Outside the Lines (9 page)

He nods and lowers his eyes. “He is a great kid.”

“Did you know the house you're living in is called Widow's Leap?” I volunteer to keep the conversation going.

A little of the wariness that's melted away over the past week creeps back into his expression.

“Not to be nosy. I just happened to notice the address in Sherm's school record. We used to tell ghost stories about that house when I was growing up. I knew someone had bought it and fixed it up when I was away at college, but I haven't been past it in years.”

“Where did you go to college?” he asks.

“Clemson. I graduated just before my mom died.”

The corners of his eyes crease. “Sorry.”

“Me too,” I say on a sigh.

“How long ago?” he asks.

“Ten months,” I say, my heart squeezing into a knot.

His gaze grows distant. “It gets a little easier, but you never forget.”

I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to stop the heartache, because it's not the forgetting that's the problem. I'm having trouble remembering. Her spirit abandoned me, and now I'm letting her memory slip away too. I hate myself for it.

We get back to school just at the afternoon recess bell, and the kids unload and run onto the playground to brag to their friends about the trip.

“This was interesting,” Rob says. “Thanks for inviting me along.” It seems like there's more he wants to say, but he bites his lip and watches Sherm and Macie head to the playground.

“I appreciate you risking your life for the good of the class.”

He laughs, but then his expression darkens and his eyes drill through mine. “Lucky guy.”

“What?” I ask in a fog, losing myself in their depths.

“Your date.”

His words are like a bucket of cold water to my face. I feel my mouth open and close like a fish as I struggle to find a reply, but nothing comes.

He turns for his car. “I'll be back for Sherm after school.”

I watch him go, then I head to my room and pull out my phone, scanning through the pictures. They're mostly of Rob, I find. My heart beats a little harder when I find one of him climbing out of the water, his T-shirt and swim trunks glued to his body. I blow it up, and my heart rate quickens more as I scroll from his face slowly down his hard body.

God, he's gorgeous.

I jump and nearly throw my phone across the room when the door opens. Sherm passes through to the bathroom. When he comes out a few minutes later, I've got myself mostly together.

“What did you think about the manatees? Cool as sharks?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “They're totally different.”

“Five extra-credit points if you can tell me three differences.”

“Manatees are mammals and sharks are fish,” he says, ticking off one finger. He uncurls a second finger. “Manatees are herbivores and most sharks are carn—”

“That's good, Sherm,” I interrupt, holding up a hand to stop him. “Heard enough, thank you. A plus.”

He giggles and starts for the door.

I swallow. “Sherm? Tell me about your ring.”

He stops and fingers the small lump under his T-shirt. “It's for Mom, so we don't forget.”

I remember Rob telling me about his sibling's Civil War names. “Do all your sisters and brothers have rings?”

He nods.

“Do you see them very often?”

He squints at me like he doesn't understand the question.

“Do you and Rob visit your brother and sisters sometimes?” I clarify.

He blinks as though he's still confused. “Lee moved into my room.”

“Your sister?” My mouth falls open. “Your sisters live with you?”

He nods again.

Last week Rob said he'd have Lee work on reading with Sherm.
Robert E. Lee
. My heart begins to race as all the pieces click together in my head. “And your brother, Grant?”

“He swears a lot.”

I can't stop the laugh, and I hate that it's partially out of relief. Rob lives with his brothers and sisters. That woman was one of his sisters.

But the next instant, my heart sinks when I realize nothing about this revelation changes anything. At lunch yesterday, Theresa was gossiping about the chemistry teacher at Loveland High who got canned last semester when he got caught in an affair with the mother of one of his students.

“Now that's what I call chemistry!” she'd joked.

Granted, a group of students walked in on them doing the deed in his classroom, and granted, they were both married, but still, I doubt this kind of relationship is encouraged by the school board. I need to stop thinking about Rob that way. And besides, his hard shell seemed to soften a little on the bus today, but I don't think that constitutes the beginning of a relationship.

But it definitely makes this whole mystery a little more complex. Both Rob and the sister I saw have to be in their twenties. How old are the other two? They seem a little old to still be living together. Has it always been that way, or is this a new development since the move to Port St. Mary?

“So . . . do you have something to remember your dad by?” I ask.

Sherm shakes his head. “Papa's in jail,” he says with all the indifference of saying he was at work.

My jaw hits the desk. His father's supposed to be dead.

The bell rings before I can question him any further, and I decide that's probably a good thing, because I'm having trouble containing myself, and poor Sherm was just about to get the third degree.

But untwisting the mystery occupies my thoughts for the rest of the afternoon.

