Dark Justice(16)

But there must be many individual lines going into that substation. The number from Information was just the main one.

I dialed that number. A female answered. “Coastside Patrol, Half Moon Bay.”

I asked if a Deputy Harcroft worked there.

“Yes. Would you like to speak with him?”

“How about a Deputy Gonzalez?”

“We have two. Do you know which one?”

“No. I . . . It’s okay, thanks.” I hung up.

This had to be pure paranoia. It would be far easier to flash some fake badge than to show up with an official car and uniform.

Wouldn’t it?

“Hannah?” Mom appeared from the hallway.

“Hi.” I smiled at her, heart in my throat. What would I do with her while I talked to the deputy? What could I tell her?

“Let me help you make dinner.” Mom’s face looked worn. She shuffled into the kitchen.

“Still sad?”

She nodded. “Life is hard sometimes.”

Yes, it was.

“Listen, Mom, something’s come up. We have to go back to Half Moon Bay and talk to the Sheriff’s Deputy about Morton. Someone will be here to pick us up soon. I’m going to make you a sandwich, okay? You can take it with you. It may be awhile before we get back for dinner.”

Mom’s eyebrows knit. “No potato now?”

“I’m afraid it will have to wait.”

“You can’t tell them our secret. We promised Morton.”

“I know.”

“Now he’s gone. We really have to keep our promise.”

“Yes, okay.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Would you like turkey or ham on your sandwich?”

“Why do they want to talk to us?”

“I’m not sure. Except Deputy Harcroft said Morton was an important man. And he just wanted to hear our story one more time.”

“Of course Morton was important. Everyone is important.”

“That’s true.” I turned toward the refrigerator. “Will ham be okay?”

“I don’t want to go back and talk to that deputy man. I don’t like him.”

“I know. But we have to.”

“No, we don’t.” Mom’s jaw set.

Uh-oh. I laid a hand on her arm. Kept my voice quiet, calm. Too many upsetting things had happened today. “Mom, we do need to go. It’s important. It’s for Morton.”

“He told us not to talk to anyone.” Her voice rose.

“Yes, but—”

“Now you’re going back on your word. How can you do that?”

“I wasn’t—”

Mom jerked her back straight and raised her chin. “I’m not going.” She turned on her heel and headed toward her room.

Please, God, not now.

I followed after her. Touched her again—a mere gentle finger on her wrist. “Mom—”

“No!” She whirled on me, face reddening. “I don’t want to go. I. Won’t. Go!”

“I’m sorry. We have to.” Even as I said the words, I knew.

My mother locked her mouth tight, hard breaths whooshing from her nose. Both arms stiffened, and her fingers splayed. Her eyes squeezed shut, then popped open. She glared at me. When her jaw unhinged and her lips pulled back, I braced myself.

Mom shrieked. That high, piercing, primal sound that weakened my knees and curled my shoulders inward. The first time it had happened after she moved in, my neighbors called the police, convinced someone was being tortured.

My mother screamed again, and I could swear the walls rattled.

“I’m not goiiiiingg!” The last word ended in a third screech. Then another. And another. I stood there, helpless, hopeless, swallowing hard. Nothing I did would stop this now.

Mom kept at it. And at it. Until her voice hoarsened, and she wound down.

The yells stopped. The final one hung plangent in the air, roughening my ears.

Mom swiveled toward her bedroom and stalked away. The slammed door pummeled the air from my lungs.

For a moment I swayed there, an abandoned puppet. Then I leaned against the wall and cried.

Lady Gaga kicked on.

Why had my life come to this? I didn’t want to take care of my mother, a two-year-old in an old woman’s body. I didn’t want to be a widow, without my Jeff. I wanted him here beside me, our old life back. I wanted to feel his arms around me, see his smile, smell him, touch him. He died far too young. What was I doing a widow at fifty-five?

And now this new mess. I didn’t want to deal with the police. And a murder. And fake FBI agents who threatened me.

The tears came hot and welcome. Needed. But the crying didn’t last long. Never did, since Mom had moved in. There was always too much to take care of. I lifted my head and dragged in a shaky breath. Dried my tears. A few more came, and I wiped them away, straightened my back.