sorry. I can’t go in there again. Besides, all her clothes are still in the—” His lips tightened.
“No, it’s all right. I understand. Don’t worry. Promise I won’t remove anything unless you look it over first and give permission.”
A sucking inhale spelled his relief. He thanked him with desperate eyes and backed up to the other side of the hallway. “Mary kept all of her stuff at the top of the closet…on the right.”
“Thank you. Now go finish your breakfast before it gets cold. Toast too. You’ll need your strength.”
“I’ll try.” He seemed to struggle with his next words. “Detective Browning?”
“Call me Max.”
Tightness around Jason’s gray eyes instantly softened. “Max, if you can figure out why my wife did this, I’ll be eternally grateful. I’m losing my goddamn mind. None of this makes any sense, but obvious I missed something big with her. Whatever it is, don’t hold back. I need to know.”
“That’s my plan. I’ll come to you first when I have something definitive.”
Jason stared at him for a few beats, as if still unable to understand why he didn’t see hate lashing out at him. “You’re a good man, Max.” On a cleansing breath, he turned, and made his way back toward the kitchen.
Fuck. Max sagged against the doorframe. He hadn’t experienced this unnerving ball of tangled emotions banging in his chest in what felt like forever. His mind kept switching Sean into this horrid situation and wondered how he could bear the pain of watching him suffer. Jason didn’t deserve to have his life upended for loving Mary.
Disturbed he let his guard slip, Max shook it off and stepped inside the room decorated with southwestern themed pictures on crème painted walls and sporting waist-high light-pine paneling—the good kind showcasing the age rings of the trees without being overbearing to the eye. It went well with the teal carpeting and slightly darker wood furnishings.
Analysis mode shoved back to the forefront and settled his nerves. To the immediate left, he noticed a precision-made king-size bed covered in a spread bearing the same motif carried throughout the home. Two mauve lamps positioned on sturdy nightstands sat either side. A short bureau with a round mirror rested against the wall opposite the bed. He made a mental note to address those later. It appeared the closet to his right held the key. The door was still open. Jason wanted out of this room so badly he hadn’t even bothered closing it.
Max knew the feeling, but on a different level. He remembered standing inside his own closet and staring at a miniscule amount of Victoria’s clothes she left behind, her perfume still lingering on the coats and scarves. She removed everything the next day, but the scent still stuck around for weeks. It was a knife to the gut every time he’d had to venture inside and pull a dress shirt off a hanger. He’d caught himself wearing the same one for three days and finally got his shit together.
Bad memories pushed aside, Max looked down and found the empty lockbox resting on the floor. He put it back in the only open slot on the top shelf. After searching through a few boxes filled with sewing material, yarn, and infants clothing, Max found something of interest, her treasure trove of memories holding high school yearbooks, bagged, dried flowers with the date Jason presented them, family photo albums, and several stacks of letters.
Settled on the floor, Max looked for anything shedding light on the situation—shaking out material, looking underneath pictures, and searching for slim rips in the seams of bound books for secreting small items. Nothing. Even the baseboards were intact.
A thorough study of her yearbook gifted multiple shots of the popular duo taking part in the usual high school antics. Beaming kids awaiting a bright future. One stood out from the others. Mary’s thin, but curvy frame settled against Jason’s lanky body revealed the comfort they took from each other. He appeared to be stroking her fall of gorgeous dark hair—a beautiful young girl matched with a handsome boy. The perfect couple. He ran his thumb over her smiling face.
“Talk to me, Mary,” he whispered. “What happened to you?”
He set the yearbook back inside the box and retrieved the letters. It didn’t take him long to realize all were from her mother and sister while she languished in the eastern school and awaited freedom. He found her remorseful for the fateful decision to battle Erin.
What he expected to discover never appeared. No ominous correspondence from a stone-cold killer lurked within. Box repacked to the order he found it, he set it on the shelf and returned to the bedroom.
After confirming nothing under the bed or of note within the large bureau, Max searched the night tables. Tissue boxes, TV guide, wrapped lozenges, and a few anniversary cards with small hearts drawn below their names was all that met him. Stumped again. He was almost relieved to answer his ringing phone.
“Browning.”
“Max. I have a new one for you.”
Crap. “I’m handling something, Fletcher. Give it to Harold.”
“Can’t. He’s across town. Freeway shooting.”
“What about Dickens?”
“Nope. Man ran over several pedestrians at a restaurant two minutes after the driver grabbed his parking spot. You’re the closest.”
“Goddamn, what the hell’s going on?”
“It’s the fucking heat. Fries people’s brains,” Fletcher offered and followed with a grunt.
“No doubt. Hold up a sec.” Max refrained from engaging the speaker. The last thing Jason needed to overhear were descriptions of more carnage. He set his notepad on the nightstand, squatted next to the bed, and squashed the cell to his ear with his shoulder. Awkward, but it offered a chance to shove his hand under the mattress to check for hidden items. “Go.”
“Small jewelry store over on Lyle.” He rattled off the name and address. “Three dead and messy. Serious knife play. Perp took off on foot. We’re running the neighborhood. Two witnesses left unharmed. Happened within the last ten minutes.”
“Give me a little bit to finish up here. Press is clogging the road too. Go ahead and let the coroner in for photos if they beat me there. Don’t move anything.”
“Understood.”
Max finished jotting down his notes, slipped the phone into his pocket, and started to rise. He dropped back to one knee, yanked his pen light, and lit up the area between the bedframe and nightstand.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Chapter 7
On a hard grunt, Max shoved the nightstand to the side and ran his finger over a quarter-sized scorch mark close to the leg of the headboard. He at once realized it wasn’t one of the natural wood knots scattered across the wall. It didn’t swirl as much as blast outward. His mind kicked into “find the reality” mode.
One of the kids playing with Mary’s lighter or a candle toppling over during a romantic romp took front and center explanation. He noticed small dings, scratches, and scuffs on the paneling, but they were nothing outside the normal wear and tear of every household in America.
