Page 33 of Protect My Heart

Jim’s hand rubbed the spot between her shoulders. Warmth spread across her back. Her body leaned into his strength ever so slightly as she paused to breathe.

“Can I get you anything?” Jim pulled her closer, her hair moved from his breath.

“Just being here is helping.” She pulled back and straightened her shoulders. “Okay, let’s see what a man has at the end of his life.”

“Doc, it’s okay to remember the good times. He was your father––you loved him.”

“He killed my brother.” She pulled back.

“Yes, I’m not denying that.”

“I was there. Did you know that?”

“Yes. You’re so incredible. Strong and courageous, I don’t know how you do it.” His hand covered hers. The strength and support clear in his touch. “That’s not true. You do it because you have a big heart. You loved your father and your brother. People make mistakes, and as a cop, I know not every bad thing is done by bad people.”

He had a point. She wanted to believe her father was all bad because he killed Mikey, but that would be lying to herself, and she had done enough of that over the years. “You’re right.”

“What?” He pulled back and faked not hearing her. “You agree with me? Should I write this down?”

“Very funny. Not all women think they’re right all the time.” She cracked a smile. “But most of the time we are.”

He swatted her with the couch pillow. Liz grabbed the fluffy weapon and looked into his eyes. All humor faded and serious brown eyes stared back at her.

She swallowed. “Thank you. My father was a... complicated man. A decorated vet, a hard-working man, and a drunk. He loved his family, but he loved his beer more.”

She took a deep breath before she continued. “My mother said his last tour of duty changed him. He used to come home from his tours and life would be great. We went on fishing and camping trips, he came to my dance recitals, and Mikey’s baseball games. But when he came back the last time, Mikey quit ball and Mom was cleaning houses to pay for my dance. It was like he left his heart in the Middle East.”

Jim sat quietly, waiting. The cop in him must be curious about that night. Heck, wouldn’t everyone want to know what’s it like to witness your father kill your brother?

“I can’t talk about it. Not now.” She gulped back the lump that formed in her throat.

He nodded. “I can put the box away for you.”

“No, let’s see if there’s anything that would make someone want to scare me.”

She pulled out the bag and slipped her finger under the seal. She set the watch and phone on the coffee table and reached in for the wallet. Leather bound with an embroidered trout on top. “We gave him this for Christmas the year before he... the year before.”

Inside, she found the usual, a few bills, a credit card, pictures of her family, and his identification. But when she pulled out the slip of paper she thought was a receipt, her eyes watered. She hiccupped. “This is a poem I wrote him in school.”

Jim took the piece of paper from her as it slipped from her fingers. The paper, lined notebook, had yellowed with age. He turned it over in her hands. “Was this on the back when you gave it to him?”

The paper shook as she turned it to read the words written in her father’s handwriting. “The knife will keep you safe. Keep it with you and let its secrets free.” Liz’s brows narrowed and she looked to Jim. “What does that mean?”

He shook his head. “I thought you would know.”

“I don’t remember hearing it before. And what knife? There isn’t one in the box. He carried a pocket knife with him all the time when I was little but he never talked about it. The only time I remember him using it was to whittle a stick when we were camping.”

“Mind if I take a picture of this?” He slipped his phone from his pocket.

“Go ahead. I didn’t want to bring my mother into it, but I think I need to ask her about this.” Things were going to get real ugly, real fast, the moment she mentioned her father to her mother. Not that she didn’t love the man fiercely once, but Rosa Garcia O’Roarke Whittier didn’t like her daughter digging up old pain and sorrow, and that’s exactly what Liz was doing. It was the only way she knew how to get closure and move on with her life.

Twenty years was long enough to flinch away from the shadows. Liz was ready to stand in the light and not look over her shoulder.

Tigger barked. She jumped.

Jim reached for his gun. Even Liz knew it wasn’t an ‘I want attention’ bark, but ‘an axe murderer is outside and I want to rip their throat out’ bark.

“Stay here.” Jim stood and signaled the dog to stay. When she started to rise, he added, “That means you too, Doc.”