Three Heartbeats Away: The Mortician's Daughter, #3 Page 7

  Mrs. Parker moves inside the room. “Riley’s a friend of Hayden’s from his camp days.” Mrs. Parker looks embarrassed.

  “Well, you are still cute as a button.” His grandmother smiles at me.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, and it sounds flat because my mind’s on other things. Like…Hayden can see Bessie, and he remembers parts of us, and he was so close to Brandy that he was taking her on a trip to see his grandmother. And that hurts.

  It’s almost four, and I’m in my room when I hear Dad’s car pull up. I’ve been home a couple of hours, fuming and fixating over Hayden and what I’m going to tell him. Now I realize I should have been focusing on what I’m going to say to Dad.

  Ready or not, I pop out of bed and take off. Each thump my feet make on the stairs, I feel in my heart, and it hurts. A voice inside me says, This is going to be painful.

  Dad is in the kitchen, and he has groceries in his hands. He looks back at me. “There’s more in my car.” He smiles like nothing’s wrong.

  I don’t move right away. Does he really think bringing in groceries will stop us from having our talk? Still, I move through the kitchen into the garage, where Dad’s trunk is open, and I bring in an armload of bags.

  “Thanks! I’ll get the rest of them.” He takes off.

  I set the bags on the counter and start putting things away, my brain working like crazy on the right speech.

  He comes back in. “I got all your favorites. Those curly fries that you like, marshmallow treats, and Lucky Charms. And more ice cream. How about I cook us hamburgers on the grill tonight?”

  “After we talk,” I say in a serious voice. I put the milk in the fridge, then look at him with an expression I know matches my tone.

  He literally flinches. “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He turns away and starts putting cans of soup into the pantry. “How about let’s see if we can find a Netflix movie to watch after dinner?”

  “We need to talk.” I stare at him.

  He goes back to shelving more cans. “We did.”

  “That doesn’t cut it,” I say to his back.

  He doesn’t even face me. “Well, it’s going to have to, because that’s all I got.”

  “Then dig deeper,” I spout out. “I deserve more.”

  He turns around. “I said I was sorry. What else do you want?”

  “I want you to stop drinking. For you to admit you’re an alcoholic. For you to go to AA.”

  “AA? Aren’t you jumping the gun? It’s the first time anything like that happened. You’re making way too much of this.”

  “Am I? Is that why you are drinking at work?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t lie. I went by the funeral home to make copies of something when you were in Dallas. Ms. Duarte let me in your office. I accidently hit the trash can, and guess what I found? Empty bottles. So you can stop denying it! If you love me, you’ll stop drinking and get help.”

  His shoulders drop, and he suddenly looks worn, tired. “I love you with all my heart, young lady. But this has nothing to do with us.”

  “It has everything to do with us. I’ve lost my mother. Do you think I want to lose you?”

  “You are not going to lose me!”

  “Really? You think you’d have gotten home last night without wrecking and maybe killing yourself or someone else? How can you do that to me?”

  “I didn’t drive.”

  “You were trying to get your keys from the bartender when he was on the phone with me.”

  “Well, I didn’t drive. So let it go.”

  “No. I’m not letting it go! You need help!”

  He slams the pantry door. “Then help by not nagging at me! All I wanted was a nice afternoon with my daughter. And damn it, Riley. Just because your mom wrote in her diary that I was an alcoholic doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “I’ll go with you to an AA meeting.”

  His frown deepens. “Stop this nonsense!”

  “It’s not nonsense. You’re going. I’m going to find out where the closest one is, and we’re going. Right now. We’re going!”

  He lifts his index finger and points. A sure sign he’s upset. “You need to remember who the parent is!”

  “No, Dad. You need to remember!” I’m yelling now. But I can’t stop it. I’m so scared. Scared of what’s going to happen the next time he goes out drinking. “You’re the one who’s being reckless and setting a piss-poor example for your daughter.”

  “God forgive me if I’m not perfect,” he yells back, then he turns and storms off to his room like an unruly teen. He even slams the door.

