Back Where She Belongs

chapter FIVE



BY THE TIME TARA returned from her hummingbird break, the house had nearly emptied out. She felt guilty for abandoning her host duties, but talking to Dylan had helped. She felt calmer and less exhausted by the hours of accepting condolences, reporting about Faye, smiling the frozen smile that made her cheeks ache. Dylan had rescued her.

He’d always done that for her. Too much, she’d realized later. She’d let herself depend on him, leaning back like a trust exercise, except he’d let her drop to the dirt, rattling her to her core.

It had been a hard lesson, but an important one that had served her well: stand on your own two feet, count on yourself more than anyone else. She’d dated, had boyfriends, but she stayed self-sufficient.

Standing there with him, when he’d caught her arm, she’d been so tempted to kiss him. She’d felt the same rush to be with him, to shut out everything but him, to be safe in his arms, to be home. But that was stupid. He belonged in Wharton and she belonged anywhere but.

She had the uneasy awareness that part of the reason she’d never gotten close to a man was that she’d been waiting for the heart-stopping rush of rightness she’d felt with Dylan.

But that was first-love lunacy, right? And look how that had turned out. That horrible fight, when he’d confirmed her worst fear—that she wasn’t capable of love—proved how wrong she’d been to get so close to him. She never wanted to go through that again. Like an addictive drug, the high wasn’t worth the hangover.

She noticed her face still felt hot. From Dylan? Maybe the tequila. She wasn’t much of a drinker, after all.

She’d been stunned by how much she’d wanted him to kiss her, to kiss him back. Of course, it made sense. She was upset, sad and scared. It would be natural to want to escape, to get caught up in something intensely physical.

She’d done that after the breakup. The first week of college, she’d slept with a guy just to stop missing Dylan, to block the pain for a little while, to have someone’s arms around her. It had been a mistake. She’d never felt more empty in her life. Cold to her bones and lonelier than ever.

Sex with Dylan would stay a fantasy. That would be best. She was glad that he seemed happy. He’d made the best of getting stuck here, managed a degree, done remarkable work with his father—and hers. But then, he was brilliant, so he’d do well anywhere. What might he have done if he’d escaped like she had?

Not fair. The Wharton Effect again. Like she’d told him, there were other paths. She’d better get that through her head.

She pushed away thoughts of Dylan and focused on the remaining guests, speaking to each one, noticing again the way conversations broke off when she approached. Were they gossiping about her, her family or Wharton Electronics? Maybe all three.

“Señorita Wharton.” She turned to face a short Latina, probably early thirties, who held out her hand. “So sad to lose Señor Wharton.”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking the woman’s warm palm.

“I’m Sonya Manos.” The woman searched her face. “Mr. Wharton give me a chance I never have before. On the job, I learn.” Her j had that soft y Spanish lent English. “I supervise now. Nine people.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Mr. Wharton...he can be duro...hard. But he see in your heart, what you can do with only a chance.” She pressed her palm into her chest. “He save my family.”

“I’m sure he felt lucky to have you working for him.”

“Always I am grateful,” she said, then walked away, leaving Tara choked up all over again. The funeral speeches hadn’t all been PR. Her father had done good things. She wished more than ever that she’d cleared the air with him.

On her way to the kitchen to finalize things with the caterer, she ran into Faye’s secretary, Carol Conway, filling a trash bag with plates and plastic glasses.

“You don’t need to do that, Carol. The caterers will handle it.”

“I have to do something,” she said, shaking the sack. “I’m so mad.”

“What happened?”

“It’s the gossip.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “That’s a terrible curve. Anyone could have missed it. Faye would never drink and drive. She—”

“Wait. People are saying Faye was drunk?” Tara was stunned.

“It’s an ugly rumor. In the first place, she wasn’t even drinking her one glass of merlot a night anymore. She’d gone low-carb. And what was she doing at Vito’s? Pasta is totally off her diet. Walking by and smelling tomato sauce was too tempting, she told me.”

Chills raced along Tara’s nerves. Here was another person with doubts about the wreck. “Do you know who started the rumor?”

