Have You Seen Her? (8 page)

She reappeared, a golf club in one hand. “You’ve been putting off talking to Brad.” She followed up the accusation with a smile. “It’s okay. I procrastinated myself today, grading his test, then calling you. A bit of apprehension is perfectly normal. I don’t mind being a temporary distraction under the circumstances. But it’s time to go home, Steven.” She picked up a leash from her lamp table and clucked her tongue. One of the duo jumped up and she snapped the leash on the dog’s collar. “Good boy.” She opened the door and waited for him to follow.

“I am not procrastinating.”

She shrugged. “Okay.” She looked over her shoulder. “Make sure that door closes behind you.”

He closed the door and followed her down the stairs, the dog happily behind at her side. Once at the bottom, she stopped on the sidewalk next to his Volvo.

“I’m not procrastinating,” he repeated, a bit more weakly this time. “I don’t think.”

She smiled again. “Well, it’s either that or I’m utterly fascinating and a brilliant conversationalist—and I know that’s not true.” She hesitated, then lifted her hand to his upper arm and squeezed. “Have courage, Steven.”

She was standing close enough that he caught the faint scent of coconuts. Without her ridiculous shoes the top of her head was level with his chin. She’d fit perfectly in his arms. He knew it instinctively. Just as he knew she was wrong about one thing. He did find her utterly fascinating. With her face lifted up, her forehead was inches from his mouth. He looked into her eyes and for a brief moment thought about pressing a kiss to her forehead, then took a mental step back. It was crazy. Sheer lunacy. But he still wanted to.

God knew he didn’t get everything he wanted.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice husky. “For Brad.”

She took a few steps backward, leaning on the golf club, the dog matching her step for step. “Go home, Steven. Take care.”

Friday, September 30, 7:30
P.M.

Steven pulled into his driveway and simply sat for a moment, trying to quiet the riot in his mind. He was having a devil of a time focusing on anything. His brain would flip from Brad to Samantha Eggleston to Jenna Marshall’s violet eyes and her soft voice telling him to have courage. Then back to Brad and the whole damn slide show would begin again, accompanied by the rhythmic throbbing in his head. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

Brad. His son who had changed before his eyes. His son who was the most important person in the world right now. His son who needed him. His son who had responded to every overture in the last month with hostility and a defensive wall Steven had found unscalable.

A knock on his car-door window had him nearly jumping out of his skin. But he had to smile at the little freckled face whose nose was currently smushed against the glass, whose mouth was distorted into a terrible grimace by little fingers. Steven narrowed his eyes, then responded with a horrific face of his own, his eyelids pulled back, every tooth exposed, then stuck out his tongue.

They held their individual poses, each waiting the other out until Nicky folded and pulled back from the window. There had been a long time when Nicky couldn’t play. He still rarely laughed and never slept through the night. Steven could only hope soon they’d reach the end of those horrible days, never to return. He climbed from the car and pulled his baby into his arms, hugging him tight. Nicky pushed against him, struggling against the hug and Steven immediately loosened his hold. It had been that way since “the incident” six months ago. Physically unharmed, his son’s spirit had been broken. Steven missed Nicky’s giggles and spontaneous laughter.

But he missed Nicky’s hugs most of all.

Steven hoisted his littlest boy high.

“Sorry, baby.”

Nicky pursed his lips. “I’m not a baby.”

Steven sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. You keep doing that growing thing, no matter how many times I tell you to stop.”

Nicky lifted a brow. “The book didn’t work either.” Steven chuckled. It was their favorite parley these days. He’d threaten to stunt Nicky’s growth by putting a book on his head and Nicky would grab the heaviest book he could carry. His little arms were growing stronger—last week he’d grabbed the thickest dictionary on Steven’s shelf. “I’ll just have to get a bigger book.”

“Can’t. Aren’t any bigger in the whole house, Daddy.” “Then we’ll have to go to the library.” He lifted Nicky to his shoulders and jogged toward the house, bouncing Nicky all the way. “Duck,” he said just before they passed through the front door. Inside, Steven drew a deep breath. “Smells good. What was for supper?”