  I don’t know whether to follow him and give him hell or give him space. Anger burns my eyes. “You’re going to AA!” I scream, then I storm upstairs to find out where the closest meeting is. I’ll drag him there if I have to.

  It takes me a few minutes, but I find one that’s starting in a half hour, and it’s only a few miles from our house. I grab my purse and take the stairs two at a time. The moment I hit the landing, I hear Dad’s car pulling out of the garage.

  I bolt outside, but it’s too late. Dad’s driving away.

  I grab my phone and call him. He doesn’t answer. I text: Come back home!

  He doesn’t reply.

  After I have my pity party, still pissed at Dad, still pissed at Hayden, I decide to focus on my other problem. The dead bride. Who, to be honest, I’m kind of pissed at, too. Why is she being so damn secretive? What is it she knows about my mom?

  I go to my computer and type the bride’s name in a different search engine.

  At first all I see are the same links. But then a different one pops up. It’s from a year ago. I open it. It’s an engagement announcement in a small newspaper in Dayton.

  It takes forever to load. An image finally appears. I look at the picture, blink twice, and gasp.

  “Damn!” My dead bride was engaged to a…Samuel Bradford. And Samuel Bradford has long blond hair and light blue eyes. It’s the same Sam from the gallery website. And then I see what Kelsey saw the first time she looked at his image. I look like him. The curly hair, the light blue eyes with darker blue rings around the irises. Our chins are even the same, defined and just a touch square.

  Holy cow. Is he my father?

  I’m suddenly wavering on my belief that someone from the website had something to do with killing Shane Casey. I mean, I’ve seen those police shows that say nearly half of murdered women are killed by their romantic partners. And if he’s my father, it means…I’m the daughter of a murderer. Friggin’ great!

  I read the short announcement. The wedding date is listed as TBA. I wonder when Sam called off the wedding. I wonder why Sam called off the wedding. I wonder how my deceased mom fits into all of this.

  I do a search on the name Sam Bradford. There’s only one link. It’s about his arrest. I click it, thinking I’m about to learn how violent he is. It will validate my murder theory. But nope. Two years ago, he was arrested for public intoxication and for breaking into an animal shelter. Not to steal anything, but to free all the animals that were set to be euthanized the next day.

  Not what I was expecting. I mean, drunk and disorderly is definitely on my bad list, but I can’t help but respect him for rescuing animals from an untimely death.

  Pumpkin, as if sensing my appreciation for animal lovers, jumps up on my desk and tries to chin bump me. I go to give him a quick pet, but before my hand touches his fur, he swings toward the door as if he heard something or senses something. Before I know it, my cat lunges off my desk and darts under the bed.

  Once there, he lets out a deep hiss.

  That can mean only one thing. I have company. The nonbreathing kind.

  I stand up and look out into the hall. No one is there. But I hear clanking noises downstairs. Spine tight, I head down the steps.

  I see her the moment I step into the living room. She’s pacing back and forth in the breakfast room. I also see the knives
on the floor.

  She looks up through snake eyes.

  “Can we please talk?” I ignore the cold.

  “Are you ready to promise me you’ll help?”

  I hesitate. “I will help as long as it doesn’t put my life in danger, anyone else’s life in danger, or go against the law.”

  She seems to consider my offer. “You need to shame her, to tell her that this is her fault.” She motions to the knife in her chest.

  “Tell who?” I wait for the name of the person who killed her. The fact that she’s saying it’s a woman is surprising.

  “Your mom.”

  “What?” She thinks my mom… “I’ll tell you what. You send her here, and I’ll relay any message you want.” Yeah, I’m fudging a bit, but I’ll do it if it gets me answers. Especially if I can talk to my mom.

  “No! You go to her.”

  It hits then. All this time, she’s had me mixed up with someone else. “My mom’s dead, Shane. She’s not behind your murder.”

  She makes a growling back-of-the-throat noise that sounds like it comes from the bottom of her dead soul. “I can’t believe you haven’t learned anything. Even after what you saw with your own eyes.”