“No. And when I find out, he’s getting a piece of my mind. Or she.”

“I’m puzzled that Faye was driving my father’s car...” she said, leaving a gap she hoped Carol would fill.

“I know. Especially since they weren’t getting along.”

“Really?”

Carol’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t know? I’m sorry. I hope I’m not speaking out of turn.”

“You’re not. Not at all. Do you know what caused them to disagree?”

“Not exactly. Mr. Banes and Faye were arguing, too. It might have been about the quarterlies. Mr. Banes had asked for an extension.”

So Faye had quarreled with her mother, her father and her husband in the days before the accident. Did it have to do with the “transition” Faye had mentioned? Was the company in financial trouble and the management team at odds about how to handle it?

Maybe Faye had gone to Vito’s to confront her father. Or make peace. Or maybe she was sick of depriving herself and dropped in to carb load. It could be a million things. All Tara knew for sure was that the prickling sensation she’d first felt had become a cold chill.

And what was this about Faye driving drunk? She could not allow that to stand unchallenged. On Monday, she would talk to Chief Fallon, who’d been first on the scene...and whispering in her mother’s ear at the funeral.

“I love Faye,” Carol said, her voice breaking. “She’s the best boss ever. She was training me to become a project manager. She paid for extra computer training. Now...I don’t know what will happen to me.”

“You’ll be needed, Carol. You know that.”

She shook her head. “Joseph doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like that Faye includes me in meetings or lets me handle personnel memos.”

“Is that so?”

“They argued about you, too.”

“They did?”

“Yes. Faye wanted to hire you and Joseph threw a fit. He said they didn’t need a clueless consultant nosing around their business.”

“A clueless consultant? Really?”

“He didn’t mean it in a personal way. Just consultants in general. He blurts crap like that when he’s upset. Plus, you’re expensive. Faye defended you. She told him to read your website about your clients and all you’ve achieved.”

Her sister’s confidence in her warmed Tara’s heart and made her more determined than ever to help out at Wharton. Joseph didn’t want anyone nosing around. When managers got secretive, that usually meant it was time to shine a klieg light on their doings.

She’d have to approach the situation carefully. Carol could be an ally, especially since Faye had trusted her. “Faye did ask me to help out. She called a few weeks ago. I’d like to do that, but I know Mr. Banes will take some convincing.”

“That’s for sure.”

“What I’d like to do first is look over Faye’s files and emails, just to get a sense of what she was working on, but without upsetting Joseph. Is there a time I could do that when he’s out of the office?”

“Monday mornings the managers meet upstairs in the conference room. Our floor is quiet with just us worker bees. Joseph will have to run the meetings with Faye gone, so it’ll probably go all day.”

“Perfect,” Tara said, thinking it through. “Joseph offered me a tour. I could check Faye’s office, then pop in to meet the managers and ask about the tour. That’ll be perfect.”

“I’ll help however I can. With Mr. Wharton gone and Faye so sick, we’re all scared about the future.”

“How about before the accident? Were people afraid then?”

“Some were. There was talk about another layoff. It was kind of upsetting when they fired Mr. Pescatore—he was the factory manager. It was because production got behind, but people said it was because he talked about Wharton closing down or outsourcing the factory to some plant in Kentucky. Some engineers left because of the rumors—took jobs in other states.”

“That would be alarming.”

“Yeah, plus Mr. Pescatore was so mad he ran a forklift with a palette of batteries right off the loading dock. He wasn’t on it and no one got hurt or anything. He kept yelling that he would sue Wharton, that he’d make them regret this. Everyone was pretty flipped out.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Mr. Goodman is calmer. He took Mr. Pescatore’s place. Some think he’s too calm, that he won’t push production. I try not to think about it and just do my job.”

So Faye hadn’t been kidding about tensions being high. What the company needed now was strong, stable leadership, and a clear communications plan to reassure employees, clarify the company’s status and counter false rumors. That would be a daunting job for anyone, let alone a man more comfortable with numbers than people, who was worried about his wife.