“Pot roast with mashed potatoes.” Nicky wiggled until Steven set him on the hardwood floor. “Aunt Helen saved you a plate. She said you were going to get fat from all that fast food.”

“And wasn’t that just so kind of her,” Steven said dryly. Nicky poked him in the stomach. His still very flat stomach. “She said you’d never be able to catch a pretty wife if you got fat.”

Steven rolled his eyes. Catching him a wife was Helen’s mission in life. He crouched down and motioned Nicky to come closer. “We guys got to stick together. Warn me true. Does Helen have a new lady lined up?”

Nicky covered his mouth with both hands. And winked. Steven laughed aloud even as he dreaded this latest battle with his aunt. A tenacious matchmaker, she never gave up. He ruffled Nicky’s red hair. “Benedict Arnold.”

“Who’s that?”

“A traitor.” Steven straightened and looked around, seeing neither of his other two sons. “Where are your brothers, honey?”

“Matt’s playing video games.” His face fell. “Brad’s in his room.”

Steven looked up the stairs, wishing he knew what to say when he reached the top. “Can you do me a favor, Nicky? Can you tell Aunt Helen I need to take a shower and head back out?”

“But—” Nicky started, then sighed. “Okay, Daddy.”

The beleaguered acceptance hurt more than a temper tantrum. He was spending more and more time away from home these days. “Nicky, what do you say we go fishing next weekend?”

His baby’s face brightened marginally. “Promise?” Given the Eggleston case, that might be a hard promise to keep. “I can promise to try.”

Nicky looked away. “Okay. I’ll go tell Aunt Helen.” Wishing he could make an honest-to-goodness promise that he could keep, Steven watched his youngest drag his feet on the way to the kitchen. Wishing he weren’t so bone-tired, he climbed the stairs and knocked on his oldest son’s bedroom door. “Brad?”

“What?”

Steven closed his eyes at the belligerent reply. “I need to talk to you, son.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Steven’s temper simmered and with an effort he slapped a lid on it. “Tough. You’re going to.” He pushed open the door and entered, closing the door and leaning back against it. His eyes took a ride around the room, looking for anything that was out of place, not sure what he’d do if he found it. But everything looked normal, with the exception of the unmade bed and his unkempt son sitting against his pillows, his dirty high-tops perched unapologetically on the rumpled blanket. Brad’s dark hair was dirty and uncombed, his face heavy with dark stubble, his bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. Clean and kempt, Brad was the spitting image of his mother. At this moment his son looked like an extra from a biker flick.

Steven pulled the chair from Brad’s desk and straddled it, resting his chin on the chair’s back. Brad’s stare had gone from suspicious to hostile. “We need to talk, Brad.”

Brad shrugged sarcastically. “Can I stop you?”

“No.” He met his son’s turbulent gaze and held it until Brad looked away. “What’s going on here, Brad?” he asked quietly.

Another shrug. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Steven swallowed, let his eyes roam the room, taking in the familiar posters from Brad’s favorite horror movies. Steven wasn’t certain why his son wanted to stare up at Anthony Hopkins sporting a wire muzzle when he woke in the middle of the night, but Brad apparently did. Should he comment on the football that lay idle in the corner, suggest they throw a few? He drew a breath and let it out. No, he’d tried all those things already, in one form or another. He had to confront this head-on and pray for wisdom. And courage. The picture of Jenna Marshall’s face filled his mind and this time he held on to it as long as he could.
Courage, Steven.

“Dr. Marshall called me today.”

Brad’s head whipped around, a look of unholy rage lighting his eyes. “She had no
right
!”

“She had every right. She cares about you, Brad.” Suddenly weary beyond measure, Steven closed his eyes. “So do

I.”

“Yeah, right,” came the muttered response.

Steven opened his eyes abruptly to find his son’s arms folded tightly across his broadening chest, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on nothing at all. Steven bit the inside of his jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brad huffed a mirthless chuckle. “It means ...yeah... right.”

