

“Someone attempted to conceal Zeke’s death after the accident.”

“What?” Shelli frowned, shaking her head in a slow side-to-side motion. “Why would someone do that?
Who
would do that?”

“We, um, we believe Michael Smithwick was with Zeke the day he died, and we have reason to suspect he moved Zeke’s body in an effort to hide the death.” Rob pressed his fist to his mouth for a moment to cover a cough. “I’ve applied for a warrant for concealing a death. Once that warrant is issued, the case will be sent to the district attorney’s office, and they’ll make the final decision as to what charges to pursue or whether to offer a plea bargain. You’ll be assigned a victim-witness advocate from their office.”

He was talking too fast, the words that had been so hard to get started now spilling out of him. On a deep breath, he made himself stop.

“Mike was with Zeke.” His elbow resting on the tabletop, Dale punctuated his words with a pointed finger. A frown drew his brows together. “
Michael
tried to hide Zeke’s death from us.”

“That makes no sense.” A note of pain and panic tinged Shelli’s words. She twisted her hand in Dale’s hold to twine their fingers together. “Mike is Zeke’s best friend. They’ve been inseparable since they were little boys. That child grew up in my house, the same as Zeke. Mike would
never
do anything like this.”

Dale pointed at Rob. “You tell me why you think Mike did this.”

Fuck, this was what he’d wanted to avoid.

He didn’t flinch, though. Hands in a loose clasp atop the folder, he met Dale’s gaze head-on. “Phone records, actually a series of text messages, indicate that Mr. Smithwick and your son were romantically involved. Other phone data bears out that Mr. Smithwick was with Zeke the morning he disappeared, and that he moved Zeke’s body to another location.”

The atmosphere felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Lips parted and face pale, Shelli stared at Rob. Dale sat, stone-faced. The slow ticking of the clock above their heads barely penetrated the thick silence.

“Romantically involved.” Once more, Dale punctuated his words with his index finger. “You’re saying my son was gay, that Mike was his lover, and that rather than tell us this, Mike hid Zeke from us after he died.”

“Yes, sir.”

The skin around his mouth taut and white, Dale looked away and swore. He pressed his fist to his lips.

“I don’t understand.” Shelli shook her head again. Tears glimmered in her already reddened eyes. “There’s Britt and his marriage and the baby…and Zeke would have been able to tell us. We would never have turned our backs on him.”

“Shelli, it can be…” Tick’s voice trailed away. He propped both elbows on the table and rested his mouth against his clasped hands. His inhale was audible. “You and Barb have been friends a long time. You know how close Lyssa is to her and Del. She knew she was loved unconditionally, but she still says coming out to them was the scariest thing she’s ever done. I can’t speak as to why Zeke didn’t tell you, but knowing James, I can understand Mike’s fear. A whole lot makes sense now.”

A sad, sick sort of sense. Rob fought the urge to shift in his chair, the moment too solemn to be disturbed. He got it, the dark boxed-in hell Mike hadn’t been able to find his way out of—sort of like feeling deep water closing over your head, knowing there was no one to help you fight free.

A harsh, strangled sound escaped Dale’s throat. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, head rested on the table. His chest heaved with rough sobs. Tears streaming down her face, Shelli bent over him, her lips pressed to his nape. Tick shifted in his chair and laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

Rob waited in silence, his own throat tight. He recognized the raw emotion pouring out of Dale Jenkins, an anguished grief that took him back to the day of his father’s death.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine the unfathomable pain of losing a son.

Long moments later, Dale lifted his head. He rested his forehead on his palm. “He was my boy. My
boy
. Nothing would have changed that. Why didn’t he know that?”

He sat back in the chair and rubbed a hand down his damp face, his features ravaged. Shelli reached for his hand, and he clung to her.

“And Mike.” Dale’s chest lifted and fell with a harsh breath. His chin quivered before he firmed it. “He’s been like ours too. Spent more time at our home than he did his own.”

Shelli lifted Dale’s knuckles to her lips. Worry that bordered on fear twisted her expression. “When James finds out about this… Oh, Lord, Dale.”

“I know.” Dale darted a glance at Tick. “His daddy’s not going to take this well, any of it.”

“I imagine not.” Tick’s tone was somber. He bounced his thumb off the edge of the table a couple of times and cleared his throat. “I know this is a lot to take in, Dale, and the lying, especially about what happened to Zeke, is a hell of a lot to forgive. But Mike… He may need someone to treat him like he’s theirs.”

“He is ours. Right now, he’s all we have left, him and Emma.” Shelli turned stricken eyes on Dale. “Oh, Dale,
Brittany
. I was so awful to her… I blamed her and the things I said…”

“We’ll do what we can there, Shelli.” Dale gripped her hand. He straightened his shoulders and turned to Tick, then to Rob. “You said you’d applied for a warrant for Mike.”

Rob nodded. “Yes, sir, but the magistrate hasn’t signed it yet.”

“The charge of concealing a death is usually filed in conjunction with murder charges.” Tick rested his elbows on the table and his chin against his folded hands. “This is a different scenario, and the district attorney is a reasonable man. I don’t see him prosecuting the boy for this, but we have to send the case to them regardless.”

Dale slid his chair back with a sharp motion. “We might better find Mike, then. I don’t want him facing his daddy alone.”

Rob and Tick rose as the Jenkinses did. Tick and Dale exchanged a handshake, and Tick rested a hand on Dale’s arm for a moment. “If you need to talk or think Mike might need resources, Barb and Del go to the PFLAG group over in Valdosta and they’ve worked with a resource center in Tallahassee since Lyssa came out. I’m just saying, they might be of assistance to you and Mike. And I’m a phone call away. You need anything, you let me know.”