Joseph would need help—anyone would—and Tara could provide it. When emotions ran high, a neutral professional could be invaluable when it came to setting priorities and making crucial decisions.

“Will you confirm the meeting for me?” she said to Carol. Monday would be busy, if she intended to meet with the police chief, too, but it was a relief to have more to do than worry and wait at her sister’s bedside.

“Absolutely. Faye would be glad you’re here.”

“I hope so. I hope I can make a difference.” As they exchanged numbers, a terrible thought occurred to Tara. What if the car wreck wasn’t an accident? What if it was related to the troubles at Wharton?

The livelihoods of a lot of people depended on Wharton’s continued success. If her father and sister were seen as failing the company, would someone take action against them? What about Joseph? He’d been acting strangely. Could he have run the car off the road in a rage?

No way. Joseph was not a rash or violent person. What about the man they’d fired? Pescatore. He’d threatened a lawsuit and vandalized company property. He’d wanted them to regret firing him. Would he have forced her father into an accident?

It seemed far-fetched, but she would be careful about sharing her doubts with people. Every person she talked to raised her suspicions. She would find out what happened that night and do what she could to help her family’s company. She couldn’t imagine a better use for her talent and training.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Tara woke exhausted. She’d had a restless night full of worries and plans. She dragged herself out of bed to run, ate the freshly sliced peach and yogurt Judith had set out for her, then took her laptop to the hospital to work on new client proposals between visits with Faye. She missed Rita’s warmth, though the other ICU nurses seemed efficient and caring.

Joseph brought her mother in the afternoon for a short stay. The control her mother had marshaled for the funeral seemed to have drained her. She seemed shaky and small, the circles under her eyes darker than ever, her face gray and drawn. Joseph seemed equally exhausted. She knew he faced a huge challenge the next day at Wharton. The meeting would likely involve dividing up Faye’s and her father’s duties among the managers.

When Tara returned home late that afternoon, Judith was accepting delivery of a huge basket of food and wine. “From Bill Fallon,” she said to Tara, rolling her eyes. “Again.”

Tara jolted. Was the police chief hitting on her mother? Had her mother encouraged him? Tara couldn’t imagine that. Her parents had never seemed close, but she’d believed them to be faithful to each other. “What’s he up to?” Tara asked.

“He’s always been a kiss-up,” Judith said. Judith didn’t seem to be suspicious, which relieved Tara a bit.

Uneasily she realized that her questions might uncover secrets about her family she’d rather not know. That couldn’t stop her. She had to know the truth, good or bad.

Early Monday morning at the hospital, Tara found Joseph asleep, slumped against the back of one of the waiting-room chairs, his briefcase on his lap, legs sprawled, wearing one black sock and one blue one. The poor guy. Tara tapped his shoulder and held out the to-go cup of coffee she’d grabbed in the cafeteria.

“Wh... What is it?” he said, rubbing his face.

“Drink. You need this more than I do.”

“Thanks.” He clutched it in both hands and sipped as if his life depended on it. “Did you bring your mother?”

“Judith’s driving her later. Mom’s car is back, but she doesn’t seem steady enough to drive.”

Joseph nodded, drinking more coffee.

“How’s Faye doing?” she asked, wishing she could ask him about the office quarrels, but knowing it was too soon and too abrupt.

“They’re moving her to a regular room.” He took another sip. “This coffee’s good. You get it downstairs? Was there cream or just powdered crap?”

“Wait! What? She’s getting out of the ICU? She’s better? Why didn’t you call us?”

“She’s far from better. This just means she’s stable.”

“That’s big, Joseph. It’s great news. We have to tell Mom. It’s a first step.”

But her enthusiasm had no effect on Joseph who maintained his grim expression. “Don’t know when they’ll move her. Could be anytime...or hours from now. I’ve got to take off. Lots going on at work.”

“Absolutely.” Like the meeting she hoped to drop in on later in the morning.

A half hour later, two orderlies arrived to move Faye. Tara peeled the Sunset Crater photo from the bed tray, and accepted the plastic bag with Faye’s personal belongings from one of the techs. She tucked the bag under her arm and walked beside the bed as they rolled it toward the elevator.

