course she did,” she said, denying her darkest fears once again.
“Then why the homicide dick?” Jack’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel nervously as he turned through Haight-Ashbury and past Buena Vista Park. He hit the brakes for a jaywalker, then, once the guy had crossed, said, “Paterno and his partner don’t just show up at every crime scene.”
“It’s because of my mother,” Cissy said darkly. “Ever since she escaped, the police have been all over the place. As if Marla would come running to me, or to Gran! That’s just plain stupid. She’s smart enough to know that the police would be waiting for her.”
“So you haven’t heard from her?”
Jack thought Marla had contacted her? She pinned him with an incredulous glare. “Are you nuts?”
“It’s normal that she would want to see you. She might even want to see James.”
“She doesn’t know where he is,” Cissy said, thinking of her brother, who was nearly eleven now, hidden away in Oregon with her aunt and uncle. “My guess is that she’s going to run as far away as possible. Maybe Mexico. Canada.”
“She’ll need papers. ID.”
Cissy sent him a don’t-be-so-naive look. “She broke out of prison. I think she can figure out how to avoid the police and get forged documents. If she didn’t know how to before she was arrested, I bet she does now. Surely some of her ‘friends’ on the inside know people on the outside who can get any kind of ID she’ll need.”
“She couldn’t get documents without help or money.”
“Well, she’s getting none from me,” Cissy stated positively. “And I think the police figure she had an accomplice working with her.”
“Who?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” she said. It was one she’d been asking herself ever since learning Marla had broken out. “I can’t imagine who would want to help her.”
“Not everyone hated her.”
That much was true, she thought as they eased around a final corner before reaching her street. Her mother had always attracted flocks of people. Not only beautiful, but rich as well. But to help her escape? Not exactly the actions of someone she shopped or played tennis with.
Jack nosed his Jeep into the drive in front of the garage, and she felt a bit of relief at just being home. Had it been less than three hours since she’d unknowingly driven to her grandmother’s house? In that short time span her life had changed irrevocably. Now she slid out of the SUV and gathered her things while Jack carried Beej into the house and deposited him into his high chair.
It all seemed so natural.
The tiny nuclear family.
But it wasn’t. She couldn’t allow herself to be seduced into thinking things between her husband and herself had slipped back into the trust they’d vowed when they married. Even though it seemed perfectly normal for him to be standing in the kitchen, she had to remind herself that things had changed. Forever. A little bit of her heart tore, but she ignored it.
Before her husband could get too comfortable, Cissy said, “I think I can handle it from here. Thanks.”
His lips tightened at the corners. “Don’t do it, Ciss,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Play the part of the bitchy ex-wife. You know, all prickly and able to handle life on her own no matter what kind of trauma she’s just been through.”
“But I can. Handle everything.”
“Even your grandmother’s murder?”
“Don’t be such a bastard.”
He inclined his head, taking the heat. “I just want to face reality.”
She slid a glance at their son, and her voice softened. “Let’s not discuss this now, okay? Little ears hear a lot, Jack. Maybe you should just go home.”
“This is my home.”
“No more. And I’m tired. It’s been a helluva week.” She slid another piece of pizza onto the tray of Beej’s high chair, then poured some milk into a sippy cup. “Careful with this,” she told her son, and he, so much like his father, grinned mischievously before taking the handle and swinging the cup to and fro, spraying milk on the wall, floor, tray, and Cissy.
Perfect.
“I was afraid of that. You just lost your ‘get out of jail free’ card, bud.”
She retrieved the cup, and he started winding up to wail before she distracted him with his favorite toy. A little rubber car with no moving parts. It did nothing except look remarkably like Jack’s Jeep.
“Dad-dee car!” he said gleefully, his attention diverted as Cissy dabbed at her sweater with a dishrag before swabbing the counter. She glanced up at Jack and saw him smothering a smile. “Don’t say it,” she warned, pointing at him and dropping the rag by mistake. “Crap.” She bent to pick it up and nearly cracked heads with Jack, who had also dived for the soaked towel. “I’ve got it!” Retrieving the dishrag, she mopped up the sprayed milk, then walked onto what had once been a porch and was now the sunroom. Opening a cupboard door, she dropped the rag into a laundry chute that channeled to the basement.
By the time she’d returned to the kitchen, Jack had retrieved two bottles of beer from the fridge. “Something I forgot when I moved out,” he said, then popped the tops. He handed her a bottle, tapped the neck of his to hers, and said, “To better days.”
A part of her wanted to argue and throw him out, though another part told herself to let it go for the night. She didn’t need another fight. She figured there were enough battles on the horizon. Reluctantly she offered him a conciliatory smile.
“Amen,” she whispered. “To better days.”
She lifted the bottle to her lips, but paused as a horrid thought hit her.
What if this was the best day?
What if from here on in, things just got worse? She took a long swallow as her son pounded his little car on the tray of his high chair.
Now, there was a happy thought.
Chapter 4
Paterno felt a case of heartburn coming on.
He reached into his pocket and found a near-empty packet of Tums. Popping a couple of the chalky tablets, he took a sweeping glance at the Cahill estate, thinking this was the price he paid for returning to the city. A few years back, he’d taken a leave of absence and spent some time working in Santa Lucia, thinking the quiet life might appeal to him. Instead, though, he’d caught one helluva case involving a firefighting family, and after that he’d slowly become bored with the slower pace of small-town life. He’d done his share of touring wineries, golfing, or fly-fishing, but the quiet life hadn’t taken. Truth to tell, he’d missed the hustle and bustle of the city: the steep hills, rich