  “What do I need to learn? What…did I see? Stop talking in riddles and just tell me.”

  “Are you dense?” Bridezilla raises her hands in the air in frustration, making the knife in her chest more pronounced.

  I try not to stare. “Calm down. Explain what you mean.”

  Her eyes get brighter, tighter, and more snakelike. “Your mom isn’t dead.”

  Her words reach my ears but not my heart, because I know she’s wrong. “My mother died when I was four.”

  “Really? Have you been to her grave?”

  I spin her question through my mind for the answer. The one my dad gave me. “Her body was donated to science. That’s what she wanted.” The words leave my lips, but they sound different, less true.

  “You think she made all those paintings before she died?”

  “What paintings?” I ask. “You’re not making sense.”

  “The ones at the gallery!”

  Her demeanor and tone pull that abrasive sound from the back of my throat. “Sam painted those.”

  “Who do you think Sam is?” She asks and takes a defensive step closer.

  “He’s your ex-fiancé. His picture is on the gallery website, and I saw his picture on the newspaper article about your engagement. Sam is the artist at the gallery.”

  “That’s Samuel. Samuel is you’re mom’s brother. Your mom is Samantha. She signs her paintings as Sam.”

  “No, her name is Ashley. Ashley Smith.”

  “She’s Ashley Samantha Smith. Their father’s name was Samuel, and my ex-fiancé was named after him.”

  My head starts spinning. Would my father have lied about that? “No. My mother’s maiden name wasn’t Bradford. It was Crowder.”

  “Yeah, that’s because Samuel’s father never married his mother. They have different mothers. My Samuel kept her last name.”

  “No. You’re lying. Sam’s picture is on the website. I saw it.”

  “Samuel works at the gallery. She used a picture of him on her site, but it didn’t say he was the artist. For some reason, your mother hates having her picture taken.”

  Bam, I remember Dad telling me that very thing. That Mom didn’t like having her picture taken. “No. No, this can’t be true.”

  She fists the skirt of her wedding gown in her hands. “If your mom died, why did your father divorce her?”

  “He didn’t! See, you’re all wrong. You have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Go look in your father’s safe. The one in the extra bedroom with the desk. The divorce papers are in there.”

  I breathe in. I breathe out. But it doesn’t ease the knot lodged in my chest. Needing to prove her wrong, I bolt across the living room and into the room with the desk. I don’t even see a safe. Then I look behind me at the closet. Don’t let there be a safe! I yank open the door.

  It’s there. A small metal box with a combination lock. I drop to my knees and try to open it. It’s locked. I want to scream. I want to pick it up and smash it. I want the bride to be wrong.

  The deadly cold draws close behind me. “The combination is your birthday.”

  I start to turn the dial, but my hands are shaking so much I miss the first number. I try again. This time I miss it because I can’t see for the tears in my eyes.

  Playing in my mind are the drunken words my father tossed out last night. I only wanted to protect you. But you’re going to hate me for it. Part of me… A tiny part knew it was wrong, but I did it for you.

  Blinking, I try again to open the safe. I recall how none of the spirits could find my mom and how Dad never wanted to talk about her. I hear the click, clink. I open the door. It only takes a second to find the papers.

  I drop back on my butt and let out a sad, soulful sound. It’s true.

  My mother didn’t die. She’s alive. She’s been alive all this time. I’ve missed her, needed her, grieved for her for thirteen years.

  Dad lied to me. How could he do this?

  A few hours later, the sun is a forgotten streak of pink in the western sky. It’s dark enough to make me feel alone as I pull into the parking lot at the hospital. I glance to the right and see my suitcase riding shotgun. I didn’t stop and think about it. Didn’t consider if it was logical. Or if it was wrong. Nope. Right after I got the safe opened and found the divorce decree, I knew I couldn’t be there when Dad got home.

  How could he do this to me?

  Part of me says running away is silly. But I just can’t face him right now.