On the second floor, they headed down a hall. Tara spotted Rita backing out of a supply closet and stopped to talk to her, watching as the techs entered the last room on the left. “Rita?” she said.

The nurse jumped, dropping two boxes, the beads in her hair clicking wildly. “Damn, girl, you took a year off my life.”

Tara bent to pick up the boxes of latex gloves, handing them back. “Sorry, but Faye’s moving onto your floor. Last room on the left.” She pointed.

“And here I thought I’d ditched you.” She grinned. “Don’t forget headphones when you bring in that foul music.”

“I won’t.” She realized Rita might be able to help her with a crucial question. “You can look at my sister’s chart, right?”

“Why?” Rita’s eyes narrowed.

“I need to know if she had alcohol in her bloodstream when they brought her in. Could you check for me?”

“Sorry. Your brother-in-law is the family contact. He would have to ask one of her doctors to do that. Talk to him.”

“I can’t, Rita. He’ll take it wrong. It’s a long story, but, trust me, it wouldn’t go well.” She didn’t want to make Joseph more guarded around her. “People are saying she was driving drunk. It’s her reputation on the line.” She threw in a guess. “Plus, it could mess with our insurance coverage.”

“No can do. And don’t give me those sad-girl eyes. People lose their jobs for violating patient privacy.”

“What about her regular M.D.? Could he see her chart?” Their longtime family physician Dr. McAlister had been at the funeral.

“Depends on what releases got signed, whether or not he’s got privileges at this hospital.”

“I’ll ask him, I guess. They brought my father here, too. He died in the accident. He’d have a chart, right?”

“And his next of kin would be the one to request the information.”

“That would be my mom, I guess, but—”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“Patient privacy, right. But if you happen to glance at the chart...”

“The favor shop is closed,” Rita said. “Now leave me be.” She set off with her armload of boxes.

Tara sighed. Asking her mother did not sound like a promising option. She headed for Faye’s room. The orderlies were gone and the room was eerily quiet compared to the ICU, where a nurse was always popping in to change an IV bag, get blood or check vital signs. This room was utterly still. It almost echoed. It was like they’d given up on her.

In a way, they had. Medically, they’d done all they could.

Hurry up and heal, Faye, Tara silently commanded, looking down at her sister. She seemed to barely raise a bump in the sheets, as if she were wasting away. Tara attached the photo to the new bed tray. Faye’s smile in the picture was a heartbreaking contrast with how she looked now. The bruises had begun to fade, but she was so pale, so lifeless.

“What you need is a makeover,” she said cheerfully. “That’ll be fun.” Tara would bring in makeup, nail polish, a flatiron and comb for Faye’s frizzy hair. Faye hated when it got bushy like it was now.

The room could use livening up, too, she thought, looking around. Yeah. She’d make the place so homey that life would be far more welcoming than death. At the very least, it would make Tara feel like she was doing something.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Carol. Meeting postponed until Wednesday. Joseph must not have felt ready. That wasn’t a good sign for the company, Tara knew, but that cleared Tara’s day for a visit to Chief Fallon.

She still held the sack with Faye’s belongings, so she carried it to the cupboard. What was inside anyway? Bloody clothes? Probably. She twisted the top of the sack, not wanting to see any of that. Then she noticed it felt boxy at the bottom. And heavy. Faye’s purse probably. And it might have her phone. It felt heavy enough to have an iPad. Both might contain clues about that night.

Tara braced herself to look inside. The first thing she saw was a shoe. It had splashes of dried mud...or was that blood? Her stomach lurched and she averted her gaze, checking the contents by feel. She found Faye’s purse—leather, messenger-bag style—and pulled it out by its strap. It was merely dusty, thank God.

Inside was the usual purse debris—lipstick, mirror, wallet with cash and credit cards, tissues, gum, pen, keys—and an iPad. No phone.