What if this is the traumatic thing that happened between Sherm and Rob? Maybe whatever their father went to jail for is what has caused Sherm to close down. But then I think about Sherm when he said it. He didn't seem at all affected by it.

Rob comes to the door at the end of the day and waits there for Sherm, as though he doesn't trust himself to come any closer. I pretend to be engrossed in paperwork because, honestly, my mind is taking me to some pretty outrageous places and I feel like I need a grip on my thoughts before I start asking questions. Once the room has cleared, I take a deep breath and tug Sherm's file toward me, thumbing through it for the number of his previous school. It's listed as Skyview Elementary. I root through my bag for my phone and dial. I jot down my questions as it rings.

1) Math level?

2) Social skills? Shy? Talkative?

“Skyview Elementary,” a secretary answers.

“Hi. This is Adri Wilson calling from Port St. Mary Elementary in Florida. I have a student here, Sherman Davidson, who was in Ms. Patrick's fourth-grade class last semester. I'd like to speak with her if possible.”

“Certainly,” she says. “Let me see if she's available.”

There's a series of beeps and a brief pause before a woman picks up. “Debra Patrick.”

“Hi, Debra. My name is Adrianna Wilson and I've got Sherm Davidson in my class. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”

“How is he doing?” she asks by way of an answer.

“He's starting to adjust, but it's been a rough transition. He's still quite withdrawn and I was hoping to find out about his demeanor when he was there.”

“Yes,” she says. “He was quite withdrawn. But that's understandable considering he lost his parents so recently.”

“When was that again?” I'm suddenly shaking, and I hope she doesn't hear it in my voice.

“Two years ago, I believe,” she answers.

A cold tingle crackles under my skin. Rob said Sherm was four. That was
five
years ago. “Oh. I thought it was longer ago than that.”

“Did Sherm tell you something else?” she asks cautiously.

“No. I just had that impression.” I tap out a nervous rhythm with the end of my pen on Sherm's file. “And
both
the parents were killed in the accident?”

“That was my understanding, yes,” she says with that same air of caution. “Such a tragedy.”

We talk about his grades, and she stumbles when I ask what math they were studying. I can't put my finger on why, but there's an itch under my skin and nothing about this conversation feels right. By the time I hang up, I'm more convinced than ever that all is not as it seems with the Davidsons.

Rob

For the last two weeks, I've watched from the widow's walk as Grant's made good on his promise. The first day down on the beach, he and Sherm mostly just walked at the edge of the water. By the end of the first week, what started as Grant giving Sherm a noogie ended with them wrestling in the sand. Every day since, Grant has inched Sherm toward figuring out how to fend off his noogie attack. Today, for the first time, he's teaching Sherm how to throw a punch.

Hopefully, it won't be long before Sherm will be able to protect himself at school. Now I just need to figure out how to do the same, because a pretty blonde keeps picking away at my fortress, undermining the walls.

Part of it is me. When she smiles at me . . . hell, even when she's in the same room as me, I catch the scent of Ivory soap and I can't think straight. When she said she had a date, it was all I could do not to interrogate her. I picture her with someone else and I want him dead.

But it's also her. She sees things no one else does. I've sat at bargaining tables with kingpins, business moguls, and US senators, and I've never blinked. I've got nerves of steel and a stone-cold poker face. But this girl is my kryptonite. She does something to me that no other woman ever has, and it's dangerous. She's so innocent . . . so open and up front, she makes me want to tell her things that no one can know. She asks questions and I want to give her answers.

If Sherm can learn to defend himself, so can I. I'll do whatever it takes to keep her out of my head. I'm not going to let her bring us down.

Grant lets Sherm land a punch squarely into his stomach, and he makes a big production of falling to the sand and flailing. I hear Sherm's laugh carry up the bluff from the beach, and feel the familiar pinch in my chest.

Grant is taking my place. This is good. Sherm needs someone to look up to. It's good for Grant too. In Chicago, he had a safety net. Here, not so much. Looking after Sherm keeps his afternoons full.

It's what he does with his nights that concerns me.

He usually rolls out on his Harley after dinner. We don't see him again until four or five in the morning. He won't say where he goes, but he swears he's not getting into trouble. I have to believe he cares about Sherm enough that he wouldn't risk exposing the family.

The crunch of gravel on the road below catches my attention. I turn to see Lee pull up the drive. She had what has to be her tenth interview today. So far no luck. Things don't look like they've improved when she slams out of the Beetle and stomps into the house. I head downstairs. Ulie makes a face from the kitchen, where she's mashing something in a bowl with her hands.

I sink onto the sofa next to Lee. “Any luck?”