  Dropping my head on the steering wheel, I swallow hard to prevent an onslaught of new tears. “Pull it together, Riley.” My words echo in my old Mustang. I sit up straight—draw in a pound of oxygen—and mentally give myself a swift kick in the butt.

  “You can do this.” I need to talk Kelsey into giving me her key so I can bunk at her house for a few days. Avoid Dad until I feel able to face him.

  I pull down my rearview mirror and stare at my reflection.

  I look like shit. Or to paraphrase Kelsey, an uneatable cat treat. I pat my cheeks and wipe away the smears of mascara.

  Still deciding if I should text Kelsey or just knock on her mom’s hospital-room door, I pull my phone out of my pocket. I have two missed calls and two voicemails. They are from Hayden.

  I play the first. “Hey… I just wanted to say I’m sorry for…my grandmother’s hug assault.” He chuckles, but it lasts only a second. “And I know you said you wouldn’t tell anyone about…seeing Kelsey’s grandmother and the other things, but I wanted to make sure. I…had a headache when you were here and was…talking out of my head. But I don’t want it to get out. It makes me sound crazy. I’m not, of course. Doctors say it’s normal.”

  It’s not normal. He’s not crazy, but what’s happening is. How can I tell him that?

  I play the second message. “You said I could call you anytime. I guess that doesn’t mean you’ll answer, though. Call me if…if you want to talk. I could use someone to talk to right now.”

  Glancing up to the fourth row of windows, I ache to rush up there. To tell him everything. Assure him he’s not crazy. To have him assure me that everything is going to be okay. He’s so good at making whatever is hurting me feel smaller.

  But the other part of me is still upset about him keeping his relationship with Brandy a secret.

  Add that I don’t have a freaking clue what to say to him about his Bessie sighting, or the memories of us, and…and…and… And none of that matters.

  I. Need. To. See. Hayden.

  And he needs me.

  I get out of the car and lock it. My hurried footsteps echo in the night. I don’t have to tell him or even explain anything. I can just visit. Soak up the good feeling of being in the same room as him.

  Determined to hold my shit together, I walk i
nto the elevator. Maybe he’ll be trying to walk again and I can catch him this time. Or not. He can fall on me anytime.

  The knot in my chest eases just at the thought of seeing him.

  When I arrive on the fourth floor, my pulse is racing. I head down the hall with eager steps. The door to his room is open. Slowing down, I wonder what he would say if I did my own hug assault. Then I hear voices.

  I stop at the door’s edge. Hayden says something and laughs. Then comes another male voice. Not Hayden’s. Recognition hits.

  It’s Jacob.

  Jacob’s deep tone is followed by a softer one. A female one. A pretty voice that belongs to a pretty redhead. Brandy.

  Wanting to see but not be seen, I ease in and peer around the doorframe. Jacob is sitting in the chair by the window. Dex, who I didn’t know was there, is sitting in the chair against the back wall. Brandy is stretched out on the bed with Hayden. She resting her head on his shoulder. Hayden has him arm around her waist.

  I swallow a lump of hurt down my raw throat. I’m backing away when Hayden’s gaze shifts toward the door. Toward me.

  Crap! I lunge back, praying he didn’t see me. I’m poised to run when I hear… “Riley?”

  Double crap!

  Because running would make me look like some kind of Peeping Tom, I turn around, count to three, and walk in. And I smack right into Jacob, who must have been coming out to find me.

  He catches me by the shoulders. His green eyes meet mine, and he smiles. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Yeah.”

  He keeps his hands on my shoulders. And they feel somehow heavy.

  I see Hayden staring at me and Jacob. Hayden’s blue eyes tighten into a frown. Is he instinctively jealous of Jacob? What a joke. He can’t be jealous of Jacob when he’s got Brandy all over him.

  I step away from Jacob to say my hellos and farewells. “I can’t stay. Just wanted to say hi. I’m here to see Kelsey. I’ll see you—”

  “Don’t go,” Hayden says.

  Dex jumps up. “Stay a few minutes. You can have my chair.”

  “No. I need to go.”