The iPad would have contacts and a calendar, if Faye was as organized as Tara knew she would be. At the very least, she could get Dr. McAlister’s number. Her heart racing, Tara clicked the on button and located Faye’s calendar. The only thing written for the day of the accident was a grocery list: Crowley’s—low-carb ketchup, salad stuff, prescriptions.

What medicine had Faye been on? Tara would pick up the pills when she got to town. Sure enough, Dr. McAlister’s name and number were listed. Tara left a message for the doctor on the machine, which informed her he would return calls at the end of the day.

That was that. Tara shoved the sack into the cupboard and shut the door, unwilling to examine its contents further. She’d felt only one shoe, she realized. Where was the other one? She didn’t want to think about that.

“I’ll find out what happened,” she said, bending down to kiss her sister’s cool forehead. “Just wake up, okay?”

She was so preoccupied driving back to Wharton that she missed the business loop exit. As the highway curved and began to climb the mountain, she realized she was about to pass the accident site.

Her stomach bottomed out. She stared straight ahead, trying not to see, but her peripheral vision caught orange warning cones in front of the crushed guardrail and the flutter of a torn strip of yellow caution tape tied around a eucalyptus tree.

Her mind conjured up the accident again, this time with more detail—her sister’s shriek as she wrestled with the wheel and slammed the brakes, her father’s bellow, the crunch of metal, the snap of breaking branches, smashing glass...the car rolling and rolling, finally stopping with a sickening thud.

Panic surged inside Tara. Her vision grayed and her stomach heaved. Scared she might wreck, she gripped the wheel, slowed down and pulled to the shoulder to compose herself. When she finally felt normal, she looked out the windshield. Across the highway she saw more caution tape tied to a railing. On the highway below were bright black tire marks in parallel snakes. Was this where the accident had begun? This far back from the rail? Had her sister swerved to avoid hitting another car or an animal? There were deer in the hills, coyotes and javelina. It could have been a dog.

She got out of her car and surveyed the distance between the swerve marks and the rail. Not another mark on the highway. Surely slamming on the brakes would have left more rubber. In fact, she realized the car had to have been going pretty fast to hit the barrier hard enough to go over.

This did not make sense. Had the brakes failed? Should she go down the embankment and check the crash site? She didn’t have the nerve.

Tara took several slow breaths, forcing her stomach to settle, digging her nails into her palms to distract herself from the woozy sensation. When she felt safe to drive, she went into town.

Her first stop was Crowley’s for Faye’s pills. She pasted a smile on her face, then marched straight to the back of the store, where the pharmacy was, relieved not to hear her name called by any shoppers, thankful she didn’t recognize the pharmacist, either.

“I’m picking up for Faye Wharton. I’m her sister.”

The pharmacist’s eyebrows lifted, clearly knowing about Faye, but she hesitated for only a moment before she said, “Certainly,” and went to get the orders. There were two pills—one for anxiety and one for depression.

Tara carried them out to the car, troubled to learn her sister was so emotionally upset. How long had she been struggling? At least a month, since the orders were refills. Faye had always been even-tempered and optimistic. Happy, as her mother had pointed out. What had shaken her so much she’d sought medical help? The prescribing doctor was Eli Finch, not McAlister, so probably a psychiatrist. Locating the number among Faye’s contacts, she called it. Pretending that she wanted to cancel an upcoming appointment for her sister, Tara chatted with the receptionist, learning that Faye had seen Dr. Finch in Tucson five times, starting not long before the call she’d made to Tara. No doubt Faye would have shared a little of her troubles if Tara hadn’t been so damned oblivious, busy showing off instead of listening.

Then she had another thought: What if the medication had affected Faye’s driving? Made her sleepy or inattentive or slow to respond? That would be horrible. And when Faye woke up and learned her condition had caused the accident, she would be devastated.

Setting aside that worry, Tara drove the few blocks to the town complex and headed inside the seventies-era building. She was still reeling from seeing the accident site, but she was determined to find out what she could from Fallon.

Tara entered the complex. The police department was to the right, the utilities department and post office to the left. Down the center was a wing of glassed-in offices. She was startled to see Dylan through the glass of the second office. He was town manager, so of course that made sense. Just the sight of him cheered her, she found, eased a little of her distress.