“What’s happened to you, son? One month ago you were bright, happy,
clean.
Now you’re failing chemistry, for God’s sake! How many other classes are you failing where the teachers haven’t called me? Where they don’t care enough to stay an hour late on a Friday afternoon to tell me how low my son has dropped?”

Brad said nothing and Steven felt his frustration building. “Just tell me the truth, Brad. Are you doing drugs?”

Brad stiffened, then deliberately turned only his head to stare coldly. “No.”

“And I can believe you?”

One corner of Brad’s mouth turned up in a surly parody of a smile. “Obviously not.”

Steven jumped to his feet, staring at Brad, incredulity robbing him of any intelligent response. He turned his back and stared at the wall, unable to stand the virulent anger, the dark hatred in his son’s eyes. It was as if Brad blamed
him.
“Why, Brad?” he whispered.

“Why, which?” Brad answered with a sarcastic question of his own.

“Why are you doing this to me, to your brothers? To yourself?” Steven folded his arms across his chest, putting pressure against his heart that felt physically sore. His throat ached, but he managed to contain the emotion, swallowing back the lump he feared would choke him. His son. The fear clawed at his gut. Betrayal ripped so deep it left him numb. “Why?” He could barely hear his own whisper.

Brad simply looked at him, his eyes gone cold. “Because.” Because?
Because?
What the hell kind of answer was that? Steven waited, his heart pounding in his throat. And then he stepped backward toward the door, because it seemed that was the only answer he was going to get. When his back hit the door he cleared his throat.

“I have to go out again. I have a missing girl in Pineville.” Was that a flicker in his son’s eyes? Some evidence of compassion? “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Aunt Helen has a canasta game tomorrow night. I need you to be here with your brothers in case I’m not here. Brad?”

Brad jerked a nod, then leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. Steven stood for a moment, watching his oldest son effectively ignore him. Dismissed, he opened Brad’s bedroom door, waited until he closed the door on the other side, then let his body sag against the wall.

“What should I do?” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes clenched shut. “Please, God, tell me.”

But the voice quietly murmuring in his mind was Jenna Marshall’s.
Have courage, Steven.
If only it were that simple.

Friday, September 30, 7:30
P.M.

Jenna unsnapped the leash from Jim’s collar and straightened her back with a sigh. Her ankle throbbed, but at least both dogs were walked for the evening. There was no way she’d have asked Steven Thatcher to do it for her, although he probably would have welcomed the chance to put off going home another fifteen or twenty minutes. She wondered if he’d talked to Brad.

Wondered if there was anything more she could do.

She put the thought out of her mind. Casey was right. There was truly nothing more she could do other than let the parents know. She needed to tell them, then walk away, even if they had broad shoulders, beautiful eyes, muscular biceps, and smelled really good.

Jenna chuckled at herself. “Hormones,” she murmured. It was a good thing she didn’t need to see Steven Thatcher again, she thought. She needed a bit of time to bring all those newly awakened hormones under tight control. “Wouldn’t want to do anything stupid,” she said to Jean-Luc who sat looking up hopefully.

But Jenna Marshall rarely did anything stupid. “I rarely do anything at all,” she said to Jean-Luc, who licked her hand. And tonight would be no exception. Tonight she’d snuggle into the corner of her sofa, alone. And watch old movies, alone. And, if she was lucky, she’d have some leftovers in the fridge she could warm up and eat. Alone.

It was rare for her to indulge in self-pity.
So stop it,
she told herself. But once rolling, the pity train was hard to brake. Her thoughts ran to Adam, about the days she hadn’t been alone. “Great,” she muttered aloud. “Now I feel even worse.” She eyed Jim and Jean-Luc balefully. “At least you two can’t tell me I’ve grieved long enough and to get on with my life.”

A knock at the door sent both dogs into a snarling crouch. “Settle,” Jenna commanded and limped over to the door to peek through the peephole. And sighed. Adam’s father stood there, tapping one foot. She opened the door. “Hi, Dad.” Having lost her own parents years before, she’d been instantly adopted by Adam’s family. She nodded to the pair of eyes peeking from the darkened apartment across the hall. “Hello, Mrs. Kasselbaum.”