“I’ll give Del a call.” Dale turned and extended his hand in Rob’s direction. “Thank you, for everything you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Rob shook Dale’s hand and inclined his head toward Shelli.

She attempted a smile. “Thank you.”

Tick opened the door. “Bennett and I will walk out with you.”

Outside, blinding sunlight bounced off fluffy white clouds that reached high into the sky. The heat lay over the parking lot, as oppressive and suffocating as the conference room had been. On the sidewalk, Rob watched the Jenkinses pull out of the lot and expelled a long, slow breath. “Does that ever get easier?”

Tick made a small sound in his throat. “No.”

Rob scuffed a hand over the tight muscles in his neck. “Just wondering.”

Tick smiled, and he clapped a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “You did good, though, Bennett. Your daddy would have been proud. You’ll get this. You’ve already got most of it. A little more experience should knock off your rough edges. A few more cases, and you’ll come into your own.”

* * * * *

While the death of Zechariah Dale Jenkins Jr. has been ruled an accident by GBI medical examiner Sara Ford, evidence suggests Michael Dean Smithwick endeavored to conceal the death of Mr. Jenkins in an attempt to keep secret a same-sex relationship between Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Smithwick.

Rob lifted his fingers from the keyboard and stared at the sentence. Maybe for now, he should simply bullet-list his victimology notes. The local evening news droned quietly from the squad room television, a young reporter stumbling over her description of the murder-suicide case Amy and her partner had spent the day working, one county over.

“You look wasted.” Troy Lee set a cold bottled water next to the keyboard and twisted the cap off his own. He slumped into a boneless heap in the chair next to Rob’s desk.

“I’m not the only one.” Lines of weariness and stress fanned out from Troy Lee’s blue eyes. After Rob’s meeting with the Jenkinses, the two had caught two investigative calls—a home invasion resulting in injuries to a young boy and an armed robbery of a neighborhood grocery store.

“What are you working on now?” Troy Lee flicked a finger at the screen.

“Victimology notes on Zeke Jenkins. The DA may want them when considering charges.” He glanced sideways as Walker, Wilson and Monroe dragged in. Monroe lifted the coffee carafe and grimaced at the hours-old thick brew. Wilson tossed a pack of crackers on the table and picked up the remote to change the television station. Shoulders drooping, Walker stopped at the soda machine, apparently scanning the options.

Rob lowered his voice. “Calvert says he’s ninety-nine percent sure McMillian will drop the charges. I feel like we should have hit on the Zeke-Mike angle earlier, though. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck; however, you can’t simply
assume
it’s a duck. We assumed they were only friends instead of examining all the possibilities.”

“Dude, you’re rambling.” Troy Lee stretched out his legs, a hint of irritation in his expression. “You need some sleep, and I need this day to be over.”

“I hate shifts like this.” Walker dropped into the chair at the empty desk across from Rob. He’d initially caught the home-invasion call, and Rob had been impressed with the older man’s professionalism in controlling the chaotic scene. He was an asshole, but at least he was an asshole well trained in crime-scene protocol.

Rob slanted a look at Troy Lee, eyebrow raised. Walker wanting to buddy around? That was a new one. Troy Lee rested a finger at his temple, below the neat row of stitches. “Yeah, they’re rough.”

Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of Wilson opening his crackers and Monroe starting a new pot of coffee. The aroma of fresh brew wafted through the room.

“That kid’s dad—he was broken about that boy being hurt. You know?” Voice subdued, Walker ran a fingertip around the edge of his soda can. “Makes me wish my kid wasn’t so far away. You got kids, Bennett?”

“Not yet.”

Troy Lee looked up, a shadow of his old grin appearing.

The volume rose on the television, Susannah Hartley’s eager voice filling the room. “All right, folks, so here’s a twist on the Zeke Jenkins case out of Georgia. As you know, his body was found earlier this week—no final autopsy results have been released yet and the cops down there aren’t talking—but today we’ve learned his friend Michael Smithwick is the subject of an arrest warrant for concealing a death. That’s usually a precursor to a murder charge, friends.”

“Turn that shit off.” Troy Lee and Rob laid down the command simultaneously.

“The sheriff’s office, of course, is refusing comment, but it sure sounds like a love triangle gone wrong to me. How about you?” Hartley sighed and blinked big blue eyes dramatically. “There never was a tale of more woe than this of Juliet and her two Romeos, am I right?”

“Seriously?” Troy Lee threw his empty water bottle at the television and missed.

“Turn it off, Wilson.” Rob didn’t even try to temper the hostile growl. Wilson muttered, but flipped the channel back to the local news.

“So, Bennett, it’s been a rough first week or so for you.” Walker’s voice held a note of forced heartiness blended with a hint of uncertainty. “You up for this place?”

Rob met Troy Lee’s gaze once more. He shrugged. “I’ve got a lot to learn, still. Think I’ll hang around.”

A smile touched Troy Lee’s still-tense face. On the desk, their cell phones buzzed, and both men reached for one.

His gaze on the screen, Troy Lee’s smile widened. “Amy says she’ll be home in fifteen minutes.”

Rob slid Troy Lee’s phone across the desk. “Angel wants you to pick up a gallon of milk and a jar of peanut butter on the way home.”

“Shut that down and let’s get out of here.” Troy Lee gestured at the computer, then tapped his watch. “It’s time to go home.”

* * * * *

Darkness hovered over the neighborhood when Rob turned into their driveway, moments behind Amy’s BMW. He pulled to the side and climbed out. God bless America, he hurt all over, almost as badly as he had after spending hours in the water.

The gift bag from 85 Broad dangling from his fingers, he rested his arms atop her car while she gathered her things. “You know, I had planned to take you out tonight.”