As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up. Tara felt that swirl of excitement and relief...that twist and sink of her stomach that she used to feel when they spotted each other. Had he sensed her presence?

He smiled, then started out of his office, but was intercepted by a woman with a file. Tara nodded and waved her hand, telling him to stick with his work. She would stop by when she’d finished with Fallon.

She headed for the police receptionist, who was flipping through a magazine. Cosmopolitan, Tara saw when she got close enough.

“I’d like to talk with Chief Fallon, if I may,” she said.

“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist lifted her eyes reluctantly from Sixty Tricks to Unman Your Man.

Really? Was the guy that busy? Tara took a deep breath. She had to be patient. Small towns weren’t known for their efficiency.

When the receptionist saw Tara, she grinned. “Tara Wharton! Hi! Robin Walker. Reed’s little sister? Remember?”

Oh, yeah. Robin had been a chunky thirteen-year-old with braces and acne, miserable in the way only girls who’d just walked into puberty could be. “Sure.”

“You gave me this expensive makeup you said you didn’t need and made Reed apologize when he said I looked like a slut wearing it.”

“That’s right.” Tara had emptied out her cosmetics bag for the girl, who had to cope with four older brothers, including Reed, the guy who’d dumped his motorcycle the night Dylan acted as her white knight.

“I still use that brand. It’s the best zit cover-up ever.” She turned her face side to side to demonstrate.

“You look great, Robin.” She smiled. “So how about—?”

“Chief Fallon, right. He hates drop-ins. Hates them.” She studied Tara. “Tell you what. He’s pretending to prepare for a town council meeting, but he’s actually playing online poker. If I catch him, he’ll get flustered and say yes to whatever I ask.”

“I really appreciate your help.”

“It’s the least I could do. Pay it forward I always say.” She jumped up and went to tap on Fallon’s door before she entered. When she came out, she gave Tara a thumbs-up. “The chief will see you now,” she said in an official tone.

It was ridiculous to have to play games to talk to an officer of the law, but she hadn’t really expected better. She was glad to learn she’d helped Robin. Thinking about it, she realized the girl would likely tell her brother that Tara had come in to talk to the police. Word would spread and soon the whole town would know. She hadn’t thought about that. She’d always hated living in the fishbowl of Wharton.

Chief Fallon came around his desk and clasped her hand in both of his. “So sorry for your loss,” he said, holding her gaze too long, as if to impress her with the enormity of his sympathy. He was a big man with a barrel chest, gray hair in a military cut and a florid face. “How’s your mother holding up?”

“She’s doing fine,” Tara said, knowing that was the image her mother wanted to present, though Tara was worried about how much she’d been sleeping. “I know she appreciates everything you sent her. That was above and beyond the call of duty.”

She watched his face. Sure enough, the red in his face deepened to magenta. Something was up with him and her mother. She prayed it was just a harmless flirtation.

“It’s the least I could do.” He cleared his throat. “Please have a seat.” He motioned toward a chair, then sat behind his desk, sizing her up like a suspect.

“So, this has to feel strange, huh? You being in my office and not in trouble.” He gave her a self-satisfied smile. “Glad to see you cleaned up your act. Maybe those little talks we had did you some good.”

She had the urge to grab the World’s Best Cop mug on his desk and chuck it at his head, but she only smiled.

“I know your mother used to worry herself sick over you.” How long had he had a thing for her mother? Now that she thought about it, he had always patted her mother’s arm and consoled her over Tara’s screw-ups. Ick. “So what can I do for you? One of my guys give you a speeding ticket you need fixed?”

“No. No tickets.”

“You haven’t been in town long, though, have you?” He chuckled.

She supposed she deserved the dig, considering all the mischief she’d gotten into, but did he have to be such a patronizing jerk about it?

“Actually, Chief Fallon, I hoped you’d tell me a little more about what happened that night...about the accident. The sequence of events...how you came to find them—” She stopped before she said at suspiciously the right moment. She didn’t dare push too hard.