She lifts her head out of her hands, gives me an exasperated look. “No one is ever going to hire me for anything I'm actually qualified to do because they don't know I'm qualified. I can't put anything
real
on my résumé.” Her eyes flare hot. “I earned that damn degree, Rob! I worked hard for it.” She slumps deeper into the cushions, totally dejected. “I loved Northwestern.”

I slump down next to her. She should be finishing her MBA at the most prestigious business school in the country, not groveling for jobs from nobody CPAs in nowhere Florida. “We have cash stashed away and we'll get sustenance checks from the Feds for another year and a half.”

“Then what? I'm
never
going to find a job.”

Then, whoever did this to us will have paid the ultimate price and we'll have taken Chicago back. I'll be back at the helm of the organization and Lee can focus on school . . . eventually transition out of the business if that's what she wants. “I'm sorting it out, Lee. It's going to be fine.”

It's going to be better than fine, but I'm still not ready to fill her in on the details. I need a few of my ducks in a row first, which is proving to be a challenge since I can't just pick up the phone and call anyone, even Pop, without the area code giving away our location.

She sits bolt upright and glares at me. “Damn it, Rob, stop saying that! Nothing is fine!”

The boys burst through the front door, covered in sand. Grant's got the start of a scruffy blond beard that he's stopped shaving over the last few weeks. He won't let Lee cut his lion's mane of hair, so he looks wild—the total opposite of his groomed Chicago playboy persona. He's not hurting anyone by it, though, and he doesn't look too out of place here, so I've decided I need to choose my battles.

“Sherm is the baddest in the land!” Grant announces, raising his arm as if he's the heavyweight champion of the world.

Sherm laughs and squirms out of his grasp.

Lee's eyes narrow as they comb over Sherm. “What are you talking about?”

“He seriously knocked the wind out of me with a right hook,” Grant answers with one of the few smiles I've seen from him in the month since everything went down.

She stands, plants her fists on her hips. “Why was he punching you?”

Grant's confused glance flicks to Sherm then me. “Because Rob told me to teach him to fight.”

“There is no maid, guys,” she says in a measured tone, her hand waving at the door. But her scorching glare is pinned to me. “Shake off outside.”

Grant rolls his eyes and tows Sherm back out by the scruff of the neck.

“Dinner's ready,” Ulie announces proudly. “Farsumagru!”

Another one of Mom's favorites. I inhale deeply and realize, slowly but surely, Ulie is bringing us home, at least gastronomically.

“Why does Sherm need to know how to fight?” Lee asks, her myopic focus still on me.

“He doesn't need to know how to fight,” I answer honestly. “He needs to know how to defend himself.”

“I don't want him fighting,” she says, obviously not listening to a word I'm saying.

I shake my head at her. “Do you really think Sherm is going to start something? Have you met your little brother, Lee?”

Grant and Sherm pile back in and Ulie tries again. “Dinner's on!”

The boys scramble to the table. Lee and I follow. I close my eyes with my first bite and let the taste of home melt on my tongue. “This is perfect, Ulie.”

She gives me a sad smile that tells me her culinary choices aren't by accident.

After dinner, Lee and I clean while Ulie settles onto the sofa with Sherm. Grant heads up to the shower. We're just finishing when the roar of engines I'd heard in the distance encompasses the house and rattles the dishes on the counter.

I pull my Glock from my waistband, move to the window.

In the driveway are at least a half a dozen Harleys, most with couples on them. One by one, they cut their engines and dismount.

“Take Sherm up to your room,” I tell Lee. When I look at him, he's recoiling into the corner of the sofa, staring at the gun in my hand.

Everything in me tightens. He doesn't need this reminder of what I'm capable of. Once he and Lee are past the door and on their way up, I reach for the handle.

“Jesus, Rob! Put the fucking piece away!” Grant says, pushing past Sherm and Lee on the stairs.

I spin on him. “Who are they?”

“My friends. We're partying on the beach tonight.”

I drop my head into my hand and rub the headache behind my eyes. “No.”

He barks out a derisive laugh. “Says who?”

“Me.”

“You couldn't even keep the guys on your payroll in line, so why the fuck should I listen to you?” he says, shouldering past me.

I grab his arm, spin him into the wall, pin him there with a forearm to the throat. “They wanted Delgado blood, I should have given them yours. I should have fucking fed you to them.”

I forget how fast Grant is until his right hand is cracking against my cheekbone. Underestimating your opponent is always deadly.

I drive my elbow into his stomach, shove him against the wall again, get up in his face. “You fuck this up for your little brother, I swear, Grant, I will kill you myself.”

I shove off him. He doubles over, struggling for air.

“Fuck you, Rob,” he rasps, then slams out the door.

The sea of people in our driveway converge on him, elbow bumping him and clapping him on the back. I watch from the window as they make their way down the path to the beach in the waning light with several six-packs of Budweiser.

