CHAPTER FIVE
BOUND BY THE CHICAGO RIVER and developed by the industrial working class, Chicago’s Lower West Side was as diverse as it was eclectic.
“Stop here.”
Upon Emily Hastings’s order, the taxi driver braked and eased the cab up to the curb on 18th Street. She paid the fare and got out, lugging the carry-on bag with her. The weight of the hastily packed bag dragged at her shoulder, but she ignored it. She made a quick swipe at her skirt in an attempt to smooth the travel wrinkles.
She was home, for the first time in too long to remember.
She inhaled deeply, drawing in the inviting scents of corn tortillas and spiced peppers from the Mexican restaurants and specialty shops that formed the cultural heart of the neighborhood. She let the sounds of salsa emanating from open windows and doors—and it wasn’t even noon yet—seep into her soul.
Her feet guided her; no thought was required. That was good, since her eyes were too busy taking in the changes since she’d last been here…home.
Nineteenth-century buildings served as stoic, sophisticated backdrops to the vibrancy of the street vendors. Emily felt a smile tilt her lips as she surveyed one of her favorites. Walking to the bus stop everyday for school, she’d watched as the dilapidated structure had been overtaken by artists searching for low-rent digs. Over time, the whole district had been brought to life by murals and dotted by funky galleries, all as a result of the influx of those starving artists. Emily had been too young to really understand the change; she’d simply been enthralled with the evolution.
As she took the turn onto her old street, Emily felt the wonder wane a bit. Other memories, ones not so comfortably recalled, filtered through her mind. The sound of weeping at her brother’s wake…the constant arguing between her parents after the death of her only sibling. The sharp pain of knowing that life would never be the same.
Emily pushed those old hurts aside and strode more briskly toward the house where she’d lived as a child before fate had taken its heavy toll on a typical lower middle class family, breaking it into pieces that would never again fit together.
She stood on the sidewalk for several seconds before stepping up onto the stoop. It looked just the same, only smaller. She stared up at the bow-shaped window on the second floor of the modest house. Her old room. She’d sat at that window many nights and prayed that her parents would stop fighting, that everything would be okay again.
But her prayers had gone unanswered.
Her brother had died, at age sixteen, of a sudden heart attack. His rare, congenital heart defect had gone undiagnosed. Her mother had blamed her father. As a cop, he hadn’t been a good enough provider, in Emily’s mother’s opinion. The loss and pain, all of it, were her father’s fault.
So her mother had left, taking Emily with her. They’d moved all the way to Sacramento, California, in an attempt to escape the memories.
Emily’s father had stayed right here. In this house, living with the memories and somehow surviving.
But now he was gone, too.
She blinked out of the trance the past weaved and reached up to the ledge above the door to retrieve the spare key her father had kept there for as long as she could remember. Her bracelet jingled as the numerous charms clinked together. She still wore it every day, had since the day her father had given it to her more than a dozen years ago, back when life had been normal.
On autopilot, she opened the door and stepped inside. A wave of emotion washed over her, as did the scents she’d associated with her father. Old Spice aftershave and gun oil.
For as long as she could remember, her father had been a cop. She’d sat in his lap many a night as he cleaned his service revolver and explained to her the hazards of not showing proper respect for the weapon. Both Emily and her brother had learned early not to play with guns.
An ache pierced her, and Emily fought for control. How could this have happened?
Her father had been murdered only three months from retirement.
She shuddered and closed the door behind her. Her bag dropped to the floor in the narrow entry hall and she moved deeper into the house.
The call she’d received at five this morning had been surreal, like a dream that couldn’t possibly be related to reality. But it was. It was all too gut-wrenchingly real.
Her father was dead.
Murdered.
The detective who’d called had assured Emily that it would not be necessary for her to identify the body and that the body wouldn’t be released before day after tomorrow, but she’d insisted on coming to Chicago immediately.
How could she not?
It was the least she could do.
Though Emily had been raised by her mother and stepfather since she was twelve, she still loved her father. Maybe they hadn’t seen each other often, but he’d gotten out to California when he could. He’d written regularly, had called once in a while.
No matter how much her mother would have preferred that she forget her father and the past altogether, Emily had never done so.
She moved slowly through the house, peeked into the parlor that looked as neat as she’d expected. Her father had always been meticulous about housekeeping. With his busy schedule as a homicide detective, she imagined that he’d hired a cleaning lady for the more tedious routine work, but the small, everyday tasks of keeping things tidy would have been something he naturally did. Emily had inherited that obsession from him. Her friends had always called her a neat freak.
The kitchen and downstairs bedroom her parents had shared looked exactly the same. Every picture, every knickknack sat exactly where it had fourteen years ago. Her mother hadn’t taken a single household or personal item when she and Emily had left. To this day, her mother never spoke of the son who’d died, or of her old life in Chicago. It was as if the past had never happened.
Slowly Emily climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her breath caught when she opened the door to her old bedroom. Her father had left it exactly as Emily remembered. She moved about the room and touched the stuffed animals and pictures that told the tale of her childhood. The small canopy bed with its frilly pink coverlet, the poster of her one-time favorite TV heart-throb taped to the wall. She’d sat in the window seat and daydreamed about growing up and marrying her idol someday.
Dizzy with the remembered voices and moments from her old life, Emily made her way to the other bedroom on the second floor. Her brother’s room. A small bathroom that the two had shared separated their rooms.
Colton’s room took her breath away. The football trophies. The big high school banner. Photos of him armored in sports gear. He had played them all, the epitome of the perfect athlete. Who would have expected him to drop dead on the field running laps?
Emily picked up a framed photograph—the last one taken of her brother—and touched his face. It had been the beginning of the end. Nothing had been the same after that summer.
She took a deep breath and blinked back the emotion burning in her eyes. Memory Lane wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, she decided as she closed up