“I know what you’re after,” he said solemnly, leaning across the desk. For a second, she thought he might help her. Then he rested his elbows on the desk, hands clasped as if in prayer, a gesture that often meant, I’m holding back what you want because I know best. “You want peace of mind. But this won’t give you that.” He smiled a knowing smile. “Go home, comfort your mother, let time do its duty. That’s what you need. Believe me. I’ve seen this many, many times.”

Stay calm. Be easy. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m prepared for whatever you can tell me.” She hoped she was. She’d been afraid to look down the embankment or peek at her sister’s clothes. If the details were gruesome...

She braced herself. Be strong. This is for Faye and Dad.

He stared at her, irritated, but trying to hide it.

“If you’d prefer, I could simply read the accident report,” she threw in.

“That’s not possible.” The way his eyes slid side to side suggested he was dodging the truth. “The report’s still in process.”

“So you’re still investigating the accident?” Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe he was handling it, after all.

“You know...cops and paperwork. These things take time. Hunt and peck even on the computer.” His smile invited sympathy. “We want to get the i’s dotted and the t’s all crossed. With everyone so lawsuit-happy these days, we have to be awfully careful, don’t we? In the meantime, your insurance agent took my statement, so that’s all cleared up. Your lawyer should get you a nice fat settlement, no problems.”

She took a deep breath, fighting frustration, and took a new tack. “We owe you our thanks for responding so quickly. If Faye has any hope of recovery, it’s because she got immediate treatment.”

“We all just hope she recovers,” he said, trying to sound humble, but clearly proud of himself for his heroic efforts.

She had to step carefully here. “It was lucky you were passing by, since my mother said you usually play poker with my father.”

“Wife was under the weather, so I missed the game. I was on my way into town to grab flu medicine and noticed the downed rail.” He’d put his hand to his face, scrubbing at his jaw, another sign of discomfort, possibly lying. He’d looked up and to the left, too, which typically meant the person was drawing on the right brain, the creative side, making up a tale. People remembering something looked right and down, engaging the left brain, where memories resided.

“The timing was a miracle,” she said, leading him to say more.

“Cop instincts. We’re always on duty. When you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you know what to look for.” He shifted in his seat. He seemed wary by nature, so the cues she was picking up could have been simply tension over being put on the spot.

“As I said, we feel so fortunate.” She attempted a smile, but felt her lips crack. Her mouth had gone dry as dust, anticipating the tougher questions to come. “When I drove by, I noticed the caution tape near some swerving tire marks. I’m no expert, but it looked like the driver tried to avoid something. The odd thing was how far away from the crash site the marks were. Nothing near the rail. The car had to be going fast to knock it down, right?”

He leaned back, as if to escape. “Like you said, you’re no expert. We’d need an accident reconstruction engineer to answer that question and those fellows are plenty pricey. Big police departments have them. Insurance companies hire them. Luckily we don’t need an expert to tell us they went over the rail and crashed.”

“What about the car? I imagine its condition and position would indicate if there’d been a collision, say, with another car or a large animal.”

“My concern was only for your injured family, not their car.”

“But you took pictures, right? That’s required, I believe. And don’t you have to sketch out the accident, describe what happened? For example, if the car was struck from behind, you’d need to look for the hit-and-run driver, right?”

He breathed harshly through his nose, clearly riled. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at here, but, out of respect to your family, let me lay out the facts. We don’t live in CSI land. We don’t use crash dummies to reenact wrecks. We don’t have fancy labs and if we did we wouldn’t use them on a cut-and-dried one-car accident on a dangerous curve.”

Dammit. He wasn’t going to help her. The emotions she’d struggled with over the past two hours balled up in her chest. “Except it’s not cut-and-dried, is it? People are saying that Faye was driving drunk.”

His hands shot up in twin stop signs. “You don’t need to worry about that. I told you we were clear with your insurance company. You’ll want to leave that alone for everyone’s sake.”

What was he saying? “Was my sister drunk? You were there. You checked them.” Or had her pills thrown off her reflexes? What could possibly have prevented Faye from slamming on her brakes?

