Page 119 of Secrets Along the Shore
Bilbo’s stubby, helicoptering tail tells me he agrees. Without bothering to empty the foam container onto a plate, I grab a fork and carry my dinner and a glass of milk—I know it’s weird, but ever since I was a kid, I've liked milk with my spaghetti—to the coffee table. I turn the TV straight to a rerun of The Office and dig in.
Over the rustic scent of oregano, tomato, and parmesan, I disappear into the steady, predictable world of Michael Scott. Every so often I toss part of a meatball to Bilbo, who stands watch beside me, shifting his stance when I wait too long between tosses. When I’m down to the last meatball, Bilbo whines, dancing in place.
“All right, fine. I’ll go halfsies, but that’s my best offer.” I cut the meatball and throw half into the air with zero concern it’ll end up on my white couch. Bilbo doesn’t miss anything.
Ever.
I raise the other half in a toast to the framed photo of Daniel on the side table, the only photo left on display in the house. He’s in his deputy uniform, the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department patch visible on his shoulder. Daniel’s infectious grin is wide and bright. Aviators hide his blue eyes, and a slight sunburn—from fishing on nearby Lake Guntersville the weekend before—colors his cheeks. He’s happy in this picture. He always was when he was doing his job.
Right up until the day it took his life.
I hold up my empty fork. “Beat you to it,” I say to Daniel, just like we used to when scrambling for the last piece of anything tasty. It’s been five years and I still do it. Whether out of habit or a refusal to let the past go, I don’t know. The gesture conjures the kind of warmth in my bones only fondness and loss can, and I smile before depositing the finished container onto the coffee table.
Bilbo won’t touch it. He won’t touch food without my say-so. He seems to understand that the treats are all gone and trots off,disappearing through the doggie door in the kitchen that leads outside—presumably to do his business before calling it a night.
It’s only half past seven, but Bilbo’s not much for the dark woods, and as the sun is about to set, he won’t be long. When he gets back, he’ll be able to curl up in his bed and snooze away, but I’ve got a bit more work to do.
Despite what I told James about wanting to eat and pass out being true, the endless days spent on this case both before and during the trial have put me behind on other cases and my correspondence. I’ve got bills to pay and scheduling to do…there was a text today from a new client—a government contractor in Huntsville—asking when I’ll start looking into the matter of some proprietary information that somehow walked out of their offices and into a competitor’s. I don’t work weekends if I can help it, but this client has the potential to be a recurring source of income. A good first impression will go a long way.
I collapse into the couch, pull my fluffy blanket around me, and begin mentally compiling the list of everything I need to do before going to bed—and everything I need to do before my work week kicks in on Monday, if I want to be there for more than just a little of Fogerty’s sentencing hearing.
I’m still making that list five minutes later when I drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Before I'm even fullyawake, that list starts scrolling down my mind's viewscreen. All the things I didn’t do last night and all the things I need to do today, tomorrow, and next week flood me like I’m standing at the bottom of the Hoover Dam when the concrete gives way.
Haven’t stepped out of bed and I’m already overwhelmed.
Denying the urge to shut out the world, I peek through squinted eyelids. Sunlight streams through the sheers covering the huge window that makes up one wall of my loft bedroom, the only room on the second story. It’s painted ballet-slipper cream, with white and off-white linens and an upholstered rocking chair in the corner. Daniel made the pine furniture himself, right after we got married. That was ten years ago, and I still love it as much as I did then.
I wince a little when I see that it’s already nine o’clock. I never sleep this late. I was more tired than I realized. The thought of everything waiting for me bears down a little harder.
Bilbo is at the foot of my bed—which I moved to at some point in the night—pressed up against my feet, snoring. I relish his comforting weight, thankful he's here. The last five years would have been even more lonely without him. He must sense that I’m up because he opens his eyes and his ears pop up. He yawns, then belly-crawls up my side to lick my chin.
“Mornin’, buddy. Gonna be a busy day,” I say, scratching his head as I sit up. “How about a walk first?" I’d had to leave him alone most of yesterday, and though Grady, my landlord, normally comes by once a day to toss a ball with Bilbo, I still feel guilty. “It’s your turn for some attention before I'm bogged down in work.”
I'm going to have to actually go into Huntsville today. I need to concentrate and, unlike some people, I find that nearly impossible to do at home. The remote working thing never flies for me—but I do usually get a closet full of clean laundryanda spotless fridge out of it.
I throw on my joggers and a T-shirt and head downstairs to brew a mug of coffee when my cell phone rings. I answer and, just like that, all my grand plans are forgotten.
.
“I don’t believe it,”I say. Because I don’t. I can’t.
I’m staring at a hole in the ground a few yards away, where the body of another murdered woman rests.
Another murdered woman.
Tasha stands beside me, right outside the markers cordoning off the burial site. Her face is a stony sculpture of disbelief, and the only two sentences she’s spoken since I arrived are, “They found her early this morning,” and “This can’t be happening.” Her face reflects how I feel. A mixture of dread and stupefaction that has the coffee I inhaled on the twenty-minute drive over roiling my stomach.
It’s ten forty-five and we’re standing at the base of a steep cliff face that continues up about a hundred feet to a narrow ledge. Sheriff Tom Vickers and a few deputies are here too, milling around and conferring while the crime scene tech, in his white Tyvek suit, works inside the cordoned area.
A clump of pine trees extends from the foot of the cliff. Beyond that are patches of scrubby grass, untamed brush, and an eight-foot-square section of earth opened up like a retracted chest prepped for heart surgery. Lying in the cavity is a decomposing body loosely wrapped in a clear, plastic, disposable tarp.
Just like Teresa Anders.