I'm on the widow's walk two hours later, an ice pack on my face, watching their bonfire send a white beacon into the night sky and listening to their whoops, when the cop car rolls up the driveway. In the moonlight, I see a tall, bearded cop slip out of the driver's seat. He gives the house a once-over before heading to the path. I curse Grant under my breath.

If they're doing anything illegal down there—if he gets his sorry ass thrown in jail—we're all screwed. I'm the face of the Delgado clan—the most recognizable—but that doesn't mean Grant's mug shot on the Internet wouldn't draw unwanted attention.

I hold my breath for the next several minutes as the whoops turn to grumbles and the bonfire is doused. One by one, the mangy group emerges over the crest of the bluff. They all load on their bikes, including Grant, and take off with a thunderous rumble into the night.

The cop car is still in the drive but the cop is nowhere in sight. A rock sinks in my gut. If those fucking bikers did something to that cop, Grant just signed our contract. We're all dead.

I make my way downstairs, step onto the front porch, contemplate whether I should go down there and put myself at the scene of a potential crime. Just as I'm stepping off the porch, the cop emerges from the path. He strides right up to me and stops.

I take a deep breath, both out of relief and dread. “Officer.”

He looks me over with keen eyes. “You're aware that bonfires on the beach are prohibited. There's also an open container law that prohibits consumption of alcoholic beverages on public property.”

“I had no involvement in what was going on down there,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. Better to play this coy.

His eyes narrow. “But someone in this house did. Those bikes were parked in your driveway.”

I shake my head. “Not to my knowledge.”

He taps his thumb on his thigh near his holster. “What happened to your eye?”

I force my hand to stay away from the welt rising on my face. “Walked into the door.”

He nods slowly, his sharp gaze taking everything in. He starts to back toward his car. “If you see that gang out here again, give the department a shout.”

I let out a breath as I watch him pull away. My brother is a ticking time bomb. The sooner we get out of here the better.

Which means I've got a road trip tomorrow.

*   *   *

I didn't sleep last night, waiting for Grant. He never came home.

I drop Sherm at school and he moves up the walk toward his classroom. I stand at my car for a minute staring after him before dropping into my seat. Facing Sherm's teacher is starting to feel like negotiating a minefield. I want to go in there just to see her. She's like the sun, bright and hot with her own gravitational field. There's no escaping her once she's captured you. But if she sees my shiner, I can only imagine the conclusions she'd jump to.

I have no idea where it's coming from—maybe because I haven't been with a woman for a few months—but every look she gives me, every lick of those full, pink lips, makes my dick stand up and take notice. I take a breath and hold it for a second before blowing it out. Fucking my brother's teacher would break my own rule. I've made it crystal clear to all my siblings to keep their hands off the locals.

That little blonde scrambles my thoughts, and today I need my head.

I cruise over the bridge and wind through Loveland toward the highway heading north to Tampa. When I get to the federal courthouse an hour and a half later, I pull into a spot out front that says it's reserved for US marshal use only. I sit for a second before stashing my Glock in the glove box and locking it. I shoulder out of the car and push through the glass doors. The second I'm inside an itch starts under my skin, as if my very DNA is repelled by these walls. I almost turn around and leave. Instead, I force my discomfort down and show them only what I want them to see—cool confidence.

I stride toward the security desk, lean on the counter. “I have an appointment with Deputy Buchanan.”

“Name?” she asks, glancing up, then does a double take. She nips her lower lip between her teeth and stands, smoothing her skirt.

“Rob Davidson.” The name still doesn't feel natural to my mouth.

“Davidson,” she repeats, typing my name into the computer in front of her. “And what is this regarding?” she ask, lifting her eyes toward me and batting her lashes.

“He'll know,” I answer, holding her in my pointed gaze.

She squirms a little, chews her lip again. “I'll let him know you're here.” She picks up the phone on her desk and punches a button, then says something into the receiver. When she hangs up, she points me to the metal detector. “Through security to the fourth floor. Check in with me on your way out and I'll log you out of the building.” She leans forward with her hands on the desk, enhancing her cleavage. “That way we won't have to call the SWAT team to track you down at the end of the day.”

I feel her eyes follow me to the checkpoint. I dump my phone on the belt. The guard doesn't give me a second look as I walk through the detector.

When the elevator doors open onto the fourth-floor landing, I push through the door in front of me marked United States Marshals Service.

“Deputy Buchanan,” I tell the older woman at the desk inside a small waiting room.

“Have a seat,” she says. “He'll be right out.”

I don't sit. I pace the room for the next ninety-seven seconds, then stride down the hall behind the desk when I decide I've waited long enough.