* * *
WHEN THE DOORBELL to the Winterses’ home did nothing more than give a reluctant clunk, Luke pulled open the ripped screen door and knocked on the warped wood.
He heard shuffling inside, muttered curses of the female variety, and when the occupant wrenched open the door, Luke’s planned approach took a detour off a cliff.
“Mrs. Winters.” Luke tipped his department baseball cap and kept his face passive. “I’m Sheriff Saxon.”
“I know who you are.” She blinked as if the sun was too bright, but the pinprick pupils shining glassily up at him told another story, as did the soiled housecoat that looked as though it had been rescued from a nursing home’s trash bin. “Sorry,” she mumbled sleepily. “It’s still early.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As if three in the afternoon was early. Luke nudged Kyle’s backpack out of sight on the ground. “I was hoping to speak to your son. Is he home?”
“Whatcha want with Kyle?” Mrs. Winters leaned her cheek on the hand gripping the door. “He’s a good boy.”
Luke’s head throbbed and took exception to the claim.
“Ma’am, your husband’s being held down at county jail on a variety of charges, including resisting arrest. I need a statement from your son about their altercation at the community center on Wednesday.”
“Their what? Yesterday, you say?”
Luke clung to the irritated breath lodged in his lungs. Holly was right. Kyle’s mother was definitely part of the problem. “Day before, ma’am.”
“Do I need to bail him out?”
“That will be up to you.”
She frowned, as if the idea of having a choice never occurred to her before now.
“Ma’am, do you know where I can find Kyle?”
Mrs. Winters shrugged. “With his friends. He doesn’t come home much.”
Imagine that. And Luke wouldn’t exactly call the kids Kyle had been hanging out with yesterday friends. Enablers, maybe. He pulled out one of his new business cards. “If Kyle does come home, please have him call me. Your husband’s been transferred to county jail pending formal charges of assault against a minor.”
“Okay.” She slipped the card in her pocket. “Someone will tell me how much, right?”
“If you ask, yes. The courthouse will have that information once his bail hearing is over.”
“Thanks.”
“Mrs. Wint—”
The door snapped shut in Luke’s face. He stood there for a long moment, and the dull headache that had been knocking against his skull since he’d gotten up this morning picked up speed. Disgust and rage mingled. Mrs. Winters was more concerned with her husband’s situation than her son’s whereabouts, but he’d bet both took a backseat to whatever drugs she was on.
Luke stepped away from the door, picked up Kyle’s pack and headed to his squad car. Cash was waiting for him, golden head stuck out the window to enjoy the breeze coming in over the Pacific.
And here Luke thought he’d had it bad. At least his mother had been three years in the ground before his father had raised a hand to him. Luke didn’t have any memories of his mother. She’d died when he was four. Cancer, he found out when he was old enough to inquire. Ovarian. At least that was what his father had told him.
To this day Luke wondered if his mother had been subjected to the same violent outbursts Luke had withstood. In his darker times, Luke was convinced his father had been a different man—a better man—when Mary Saxon was alive; maybe her death had been the trigger that had later fired Ward Saxon’s irredeemable behavior. And then came the darkest hours, when Luke was convinced he was the one to blame for his father’s violence.
He made a U-turn and drove down Red Admiral Lane, taking note of the neighborhood—save for the Winters house—and that it wasn’t as run-down or as empty or neglected as other streets in Butterfly Harbor. Lawns were manicured and kept in check. Flowers cascaded in small clumps, as if afraid to take the chance in fully developing under the May sun.
The model street when it came to reinvigorating the town.
Instantly, he was reminded of those areas he’d haunted as a kid, wishing he was a part of something—anything—other than a dank cave of alcoholic rages and terrible abuse. Luke shook his head and recalled that for a number of years he thought his house was black-and-white while the rest of the world existed in Technicolor. Like those old movies they used to play at the now-closed theater.
As if color was something he’d had to search for and achieve.
Right now he needed to track down Kyle Winters. He hadn’t been able to shake the look of terror on the teen’s face while under the fists of his father—terror warring with defiant anger aimed at his father, but taken out on Luke.