Page 67 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“Maybe she’s jealous, you know. Thirty-eight and never been married.”

“Thirty-eight isn’t exactly ancient.”

“Maybe she feels like she’s running out of options. If she wants kids, she’s got to find a guy, get to know him, decide he’s the one, get married, and then plan a kid that may or may not happen right away. That takes time.”

“She could have a baby next year if she wanted to, Jack. She doesn’t need to do the whole dating-courting-marriage thing. I just think she doesn’t like or want kids. And that’s okay.”

“Maybe.” Jack forced his hands into the front pockets of his pants as he walked to the French doors and stared at the yard. “Sometimes I think my family is more dysfunctional than yours.”

She had to laugh. “Is that possible?”

“Let’s face it, Cissy, between us, we have our share of nutcases and lunatics.”

“It’s possible the Cahills don’t have the corner on neuroses and psychoses, but you Holts can’t hold a candle to us.” She thought of her psycho mother running from the law, and Cherise and her brother, Monty, another criminal. She slid a glance at her son, who was contemplating shoving a Cheerio up his nose. “Oh, Beej,” she said, distracting him before he actually pushed the bit of cereal up his nostril. “You are the cutest, smartest boy I know, but genetically, you’ve got some major strikes against you.”

“Amen,” Jack agreed and glanced up at Cissy. She started to say something about him leaving, but he read the message in her eyes.

“I’ll get my things.”

Her heart tore a little, but she didn’t fight it when, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to the funeral, he hugged his boy, then dropped a kiss on her forehead.

“Dad-dee!” Beej yelled from his high chair. “Dad-dee stay!”

“I’ll be back,” Jack promised, then closed the door behind him.

“Nooooo!” the boy wailed, beginning to sob. Cissy quickly unstrapped him from the high chair. He kicked and cried and wrestled, then wept as if his little heart would break.

Cissy felt terrible. How could she do this to her child?

How could she do it to herself?

Forgive him, Cissy. Give Jack a second chance.

“And then what?” she wondered aloud, but there was no answer.

Chapter 13

Paterno walked along the waterfront. It was the weekend, Sunday, two days after Eugenia’s funeral. He was trying to follow everyone’s advice that he should take some time off, if for nothing more than to clear his head. But he couldn’t. The case ate at him.

He took a deep breath and watched seagulls swoop over the green water, calling and wheeling, looking for scraps of food left on the docks. The air was brisk, smelling of brine, a cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific Ocean, slapping at his face and billowing his windbreaker. He stopped into a coffee shop, where he grabbed a cup of black coffee and an oatmeal muffin because it sounded like it had a chance of having some nutritional benefits; not that he cared, but his doctor was on his case.

He should go fishing. Or golfing. Or sailing. Or friggin’ stay home and try to find a game on TV. But he’d decided on this walk on the piers, and now, dodging other pedestrians, joggers, strollers, and skateboards, he was still thinking about the case.

Always the damned case.

He eyed the sailboats cutting across the murky water, but he was still sifting through the evidence. Phone records for Rory Amhurst’s room at the care center and Eugenia Cahill’s house gave up no clues. All tire and foot impressions and fingerprints came back as belonging to members of the staff at Harborside, or the Cahill family members and staff at Eugenia’s house on Mt. Sutro. There had been no evidence collected that pointed to a specific killer, and as the hours and days passed, Paterno knew the cases were getting colder and colder. He’d gone over the last days of Eugenia Cahill’s life, talking to the people who saw her last, tracing the footsteps of her final hours, but no one had seen or heard anything that had offered a lead to the killer.

He walked to the railing of the dock and stared down into the ocean, spying his own watery reflection. He knew in his gut that Marla Cahill was behind this, but he couldn’t prove it, nor could a statewide manhunt locate the slippery bitch.

Where had she gone?

Who was harboring her?

Why, in all of the dozens of calls from people who had thought they’d seen her, had not one solid lead evolved?

And Mary Smith—who the hell was she? The name was a phony, of course, as was her affiliation with a church, but why hadn’t anyone seen her? The composite sketch made by the police artist, and another one generated by a computer, had been broadcast over the news, and, as in the case of Marla, nothing solid had appeared.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled and noticed a seagull hovering nearby, eyeing the remainder of his breakfast. Dropping it into the water, he said, “Knock yourself out.” The bird swooped down and gobbled up the soggy piece of muffin, and two other seagulls squawked and tried to steal it away. “I hear it lowers your cholesterol,” he said to the birds, then finished the last of his coffee and tossed the empty cup into a trash bin.

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