“I look out for your family and I always have,” he said in a low voice, sounding eerily like her mother.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m saying leave it alone,” he snapped.

“I have a right to know what happened.” Her voice broke. Dammit, she would not cry in front of this Daddy-knows-best a*shole. “Tell me what you saw, please.”

He glared at her for a long moment. “All right. I’ll spell it out. Was there a strong smell of whiskey in that car? Yes. Did I say that to the insurance adjuster? No, I did not. Will that appear in my report? No. Maybe it was gasoline fumes. Maybe I was mistaken. I could not say. And I refuse to guess. That’s how much respect I have for your family.”

“I can’t believe Faye would drink and drive. It could have been my father, right? And that’s why she was driving. He’d been drinking.”

He stared at her again, hatred simmering in his eyes now. When he spoke, his voice held a threat. “You never did know when to quit, did you?” He blew out a breath. “Okay. We’re not exactly sure who was driving. Don’t make me draw you a picture you won’t want to see.”

“How could you not know who was behind the wheel?”

He huffed out a breath. “They were together on the ground—one of them thrown from the vehicle, the other walked or crawled over to check.”

She swallowed hard, horrified, but fighting not to show it.

“Strange things happen in car accidents, freakish things. Pens sticking out of necks, arms twisted in bad ways, people in the backseat who started out in the front, you don’t want to know—”

“So you’re saying it might have been my father driving? Was he drunk? The blood tests would show that, right?”

He gave her a calculating look. “When they set up an IV, EMTs use an anticlotting agent that screws with any alcohol reading. Even if your insurance company lawyers subpoenaed the lab work, they’d get shit-all, if you’ll excuse my language. This is good for you, since that way they can’t refuse to cover your family’s vehicles in the future. It’s all been taken care of, as I’ve told you more than once.”

“So, what, you lied to the insurance company? You’re falsifying your report to protect my father—or my sister—from a drunk-driving charge? Is that what you’re implying?”

“I suggest you stop right there.”

“I don’t think so. Not until I find out the truth. If I have to subpoena the hospital records, I will. I want to see your report, Chief Fallon, false or not. Accident reports are public record. Certainly I’d like to see the photos of the accident scene and the car, since you don’t seem to remember what it looked like. Where is the car, by the way?” Shaking, she pulled out a notepad to write down his answer.

“It’s wherever your insurance company had it towed,” he said with a smirk.

“You must know where it went.”

“No idea whatsoever.” He snapped his jaw closed and folded his arms. “Better call your insurance guy. See how far you get with him with this nasty, demanding attitude you’ve got.”

“So you refuse to help me? Even though you have all this respect for my family?” Sarcasm was a mistake, but she couldn’t stop herself.

When he spoke, his voice was nearly a growl. “You’re in grief, I know, and half hysterical, so I’m not going to take offense at your insults to my competence and integrity.” Both hands on his desk, he pushed to his feet, leaning forward, as if to loom over her. She stood, not stepping back, not intimidated one bit. “I accept your apology,” he snapped. “Now please leave.”

“My apology?” She’d lost her temper, she knew, but she refused to be put at the mercy of this self-righteous small-town tyrant. Before she could say more, the door opened. Dylan stepped in. “Everything okay in here?”

“No,” Tara said. “Everything’s not okay. This man, who is a public servant, refuses to show me the accident report I’m entitled to see as a citizen and a relative of the victims.”

“Miss Wharton seems to think there’s some conspiracy going on,” Fallon said. “She thinks I’ve got secret evidence I’m keeping from her. Could you tell her there is no mystery here, no TV drama? Could you tell her to go on home and help her poor mother and be done with it?”

Tara was so furious, she was afraid she might slap the guy. This rinky-dink cop wasn’t going to keep the truth from her. She would contact the state police or the sheriff’s office and ask them to investigate. She would hire an attorney. She would file a suit. Whatever she needed to do she would do. “This is not over, Chief Fallon. Count on it.” She turned for the door, shaking with rage, catching Dylan’s stunned look as she left.